Kingdom (33 page)

‘The king has almost one thousand, Master James,’ Brice reminded him.

‘Valence had more than that under his banner at Methven, many of them horsed, and that force was increased by the men of Galloway. Who knows how many he has here.’ James felt a tug of impatience as he spoke. Caution was not a familiar counsellor and he was as keen as the others to move to action, but he wanted to get this right. Victory here was crucial to the campaign. Added to that, Robert had given him the opportunity to prove himself. If he helped the king win the war, his lands would be returned to him. Maybe then the restless ghost of his father – carried within him these past years – could finally find peace. ‘We’ll return at daybreak. Try to get a closer look.’

James led the way back through the undergrowth, blackthorn and briars scratching at his hands and snagging his clothes in the darkness. Emerging on the cliff edge, he and his men picked their route down carefully. It was a clear night and the new moon washed the crags with its insipid light, revealing the animal tracks that criss-crossed down to the shore, heart-clenchingly narrow in places. The rocks were freezing beneath the men’s hands, mottled with lichen and rosettes of saxifrage, already brittle with frost.

The tide was out, the beach strewn with black ropes of kelp. Once on the gleaming expanse of sand, the four moved quickly. At the far end, behind a tumble of rocks where James and his men had hidden their boat that morning, was a cave. As they approached, a voice called sharply from the shadows.

‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s us, Fergus.’

At James’s voice a man appeared from behind the rocks, the blade of his sword glinting in the moonlight. ‘You’d better come. We could have trouble.’

Instantly alert, James climbed over the stones. ‘What is it?’

‘See for yourself,’ answered Fergus, leading the way up the shingle towards the narrow entrance of the cave.

James entered, his nose filling with the stink of seaweed and dankness. Fergus and his three companions had lit a small fire, the glow of which pulsed on the slimy walls. A band of serpentine in the granite glistened like snakeskin. As James followed Fergus in, the men parted to reveal a figure on his knees before the fire. The man’s hands were bound. James picked out the glimmer of mail and the bulk of a gambeson beneath his filthy tunic. His face was horribly bruised and there was a jagged cut, crusted shut with dried blood, along his neck. His hair, thick and matted at the front, was so caked with mud James could barely tell the colour, although he caught a glint of red in the firelight.

‘We caught him spying on us when we went to gather wood for the beacon,’ Fergus said. ‘He tried to run.’

When the man saw James, his injured face lit up. He began speaking in a rapid stream. James caught enough of the words to know it was Gaelic, although he didn’t understand much. He stared at the man, thinking he looked incredibly familiar. Squinting past the mud and the bruises, he knew him. ‘Cormac!’ He turned on Fergus. ‘Christ, man, it’s the king’s brother you’ve been beating!’

Fergus’s eyes widened at the man’s identity, but he raised a hand to proclaim his innocence. ‘We didn’t touch him, Master James! I swear he was like this when we found him.’

James crossed to the Irishman and untied his hands. Cormac rubbed at his wrists, his eyes on Fergus. Picking up one of the water skins, James handed it to him. The spark of life in Cormac’s face at seeing James had already vanished, replaced by exhaustion, but he took the skin gratefully and gulped at it.

‘Brice,’ said James, turning to his comrade. ‘Ask him what he’s doing here.’

The Argyllsman stepped forward and repeated the question in Gaelic. Cormac listened, looking between James and Brice. After a moment he began speaking.

‘He has come from Galloway,’ said Brice. ‘He was with his father, Lord Donough of Glenarm, and King Robert’s brothers.’

A ripple of excitement spread through the others at the mention of the company that was due to join them from Galloway, but James said nothing. The Irishman’s injuries, his wretched appearance: all told a story of anguish. Cormac’s voice broke on his father’s name.

‘Some food, Fergus,’ James said quickly. ‘And a blanket.’

Fergus ducked out of the cave, heading to the boat where their supplies were stowed.

‘What happened in Galloway?’ James asked, not taking his gaze off Cormac as Brice asked the question.

Cormac lowered the skin, then spoke quietly. Brice’s face fell.

‘Brice?’ pressed James, when the man didn’t speak.

‘He says they were ambushed on the shores of Loch Ryan by men of Galloway, allies of the Comyn family. Many were killed. Lord Donough was executed by Dungal MacDouall.’ Brice looked at James. ‘Thomas and Alexander Bruce were taken prisoner.’

‘The Irish?’ asked Alan, his voice hoarse with shock.

Brice shook his head.

The sound of footsteps dashing on shingle interrupted them. Fergus entered the cave, food and blanket forgotten. ‘Come! Quickly!’

Drawing his sword, James followed him outside.

Fergus led him at a run past the boat to where the cliffs tumbled down on to the rock-strewn sand. Waves murmured across the beach, the tide creeping in. ‘There!’ Fergus clutched James’s shoulder and pointed north, in the opposite direction to Turnberry. A mile or two distant, up on the bluffs, a fire was burning. ‘An English patrol?’

James didn’t answer, his eyes on the flames leaping high in the night. ‘The beacon! Dear God, they’ll think it’s the beacon!’

Chapter 23

Turnberry Castle, Scotland, 1307 AD

The black cliffs loomed before them, great towers of rock veiled by mist. Seabirds cried in the heights, their ghostly forms occasionally visible, wheeling in the murk. During the crossing from Arran the sky had gradually lightened from pitch to inky-grey, but even though it was now past dawn the world was still shrouded in gloom.

Ahead, the rush of waves was louder. Robert gripped the mast, feeling the swell thrust the galley towards the beach. He smelled seaweed above the metal tang of mail and the warmer odours of sweat and breath. Men crowded around him, their eyes on the approaching shore. The galloglass gripped the long hafts of their double-headed axes, breaths pluming in the damp air. Pearls of mist clung to matted hair and beards. Each had a foot up on the vessel’s side, ready to vault into the shallows at their captain’s command. Through the shifting vapours, Robert caught glimpses of the six other birlinns that accompanied them and saw row upon row of galloglass, similarly poised.

Since leaving Barra his fears over their loyalty had vanished. When ordered, these men moved as one, without question or compunction. He had only witnessed a similar level of discipline in William Wallace’s camp in the Forest, when the rebel leader was training his schiltroms of spearmen. In his experience, common soldiery were hard to organise and knights and squires followed the lead of their own lords. There was something single-minded about the galloglass. It made him think of a hive.

Glancing round, he sought out Lachlan, who was staring ahead, eyes narrowed in concentration. Catching his gaze, the captain cocked his head in question. Robert nodded an affirmation that they were still on course. This broken line of land was as familiar to him as his own skin. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew Turnberry Castle rose sheer from the rocky foundations of its promontory, just to the right of their position. He offered up another thanks to God for the freezing fog that had curled around them as they neared the coast, shielding them from enemy eyes, although the same mists had caused their guiding beacon to wink out of sight several hours earlier. He prayed it was as impenetrable on the other side of the bay where the greater part of his fleet, commanded by Angus MacDonald and Ruarie MacRuarie, was due to land. Certainly, there had been no sound of alarm from the castle as yet.

All at once, the veil parted and the walls of Turnberry Castle appeared high above them, crowned by an amber haze of torchlight. Robert’s heart sang at the sight. After all these desperate months on the run, his back to his enemies, he was coming home to face them head-on. He thought of the dragon shield he had tossed from those battlements, lying somewhere beneath the surf, its red paint long since peeled away, wood rotted, iron rusted. He slid his gloved hand from the gold tear-drop pommel of his sword down to the hilt, tightening his fingers around the worn, leather-bound grip. As he did so, he caught the eye of his brother, pressed in close at his side. He saw the fierceness in Edward’s face, the passion in his eyes as the breaking waves propelled the galley on to the shingle.

Robert went over with the first few men, the water rushing up to his thighs. The current was strong, threatening to pull him back, the weight of his mail dragging him down. He fought against it, propelling himself into the shallows. With Edward and Nes close behind him, followed by Malcolm of Lennox and the rest of his men, Robert led the galloglass to where a well-worn path wound up to the bluffs beyond the castle walls.

He knew from reports that Turnberry had been razed, but it was still a shock as he came up over the edge of the cliffs to see a mass of tents disappearing in the gloom, where once the small, but bustling settlement had stood. The sight added fuel to the fire inside him. He let the fury take him over, singing its song of violence inside him as he charged towards the English camp, broadsword drawn, a cry tearing from his throat.

It was still early, but a fair few men in the camp were awake, cooks preparing morning meals, grooms tending to horses and clearing piles of dung, servants stoking fires. A few knights and squires had risen to use the latrines and dress for the day, shrugging gambesons over sleep-crumpled shirts and hose, cupping palms and blowing warmth into hands stiff with cold. The first thing these men heard was the muffled pounding of many feet on the springy turf. Some started round, others froze, as a roar shattered the hush and out of the mist came a horde of men.

Leaping the guy ropes of a tent, Robert hacked his sword into the neck of a stocky, half-dressed Englishman, who was bellowing a warning. His shout cut off abruptly, blood spewing from his mouth. Wrenching his sword free, Robert shoved the man aside, sending him lurching into a tent, which buckled inward. Another figure loomed up. Robert glimpsed an iron pot clutched in a white-knuckled hand and a mouth stretched in fear. The cook reacted at the last moment, swinging the pot at him. Robert ducked the blow and ran him through. He felt the resistance of skin and tightened muscles, before the blade slid on through the tenderness of organs and bowels. The cook sagged over him, convulsing. Twisting his sword free, Robert charged towards the next target.

The blind fury of battle possessed him, compelling him to strike at anyone who stood before him. He would cleanse this ground of his enemy; wash it clean with their blood. At his side was Edward, storm-eyed, the blade of his sword already slick with gore. His brother looked more alive than he had in months, slashing and carving his way through the scattering men. The roses on Malcolm of Lennox’s surcoat were like splashes of blood in the blaze of the campfire, the war cry of his family on his lips. With them was Lachlan MacRuarie, leading his galloglass into the heart of the camp. The captain fought like a fiend, swinging his mighty, double-bladed axe into backs, scalps and chests as if he were chopping firewood.

Cries of panic tore through the camp. Knights, shocked from sleep, scrambled from tents, snatching up swords. Others grabbed shovels and stakes; anything that could be used as a weapon. Grooms and servants quailed in the face of the galloglass. These weren’t Scottish knights or peasants, who dressed and looked much like their own kind. These barelegged, barefooted giants brandishing axes as big as themselves seemed another race entirely. Many of the younger men were turning and fleeing at the sight of them, but the veterans switched quickly from shock to defence, roaring at infantry to seize arms.

Within moments the tide of Scots was slowed, a growing wall of English knights and squires rushing in to halt their advance. Many wore surcoats, emblazoned with the blue lion of Henry Percy. Most hadn’t had time to put on mail, but their gambesons offered some protection. Robert glimpsed one galloglass take an iron-embossed buckler in the face. As the man rocked back, choking on his own teeth, the English knight who delivered the jaw-shattering blow crouched and thrust his sword up under the man’s tunic, between his bare legs. Another mercenary, struggling to free his axe from a young man’s scalp, had his head pulled back by an English squire and his throat slit. A tent collapsed into a campfire as two grappling men staggered into it. The material smouldered, then flickered into bright life. Smoke rose into the mist.

Robert, caught up in the press, realised there were many more English here than anticipated. He had expected, based on his scouts’ estimates of enemy numbers, to overrun the camp and destroy it before the castle garrison could come to their aid. He felt a wave of unease. Where were Angus MacDonald and the rest of his company? Scores of galloglass had stormed deep into the camp, urged on by Lachlan’s battle cry. His forces were spread out, hemmed in by tents and wagons, latrines and campfires – vulnerable. As a sword smacked against his helm, Robert’s attention was snatched forward.