Kingdom (18 page)

The History of the Kings of Britain,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

Chapter 11

Finlaggan Castle (Islay), Scotland, 1306 AD

The procession made its way across the causeway that spanned the reed-fringed waters of Finlaggan’s northern shore; the stone umbilical cord linking the two islands of Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhairle. Ahead, at the end of the causeway, the council hall dominated the smaller man-made isle. Torches burned at the entranceway, their reflections jewelling the water. Cattle lowed in the velvet dark of the surrounding hills. Beyond, in the distance, the scarred flanks of the Paps of Jura were stark against the pearlescent evening sky.

As the line of men filed in through the hall’s arched doorway, Thomas Bruce looked over his shoulder, past the cluster of buildings on Eilean Mor, where smoke plumed from the chimney of the great hall. For a moment, he thought he saw the shadow of a boat, lying low in the water, where another causeway joined the larger island to the shore beyond, but the reflections of the hills made it impossible to be certain.

Cormac had to bring himself up short to avoid knocking into him. ‘They’re not coming, brother.’

Thomas met his gaze. ‘Perhaps.’

His foster-brother looked steadily back, his red hair seeming to flame in the torchlight. Like the ten Irishmen who had accompanied him from Antrim, Cormac wore it in the traditional cúlán, the front matted thick and hanging in his eyes, the back shorn short. ‘For what it’s worth, I think that a good thing.’

‘Come, Thomas,’ called Alexander Bruce from the hall’s entrance, where his hooded brown robe made him one with the shadows. ‘Let us not keep our host waiting.’

Turning, Thomas hefted his bag higher on his shoulder, feeling the weight of the chest straining the leather. He would have thought the promise inside would have drawn the lords of Garmoran like wolves to blood.

As he entered, closely followed by Cormac, Thomas scanned the chamber. He had been on Islay for almost a month, having sailed from Ireland where Lord Donough had been raising the men of Antrim for Robert’s war, but this was the first time he had set foot in the council hall on Eilean na Comhairle – the heart of the MacDonald lordship. Torches spread fans of light up the whitewashed walls. Above, beams criss-crossed into shadow where bats skimmed the air, disturbed by the murmuring voices as the men shuffled into rows of benches, all facing a dais at the far wall on which stood a solitary chair.

The man who had led them here climbed the steps of the dais and seated himself. Angus Og MacDonald, the Lord of Islay, was a broad-chested man in his early forties with nut-brown skin and a strong face framed by sandy hair, streaked grey at his temples. He scanned the chamber as the men settled into the benches, his sharp blue eyes watchful. They had come at his summons from across his lands in Kintyre and Islay, southern Jura, Oronsay and Colonsay. Seasoned chiefs who had fought the Norsemen at their last battle on western shores forty-three years ago were joined by strapping sons and eager grandsons, many of whom now aspired to knighthood rather than the wild, sea-governed existence of their plundering forefathers.

Directed by Angus’s usher, Thomas sat at the front, placing the leather bag on the floor between his feet. He hadn’t trusted anyone else with the burden since Robert passed it to him at Dumbarton Rock along with the Staff of  Malachy, now returned to the monks at Bangor Abbey. Alexander moved in beside him, hands folded in his lap, the silver cross he wore around his neck glinting in the torchlight. Cormac and the men from Antrim, who had been ordered to escort the brothers to Islay by Lord Donough, were shown into the benches behind. Looking up at Angus seated on the dais, a banner on the wall behind displaying the MacDonald arms – a black galley with sails furled – Thomas thought the man looked more like a king than a lord. As the great-great-grandson of Somerled, he supposed in some way he was.

The ancient sea kingdom, made up of more than five hundred islands that curved along the western coast of Scotland at the mercy of the moods of the Northern Ocean, had been carved up on Somerled’s death among his sons. The influence of the Norse kings, who plundered and settled along the chain of islands, had divided the allegiances of Somerled’s descendants, plunging them into a feud that had echoed down the generations. Forty years ago, once the Norsemen had conceded control, the Western Isles had been drawn under the authority of Scotland’s kings, but the lords of the three families who governed the fractured territory were fierce, proud men with long memories and they still commanded a king-like respect from the communities they governed. Thomas had seen that clearly these past few weeks on Islay.

‘Welcome,’ said Angus, his Gaelic rich and deep. His eyes swept the company, seeming to connect with every man in turn. ‘I have summoned you here at the behest of my esteemed guests, Sir Thomas Bruce and Alexander, Dean of Glasgow. They have come under the authority of their brother, King Robert, who requests my aid in his war against King Edward.’

The hall filled with a rumble of surprise.

Thomas glanced behind him, taking in the frowns and shaking of heads. He had expected as much. The MacDonalds, like his father and other Scottish magnates, had been supporters of King Edward since the start of the war. The statement presented a dramatic volte face.

‘My lord,’ spoke up an old man, whose hands were planted on a stick as gnarled and bent as he was, ‘while the war with England has ravaged the mainland we have remained untouched. Why risk King Edward’s wrath after all these years?’

‘We have a new king now, Gillepatrick,’ answered Angus.

‘A king who took the throne by force, my lord, against the will of many.’

There were murmurs of agreement at this.

Thomas wanted to speak, but held his tongue. Angus might have shown him great hospitality, but he had no authority here.

‘Gillepatrick is right,’ said a younger man. ‘By his actions Bruce has made many powerful foes, not just in England. It is only three years since Richard de Burgh was ordered to attack the stronghold of Sir James Stewart on Bute. All our lands lie in easy reach of Ireland. Who is to say the galleys of Ulster will not be seen on our shores if we ally ourselves with King Edward’s enemy?’

‘Right now, the Earl of Ulster has his own troubles to attend to,’ Cormac said, rising. ‘My Irish countrymen continue to press in on the borders of English settlements in the south and west. My father, Lord Donough of Glenarm, is preparing a fleet of ships that will bring the warriors of Antrim to King Robert’s aid. So preoccupied is Ulster by the advance of my people, he doesn’t even have the resources to stop my father. He will not come for you.’ Cormac caught Thomas’s warning look. ‘With respect,’ he added, nodding to Angus.

Angus raised his hand for silence. ‘My father pledged himself to the Bruce cause before John Balliol was crowned – before the war began. I was at Turnberry when the oath was sworn to the Lord of Annandale. His grandson has now called upon me to uphold that oath. It would be an insult to my father’s honour to refuse.’

‘Honour? Is that what you call it?’

At the harsh voice that came from the back of the hall most of the men turned, craning their heads to see who had addressed the lord so insolently. Thomas saw a figure step from the gloom into a pool of torchlight. He was a tall man, wiry of build, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a sky-blue cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch. A few days of stubble darkened his angular jaw, partially concealing a defect, or perhaps a scar, that twisted the corner of his upper lip. The man’s gaze remained fixed on Angus.

‘I call it ambition.’

Angus sat forward, hands curled around the arms of the chair. ‘Lachlan. I was expecting you days ago.’

At the name, Thomas knew this was Lachlan MacRuarie, West Highland captain of the galloglass, bastard son of the Lord of Garmoran and another of Somerled’s descendants. He nudged the leather bag at his feet with his boot, his anticipation sparked.

‘You would support Bruce not because of your father’s pledge, but because you believe it may bring you what you desire most. Do not pretend otherwise, cousin.’ Lachlan’s twisted lip curled. ‘You must know the MacDougalls have been raising an army against Bruce, planning to strike at him for the killing of John Comyn. You know, too, if you aid Bruce and he is triumphant, he may finally grant you their island.’

Angus rose. ‘Lismore is ours by my brother’s marriage to that MacDougall bitch. The lords of Argyll’s refusal to honour her dowry doesn’t make it their island. It makes it stolen territory: territory my brother lost his life for, as well you know,
cousin
,
since you aided the whoresons.’ Angus gestured to two of his men, standing near the back. ‘Seize him.’

As they made towards him, Lachlan shouted a command. Through the doors of the hall burst a band of men. Most were clad in patterned woollen tunics, their bare arms sun-browned and corded with muscle. All had swords or daggers in their hands. Two of them held a man between them, a blade pushed up against his throat.

Thomas recognised the captive as Angus’s steward. Reaching down, he grasped the leather bag as the hall erupted with shouts of indignation and the scrape of swords. Behind him, Cormac and the men of Antrim were on their feet, weapons drawn.

‘Hold!’ Angus shouted at his men. He held up his hands to Lachlan; a gesture of peace. ‘Do not do this.’

Lachlan’s mocking smile had vanished. His green eyes were glacial. ‘Did you think I would be fool enough to come alone into the hall of the man who imprisoned me and my brother on a godforsaken rock for five damn years?’

‘Five years? As Christ is my witness you didn’t serve one – the MacDougalls saw to that.’

‘Ruarie wasn’t so fortunate though, was he? Your guards made him pay for my escape.’

A man emerged from the group to stand beside Lachlan. He was shorter and broader of body, his bald head laced with ugly scars. One of his eyes was missing. There was a dark, empty hole in its place.

‘I negotiated your brother’s release,’ said Angus, hand on the hilt of the dirk that hung from his belt. ‘Even though King Edward wanted him detained for life for the burning and looting of one of his royal galleys.’

Ruarie stared back, his one eye unblinking. He looked like a mastiff, poised to attack. There was an axe gripped in his fists.

‘How honourable of you,’ said Lachlan coldly.

‘You would charge
my
lord with dishonour?’ growled one of Angus’s men. ‘When the MacDougalls laid waste to our islands and slaughtered our people you followed, picking through the spoils. Like crows after carrion you and your kind are, MacRuarie. There’s no honour among you – you and your clan of bastards!’

The men with Lachlan bristled. The steward cried out as the dagger bit into his neck. Angus strode down the steps of the dais, wrenching his dirk free.

It was Alexander who stopped them.

Thomas started as his brother swept out into the aisle, putting himself between Angus and Lachlan.

‘Peace!’ Alexander raised his hands, palms upturned to each of them, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Angus halted at the command. Lachlan’s eyes narrowed, but he made no further move.

Alexander looked from one man to the other. ‘Whatever disputes lie between you they are neither my nor my brother’s concern. We are here for one purpose only – to deliver a summons from your king, calling you to arms against a common enemy of Scotland.’

Thomas stared at his brother in dumb surprise at this strident declaration. Since leaving Scotland, shortly before the coronation, Alexander had been deeply troubled by their brother’s part in the death of John Comyn. In Antrim, while Thomas and Lord Donough gathered the men for war, he had done little except to return the staff to the monks at Bangor and pray for Robert’s soul.

‘Your support,’ finished Alexander, his eyes on Lachlan, ‘will be rewarded.’ He nodded curtly to Thomas. ‘Brother.’

Suppressing his astonishment, Thomas gathered himself. The leather bag held tight in his fist, he headed down the aisle, past Alexander. Lachlan’s men were still poised for a fight, as were Angus’s, but all eyes were now on Thomas. He stopped a few paces from Lachlan, taking in the blades pointing towards him. He remembered someone, Neil Campbell most likely, saying the MacRuaries were as unpredictable and capricious as the seas they ruled. Crouching, he set the bag on the rush-strewn floor and pushed the material down in folds to reveal a wooden chest. Unsnapping the catch and opening the lid, he picked it up and held it out.

Lachlan continued to hold Thomas’s gaze for a moment, before his eyes flicked down to the open coffer. Inside, hundreds of silver coins glinted in the burnished light of the torches.

Ruarie leaned forward, his one eye squinting into the coffer. ‘I’ve seen more silver in the fists of one of my bairns.’ His voice was husky.

‘This is but a token,’ Thomas assured them, ‘to show our good faith. The king will give you more, much more, if you agree to enlist your fighting men and ships to his cause. Isn’t this why you came to this hall? Because you were told of the reward?’