Insurrection: Renegade [02] (43 page)

But Comyn was already walking away. He was followed by Ingram de Umfraville, the Black Comyn, MacDouall and the Disinherited, Menteith and a host of other nobles, proving to Wallace that while he might be able to command men on a battlefield, he was not a politician. He could do nothing but watch as more men began to hasten from the clearing, shouting at squires to saddle horses, kicking snow on to campfires, grabbing supplies.

Robert Wishart hobbled to Wallace’s side, the hems of his furs caked with snow. The bishop was too short to place his hand on Wallace’s shoulder, but he made an attempt at it. ‘My friend, you know I will always stand beside you in spirit. In body, alas, I am too old and fat.’ He waddled in front of Wallace when the rebel leader tried to move away. ‘Maybe we should lay down our arms, William?’

‘I would rather die.’ Wallace levelled the bishop with his stare. ‘I raised an insurrection against Edward before. I can do so again.’ He called Gray and the others to him.

Wishart exhaled in resignation. ‘What about our informer?’ He gestured in the direction the patrolmen had taken Nes.

‘If we keep him,’ Lamberton intervened, ‘and the English arrive to find this camp deserted, their suspicion will fall on Robert.’

‘What if he’s spying for them?’ growled Gray. ‘You’ll send him back with our numbers and location.’

‘Neither of which will matter if we’re gone,’ answered Lamberton. He looked at Wallace. ‘Until we can hear an explanation from Sir Robert himself, I say we have faith in him.’

Wallace nodded to one of his men. ‘Tell them to take him back to the perimeter and release him.’ He turned to Wishart. ‘I pray we meet in better days.’ The rebel leader’s voice was strained. Taking the leather pack one of his men handed to him, he slung it over his shoulder.

‘I’ll make sure he gets to safety, Sir William,’ Lamberton promised, moving to the side of the older bishop.

James Douglas nodded in confirmation, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

Head down, Wallace strode away through the trees, followed by Gray, Neil Campbell, Simon Fraser and around two hundred foot soldiers and archers, many of whom had been with him since the beginning of the rebellion.

Christopher Seton went with them. He paused, glancing back when Alexander remained in the pool of firelight. ‘Cousin?’

‘Perhaps we should save our own skins like Comyn and the rest.’

Christopher walked back to him. ‘You heard Nes. There was obviously more going on than he could say. Robert sent us this warning. We should heed it.’

‘It’s easy for him to tell us what to do when he sits at the king’s table eating his meat, drinking his wine. Maybe we should surrender, Christopher. Gain back our own lands like he did.’ Alexander’s face tightened. ‘I can no longer see hope for victory.’

‘We don’t know what is happening in court, or what Robert is planning. John of Atholl thought James Stewart hadn’t told us everything, didn’t he?’

‘And where are Atholl and the steward now? Maybe they’ve already surrendered.’

‘Please, cousin,’ implored Christopher, looking through the trees where Wallace’s men were still funnelling. Comyn and the others were already gone. ‘We cannot stay here.’

Alexander looked up and met his gaze. After a pause, he began to walk. As the cousins followed Wallace’s company, the last men gathered up their belongings and slipped into the trees.

Less than an hour later, other than the crackle of flames from a few fires, the rebels’ camp was silent.

Chapter 35

Selkirk Forest, Scotland, 1304 AD

The English first knew something was wrong when the patrols their scouts had spied a mile from the perimeter were nowhere to be seen. The situation became increasingly clear as they approached the outskirts of the rebel encampment.

Here, the snow had been churned to slush by feet and hooves. The ground was littered with refuse, some of it old and packed down deep in the soil: animal bones and threads of rope, splinters of firewood, a rotten bucket half buried in ice and the charred stub of a torch. Other items had clearly just been discarded: a bag with a broken strap, a pewter goblet on its side with a red stain colouring the snow, a sword in its scabbard propped against a trunk and blankets around the ashen remains of a fire where smoke still curled.

As the English company urged their horses deeper into the camp past a broad river, the shallows of which were covered with a film of ice, the sense of abandonment became more apparent. Among the debris of dropped wooden bowls crusted with food and fire pits with embers glowing at their hearts were tents with flaps hanging open in the frigid air. Inside, furs and blankets lay crumpled on empty pallets beside chests, piles of clothing and other belongings. There were even a few oil lanterns burning low in some.

The knights at the vanguard slowed their horses as they entered a large clearing in the trees. Beyond, tents and makeshift shelters stretched into the woods as far as they could see, along with more substantial dwellings of timber with turf roofs mottled with snow. There were even staked areas for animals with stalls and troughs. But despite all the evidence of habitation, there was not a soul to be seen.

‘What is this?’ demanded Clifford, bringing his mount to a halt and pushing up his visor. He fixed on the scouts they had sent out yesterday. ‘You said you saw patrols?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered one.

‘Then where in God’s name are the Scots?’

Valence walked his courser on into the clearing. Leaning out in the saddle, he stabbed his broadsword into a pile of blankets near a fire pit, as if hoping there were a body inside. Calling his knights to him with a harsh command, he began flicking aside tent flaps with the flat of his blade.

Humphrey turned in his saddle as Robert rode up behind him. ‘Is this Wallace’s base?’ he asked sharply. His face was taut.

‘It is,’ answered Robert, careful to keep the relief from his voice. ‘That’s Wallace’s shelter over there.’ He nodded to a timber structure set between two soaring pines. Outside were several carts loaded with barrels and sacks of grain.

‘Search it,’ Humphrey ordered two of his men. As they dismounted, he stared around him. ‘Remember Wales?’ he murmured.

Robert thought of the ambush Welsh rebels had set for them in the deserted settlement on the road to Conwy. He and Humphrey had only just escaped with their lives. He wondered for a moment if Wallace – having been told the English were coming – had set a trap. He looked over at Nes, sitting quietly on his palfrey.

That morning, he’d been worried to see the telltale scratches on the squire’s hands and face, but most of the men here had been caught unawares by stray twigs and briars. The squire’s absence through the night didn’t seem to have been noticed, but there had been no chance, with Aymer on his tail, for him to glean anything except Nes’s brief acknowledgement that he had successfully delivered the warning. In alerting the rebels, Robert had exposed himself to them, but he’d had no other choice.

He scanned the trees. To all appearances the Forest was eerily peaceful, the only sounds the chatter of birds and the steady drip of snow melting from branches. If the desertion was a ruse, it was a highly effective one.

Several of Valence and Clifford’s knights had dismounted and were spreading out, becoming more forceful in their searching, kicking in doors, tossing blankets and furs aside, pushing their way into tents. Others, who had ridden deeper into the camp, now returned.

‘There are footprints leading in all directions,’ called one of Valence’s knights. ‘No way of tracking them all.’

‘There!’ shouted Clifford, pointing through the trees to their left.

Following the knight’s gaze, Robert saw a dark figure standing in the mist. As Clifford, Humphrey and Aymer kicked their horses towards it, swords raised, he followed, heart thudding. Was it Wallace? Emerging through the undergrowth behind the knights, he realised the figure was, in fact, hanging from a branch. It was a target made of straw and sacking in the shape of a man, crudely painted with a gold crown and a red tunic with three gold lions on the front. There were several arrows sticking out of it.

‘Bastards!’ seethed Aymer. He rode up to it and, with a slash of his broadsword, severed the rope that tethered it to the branch. The target sagged into the snow.

‘How the hell did they know we were coming?’ said Humphrey, pulling off his helm and hooking it over the pommel of his saddle. He dismounted, his boots crunching in the snow as he turned in a circle, staring up at the tower-like pines rising all around. ‘Did they see us?’

Robert slid down from his saddle and joined him. ‘They must have.’ He lifted his shoulders, feeling an overwhelming urge to grin. ‘Perhaps there was a patrol our scouts didn’t see? Wallace always made sure there were many men on the periphery. He never took chances.’

‘You!’ Aymer swung himself from his saddle and strode towards Robert, pointing his sword at his chest. ‘You warned them.’

Robert laughed. ‘I’m flattered you think I’m so impressive as to be in two places at once. Perhaps I can fly as well? Or turn water into wine?’ His mirth vanished. ‘You were watching me all night, as always.’

‘One of your men,’ snapped Aymer, jerking his head at the Carrick knights, the red chevrons on their surcoats making bold patterns between the trees. ‘You sent one of the whelps to warn them we were here!’

‘Aymer,’ cautioned Humphrey, moving in front of Robert. ‘This isn’t the time for your obsession.’

Aymer was brought up short. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised at your defence of this serpent. After all, he tricked you once before.’ He glowered at Humphrey, his sword now aimed at the earl like an accusatory finger. ‘You’re a blind and trusting fool to be taken in again.’

Humphrey grasped his own sword, his green eyes flashing with anger.

‘Brothers . . .’ warned Clifford, moving to intervene.

Aymer pushed past Humphrey, fixing on Robert. ‘We never should have let him into our circle. He was never one of us.’

Robert hefted his blade, facing him. ‘How quick you are to count yourself a brother among these men. But I wonder just how readily you would betray any one of them in pursuit of your mad obsession?’ Robert nodded as Aymer stopped, mid-stride, some new emotion flickering in his eyes. ‘You found out about Ralph and Lady Joan, didn’t you?’ Robert turned to Humphrey. ‘I’m sorry, I kept the truth from you yesterday. I discovered the affair by accident in Dunfermline. It wasn’t rape. They’re lovers.’ He continued before Aymer could speak. ‘Ralph said Aymer petitioned the king to come on this raid with the intention of spying on me. He was angry when the king refused to indulge him. Come, Valence, admit it, you informed on Ralph so you could be my shadow. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if
you
warned the Scots, just to blame me for their disappearance!’

‘Madness!’ spat Aymer, looking at Clifford and Humphrey for support. Both men were silent, staring at him. Beyond, a crowd of knights had begun to gather. Aymer laughed in disbelief. ‘Please tell me you don’t believe the whoreson?’

‘You never liked me,’ Robert went on, ‘that much you made plain from the start, but since I battered you in Wales you’ve loathed me. How does it feel, Aymer? Knowing the man you hate gave you that smile?’

With a roar, Aymer launched himself at him. Before Robert, ready and willing, had the chance to counter, Humphrey lunged. He caught Valence on the jaw, the steel plates in his gloves lending a vicious force to the punch.

Aymer reeled with the blow, blood spraying as his lips tore on his wired front teeth. He staggered upright, spitting blood, and turned on the earl. Several of Humphrey’s men came forward, swords drawn in a protective ring. Aymer’s eyes flicked to them, then back to Humphrey. Slowly, he lowered his weapon. ‘He’ll betray you again,’ he rasped, hawking another glob of blood into the snow. ‘I’ll stake my earldom on it.’ He threw a last look at Robert, who had come to stand beside Humphrey. ‘And when he does, Humphrey, I’ll remind you of this.’

As Aymer walked away, one of his knights came towards him, but he pushed him roughly aside.

Chapter 36

Turnberry, Scotland, 1304 AD

Day was drawing to a close as Robert and his men took the track that led to Turnberry. To either side, boggy fields studded with blackthorn stretched to the fringes of woodland. Beyond the tangle of ash and wych elm, the Carrick hills rose into the dusk, the higher slopes still glazed with snow. Ahead, the sea filled the horizon, the humped dome of Ailsa Craig looming in the distance. The rush of waves came to Robert on the wind. Already, he could taste the salt tang. At the end of the track, rising from a promontory of rock above bluffs stippled with thrift and mayweed, was the castle of his birth.

Other than the brief landing on the deserted shore where James Stewart had handed him the Staff of Malachy it was four years since Robert had set foot in his earldom. Now, approaching the village where he’d spent his childhood, it felt as though he’d never left. The sense of homecoming – of belonging – was deeply affecting. The landscape seemed to breathe memory from every rocky, sandy pore.

There were the cliffs he and Edward once climbed as boys to escape the incoming tide, and the beach where his instructor, Yothre, trained him with sword, lance and shield. There were the woods he played in with his brothers and sisters, and where he first met Affraig. Within the castle’s sea-stained walls he learned of King Alexander’s death and sat at his grandfather’s side as the Bruce men and their allies planned the attack on John Balliol in Galloway to end his hope of succession. Years later, standing on those lofty battlements, he had tossed the blood-scarlet dragon shield into the foaming waves, breaking his oaths to his brethren and King Edward. That same night, the night Affraig had woven his destiny in a crown of heather, he had stood in the courtyard before his men and pledged to be king.