Insurrection: Renegade [02] (45 page)

Alexander watched him for a moment, before speaking. ‘I bring tidings, brother.’ He drew in a breath as Robert turned to him. ‘Our father has passed away.’

Robert let go of the burned tapestry, which drifted back against the wall.

‘He had a sickness of the lungs over the winter, from which he never recovered. He died shortly after the Christ Mass.’

Robert leaned against the wall. He had a flash of memory: this hall filled with music and firelight, his father standing behind the head table, drink in hand, watching as Marjorie danced with their infant daughter Christian in her arms. As his wife spun in time to the rhythm of pipes and drums, Christian squealing with delight, a smile had played about the man’s lips.

The wall was cold and damp against Robert’s back. He could smell charred timbers, mouldering stone and the bitter sea.

‘I have sent word to Isabel in Norway and Christian, Mary and Matilda in Mar,’ continued Alexander, his tone stilted. ‘I presume you can get word to our brothers?’

‘Thomas and Niall I haven’t seen in some time. The last I knew they were with James Stewart. Was he at peace?’ Robert asked suddenly, looking over at his brother.

Alexander stared at him, then looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘He died in his sleep. He made his confession the day before. The last rites were able to be observed in full.’

‘You took them?’

‘No. But I was there.’

‘Thank you, brother.’

Alexander looked surprised. His frown lines disappeared and he seemed at once like the boy Robert remembered, standing there in his sombre brown robes. He made a move towards him, his face filling with tentative compassion. ‘Robert, I—’

The sound of raised voices came to them from outside.

Robert glanced round, frowning at the interruption, but when he looked back Alexander had straightened, his face closing in. ‘I should see what the commotion is,’ he told his brother.

Alexander nodded in silence, letting him go.

As Robert reached the door to the courtyard, Nes almost walked straight into him. Over his squire’s shoulder, Robert saw two men standing with horses by the gates. Andrew Boyd was with them, surrounded by a group of knights. Their voices were raised in question, men shouting over one another to be heard.

‘What is it?’ Robert asked Nes.

‘Two of Sir Andrew’s men have come from Ayr where they were recruiting more labourers. A company arrived there, fleeing the Forest. They say John Comyn and his army will surrender to King Edward. Sir, they say the war is over.’

Chapter 37

St Andrews, Scotland, 1304 AD

The nobles of Scotland crowded into the great hall of St Andrews Castle, their sodden cloaks dripping on the flagstones. Smells of damp fur and stale sweat mingled with the tang of armour. Men coughed and sniffed in the dank air. Outside, rain came down in sheets, obscuring the town and the windswept sands that stretched in a vast crescent from the outcrop of rocks the castle was built upon.

King Edward looked down on the damp and miserable host from the raised height of the hall’s dais. His officials stood to either side of his throne. As he waited for the last men to file in, he let his eyes drift across the company. Few, he was satisfied to see, could meet his gaze. There in the front row, head bowed, rainwater dribbling from the ends of his hair, stood Ingram de Umfraville, alongside John of Menteith and Robert Wishart. Close by was the Black Comyn with his nephew, the fourteen-year-old Earl of Fife. One or two did lock eyes with him, William Lamberton among them, but these little acts of defiance meant nothing to the king. His victory was plain to see in the downcast stares and grim expressions of the majority of the Scots gathered before him.

As the doorwards pulled the great doors shut, Edward fixed on John Comyn, standing before the dais. The Lord of Badenoch was rather more salubriously dressed than he had been last week when he came before the king to present the Scots’ terms of surrender. He had shaved and his dark hair, long and unkempt from a winter living rough in the Forest, had been clipped and washed. Despite appearances, the young man had conducted himself well when delivering his conditions. So different, Edward had mused, to the wretched submission the man’s uncle, John Balliol, had made eight years earlier. He could respect him for that. As to the terms themselves, they had been rather expansive, but Edward was feeling magnanimous. He could afford to be.

‘Welcome, men of Scotland.’ The king’s voice resonated in the crowded chamber. Any murmurs or shuffling of feet faded into a hush. ‘I am pleased to see so many of you standing before me today in peace. None of us wished this war to continue unchecked. The terms of your surrender, as put forward by your guardian, Sir John Comyn of Badenoch, I hereby accept.’ The king nodded to Sir John Segrave, who was standing beside the throne, holding a roll of parchment.

As the English Lieutenant of Scotland walked to the edge of the dais his limp, caused by the injury sustained in the attack at Roslin, was apparent. Unrolling the parchment, he began to read. ‘Edward, by God’s grace, illustrious King of England, Duke of Gascony, lord of Ireland, conqueror of Wales and overlord of Scotland, in accordance with the surrender of the people of Scotland, agrees that no man, including those involved in rebellion against him, will be disinherited. Nor will any face imprisonment for his actions, although a list of those who are to be exiled for a period of time has been drawn up and will be enforced. It is conceded that so long as any Englishman imprisoned in Scotland is released immediately, without penalty, the same freedom shall be awarded to any Scot currently in captivity in England.’ Segrave paused to clear his throat, the sound harsh in the dead silence.

‘Those who have forfeited estates will be able to gain back their lands, at a cost of between one and five years the value of the holding, depending on the severity of each claimant’s part in the rebellion. Scotland will benefit from the liberties, laws and customs enjoyed under King Alexander III. But King Edward no longer recognises the kingdom of Scotland. Henceforth, it will be a land and he will draw up a new set of ordinances for its government. To this end, he takes into his care Earl Duncan of Fife.’

Edward stiffened at the murmurs of discontent that rippled through the hall, but he was pleased to see John Comyn turn to rake the assembly with a glare that soon silenced any dissatisfaction. This was one of his most important terms: one he would not compromise on. The Stone of Destiny might be entombed in Westminster and John Balliol powerless in France, but he wanted the Scots to see, once and for all, that there would be no new sovereign on their throne. The fourteen-year-old earl, whose hereditary right it was to crown a king, was the last glimmer of that hope. Fife would remain in England.

The king watched, satisfied, as two royal knights marched unchallenged to where the young earl was standing with his uncle. The Black Comyn appeared furious, but he stepped aside all the same, allowing the knights to escort his nephew, who looked pale and shaken, to the front of the hall, where all could see the symbolism of the act.

John Comyn’s face had tightened, but he didn’t contest. Faced with the choice of losing Fife, or gaining back his vast possessions, even at a cost, it was clear where his priorities lay. As Segrave finished, rolling up the parchment, Comyn bowed to Edward. ‘My lord king, on behalf of the men of Scotland, I accept.’

‘There is one last thing,’ said Edward, rising as Segrave returned to his place. ‘One man to whom I will not extend my peace.’ His voice rang imperiously. ‘William Wallace has refused to submit himself to my mercy, therefore he shall be shown none. I want him hunted down and brought to me.’ The king’s gaze roved across the men in the front row, fixing last on the three guardians, John Comyn, Ingram de Umfraville and William Lamberton. ‘Whosoever captures him will be freed from any of the obligations laid out in the terms. That man will serve no exile and will face no reparations for the return of his lands.’

Edward didn’t miss the spark of interest in John Comyn’s eyes.

When his officials declared the parliament closed and the Scots began to troop out slowly, directed to an adjacent chamber where they would set their seals to the surrender, the king sat back in his throne. After eight long years, Scotland had finally bowed before him. His rule of Britain was almost complete. Two loose threads remained, in the form of Stirling Castle whose garrison still held against him, and William Wallace, on the run with a ragged band of outlaws. One good tug and both would be pulled. Edward smiled, feeling an unfamiliar sense of calm.

‘My lord.’

He looked round, surprised by the woman’s voice, to see his eldest daughter Joan had appeared on the dais.

‘I did not know you were present, my dear.’

Joan nodded, although her eyes remained downcast. ‘I didn’t want to miss your hour of triumph.’ She hesitated, then crossed to the throne and crouched before him. ‘Father, I’ve watched you pardon your enemies here today – men who have raised fire and sword against you. Ralph de Monthermer’s only crime was in loving me. Can you not extend the same forgiveness to a man who has served you faithfully for so many years?’

Edward sat back with a long exhalation. He closed his eyes, feeling his daughter’s cool hands clasp over his. He had been beside himself with rage when Aymer de Valence had told him of the affair, but in the weeks since, seeing his daughter’s grief, that fire had cooled.

‘I love him, Father.’

Opening his eyes, Edward saw the tears streaming down her face. After a moment, he laid his hand over hers. ‘Peace, daughter. I will send the order for Sir Ralph’s release today.’ As Joan gave a sob of relief, he continued. ‘When he arrives we will discuss marriage terms.’

Joan’s cries strengthened. She kissed his hands, now laughing through her tears. Finally, managing to collect herself, she rose. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

As Edward watched his daughter go, his gaze was drawn to his son. Now the crowd was clearing, he could see the prince was leaning against the far wall with Piers Gaveston. The two were deep in conversation, their heads close. The prince smiled at something Gaveston said and clasped his shoulder. The king’s eyes picked out the movement of his son’s thumb, moving in slow circles on the velvet of Piers’s mantle. Edward’s calm faded. For a time, he had noticed, with growing concern, the closeness between the two young men, but he had been too preoccupied to deal with it. Now the war with Scotland was over, he would turn his attention to a matter he had left too long unattended: the marriage of his son and Isabella of France.

PART 5

1304–1306 AD

The brightness of the sun shall fade at the amber of Mercury, and horror shall seize the beholders. Stilbon of Arcadia shall change his shield; the helmet of Mars shall call to Venus.

The seas shall rise up . . . and the dust of the ancients shall be restored. The winds shall fight together with a dreadful blast, and their sound shall reach the stars.

The History of the Kings of Britain,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

Chapter 38

Stirling, Scotland, 1304 AD

The sun was rising over the scarred ridges of the Ochil Hills. As the first crimson rays touched the battlements of Stirling Castle a bell began to toll, the echoes rolling down from the craggy heights on which the fortress stood, before fading across the marshes and meadows that bordered the banks of the River Forth. The encampment stirred to life, the low voices of waking men lifting over the crackle of flames as fresh logs were tossed on to fires that had burned to embers during the night. As cooks went to work at cauldrons and spits, smoke thickened into a haze over the English army, sprawled across the slopes between the castle and the royal burgh.

Robert walked through the camp, shielding his eyes as the sun poured its gold across the castle rock, blazing in the banners hoisted above the sea of tents. Men emerged from their billets bleary-eyed, stretching and yawning as they set about their business. A few nodded as he passed, but most ignored him, preoccupied with their own routines. The bell had ceased its tolling and the clanking of chains now took its place as the siege engines were readied for another day of violence.

On the edges of the camp, past the tents, animal pens and supply wagons, stood carts loaded with stones and lead stripped from the cathedrals at St Andrews and Perth. Beyond, sixteen engines rose from points around the hillside, their frames dark against the red dawn. Already there was much activity around their bases, the engineers making any necessary repairs or adjustments while the crews heaved stones into the slings of trebuchets and the spoon-like beams of the mangonels. The whole area was protected by wooden screens covered with bundles of twigs lashed together to deaden the impact of any incoming missiles.