Insurrection: Renegade [02] (6 page)

With a roared order from the engineers the winches were released, the beams arcing up to slingshot their loads at the sandstone walls and towers of the castle. The great stones struck with ear-splitting cracks, dust and mortar exploding on impact and a gaping hole appearing in one of the twin towers of the gatehouse. As rubble splashed into the moat, the shouts of the engineers echoed and, immediately, men began to heave on the ropes, drawing down the arm of each machine and hoisting up the massive weighted basket that hung at its opposite end. When the arm was down, a large stone ball, hewn for the purpose, was rolled into the leather sling. It was David and Goliath. Only now it was the monster who had the stone in his fist and sixty Scottish soldiers cowered within the walls, like a David with no hope whatsoever.

Beyond the industry of the siege lines, crowded among the castle’s earthwork defences and outbuildings, which had fallen to the English yesterday, was a seething encampment of three thousand men. Smoke curled from fires, adding a grey pall to the morning mists. The smell of boiled meat from the cooking pots blended with the reek of horse dung and the stink from the dug-out latrines. The place blazed with colour, from the knights’ surcoats and mantles to the pennons on their lance shafts and the banners that were hoisted above the great retinues of England’s earls.

At the heart of the camp, King Edward watched as the siege engines were primed again. At over six feet he was an erect tower of a man, standing head and shoulder above most of those around him. His crimson surcoat was emblazoned with three golden lions, beneath which a mail hauberk and coat-of-plates broadened his muscular frame. His beard, the same swan-feather white as his hair, was clipped brutally close to his jaw and did little to soften his grim countenance. The only trace of frailty to be found in that face was the droop in one of his eyelids, a defect inherited from his father, which had become more prominent since he had turned sixty. With the gold crown upon his head and the scarred broadsword strapped to his side he was the embodiment of majesty and might, inviting comparison with legendary warriors of old – Brutus, Roland, Charlemagne. Arthur.

As the engines let loose another barrage, Edward followed the missiles with his eyes. It was only the second day of the siege and already the walls were pitted with damage. It would, however, take much more to bring the structure to ruin. Caerlaverock Castle, shaped like a shield with towers at each point of its triangle, stood isolated in the waters of its surrounding moat, drawbridge raised. Built only thirty years earlier, it was said to be one of the most redoubtable fortresses in Scotland. Stretching behind it were the salt marshes and mud-flats of the Solway Firth, beyond which lay England. With the fall of the Bruce family’s stronghold at Lochmaben, Caerlaverock had become the new gateway to the west of Scotland. It was the first obstacle he faced on this campaign.

‘My lord king.’

Humphrey de Bohun moved up beside him. He was clad in a blue surcoat, banded with a broad white stripe and decorated with six gold lions. His brown hair was covered by a coif of mail that framed his broad face and he carried his great helm under his arm. ‘Work is progressing well on the belfry, my lord. The engineers believe it will be ready before the week is out. Once it’s lowered into the moat the fighting top should come high enough up the walls to allow our men to scale them. Unless, of course, it falls to us before that.’

As Humphrey’s attention shifted to the castle, the king noted the hunger in his gaze. The young man had succeeded his father as Constable of England and Earl of Hereford and Essex three years earlier, and along with those distinguished titles he seemed to have inherited the same intensity of expression, as if some thought or passion was constantly burning behind his green eyes. Edward had seen a similar fire of late in the other men of his Round Table, bound to him – as King Arthur’s knights had been – by oaths stronger than fealty or homage. The war had become something personal to all of them. Some, like Humphrey, had lost family to a Scottish blade. Others were fighting for the promise of reward, or glory. But all were here for retribution against the man whose betrayal had cut like a poisoned dagger through their ranks – a man they had once called brother.

Robert Bruce.

That name was a splinter under Edward’s skin. The last reports revealed that Bruce had resigned his position as guardian of Scotland and disappeared, leaving a maddening and disturbing silence. The king’s best hope lay in the belief that if anyone could find Bruce it was Adam, but he had heard no word from the Gascon in months. ‘The divisions,’ he asked Humphrey, ‘they are prepared?’

‘If we storm the castle with the belfry and our men are able to lower the drawbridge, your son will command the main assault. As you instructed.’

The king seized on the trace of doubt in the younger man’s voice. ‘You do not think him ready?’

Humphrey paused before answering. ‘I think it is a challenging assault for a first command, my lord.’

The king surveyed the crowd of men around the royal pavilion, his keen eyes picking out his son. Edward, only weeks away from his seventeenth birthday, was a mirror of himself in adolescence; the same blond hair and long, angular features. In the past year the boy’s body had lengthened and begun to thicken, suggesting he would also inherit his stature. He was standing with his companions, all sons of lords or earls, apart from Piers Gaveston, who owed his position to the king’s own indulgence. The son of a loyal Gascon knight, Piers had seemed an ideal companion for the young Edward. The two had since grown inseparable, but while his son seemed content to spend his days fishing and lazing outdoors it was Piers who had developed an impressive martial reputation in that time. Handsome, charismatic, arrogant, his prowess on the tournament field was already being commented on in court, while the heir to the throne languished contentedly in his shadow. That, the king was determined, would change on this campaign, which was why he had given the command of half the English army to his son.

‘A victory here will be a worthy beginning to his career. I fought my first campaign at his age. It is past time he was tested. This war and his forthcoming marriage will see to it.’ The king turned, fixing Humphrey with his full attention. ‘On the subject of which, I am aware you have been spending time with my daughter.’

A faint wash of colour bloomed on the earl’s cheeks.

Edward laughed, the sound brief and brittle. ‘Do not fear, Humphrey. I am glad. Since the death of Count John, I have been pondering the question of a new suitor for my daughter. When this campaign is won, we will discuss the matter.’

‘My lord, I would be honoured . . .’

Edward, however, wasn’t listening. His gaze had been caught by a company of mounted men making their way through the camp, led by four royal knights. He recognised, with swift-rising hostility, the corpulent man at the head, astride a stocky black horse. It was Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury. With the archbishop was a retinue of black-clad clerics and two foreign-looking men in sumptuous scarlet robes and jewelled hats. Appraising their distinctive appearance, at once pious and wealthy, Edward felt certain he knew where they had come from. They had the look of men from the papal curia in Rome. The king’s hostility shifted to unease.

Chapter 4

Lough Luioch, Ireland, 1301 AD

Robert sat at the prow, watching the island draw near. Mountains were mirrored in the depths of the lough. Beyond their scarred heights, the sky was stained with a bloody tinge. The air was crisp, but not as cold as it had been when the company set out from Antrim, the February winds dying the further south they travelled. In the still dawn the only sound was the splash of oars. The boat, taken from the beach, was old and smelled of fish. Behind Robert, eyes gleaming in the half-light, were Edward and Niall, along with Murtough and two of his brethren. Christopher and Cormac were at the oars. Robert had left his brother Thomas and Alexander Seton with the squires on the northern shore, guarding their horses and gear. He wasn’t taking any chances.

On their journey south, hampered by harsh terrain and winter weather, they had encountered bands of lawless men roaming the countryside for plunder. Most had been cautious of their well-armed company, but on two occasions they had been accosted and were only saved from a skirmish by Cormac – whose cúlán marked him as an Irishman – and by the presence of the monks in their habits. At settlements along the way they had heard rumours of pillage and murder, as the Irish grew increasingly confident in attacking areas settled long ago by English colonists.

‘I see no one.’

Robert looked round at the rough voice to see Murtough peering into the gloom. The closer they had come to their destination the more subdued the monk had grown. Robert knew he was wary of what they might find when they reached the island; fearful the staff might already have been taken. But they had seen no sign of Ulster’s men on the road and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could find this place, even with guidance from the abbey’s records. The remote wilderness, hidden by its mountain barrier, seemed as though it stood at the end of the earth. Added to the solitude was the issue of identification, for Ireland’s landscape was crowded with ruins: hill forts and standing stones, cairns and barrow mounds. The crumbling remains on the island ahead were just one of countless monuments to the once living and long dead.

As they reached land, the boat grazing the shallows, Edward and Niall leapt over the sides to haul in the vessel. Robert jumped down, his mail coat shifting around him as he splashed through pools between the rocks. ‘Keep watch,’ he ordered Christopher and Cormac.

‘We’ve not seen a soul in days,’ Cormac responded. When Robert fixed him with a stare, the young Irishman exhaled. ‘Whatever you say, brother.’ He and Christopher shared a look as they stowed the oars.

Robert ignored them, unable to dispel his rising apprehension. The path to the throne he had set out upon three years ago had followed a frustratingly twisting course and these past months in Ireland he had felt further from that purpose than ever. Often he had doubted his decision to pursue the relic, fearing it would lead him nowhere. Now was the moment when his choice would be proven right or wrong.

Murtough led the way through a fringe of reeds towards the largest of the island’s ruins, a church formed of the same ghost-grey stones that littered the shoreline. Birds startled from the undergrowth as the men moved towards the building, which was encircled by a low, tumbled-down wall, tufted with grass. Beyond were remains of other buildings, most of them timber, which had all but rotted away over the long years since the place was inhabited. Bushes and weeds had worked their way into the remnants, nature reclaiming its territory. On the western end of the island, Robert caught sight of a domed structure that looked like a giant stone beehive.

‘St Finan’s cell,’ came Murtough’s voice in the hush. He had stopped at the church wall and was following Robert’s gaze. ‘He lived here centuries before Malachy built the monastery. This island may be small, but it has a long and hallowed history.’

Robert imagined Malachy and his brethren living here; the wild solitude of their existence. It was a good place for men who wanted to escape the world.

Edward moved up beside him, leaving Niall and the other two monks to bring up the rear. ‘If it is here, brother, what next?’

Murtough had moved ahead through a gap in the wall, picking his way through the undergrowth towards several slabs of stone that protruded from the grass. He was out of earshot, but Robert kept his reply low. ‘We take it to Scotland, as planned.’

‘And then?’ Edward prompted.

Before Robert could reply, Murtough’s voice cut across them. ‘Here.’

Heading to him, the men gathered around a lichen-stained grave slab, lying horizontally on top of four stone lintels embedded in the soil. It was decorated with an ornately carved cross, the spirals of knot-work entwined with beasts and birds. Murtough’s brethren bent to help him as he crouched and placed his hands on the slab’s sides. Niall added his strength to theirs and, between them, the four men pushed it from the top of the grave. Stone ground on stone. In the dark hollow that appeared beneath, lined with the lintel slabs, Robert saw a grinning skull, laced with hair. The flesh had long been ravaged, the clothing reduced to threads. As his eyes drifted down the skeleton’s length, he realised there was something lying alongside the corpse, wrapped in cloth.

Relief was plain in Murtough’s scarred face. ‘Praise God,’ he muttered, sitting back on his heels.

Robert reached in and grasped it, feeling a solid shape within the folds of material. The cloth had once been white, but after almost two years in the grave it was green with mould. A fat earthworm twisted from the folds. The monks were sombre as they watched him take the staff, but made no move to stop him. This was his burden now. Carefully, he laid it on the grave slab and pulled back the soiled covering. In the bloody dawn, the gold and gems that encrusted the staff’s sheath glittered. Robert felt a hot rush of triumph. The final relic named in the
Last Prophecy
– the one King Edward needed to fulfil his vision of a kingdom united beneath him – was in his hands.

As Robert stared at the golden crosier, Murtough’s question back in Donough’s hall came to him.

And what about you, Earl Robert? Do you believe in Merlin’s prophecy?

He had spent two years in Edward’s company, one of the Knights of the Dragon, whose purpose was to aid the king in retrieving the relics. While many of those who had once been his friends accepted the truth of Merlin’s prophecy and were determined to prevent the ruin of Britain foreseen in it, he himself had not been able to believe. No matter the rewards, the glory and camaraderie he had found in the king’s service, he had never been able to dismiss the fact that if the four treasures were gathered under one man, who would rule all of Britain, it would render the Bruce claim to the throne of Scotland meaningless. In furthering Edward’s ambition, he denied his own and failed in his promise to his grandfather that he would uphold their family’s right. In the end, this truth had twisted inside him, turning him from Edward’s cause.