Kingdom (23 page)

‘Another cage for this animal!’ he hissed, as Mary was hauled to her feet. Edward stooped suddenly, clutching his side as if in pain. After a moment, he righted himself, his gaze swivelling to John and Niall. ‘And you – you who have sheltered the traitor, who fought and bled for him and his cause.’ He looked at Christopher. ‘You who murdered John Comyn in cold blood. John of Atholl. Niall Bruce. Christopher Seton. I sentence you to death.’

At this, even some of the watching English looked surprised. As John’s wife let out a strangled cry and Christian Bruce collapsed in the arms of Valence’s men, Elizabeth turned helplessly to Humphrey, with her eyes beseeching him to intervene. The earl’s jaw clenched as he looked away, now unwilling to meet her gaze.

Berwick Castle, Scotland, 1306 AD

Alexander Seton felt the damp stone bruising his back, but he didn’t move. The discomfort served to remind him that he was still alive. His wounds had healed, his skin sealing imperfectly over cuts and bruises to create new marks on his arms and chest. He had no idea what his face looked like. Only his fingers could create a picture of the crooked breaks in his nose and the knots of scar tissue around his eyes and lips.

Sounds of scraping fingernails, the wet pad of feet on the slimy floor and agitated murmurs rose around him in the dank gloom as other men shifted their positions. The newer prisoners still stalked about the cramped cell like caged animals, walking endless circles. Those who had been in the dungeon longest huddled against the sides or lay curled, facing the mildewed walls. One, a scrawny, toothless man who had been in here longer than he himself knew, crawled around on hands and knees, chattering to himself. Old Bones, the others called him.

Alexander closed his eyes, hearing the knocking start up again as men went to work on the town walls. He had seen hundreds of them up on scaffolds and down in the deep trench of the fosse when his captors carted him in. Berwick, once a thriving Scottish port, had been the first casualty of the war and a bloody one at that. Livid tales of the two-day slaughter that saw the deaths of over seven thousand townsfolk and made the River Tweed run red reached everyone in Scotland. Thereafter, Berwick had become an English town and seat of King Edward’s administration in Scotland. The distant hammering entered Alexander’s head, maddening in its monotony. He had been able to handle the squalid, confined space, the foetid stench of his fellow prisoners, even the repulsive rations the guards slopped in, but not that endless knocking. It felt as though the workers had their picks and hammers inside his skull, slowly chipping away at his sanity.

He sank into himself, squeezing his hands into fists and trying to block it out. Dark thoughts began creeping in and he allowed them – anything to stop that banging. His mind wandered, walking the same endless circles as the new prisoners. Guilt came first, an old enemy, picking at his soul. It tormented him, telling him what his actions had caused; reminding him of comrades bleeding out on that marshy plain, their bodies hacked into red ribbons. Guilt twisted down into a sick self-loathing. Finally, another voice spoke, first quiet then more compelling, telling him that none of these things would have happened if not for Robert Bruce. Normally, such thoughts could loop for hours, but today the cycle was interrupted.

Hearing footsteps echoing down the passage, Alexander opened his eyes. Other prisoners were looking round. There was a jangle of keys, which made some of the more withdrawn ones sit up. Old Bones took no notice, still crawling about.

‘Get back,’ ordered one of the guards, coming into view through the bars of the cell.

The prisoners did as they were told, shuffling against the far wall. Two more guards appeared, hauling a man between them. His head was drooping and his blond hair hung like a curtain in front of his face. The first guard unlocked the door, allowing his comrades to throw the limp man into the cell. As the man collapsed, his hair fell away from his face.

Alexander let out an exclamation that made some of the other prisoners flinch. As the cell door clanked shut, he threw himself down beside the man. His face was horribly bruised, but wonderfully familiar. Alexander cradled his cousin’s head in his hands. ‘Christopher.’ His voice sounded strange after so long without use.

After a moment, Christopher mumbled something and one of his eyes cracked open. It was sore and weeping, crusted with blood. Alexander pushed away Old Bones who had appeared at his side and was chattering curiously over Christopher. ‘Gil,’ he said, glancing at one of the prisoners. ‘Bring me some water.’ When Gil looked hesitantly at the bucket in the corner that contained their rations, Alexander glared at him. ‘By God, Gil, if I have to ask you twice . . .’

Gil relented, bringing him the bucket. Alexander tore a strip off his ragged shirt and dipped it in the bucket. As he squeezed it over Christopher’s cracked lips, his cousin coughed, then swallowed. Life sparked in his eyes. He clutched Alexander’s wrist, opening his mouth for more.

‘Not too much,’ Alexander warned. ‘It will make you sick.’

Christopher focused slowly on him. ‘Alex?’

Alexander felt emotion tighten in his chest. Christopher hadn’t called him that since they were boys. Christopher licked his lips and struggled to sit.

Alexander helped him until he was propped against the wall. ‘What happened?’

‘We were attacked,’ Christopher said, teeth gritted with the effort of holding himself upright. ‘By John MacDougall and the Black Comyn. I escaped with some of Atholl’s men and rode to Robert’s castle at Loch Doon.’ He shook his head. ‘The English took it.’ His brow creased. ‘I dreamed I saw you in the battle. But you couldn’t have been there, could you.’ His eyes cleared, flashing with anger. ‘You deserted us.’

‘I was there. At the battle. I tried to save you.’

As Christopher stared at him, uncomprehending, Alexander told his cousin of his capture in Perth by Dungal MacDouall and torture at the hands of the Black Comyn. He told him how he had tried to warn them at St Fillan’s and broke his bonds to ride to aid them. ‘But I fell,’ he finished. ‘The English, under Prince Edward, arrived soon after the battle. I was taken from the field and brought here.’

Christopher met his gaze for a long moment, then threw out his hand to push him away. ‘How could you?’ His voice rose. ‘How could you
betray
us!’

‘Cousin—’

‘No! Don’t you call me that!’

Alexander sat back on his heels. He had never seen such raw fury in his cousin’s face. The other prisoners were staring at them. Old Bones was rocking excitedly.

‘After all Robert has done for you – for us! We owe him our lives! God damn you, Alex, you should have let them kill you rather than betray your king!’

Alexander’s shock turned to surprise, before anger rushed in on a hot tide. ‘What Robert has done for us? I’ll tell you what. He led us straight into Valence’s hands at Methven Wood, ignoring the counsel of his own men, not just mine, the steward’s too. He had you help him murder a man on holy ground – a deadly sin, Christopher. And, lest we forget, all this after he submitted to King Edward, without one word to us, his faithful followers – leaving us to fend for ourselves for two goddamned years!’

‘All to free his kingdom.’

‘No!’ Alexander spat back. ‘All for the sake of his ambition.’

‘Ambition?’ said Christopher, breathing hard, sweat causing old blood to run down his cheeks. ‘If that is his crime, then I will charge you with the same. Do you remember how you deceived him back in Ayr all those years ago? How you wanted him to be rid of Katherine because you thought her a distraction, so you paid that lad to lie with her and made damn sure Robert caught them?’

Alexander laughed harshly. ‘You’re still bent over that? A maid!’ His laughter vanished. ‘She was the first of many mistakes. The gravest of which was mine for following him for so long!’

At their rising voices, there was a shout from one of the guards that echoed down the passage, telling them to be quiet.

Alexander swallowed thickly, trying to quell his rage. ‘I regret, more than I can say, that my yielding to Comyn’s torture led to the bloodshed on that plain, but despite my own failings, I believe Robert, through his actions, is the one to blame. I’ve given up everything, Christopher. I will not now die for him.’

‘I will.’

Alexander saw something new in his cousin’s eyes – a flicker of fear in the defiance.

Christopher held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. ‘I’ve been sentenced to hang.’

Alexander shook his head, disbelieving. ‘There must be some mistake. Who gave this order?’

‘King Edward himself.’

Alexander remained silent, stunned, as Christopher told him of the sentences passed at Lanercost.

‘Aymer de Valence and Humphrey de Bohun will oversee the executions of me and Niall here in Berwick,’ he finished. ‘John of Atholl has been taken to London with the other prisoners.’ Christopher looked sideways at him. ‘Now do you see what your actions have caused?’

Alexander closed his eyes.

Christopher wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. He stared at the streak of red that stained his knuckles. ‘Valence told me Christian is with child.’ He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. ‘The bastard thought he was tormenting me. But I can die now, Alex.’ He looked at him. ‘I can die with the knowledge there’s something of me in her – that she’ll have a piece of me still.’

Alexander felt something twist in him as he watched a bloody tear leak from the corner of his cousin’s eye. After a moment, he rose and banged on the bars with his fists.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Guard!’

‘Shut your hole,’ shouted the guard. ‘Or I’ll put my fist in it!’

‘Christ,’ muttered Gil.

Old Bones let out an excited squeak.

‘
Guard!
’

There was a curse and the sound of stamping feet. One of the guards appeared, glaring through the bars. ‘I said shut your mouth!’

‘Sir Aymer,’ Alexander said quickly, ‘tell him I have something to say to him. An offer.’

‘Alex!’ Christopher struggled to sit, grimacing with pain.

‘Offer?’ The guard’s eyes narrowed mistrustfully.

‘Tell him I can bring him Robert Bruce – if he’ll spare my cousin the gallows.’

‘Don’t listen to him!’ Christopher hissed at the guard. ‘I give my life willingly!’

‘Silence!’ The guard stared at Alexander. ‘If you’re lying, I’ll make sure you’re strung up on the scaffold beside the wretch.’

‘So be it.’

Chapter 15

Dunaverty Castle, Scotland, 1306 AD

The men worked in lines, hefting sacks of grain and rolling barrels of ale down to the boats, where others were waiting to load them. Now and then, they would glance up at the castle, rearing above them on a grassy outcrop, where the jagged rocks that tumbled into the foaming waves formed the last broken pieces of land before the realm of the sea began. The men’s faces were taut, eyes watching the battlements for any sign of warning from their comrades.

It was early morning, mid-October. Tattered clouds chased across the sky, driven by the wind, which tore at the men’s clothes and sent sand dancing like smoke across the beach. Every so often the sun would appear, turning the white-tipped waves from deep indigo to emerald green, scattering shards of sunlight across the churning surface. Gulls competed for fish, screaming at one another. Just off shore, the dog-like face of a seal appeared, then vanished.

Gilbert de la Hay hoisted another barrel of salted meat into one of the boats. Straightening with a wince, the tall man looked uneasily out to sea.

‘It isn’t far,’ said Robert, giving the lord a brief smile as he tossed the pack he was carrying into the boat.

‘It’s far enough,’ murmured Gilbert. Sniffing in a breath of salty air, he hitched up his braies, which no longer fitted his once broad girth.

Robert looked at the men piling supplies into the four boats, among them Malcolm Lennox and his company, with him since Loch Lomond. All were leaner, forced to live hand to mouth these past weeks, scavenging nuts and berries in the woods, occasionally making a meal of a bird or a coney. Beards had grown thicker, hair was longer and clothing was ripped and filthy. There was barely a scrap of armour between them, just weapons, which would only fall when they did. Even in the depths of the Forest, in the midst of William Wallace’s peasant army, Robert hadn’t seen a more ragged band.

‘This should do for a few months,’ observed Edward, jumping down from one of the boats.

Robert nodded, surveying the supplies being stowed at the prows under sheets of waxed canvas. Along with the provisions were ropes and blankets, buckets, axes and hunting spears. He thanked God for his foresight with the restocking of Dunaverty Castle, which had been commandeered by his forces late in February, one of several that had fallen to him during the uprising. Dunaverty stood sentry over the sea route to the Isles – the nail on the fingertip that was Kintyre, ever pointing towards Ireland.