Insurrection: Renegade [02] (57 page)

First, they sliced off his genitals, causing a howl to tear from his lips. Then, the blood spurting dark across his thighs, the executioners began to cut through the flesh of his stomach, opening him up to get at his bowels. Robert turned his gaze to the blond boy who had been so excited by the prospect of seeing the outlaw die. Still perched on the man’s shoulders, he had twisted his face away. His eyes were screwed up, his hands pressed over his ears to block out Wallace’s inhuman screams, unable to bear the sight and sound of a man being opened up while still alive, his insides ripped out to be tossed into a smoking brazier, where they hissed and spat. Many more were still watching the spectacle, silent now in the main. Soon would come the last death. Merciful beheading. The rain dripping down his cheeks, Robert turned and pushed his way through the crowd.

Westminster, London, 1305 AD

Sir John Segrave stood waiting outside Westminster Hall as King Edward and his men rode into the courtyard, the legs of their horses caked with mud from the Middlesex Forest. Behind the lords, knights and squires who accompanied the king, trundled a cart laden with the corpses of half a dozen stags. One, a beast of fourteen tines, had already been unmade in the field, its carcass divided into portions. Its great head, crowned with huge, scarred antlers, was being carried on a pole by one of the huntsmen, blood dripping down the shaft. Hounds ran among the horses, barking excitedly.

Segrave made his way stiffly across the yard, his limp – a legacy from the battle with Comyn’s forces near Roslin – always worse in wet weather. He had a battered leather bag gripped in his hand as he headed purposefully towards the king, past pages who took spears and helms from the knights as they dismounted, faces glistening with rain. King Edward, standing tall among them in a green hunting cloak, seemed in unusually high spirits, laughing at something his son-in-law, Ralph de Monthermer was saying. Guy de Beauchamp and Henry Percy were with them. Segrave steeled himself, praying the king wouldn’t blame the messenger.

As Edward saw Segrave approaching, his smile vanished, replaced by keen question. He strode over to the lieutenant, sliding off his kid-skin gloves. ‘Is it done?’

Knowing what he meant, Segrave nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. William Wallace was led to Smithfield’s gibbet this afternoon, where he was dealt with in accordance with your instructions.’

Edward breathed through his nostrils, nodding slowly as if savouring the news. ‘And the traitor’s corpse?’

‘The body has been quartered. Once the crowds around Smithfield have dispersed, the limbs will be ready for transport. The head has been dipped in pitch to preserve it. It will be set on London Bridge before vespers.’

‘Good.’

‘My lord.’ Aymer headed over. His voice was flat, his spirits markedly different to the other men of the party. ‘The master huntsman asks if you will have the honour of the unmaking.’

Segrave noticed the knight didn’t look the king in the eye when he spoke. He’d heard men say Valence’s obsession with Robert Bruce had caused him to fall out of favour with the king. Segrave gripped the bag tighter, acutely aware of what he was about to unleash.

Edward rubbed his hands together with a rare smile. ‘Indeed I will.’

‘My lord,’ interrupted Segrave. ‘There is something else.’

Edward frowned at Segrave’s tone. ‘Yes?’

‘This was just given to me, along with the clothes and weapons taken from Wallace at the time of his capture.’ The lieutenant lifted the bag. ‘According to my men John of Menteith found it on the outlaw.’ Reaching into the bag, he drew out a roll of parchment. ‘This was inside.’

Edward took it. While the huntsmen began dragging the bodies of the stags from the cart, the nobles talking animatedly, he unrolled the parchment and read. Segrave watched the king’s face change, the hale flush of colour slowly draining from it.

‘What is it, my lord?’ questioned Aymer, his brow furrowing at his cousin’s expression.

Edward looked up, his eyes smouldering. ‘Where is Robert Bruce?’

Chapter 47

Westminster Abbey towered over the precinct, a pale giant against the leaden sky, its pointed arches and buttresses gleaming in the wet. Water gushed from the yawning mouths of gargoyles and trickled down the uplifted faces of angels. The red stained glass of the rose window seemed to bleed with threads of rain. Far below, lines of men and women filed in through the colossal arched doors, heads bowed under the deluge.

Robert, riding hard along the King’s Road, made straight for the abbey’s white walls. Spurring his palfrey across the bridge over the Tyburn and through the grand stone archway, he drew the animal to a stamping halt by the entrance to the abbey grounds. As he dismounted, his eyes went to the great roof of Westminster Hall that thrust above the jumbled buildings of the palace behind him: the scene of Wallace’s trial. Robert’s sodden cloak hung heavy on his shoulders and his boots were caked in Smithfield’s filth. His hair dripped water down his cheeks, while his mind was saturated with the image of Wallace on the executioner’s slab. He had seen many men die bloody in battle, ripped apart by sword and axe, their insides turned outside, a feast for crows and worms. But there was something ungodly about what had been done to the rebel leader, a violation not only of flesh, but of soul. That slow degrading of the body was not a warrior’s death. Not a man’s death.

Hoof-beats clattered in behind him as the rest of his company caught up. Nes was the first to dismount, heading straight to him. ‘Sir?’ he questioned, taking the reins of Robert’s palfrey, concern plain in his voice. Nes hesitated. ‘My lord, there was nothing you could do for him.’

Robert turned his gaze to the ragged procession of men and women filing into the abbey. He knew that wasn’t true. Had he acted on his plan, ignored James Stewart and Lamberton, he might now be heading an army raised by Wallace, the two of them fighting to free their kingdom. Instead, he had waited, futilely, for word from Comyn that hadn’t come. What choices were now left to him? To Scotland? He thought of the prophecy, wondering if he had been wrong and it was genuine after all. Was that why all his plans had come to nothing? He had to know. Leaving Nes, Robert ducked through the archway in the abbey wall.

After the spectacle at West Smithfield had ended, the crowds around the gibbet had begun to disperse, some looking for more sport in the city’s inns, others going back to their chores, leaving the rain washing the blood from the scaffold and the steady chop of the executioner’s axe as Wallace’s body was dismembered. Robert, locating his men by Fionn’s barking, had continued to Westminster expecting to leave the hordes behind, only to find the King’s Road teeming with people, many blighted by disfigurements and diseases of the skin, or by poverty, their flesh withered with hunger. Questioning a group of pilgrims, he’d discovered the king had declared special alms to be given to the poor at the shrine of the Confessor. What was more, the pilgrims told him, the relics of Britain were there displayed for all to see.

Robert couldn’t change Wallace’s fate, nor could he will an agreement to come from John Comyn. But he could open that black box. He could seek the truth. Picking up his pace, he splashed across the waterlogged ground, heading for the abbey doors.

‘Robert?’

He turned abruptly at the familiar voice, to see Humphrey approaching across the yard, hood up to keep off the rain. Robert glanced back; he was almost at the doors, the candlelit gloom of the abbey’s interior glowing faintly beyond. Shambling lines of the poor filed past him to where the almoners were ushering them inside. Several royal guards were there, keeping order and an eye out for thieves.

‘I didn’t know you had returned,’ said Humphrey, coming over.

‘Just now.’

Humphrey cast his eye over Robert’s filthy boots and sodden clothes. ‘You look as if you rode through a river to get here, my friend.’

‘I was at Smithfield.’

Humphrey nodded after a pause. ‘God willing, that will be the last blood shed for this war.’ Despite the optimism of his words, his tone was flat and his green eyes distant. The grief wrought in him the night Bess and his unborn child had died was part of him now, etched in his face. ‘You’re heading inside?’ He fixed on the abbey. ‘I’m going to light a candle for Bess. It’s been almost a year since . . .’ He shook himself. ‘Forgive me. It has been hard these past days. She would have celebrated her birthday last week.’

‘I understand.’

‘On my way here I saw the king returning from his hunt. I’m to see him this evening to discuss tomorrow’s parliament.’ Humphrey gestured to the abbey. ‘Join me in my prayers? I would be glad of the company. Then we will go and see the king together. I know he is keen to hear any final thoughts about the new council before terms are set.’

Robert was deciding how best to answer, when Nes came running across the abbey grounds.

‘Sir Robert! I have a—’ The squire stopped dead as he saw Humphrey, whose hood partially hid his face. ‘Message,’ he finished, fixing meaningfully on Robert. ‘I have a message for you.’

Robert frowned, seeing Nes’s eyes dart to Humphrey. He nodded to the earl. ‘I’ll join you shortly.’ Waiting until Humphrey had disappeared inside, he turned to Nes. ‘What is it?’

‘Sir Ralph de Monthermer saw me waiting for you.’ Nes’s voice was strained. He glanced across the abbey grounds to the wall, beyond which lay the buildings of Westminster Palace. ‘He’s just now come from a hunt with the king. On their return, the king was given a letter found on William Wallace when he was captured by John of Menteith. Ralph doesn’t know what the letter said, but he heard the king order Aymer de Valence to arrest you.’

‘Arrest me?’ Robert felt something cold go through him. ‘For what?’

‘Ralph doesn’t know.’ Nes paused for breath. ‘But he said he owes you this much.’ The squire held out his hand and opened it. Lying on his palm, muddy from a day’s ride, was a pair of spurs.

The message couldn’t have been clearer.

‘Run?’ Robert looked up at Nes. ‘Not without my brother.’

Edward Bruce pushed back the hood of his cloak as he entered the prince’s chambers. Beads of rain glittered from the garment in the glow of the torches that illuminated the passageway. Except for the rushing sounds of a broom being swept across the floor somewhere above, the building was blessedly quiet, the prince and his men having gone straight to the palace kitchens on their return from Smithfield to demand food and ale. Edward had excused himself, unable to bear their abrasive talk and laughter, the death screams of William Wallace still echoing in his ears. The execution had left a bitter taste in his mouth and stripped away the illusions of camaraderie and comfort he had built around himself these past years, enabling him to play well the role of loyal vassal. A cold tide of anger, dammed by necessity, had now been unleashed in him.

He felt furious at himself, cringing from the recollection of the times he had sat and drank with these men, laughing at their jokes about the barbarous Irish, the savage Welsh and the inferior Scots. How could his father have named him after the king? Barbarous? Savage? He could think of no better words to describe what Edward had done to Wallace on that scaffold today. The king’s ivory towers ran with blood.

At the parliament tomorrow, whatever liberties the king granted in the new ordinances would not disguise the bonds that would shackle Scotland to England. Robert was due to arrive from Writtle any time, but so far as Edward knew his brother had received no word from John Comyn on the proposed alliance and there seemed little hope of the move to action he had been praying for. Edward would not have taken this path. Had he been born first he wouldn’t now be waiting for a Comyn to decide the fate of the Bruces and the kingdom. He would ride north tomorrow and crown himself king, using Wallace as a martyr to rally Scotland beneath his banner, and damn all who stood in his way.

Reaching the stairs that led to his quarters, Edward climbed them. So lost to his thoughts was he that he didn’t notice the footsteps in the passage behind him. He halted halfway up the stairs at the sound of his name. Turning, he saw four men approaching. Their shadows came first, spreading dark along the torch-lit walls. As they drew closer, he saw Piers Gaveston at their head. The Gascon’s coal-black eyes had a strange, hungry look. As Piers moved towards him, Edward realised he had his sword in his hand.

‘Master Piers,’ Edward greeted, his eyes on the weapon. The others with the Gascon he knew well, all men of the prince’s household. They had their hands on the pommels of their blades, ready to draw them. ‘The ale has stopped flowing?’

‘It was flowing well enough,’ answered Piers. ‘Until we had a visit from one of the king’s men, ordering us to find you.’

‘Well, now you have, what do you want?’

‘We’re to arrest you.’

Edward felt the last of his gloom fade, the world around him coming into sharp clarity. His heart began to thud, but he maintained a calm expression. Ever since he’d been witness to that embrace in the woods outside Burstwick, Piers had acted differently towards him. The prince had too, but while he seemed keen to draw Edward closer, Piers had become colder, more aggressive. Perhaps he was after spilling more Scots blood today, silencing the secret that lay between the three of them? ‘Arrest me?’ There were seven steps between Edward and the men. He was nearer the top than the bottom. ‘Is this a jest?’