Insurrection: Renegade [02] (52 page)

John of Atholl stepped out of the crowd. Behind the earl was his son David, wearing his father’s colours.

‘I reckoned you were up to something,’ John explained, gripping Robert’s shoulders and smiling as he looked him up and down. ‘Sir James just confirmed what I guessed.’

‘By tomorrow, John Comyn will know what you are planning,’ the steward interjected. ‘I saw no need to keep the truth from your brothers. After all,’ he said, scanning them with his gaze, ‘you will need their support if you are to triumph.’

‘He has it,’ said Christopher Seton, moving out of the shadows.

Robert laughed to see him, feeling an immeasurable gratitude that his brothers and friends had weathered the storm and were gathered here before him, forgiving of all he had done. These past years, the thought they must hate him for his desertion had gnawed at him.

Clasping Robert’s hand, Christopher went down on one knee. ‘My sword is yours, Sir Robert. As ever it was.’

Robert drew the Yorkshire knight to his feet and embraced him. Over Christopher’s shoulder, he saw Alexander Seton. There was no smile of greeting on the lord’s face, but he inclined his head. ‘How did you come to be here?’ Robert asked Christopher. ‘I heard you were in Wallace’s band?’

‘I had to know why you sent Nes to warn us in the Forest,’ answered Christopher, looking past Robert to where the squire was standing with the horses. ‘Wallace gave Alexander and me leave to seek out Sir John. Your brother-in-law told us everything: that you submitted to King Edward in body, but not in heart. That you still intend to claim the throne.’

‘You know where Wallace is?’

‘No. He went into the wild to escape his hunters.’

‘We have much to catch up on,’ interrupted John of Atholl. ‘But let us do so with something warm in our bellies.’ The earl called his pages to bring food and drink. ‘Come, join me at the fire,’ he told Robert and Lamberton. ‘My men will show your squires a place to make camp.’

‘First, I need to talk to Sir James,’ answered Robert, looking at the high steward. He smiled at Niall, who lingered at his side. ‘You go on ahead.’

As his youngest brother walked away with the others, Robert’s smile faded. Before the night was over he would have to tell Niall and Thomas that their father was dead.

‘Robert.’

Turning back at the steward’s voice, he allowed James to lead him through the camp, out of earshot of the men.

Halting in the darkness near a broken cairn of stones, the steward turned to him. The pallid light of a quarter-moon highlighted the grey in his hair. ‘In his last message, Bishop Lamberton told me you had doubts. I now see them for myself in your face.’

‘Can you blame me?’ Robert demanded. ‘This isn’t what we planned.’

‘Our plans were built on hope not judgement. For all we knew, John Balliol was to return and you would be exiled. We could not know for certain that this day would come, that the war would be at an end and the throne still free. We couldn’t think beyond that possibility, until now.’

‘By doing this I expose myself to a man who is my enemy. I risk everything. Even if Comyn accepts, there is no knowing what ill may come of an alliance between us. You know the hatred in our blood.’

‘You exposed yourself when you sent Nes to warn the men in Selkirk,’ the steward reminded him. ‘John Comyn must know you have some hidden agenda. He surrendered to Edward because he saw no other option for his survival. By this alliance you offer him the hope that he doesn’t have to be a slave to English will. At the very least, I believe he will listen to what you have to say. And the prize you offer for his endorsement is no mean incentive.’

Robert’s jaw tightened. ‘Prize?’ he said bitterly. ‘It is a reward beyond any I would have ever chosen. You and Lamberton ask me for a great sacrifice.’

‘Is the price not worth paying if it gains you a kingdom and our people their liberty?’

Robert turned away, unwilling to answer. Around them, the wind rippled cold through the heather. Despite his joy at the reunion, he felt the darkness of the past weeks seeping back into his mind.

‘It is the only way, Robert. Comyn will not agree to our terms for anything less.’

‘There may still be another way. I failed to find proof that Edward ordered the murder of King Alexander, but I know where answers might be found – at least of his prophecy.’

‘I told you not to turn those stones!’ the steward hissed. ‘If Edward had suspected you he would—’

‘He doesn’t. He thinks I don’t know who attacked me in Ireland. James, I swear there was fear in his eyes when he saw this.’ Reaching into his surcoat, Robert pulled out the head of the crossbow on its thong. The iron fragment glinted in the moonlight. He exhaled, thinking of the Tower – all the guards and defences and locked doors between him and the prophecy box. ‘I haven’t been able to get to it, but there is a chance I could find the proof that will enable us to bend Edward to our will.’

‘No. No more.’ The steward’s tone was adamant. ‘For this plan to work, you need to maintain your good standing in the English court. God willing, John Comyn will agree to support us, but if he does it will still be many months before we can set things in motion. We will need to seek out allies and ready our vassals in secret, build up a force of arms and decide upon strategies for attack. Then there is your coronation to plan. In this time we cannot arouse King Edward’s suspicions. You must remain loyal to him, working to establish the new Scottish council in time for next year’s parliament, as he has ordered. Time is on our side; indeed, the longer it takes us to ready ourselves, the more secure the king will begin to feel. He will not be expecting the hammer blow when it falls.’ James grasped his shoulder. ‘Do not risk all on a whim, Robert.’

‘A whim? Edward may have murdered our king!’

‘And I am trying to make one,’ responded James forcefully. ‘Neither you nor I can bring Alexander back, whatever the cause of his passing. But if such a grave offence has been committed we can right it by setting you on the throne. Our people have lost so much, suffered so much. Freedom is worth more than justice.’

Robert looked towards the flickering campfires, hearing voices and laughter. ‘I can’t help but wonder, had I found you before Lamberton, whether you would have supported my initial plan?’

‘When Lamberton told me of your intention to use William Wallace to raise an army against King Edward, I believed it to be a fool’s errand. I stand by that. In time, I pray Sir William will be able to return to a position of standing in the realm, but not until we have the upper hand. The best thing he can do for now is stay hidden.’ James’s brow knotted. ‘Though I fear his thirst for English blood will bring him to the surface sooner rather than later.’

Robert knew the fight was lost. In truth, it had been over the moment he had set foot on the road north. Despite his deep misgivings, he couldn’t fail to see the sense in Lamberton’s plan, especially since his own had so far come to nothing. But that it had come to this? He thought of his grandfather, imprisoned after the Battle of Lewes by the forces of Simon de Montfort. By the treachery of the Comyns, the Bruce family had almost been ruined by the ransom they’d been forced to pay for the lord’s release. Robert tried to imagine what the old man would say if he knew what he was about to do. He pushed the question aside. His grandfather had not lived to see such days. James was right. Any price now was worth paying if it gained him the throne.

‘Does Comyn know what I’m going to ask him?’

‘No. He thinks you are coming to invite him to be part of the king’s new council. For once,’ James added with a wry smile, ‘we do not tell a lie.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘At first light. See,’ said James, heading through the heather to the edge of the moor, which fell away into darkness. ‘Lochindorb isn’t far.’

Following the steward, Robert saw a great loch stretched below him in the cleft of the hills. Far out, in the moon-washed expanse of water, was a castle, its battlements jewelled by torchlight. In the glow of the fires, he caught the red of a banner. ‘Tomorrow then,’ he murmured. ‘And may it be the last sacrifice I have to make.’

Chapter 43

Lochindorb, Scotland, 1304 AD

John Comyn watched as the boat receded. He could still see Robert Bruce, marked out from the other passengers by the white of his mantle. Hearing muffled voices above him, Comyn turned. His gaze moved up the sheer face of the castle’s wall to the battlements, where two of his guards, clad in his red livery, were leaning against the parapet. The tips of their bows were visible, propped beside them.

Looking back at the boat, edging towards the loch’s southern shore, Comyn imagined shouting the order. He would hear the yew bows creak as the string was pulled back; would see the arrows arc towards the vessel. Bruce would tumble from the prow, his mantle clouding the surface briefly, before he went under in a swirl of blood. The act itself would be easy. The repercussions would not. Comyn knew it would be like hurling a stone into that water, as he’d often done as a boy. He’d always marvelled at how far those ripples spread.

‘We have much to discuss.’

Comyn licked his dry lips as the Black Comyn spoke at his side. The Earl of Buchan’s gaze remained fixed on the boat.

‘We do,’ murmured Comyn. He rolled his shoulders, realising just how tense he had become during the parley with Bruce and his allies. ‘Let’s head inside.’ He led the way up the slimy boards of the jetty, past knights standing sentry, through the archway in the east wall. The two of them were met in the castle courtyard by Dungal MacDouall.

The captain inclined his head to the two lords, but his expression was one of agitated anger. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said in a clenched tone, ‘but may I ask what I have done to deserve your mistrust?’

‘Mistrust?’ Comyn frowned.

‘I can think of no other reason why you kept me from your meeting with Bruce and the high steward.’

‘Peace, Dungal,’ said Comyn irritably. ‘I kept you out because I didn’t think you would bear being in the same room as the man who disfigured you, without retaliating.’

Dungal flinched, his left arm pulling instinctively towards his body. The scarred bulb of his wrist jutted from the sleeve of his shirt, the skin livid and knotted.

‘Come,’ Comyn said, leading the way across the courtyard to the great hall. ‘We must talk. The meeting did not go as planned.’

MacDouall fell into step beside him. ‘Bruce did not invite you to join the king’s council?’

‘He did. But that was not the real reason he came.’

The doorward pushed open the double doors as the lords approached.

The great hall was dominated by a dais, behind which a red standard bearing John Comyn’s arms covered the wall. Wall-hangings lined the beamed chamber, depicting various heads of the family over the ages: one standing behind a king as he sealed a document, another bowing before the throne as he accepted new grants of land, John Comyn’s grandfather at the Battle of Lewes fighting alongside King Henry and a young Edward. Fires snapped and spat in the hooded hearths and the hall smelled sweetly of smoke and the straw strewn fresh across the floor for winter, the summer rushes swept out.

Servants were busy collecting up goblets and platters used during the council. Comyn dismissed them with an order, before sitting at the head of a trestle. The Black Comyn seated his broad, muscular frame on one of the benches, sending hunks of bread to the floor with a sweep of his hand. Dungal MacDouall sat opposite him, scanning the remnants of the spread darkly, as if searching for evidence of his enemy.

Comyn waited until the hall’s doors thudded shut, then began to speak, apprising MacDouall of the meeting and its unexpected outcome.

The captain sat for a long moment in silence, his right hand clenched on the surface of the table. ‘So Bruce intends to overthrow King John?’ His voice was quiet, but it might as well have been a shout for the force in his tone.

‘He has had designs on the throne for a long time,’ growled the Black Comyn, ‘this is no great revelation. That ambition has burned in his family for three generations. What is surprising is the confirmation that Bruce has been deceiving his English master all this time and now plans to make war upon him.’

‘I would say that is no surprise,’ murmured Comyn. ‘The son of a bitch has twisted in the wind so many times it is impossible to know which way he faces.’

‘He honestly believes you would help him do this?’ MacDouall was incredulous.

‘The high steward and that meddler Lamberton worked hard to convince me that such an alliance would be in my best interests. If I back Bruce in his bid for the throne he has offered me the lordship of Annandale and the earldom of Carrick.’

‘Only if he becomes king,’ cautioned the Black Comyn. ‘Remember, John, the deal does not stand if he fails to gain the throne. He means for you to throw the full weight of your support behind him in this endeavour – your men and the vassals of your kin, all your allies.’ The earl looked at MacDouall. ‘The Disinherited.’

MacDouall gave a snarl of laughter and rose from his seat. ‘Bruce cannot think we would do this!’

Comyn met his fierce gaze. ‘I imagine they think their offer so generous I cannot refuse.’ He thought back to the meeting, to the moment James Stewart had outlined the terms. After the initial surprise had passed, he had looked over at Robert Bruce. By the utter resentment in his face, Comyn had guessed the extraordinary offer of Bruce’s ancestral lands and titles had not been his design. ‘They have no idea I hold the desire and the will to set myself upon the throne. To overthrow the king, as you put it,’ he added dryly, arching an eyebrow at the captain.