Insurrection: Renegade [02] (63 page)

When Robert hesitated, John of Atholl interjected. ‘Sir Malcolm has brought a hundred from Lennox.’

‘Then he is most welcome,’ responded Robert, grasping the earl’s hand.

‘Sir Robert.’

He turned at the gruff voice to see Bishop Wishart peering up at him. Dropping to one knee, Robert kissed the ring on the old man’s withered hand, then rose to embrace him. They had been in contact for months via messengers, but he hadn’t seen the Bishop of Glasgow for several years. He was stunned at how much the man – one of the first guardians of Scotland during the interregnum – had aged. ‘Your grace, it is good to have you here.’

Wishart gripped Robert’s arms. ‘Sir James said you were there in London, when William . . .’ The bishop inhaled, the breath wheezing in his throat. ‘Did he endure great suffering?’

Robert met the bishop’s watery eyes. An image of William Wallace being drawn through the stinking city, naked and bound to a hurdle, flashed in his mind. He placed a hand on Wishart’s shoulder. ‘He suffers no longer.’

‘In the arms of God,’ murmured Lamberton, ‘all find peace.’

Wishart pressed his lips together. He turned away and gestured brusquely to two pages who were waiting with a chest by the side of the tent. Together, they hefted it by its handles and carried it over. Wishart opened the lid and reached inside. ‘I have something for you, Robert. Something I have kept hidden, hoping the hour would come when it was needed.’

Robert watched as Wishart drew out a folded square of gold cloth. Taking its edges in his hands, the bishop shook it open. As the cloth cascaded to the ground it unfurled to reveal a red lion, rearing rampant on glimmering gold. All the men at the table fell silent, staring in astonishment at the royal standard of Scotland. Pride swelled in Robert. He felt the will of his grandfather within him, compelling him to reach out and grasp the cloth, symbol of the Bruce legacy; his inheritance. As his fingers curled around the gold, he knew that the years of waiting, all the lies and the pretence, had been worth it. In less than a fortnight, he would be crowned king.

‘Dear God, your grace,’ murmured James Stewart. ‘Where did you get that? I thought Longshanks took all the royal regalia to Westminster after the first conquest?’

‘He missed one,’ replied Wishart tartly. He gently removed the banner from Robert and passed it to the pages to be folded and stowed in the chest. ‘I have also brought vestments from my wardrobe at Glasgow. They will be appropriate for the ceremony.’

‘So everything is set?’ asked Neil Campbell, looking between the bishop and Robert.

‘As much as can be,’ answered William Lamberton. He glanced over at the Earl of Lennox. ‘We have agreed that the enthronement will take place on the feast of the Annunciation at Scone Abbey. The abbot has been informed and will preside over the proceedings. I will perform the ceremony itself.’

Malcolm nodded calmly, seeming to take the news of this revolutionary act in his stride. Robert guessed he had heard the rumours.

‘What of the Stone of Destiny?’ questioned Gilbert de la Hay. ‘Forgive me,’ he added to Robert, ‘but can a king even be made without it?’

‘The ritual will be the same in every other respect and will be done on the Moot Hill.’ Robert paused, aware of the secret he harboured from them all and his failure to set that wrong right. ‘My grandfather always said it is the man that makes the king.’

‘Indeed,’ said Lamberton, nodding in agreement. ‘And, with the crown and sceptre we’ve had wrought, the royal banner will be a welcome addition to the day. I’d say we’re set.’

‘Then, there is just one last thing.’ Robert’s eyes went to John of Atholl. ‘When can you leave?’

‘Whenever you order it. My men and I are ready.’

At the earl’s side, David gave a staunch nod.

‘Today then,’ Robert told them. ‘The scouts say she is still in residence at her manor, but we do not know for how long. When you have her in your custody take her directly to Scone. I’ll meet you there.’

‘And if she won’t come willingly?’

‘Do not give her the choice,’ said Robert flatly.

‘Who?’ asked Malcolm Lennox, glancing from Atholl to Robert.

‘The final piece needed for the ceremony,’ Robert answered brusquely. He turned to the others. ‘Is there anything new from our scouts? Any sign of movement from the English?’

Neil Campbell answered first. ‘Nothing. Since our uprising began the garrisons have barricaded themselves in their castles. I imagine they will remain there until reinforcements come from England.’

‘An English mouse could fart in Scotland right now and we would all hear it,’ voiced Gilbert de la Hay. ‘I have never known them this quiet. And given the circumstances . . .?’ He scowled. ‘It is troubling.’

‘It is the calm before the storm,’ said Lamberton. ‘When the roads clear, King Edward will come. And come hard. Sir Robert’s swift actions these past weeks have given us some advantage; with so many western garrisons routed the king will be forced to come by the east. But, still, we cannot underestimate him, or the strength of arms he will bring.’

‘We need more men,’ said Edward Bruce, his voice hard. ‘We do not have enough. Not nearly.’ He scanned them all, before resting on Robert. ‘Have you spoken to your wife? Perhaps, if Thomas and Alexander were to delay their journey until after the enthronement, she could travel with them – speak to her father? You are about to make her queen, after all.’

‘That is a path I will not risk,’ Robert answered. ‘Not until I’ve exhausted every other hope of support. The Earl of Ulster is still King Edward’s man. Thomas and Alexander will be seeking more likely allies in Ireland. Lord Donough and the men of Antrim will answer my call. As will, I believe, the MacDonalds of Islay. Our sister, Margaret,’ he added to Edward, ‘has just arrived from Roxburghshire with twenty horse. We have the knights of Atholl and Mar, and now Lennox.’

‘When I get to the Forest I can bring the last of Sir William’s band to the fight,’ interjected Neil Campbell. ‘We aren’t many, but we are more than ready for this battle.’

‘And with Rothesay back in Sir James’s hands we can count on strong support from his lordships,’ finished Robert. For the first time since entering the pavilion he locked eyes with the steward, who had been listening in silence.

‘Of course,’ replied James, after a pause. ‘That goes without saying. But,’ he continued, as Robert went to look away, ‘ even with all those you have mentioned that is still only half the realm.’ His gaze went to Lamberton. ‘It was not the plan to go to war as a divided kingdom, your grace.’

‘That plan has changed, James,’ murmured Lamberton. ‘There is nothing we can do about it now. We must work with the men we have and go with whatever fortune God grants us. King Edward will come for us whether we do so or not. We have no choice.’

‘We could go to the Comyns, try to make reparations, offer the heads of the households some position in the new realm? Tell them, unless they stand with us in this hour of need, all will remain subject to—’

‘No,’ Robert said abruptly, cutting off the steward. ‘We will do this without the Comyns.’ He laid his hands on the table top and scanned the others. ‘Now, let us go through our strategy for the coming days. Much as I hate to admit it, Dumbarton will not fall in the time we have. We must move on.’

While Robert spoke, outlining his intentions, some of the men shared troubled glances as the silence between him and the steward continued, coldly palpable.

Chapter 51

When the war council was over, Robert dismissed everyone except his brothers Thomas and Alexander. While the others headed out, talking among themselves, he led them into a private area of the pavilion, stacked with chests of his personal belongings, conveyed from Turnberry. His armour hung from a stand, a sword in its scabbard propped against it. The scarred blade had been given to him by John of Atholl, a replacement for his own, broken that night at Dumfries. Fionn was sprawled on some blankets. The hound opened one eye as Robert crossed to him. Ruffling his dog’s grey ears, he dragged out one of the chests. He took up a key that swung from a chain on his belt and unlocked it.

Inside the chest, under a layer of clothes, was a long thin object bound in cloth. As Robert lifted the Staff of Malachy, the black lacquered box nestled beside it was dislodged. He paused there for a moment, eyes on the split in the side of the wood, all his questions and half-formed thoughts seething inside him, then he shut the chest and locked it. There was no time for answers or action on that. Not yet.

‘Here,’ he said, handing the staff to Alexander. ‘When you arrive in Antrim, take this to the monks at Bangor Abbey. I don’t know how long they will be able to keep it safe, but for the time being I imagine King Edward will have more pressing concerns than its recovery.’

Alexander took the staff reluctantly.

‘Perhaps it will appease St Malachy enough to lift the curse from our family?’ offered Thomas, glancing at Alexander.

‘Return via Islay,’ Robert told them. ‘Tell Angus Og MacDonald the Bruce family calls on the old alliance with the lords of the Isles. While you’re there get word to the MacRuaries. I want to try to enlist the galloglasses for the coming fight. They would be a great asset.’

‘The mercenaries?’ Thomas frowned. ‘Forgive me, brother, but the MacRuaries and their kin switch sides more than you do.’

‘They go where the money is,’ said Robert. Opening another chest, he took out a coffer that he handed to his brother. ‘Tell them there will be more if they aid their new king.’

‘We’ll leave as soon as the horses are ready,’ answered Thomas, ‘hopefully make it across before the spring tides churn up the race.’ He gripped Robert’s shoulder briefly. ‘I’m sorry we’ll miss your coronation.’

‘You’ll make it up to me if you return with half of Ireland at your back.’

Thomas grinned and headed out, but Alexander lingered, the staff in his hands. ‘Before I go, Robert, will you do as I have asked? Will you let me hear your confession?’

Robert turned away.

Alexander stepped towards him, his brow creasing. ‘You may have cleaned the blood from your blade, but you cannot so easily cleanse the stain on your soul. Brother, you have committed a deadly sin. What you and Christopher did was sacrilege. You must make reparation, if not to the Comyns then certainly before God. Let me stay. Send Niall or Edward with Thomas. Use me as your confessor, rather than as a messenger of war.’

Robert twisted round. ‘I need soldiers, Alex, not priests!’

Alexander started back at the fury in his voice. After a pause, he left.

Robert waited a moment, then pushed through into the main section of the pavilion. He halted as James Stewart turned to him.

‘Your brother still won’t be wrong, Robert. However far away you send him.’

‘I don’t have time for this.’

James moved in front of Robert, as he made for the tent opening. ‘I meant what I said about making amends with the Comyn family. You told us it was an accident, that Sir John attacked without warning and you were defending yourself. That you had no choice but to kill him.’

‘It was,’ said Robert sharply, thinking he heard doubt in the steward’s tone.

‘The Comyns need to know that. Everything has happened so quickly. You’ve been running full tilt since Dumfries. You haven’t paused to think about what you’ve done, about the harm you’ve caused.’

‘The harm I’ve caused? The harm was yours – yours and Lamberton’s. You forced me to agree to that foolish plan. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t revealed my intentions to the Comyns. John Comyn would still be alive, King Edward would know nothing of my treason and the head of William Wallace would not now be rotting on London Bridge!’

The steward flinched at this last. ‘There was no other option. That’s why you agreed with the plan. Do not blame me for something you yourself knew to be true.’

Robert stalked the tent, pushing his hand through his hair. ‘All the while I was in England, shackled in Edward’s service – betraying my friends and fighting my countrymen, as you convinced me I must – John Comyn was here, building support for his own ambition. God damn it, James, the man wanted to be king! Of course he wouldn’t endorse my bid!’

‘None of us could have known he would—’

‘All these years I’ve followed your advice, trusted you as my grandfather did. I never stopped to question why you wanted me to take the throne. Now, I think I understand. Without a king the position of high steward is fairly well redundant, isn’t it? You’re desperate to claw back your own power and you’re using me to get it. You speak of the need for reparation?’ Robert stepped up to the steward. ‘John Comyn’s blood is on your hands as much as mine. We’ll both have to reap that whirlwind.’

This time, as he moved towards the tent opening, James didn’t stand in his way.

Robert strode through the camp, ignoring the calls of greeting or question from those he passed. Finding a secluded spot on the banks of the Clyde, he sat and stared out over the estuary. Picking up a handful of stones, he tossed them viciously into the water. They peppered the surface. As he sat there, the wind whipping his hair around his face, the anger slowly drained from him, washed away by a cold tide of guilt.

You told us it was an accident.

He could lie to them all. God knows, he’d had enough practice. But he couldn’t lie to himself.