Insurrection: Renegade [02] (49 page)

‘None is as strong as yours. Your grandfather would have been king, chosen by the men of the realm, had Edward not elected Balliol. Many believed the Lord of Annandale had the stronger claim. There would be a sense of justice, I believe, in making his progeny king. The world as it should have been. A slate wiped clean. It is something we could build on among the men. Something that could help your reputation.’

Robert’s eyes fixed on the jug of dead flowers in the hearth. The petals were brown and brittle, curled up like dead spiders. In his mind, he saw the round hall at Peebles, himself and John Comyn in the middle of a crowd of men. He saw the hatred in Comyn’s face, a hatred that had seeped through generations, fed by each, to grow to maturity in them. He saw the blade of a dagger coming up to his throat, Comyn’s arm locking around his neck; saw their comrades drawing weapons, going at one another. ‘You speak of the necessity of unity, your grace. You were at Peebles. You saw what happened the last time John Comyn and I were set together as guardians.’ Robert shook his head. ‘It cannot work.’

‘It has to, Robert. None of us can fight King Edward alone. It will take the influence of John Comyn and the rightness of your claim to rally the kingdom and break his will.’

Robert turned from the bishop, his thoughts fractured. On the one hand, he was desperate to make a move – to break these shackles of loyalty to a king he loathed – to stand up and reclaim what had been taken from his family. Lamberton seemed to be offering him this. But the price?

He and Wallace hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but Robert respected the man: his unerring vision for a liberated Scotland, his steadfastness and loyalty to his men, his single-minded ferocity on the battlefield. John Comyn was another prospect entirely. The man was his blood enemy. Lamberton was asking him to forgive decades of hatred; to ignore all that the Comyns had done to his family, and his to theirs. In short, to trust him. His choice was the devil or the deep.

Robert’s decision settled inside him. ‘As you say, King Edward has placed me in a position of authority. Furthermore, he will need a lieutenant in Scotland when he leaves.’ He turned back to Lamberton. ‘I haven’t lost hope yet, but if you are right and I cannot use Wallace to raise an army then I’ll use whatever authority the king gives me to rebuild my influence in Scotland. I believe, in time, he may be persuaded to appoint me sole guardian. It will take longer, yes, but from that position of power I could vie for the throne.’

‘Do not make the same mistake as your father, Robert,’ urged Lamberton. ‘He lived on the king’s promises. In the end what did those scraps bring him but a lonely death in England?’

Fionn rose suddenly from his place by the bed and barked. A second later the door opened and Nes appeared. ‘Sir, it’s the king. He’s been shot.’

Chapter 40

Robert pushed his way through the crowds clustered around the royal pavilion, the flaps of which were firmly closed. There was an agitated hum of voices as knights and barons recounted the moment the arrow had shot from Stirling’s battlements. A few lamented the fact they hadn’t seen it coming. Others cursed the Scot who had shot the fateful bolt, swearing vengeance upon the garrison.

Robert felt a strange excitement in the tension that crackled through the throng; a sense that everything was about to change and his place in the world with it. If Edward was dead, his twenty-year-old son would be crowned king. The prince, from what his brother had told him, shared none of the king’s obsession with the conquest of Scotland, his own passions lying elsewhere. What was more, young Edward would rely heavily on the experience and counsel of older men at the start of his reign. If Robert was one of those men, could he persuade him to return Scotland’s liberty? Persuade him that the country needed a king if peace and prosperity were to be maintained?

As Robert neared the pavilion the flaps opened and Humphrey emerged. The earl looked drained, but he smiled and lifted his hands to the gathering, motioning for quiet. ‘Our king is well.’

The ripple of relief through the crowd swelled into loud applause.

‘The arrow pierced his flesh, but the wound is superficial. His physician expects him to heal quickly.’

Numbly, Robert felt men jostle him as they continued to praise God at Humphrey’s words. He stared at the earl, hope seeping from him. The old bastard had survived?

‘King Edward is anxious that the incident cause no further disruption to the assault on Stirling. Indeed, he intends to join us for Warwolf’s inauguration.’

The applause thundered.

‘
Bring the beast!
’ Humphrey roared.

As engineers began to break from the crowd, moving to execute the order, Humphrey spied Robert standing there. He came over, his brow knotting. ‘Robert?’ He clasped his shoulder. ‘You look as pale as a ghost.’

Robert roused himself. ‘I just heard what happened.’

‘It was a shock to us all.’ Humphrey lowered his voice as men hurried past, returning to their duties, the camp now buzzing with the prospect of retribution. ‘I must admit, I thought him done for. The physician said he must have lost consciousness with the pain. He came to as we were removing his armour.’ The earl shook his head in wonderment. ‘I swear, as the arrow was being pulled out he was sitting there telling me how he would have his revenge on the garrison by sundown. There are oxen with less—’

‘Can I see him?’

Humphrey faltered. ‘Now?’

‘It was one of my countrymen who shot him.’ Robert met the earl’s gaze, the lie solidifying. ‘I don’t want this to jeopardise the peace we have all worked so hard to secure. I want to make sure the deeds of a few don’t affect the fate of many.’

Humphrey nodded after a pause. ‘Let me see if he will grant you an audience.’

Robert waited, his heart beginning to thud, as the earl ducked inside. The conversation with Lamberton, momentarily overshadowed by the possibility of the king’s death, flooded his mind, charging him with a sense of urgency. He had waited months, hoping the bishop would return with the answer he sought. But all he had been offered was a poisoned chalice. He wanted to prove Lamberton wrong, prove he could get what he wanted his own way; that he didn’t have to work with John Comyn to achieve it. The bishop was right – he had won the king’s favour. It was time to see just what that would buy him.

Humphrey appeared and motioned to him. As Robert moved to push through the pavilion’s flaps, the earl put a hand on his shoulder. ‘The king may be as tough as old hide, but take care not to weary him.’

Moving past the royal guards at the entrance, Robert stepped inside the pavilion. Oil lanterns bathed the interior in a coppery glow, gleaming in the gilt work on the cushioned throne and chairs still set out in a row for the queen and her ladies. The seats were empty. A servant moved past Robert, carrying a basin of water that was tinged red. Beyond, in another section of the tent, partially obscured by richly patterned drapes, he could see the king.

Edward was sitting on a stool, his physician stooping behind him wielding a needle. The king was bare-chested, wearing only his hose and braies. His stomach was creased with loose skin, but his chest, bristling with white hairs, was still slabbed with muscle, as were his arms, which rested tensely at his sides while the physician worked. There was a knotted scar just over the king’s heart; an older wound. That riddle of scar tissue showed just how close the Assassin’s dagger had come to killing him, missing the target of his heart by inches. Edward had survived deadly encounters on battlefields in England, Wales, Scotland, France and the Holy Land, hunting accidents, fevers, the collapse of a tower that was struck by lightning, storms at sea. And, now, that charmed arrow. It was as if death itself was afraid to claim him.

The king wasn’t alone in the tent. Queen Marguerite stood close by, wincing every time the needle swooped in for another pass through the king’s shoulder. Further back, standing alone by the tent’s side, was Prince Edward, his face a mask of apprehension. There were others – Bishop Bek and Thomas of Lancaster, several royal advisers and a number of pages – but Robert only had eyes for the king.

Edward fixed on him as he approached. ‘Sir Robert. Humphrey tells me you have something to say.’

‘I wanted to pay my respects, my lord, and to reaffirm my fealty. I am keen that the actions of Stirling’s garrison do not colour your judgement of all Scotsmen.’

As the king stared at him, skeins of incense drifted between them, curling from a censer. The smoky perfume couldn’t fully disguise the odours of sweat and blood. In the corner of his eye Robert saw a broken arrow lying on the chest, its shaft slick and red. He felt a twinge in his shoulder where the crossbow bolt had punctured his flesh.
We are even now
, he thought, meeting Edward’s pale gaze.

‘One man, not the kingdom, shot the arrow,’ said the king finally. ‘I was careless. It has taught me the value of caution and reminded me of the need to guard my back around my enemies. The Scots are a devious race.’

Robert didn’t miss the smile that curled Bishop Bek’s mouth.

Once the physician had finished stitching the wound and cut the thread, Edward flexed his shoulder carefully, then stood. ‘Was there something else?’

Robert hesitated, not wanting to speak in front of Bek and the others.

The king frowned, then motioned brusquely to his family and advisers. ‘Leave us.’

Bishop Bek caught Robert’s eye as he passed, seeming to communicate some warning or threat. The prince looked relieved to be excused, slipping quickly out of the tent ahead of the queen, who was escorted by her ladies.

After allowing his page to help him pull on a fresh shirt, Edward took up a goblet of wine. ‘Speak, Sir Robert. I am in no mood for guessing games.’

‘I have been thinking, my lord, about Scotland’s future and your plans for establishing a new government. This attack has exposed what has been foremost in my mind – the necessity of building a stronger union between our people in order to maintain the peace and curb the more rebellious elements who may seek to disrupt it, especially with William Wallace still at large.’ Robert enjoyed the flush that mottled the king’s pallid face at the mention of the outlaw.

‘Go on,’ ordered Edward gruffly, sipping his wine.

‘More than ordinances, more than officials, you will need the consistency and cohesiveness a strong leader can provide when you leave for England. I have proven I can keep the peace in the west as Sheriff of Lanark and Ayr. I believe I could do much more as your lieutenant in Scotland. I know these men, my lord,’ Robert went on, before the king could respond. ‘I know their fears and their hopes. I would see the first sign of rebellion long before its fire was ever sparked again.’

The king finished his wine. ‘I have already chosen my lieutenant. My nephew, John of Brittany, shall fill that role.’

The blow knocked Robert’s impetus, but he fought to regain it. ‘He will need an adviser. Someone who knows Scotland and its people. I would be—’

‘I have also chosen my chancellor and my chamberlain, and am in the process of selecting justices and sheriffs, some of whom will indeed be Scotsmen.’ Edward’s tone was imperious. ‘This is not the first country I have brought under my dominion, Sir Robert. I am not naïve to the delicate politics of conquest. I understand the benefits of placing natives in positions of power.’ He turned to the bed where his surcoat had been laid out and picked up the garment, frowning at the bloody hole the arrow had made. ‘Only, not so much that they can grow beyond their station.’ He crossed to a clothes perch and took down his scarlet mantle. ‘Scotland will be much as it was after I deposed John Balliol. It will enjoy its liberties, but subject to me. There will be no guardians, no regent.’ He turned back to Robert. ‘No king.’ Edward held his gaze for a long moment, then went to shrug the mantle around his shoulders. Pain creased his face. ‘Help me with this,’ he commanded testily.

Robert forced himself forward and took the mantle from the king, his fingers crushing the soft material. He moved behind Edward, smelling an odour of herbs from the physician’s treatment. The king was several inches taller than him, but Robert noticed he was starting to lose some of his formidable height to the stoop of old age. As he raised the garment, the three lions shifted with the movement, their open maws seeming to leer at him. He thought of the red lion of Scotland, torn from Balliol’s tabard, as he laid the mantle over Edward’s broad shoulders.

Time seemed to slow. Robert noticed a mole on the king’s neck beneath the wisps of his thinning white hair. He saw the patches of skin on his scalp, raw from the summer sun. God, but this was just a man, bound to the same frail flesh as any other. How could this sixty-five-year-old body, weakened by human fragility, have been the cause of so much death and destruction? Robert’s hands – the strong, sun-browned hands of a thirty-year-old – hovered over the king’s shoulders, to either side of his neck.

Edward turned abruptly, fastening the brooch pin one-handed. ‘I appreciate your offer of assistance, Sir Robert. Indeed, I welcome it. The war is ended and I want it to stay that way. I intend for a Scottish council to liaise with my lieutenant and his staff. I want John Comyn and Bishop Lamberton to be on this council, among others. But above all, I want you. You will be my eyes and ears in this new Scotland.’

‘It would be an honour, my lord,’ murmured Robert.

‘Come,’ said the king, a hard smile creasing his face. ‘I want to be there when Warwolf is brought up.’