Kingdom (36 page)

Humphrey stared at him, astonished.

Edward drew in a long breath. ‘What I mean to say is that it isn’t important at this moment, not while the Scots are massing in the west. I’ll not have you, or any of my men, following more false leads and lies from that family. The retrieval of the relic can wait until Bruce is destroyed.’

Humphrey fought back the clamour in his mind as all the questions seething in him these past months now rushed to the surface at the king’s outburst. He tried to keep his focus. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but do we not run the risk of making martyrs? If Bruce has managed to elicit the support of the lords of the Isles, he may win more sympathy as word of these sentences spreads. Even some of our own men have been . . . discomforted by the treatment of his family.’

‘Then those men should remember that not only did Bruce betray them and break faith with me, but that he is a murderer and an excommunicate. With the killing of John Comyn he set himself beyond the bounds of all laws, temporal and spiritual. He and all who support him are subject to punishments as befit that heinous crime.’

Humphrey felt a prickle of anger. He knew full well that John Comyn’s murder was the lesser of the reasons the king wanted Bruce to pay. The burning issue was that not only had the man personally betrayed Edward, but – by claiming the throne of Scotland – he had effectively disinherited him. Humphrey understood, well enough, the king’s wrath. He just wished Edward wouldn’t try to make him swallow the same propaganda he had his clerics promoting far and wide.

The king held Humphrey in his gaze. ‘You need not fear the will of those Scots who have pledged their loyalty to me, Humphrey. The Comyns, the MacDougalls and many other barons want swift, harsh justice for the slayers of their kinsman. They will not mourn the deaths of two more bad seeds from Bruce’s clan. By God, even a member of his own family has expressed deep disgust for that act.’ The king’s mouth twitched. ‘And a willingness to enter my service against him.’

Humphrey didn’t speak. He felt queasy, the heat from the fire and the rancid stink of the bedcovers overpowering. Edward should have been in the ground months ago. He had never before seen anyone so near death cling so fiercely to life. The king’s desire to see Robert Bruce crushed seemed to be the only thing keeping him on the mortal plain, as if his hatred of the man were something alive; a heartbeat that pulsed within him, even as his skin sank on to his bones and all the sweat and bile poured out of him. But what if his hatred wasn’t just due to Robert’s treason? What if there was something else behind it? Something more potent? More personal?

Edward’s brow knotted as the silence lengthened. ‘You may go, Humphrey. Get some rest. You leave for Carrick at first light tomorrow.’

Humphrey inclined his head. He made to leave, but as his eyes caught on the chest again he switched back. ‘My lord, can I ask why you didn’t tell me Aymer de Valence found the box that contained the
Last Prophecy
when he took Kildrummy?’ Humphrey saw a tic jump in Edward’s cheek. Some emotion flashed in the king’s eyes, too quick for him to discern what it was.

When Edward spoke his voice was low. ‘I didn’t want it made public that the box was empty – that Bruce had taken the prophecy from me.’

Humphrey hesitated, knowing he was walking out on to a frozen lake that could crack beneath his feet at any moment, yet unable to stop himself. There were things out in these depths that he didn’t understand. ‘The attack on Robert in Ireland – you never explained why you wanted me to uncover the details of it. I sensed there was more to it than you were . . .’ He searched for the right words: ‘. . . willing to say at the time. Perhaps, my lord, such knowledge would help me better predict our enemy’s next move?’

Edward’s voice was flint cold. ‘I will tell you our enemy’s next move. He will attempt to raise sword and fire against us. He will seek to break up the kingdom I have spent my reign uniting for the good of us all and destroy everything we have laboured so long and bled so hard to achieve. He will make a mockery of those he once called brothers, the men of my Round Table, and a travesty of those who sacrificed their lives for our cause. Men like your father. Do not forget it was soldiers of Bruce’s friend, William Wallace, who took his life at Falkirk.’ Edward nodded when Humphrey looked away. ‘Bruce betrayed you as much as he betrayed me. Worse, perhaps, for he used you to get close to me, concealing his true nature in the false cloak of friendship. The man is a liar, a murderer and a traitor, Humphrey. He must be brought down at all costs. The survival of our kingdom depends on it.’

Dover, England, 1307 AD

Prince Edward stood on the dockside, grasping Piers Gaveston’s hands in his. ‘This will not be for ever.’

Piers said nothing. His coal-black eyes flashed with sunlight as he glanced at the ship moored in Dover’s harbour that was to bear him to France, banished by the king’s order.

Edward clutched his friend’s hands tighter, forcing the man to look at him. ‘I swear it, Piers. When my father is dead I will send for you.’

‘And what of your new wife, my lord prince? Will she bear my presence at your side?’

Edward’s brow furrowed at his cold tone. ‘She’ll have no choice. Isabella will be my wife in name alone. My heart will always be yours.’

‘My lord?’

Edward looked round to see his squire lingering uncertainly. Behind the young man the white cliffs were blinding in the March sunlight.

‘The captain says he must leave, my lord. The tide turns.’

Edward reached for the purse that was tied to his belt. Unfastening it, he pushed it into Piers’s hands. ‘This should see you well until you reach Ponthieu.’

Piers stared at it. His jaw pulsed. ‘I doubt it will last me a week.’

‘Those aren’t coins. They’re jewels and gold – my rings, some brooches. All I could get my hands on.’

Piers’s hand closed around the purse. After a pause he seemed to thaw. Reaching up, he touched Edward’s face, a mess of browns and yellows where the king’s fists had struck. The prince’s head was covered by a hat, concealing the bald patches where his blond hair had been torn out.

Edward put his hand over the knight’s, pressing it to his cheek. He felt anger and despair well up, threatening to overwhelm him. He’d spent so many years with Piers at his side, from the carefree days of boyhood, through the wild passion of adolescence to the slow-burning fire of love. He couldn’t imagine him not being there. It was as if one of his limbs were being torn from him. Not caring that his men were waiting nearby, Edward leaned in and kissed him, aching at the soft fullness of his lips between the stubble of beard, the familiar perfume of his oil-scented hair, the warmth of his breath. ‘You have my heart, Piers. Always.’

Chapter 25

Barra, Scotland, 1307 AD

He felt as though God were tormenting him, sending him back to this island with the same heavy heart he’d borne that first voyage. How many more dead would he have to carry inside him before this war was over? His soul had become a graveyard.

Barra’s rugged contours dominated Robert’s vision, the sun descending in a blaze behind its hills, but all he could see were the faces of Thomas, Alexander and Lord Donough. He remembered, with aching detail, playing with his younger brothers, racing and fighting in Carrick’s hills, back when they believed the earldom was the world and they were its masters. He remembered Thomas’s trustworthiness and Alexander’s sincerity. He remembered the way Donough’s eyes would crinkle when he smiled and how his foster-father’s deep voice would fill his hall with the legends of Irish heroes. He stared into the sun, willing it to burn away the images, erasing the pain, the guilt, but they remained, haunting his thoughts. They had done since Cormac told him what had happened in Galloway. His foster-brother sat at the stern, wrapped in a blanket, his bruised face stained by the sun’s dying light. Fionn lay at his feet, his head on his paws, eyes following the movements of the crew.

After crawling from that hollow they had stumbled through the woods for miles, Robert dragging Cormac alongside him, ignoring his anguished pleas to set him down and let him be. When they reached the shore, some miles north of Turnberry, Robert despaired, seeing the fleet out on the water nearing Arran, but adamant Edward and his men wouldn’t leave without him, he had hauled Cormac along the cliffs to a hidden cove where he and his brothers often played as children. Vain hope blossomed into blessed relief when he saw the galley anchored in the shallows. As they staggered on to the beach, Edward and Nes came running to meet them, Fionn leaping excitedly around them in the waves.

Back on Arran, sombre at the failed invasion and the news from Galloway, Robert and his men had counted their losses, before seeking the sanctuary of the Outer Isles.

Robert’s gaze moved from Cormac to the large figure who sat slumped against the mast, hands tied behind it. The attack, he reminded himself, hadn’t been utterly fruitless. A sack had been placed over the captive’s head, secured around his neck with rope. A few years ago Robert would never have treated a man of his stature with such dishonour, but things had changed. King Edward had seen to that. His eyes lingered on the captive, fingers itching to curl around his sword hilt and take his revenge in bloody strips from the man’s body. Even with the knowledge that the prisoner was now perhaps his best hope, the urge was almost unbearable. Robert’s attention was caught by a warning shout from one of the birlinns cresting the waves ahead of them.

Lachlan MacRuarie crossed the deck, looking to where the crewman was pointing. They were sailing into the mouth of Barra’s harbour. The castle had appeared, rising from its island in the foreground.

‘What is it?’ Robert asked, standing.

‘Unknown vessels,’ murmured Lachlan, his gaze on the shore. ‘Five of them.’

Robert shielded his eyes from the sun’s brilliance. He could see them – five galleys lined up on the beach. They were smaller than Lachlan’s, not quite as long or as sleek.

Edward moved up beside him. ‘Who are they?’

Hearing a cry behind him, Robert turned sharply. It had come from James Douglas. The young man had leapt on to one of the benches, his face lit with elation. He was waving his arms over his head, his cheeks creased with a broad grin. Glancing back at the shore Robert saw figures running down the sand. He couldn’t see their faces at this distance, but his eyes fixed on the bright yellow of their surcoats, all of which had a broad band across the middle. It was too far for him to pick out the detail, but, with a rush of joy, he knew they would be chequered blue and white. They were the colours of the High Steward of Scotland.

The sun had slipped behind the great hill and more people had appeared on the beach to welcome the men home by the time the first galleys ground ashore. Robert glimpsed Christiana among them, her hair flying like a banner in the breeze, but all his focus was on James Stewart, waiting in the shallows, his tall form draped by a fur-trimmed mantle that bore his crest. James smiled a rare smile as Robert jumped on to the sand and went to meet him. They embraced, laughing at the reunion, which neither man had expected to come.

Robert felt the wall of disagreement and resentment that had built up between them these past two years dissolve. There was only gladness, seeing his old friend alive, here with him at last. As he drew back, wondering where to begin, James Douglas approached, looking tentatively between them. Robert smiled and stepped aside, gesturing for him to greet his uncle and godfather. The young man started forward as if to embrace the steward, then halted and bowed respectfully instead.

The steward moved in and grasped the young man’s shoulders. ‘Your message was a prayer answered.’

Edward and Malcolm joined them, quickly followed by Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell, all overjoyed at the sight of the steward; former adviser to King Alexander, once guardian of Scotland, and one of the most powerful lords in the kingdom.

After the greetings were exchanged and the first questions began, Robert held up his hand. ‘There will be time to share stories later. Let me talk with James alone.’

Leaving his men to collect their gear, Robert led the high steward along the shoreline, away from the crowd. When they came to a stream that cut glimmering veins through the sand, he turned to him. ‘When I found Malcolm he said he saw you ride from Methven Wood, but even then . . .’ Robert shook his head. ‘After everything that has happened, I didn’t dare hope.’

‘For my part, I had some hope to cling to,’ James told him. ‘Snatches of reports from men I sent out telling me you were alive. But I had to keep moving to avoid the English, who were hunting me in my lands, and the tidings became fewer as the months went by. By the time I got word from my nephew that you had found sanctuary here, faith had all but left me.’

‘Do you know of the others? My family? Sir John? Christopher?’

‘I heard Wishart and Lamberton were arrested and that John MacDougall and the Black Comyn had raised an army against you, but other than that it was mostly fragments of rumour and hearsay, impossible to build a picture with.’ James’s tone was grave. ‘I do know that Pope Clement has pronounced your excommunication.’