Kingdom (37 page)

Robert thought he saw blame in the steward’s brown eyes and perhaps a glint of anger. After a pause, he looked away, his gaze on the galleys still making their way in to shore, the black sails of the MacDonald vessels and the red of the MacRuaries’ reflected in the calm waters of the harbour. His voice hushed with sorrow, he told James of the fate of his family at King Edward’s hands and the black news Cormac had struggled his way from Galloway with. ‘The dragon banner fulfilled its promise,’ he finished quietly. ‘Edward showed no mercy. I fear Alexander and Thomas will share the same fate as Niall.’ He glanced at the steward, whose eyes were closed. Robert noticed his hair was greyer and the lines that creased his face deeper. He looked old, old and worn out.

Finally, James turned to him, his eyes moist in the twilight. ‘I do not have words, Robert. I am so very sorry.’

‘I sent them there, James. I sent my brothers to their deaths.’ Robert sat on the beach, scooping up a fistful of white sand. ‘I know Alexander didn’t want to go. I ordered him from my side not because he would be of use in the fight, but because he wanted me to atone for Comyn’s death. That’s why I sent him away – for the sake of my own damn pride.’ He let the sand trickle between his fingers, the grains scattering on the breeze. His voice hardened. ‘I’ll not let their deaths be in vain. I have to try again.’

James said nothing for a long moment. He looked over at the men and women crowded on the beach. Torches flamed in the gathering dusk. ‘It is no mean feat to have won the allegiance of the MacDonalds and the lords of Garmoran. Malcolm, Gilbert, Neil and others would all lay down their lives for you. I myself will gather and arm as many of my tenants as I can.’ His eyes flicked to Robert. ‘But I do not believe this will be enough to fight a war on two fronts, not after what you say happened in Galloway and Turnberry.’ James crouched down beside him. ‘I beg you, my lord, make amends with those of your countrymen who stand against you. Your grandfather came to realise that only grief could be born in the hatred between him and the Comyns. That is why he stepped down after John Balliol was chosen as king. Maybe, for the sake of our realm, it is time for you to do the same? Time to atone?’

Robert thought back to that rainy day in Lochmaben; the day he had taken Carrick from his father and inherited their family’s claim to the throne. He recalled his grandfather telling him then that the first duty of a king was to hold the realm together. But the man hadn’t lived through these dark days. The war then had been gestating, unborn. Robert had heard this before from the high steward at Methven Wood and his coronation, but it was different hearing it now. He didn’t feel anger or resentment. He felt calm in his discord. ‘It is too late, James. None of us can wipe the slate clean. Too much blood has been spilled on it. The Comyns and their allies still believe John Balliol should sit on Scotland’s throne. They will never accept me. Never pay homage to me. If I am to have any hope of rebuilding my kingdom they cannot be part of it. I know that now.’

‘This is civil war, Robert. Blood against blood.’

‘It became civil war when I killed John Comyn. There is only one way through it. One side must destroy the other if either is to survive. God willing, beyond it is civil peace.’

‘You could wait – bide your time out here in safety? I do not believe King Edward is long for this world. From what you say, Aymer de Valence, Henry Percy and Dungal MacDouall have been running his campaign. That is not the Edward we know. I suspect this means he is too frail to make the journey himself. When his son takes the throne the landscape of this war will change, perhaps dramatically. Why not see how it lies then?’

‘I cannot wait, James. Edward has defied death too many times. Who is to say his health will not improve – that we won’t see him come north in the summer, under the dragon? I have to continue the fight. Every day the English in Scotland remain unchallenged, the stronger their dominion grows.’

‘What of your family? What of Marjorie and Elizabeth? Edward may use them to punish you for continuing your war.’

Robert rose. ‘I have someone who may help me with that. Come.’

He led the way back along the shore, retracing his footprints in the sand. The men were still unloading supplies from the vessels as more birlinns let down anchors in the bay, the crew using the lines of moored galleys as a bridge to clamber to the shore. Robert saw that the prisoner had been hauled off. He was kneeling in the sand, hands tied behind his back, the blood on his gold surcoat garish in the torchlight. Two of Lachlan’s men were standing over him. The prisoner’s head was moving frantically from side to side as if he were trying to work out where he was. Robert could hear his breaths.

‘This is how I ensure my family’s safety,’ he said, turning to the steward. ‘And, I believe, their freedom.’

The prisoner jerked round at his voice. ‘Bruce! You bastard!’ His voice was muffled through the hood. As he struggled to stand, one of Lachlan’s men grabbed hold of the top of the sack, pushing him firmly back down.

James looked at Robert, shocked. ‘Is that . . .?’

Robert smiled coldly. ‘Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick.’

‘How?’

‘Lachlan,’ answered Robert, as deeply satisfied looking down on the humbled English lord now as he had been back on Arran when the captain had shown him his prize. Percy, who had cut a bloody swathe through the fleeing galloglass, hadn’t seen the cliff edge in the mist and the chaos. His horse had gone straight over. He was only saved by being tossed from the saddle on to a ledge several feet below. His sword gone, he stood no chance against the tide of men pouring down to the beach.

‘Release me,’ Percy growled. ‘Or your family will suffer.’

‘My family are already suffering.’ Robert kept his voice flat, matter-of-fact, careful not to reveal his emotions to the lord, who had been one of his brothers-in-arms when they were Knights of the Dragon. He didn’t want the man to know his true feelings; didn’t want him to be able to tell the king of his torment. He would not give Edward the satisfaction.

‘Believe me, Bruce, it can be made worse for them.’

Robert gestured to Lachlan’s men. ‘Secure him.’

As they hauled the corpulent lord to his feet, Percy twisted towards Robert. ‘My men will come for me, traitor, and when they do they will make you wish you were never born! You and all your bastard kin!’

Robert waited until they had led him away. ‘I will offer to exchange him for my daughter, my wife and my sisters.’ As he turned to the high steward to gauge his reaction, he caught sight of a man who had appeared on the edges of the crowd and was watching Percy being dragged up the beach. Robert stared at him, disbelieving what his eyes were telling him. There, standing on the beach was Alexander Seton.

James followed his gaze. He nodded. ‘Alexander found me on Bute two months ago. He had been searching for you, as I had, without success. He elected to stay with me and wait for word.’

His surprise fading, Robert felt wariness creep in like a shadow. ‘He deserted me, James, back in Aberdeen. I’ve not seen him since.’

‘He told me. For what it is worth, he seems truly regretful of his actions.’

Alexander glanced round to see Robert staring at him. He seemed to stiffen, before coming forward, hesitantly. None of the other men, busy by the boats, had noticed him yet.

As he approached, Robert realised how much he had changed. Alexander’s once broad, strong-boned face was thin. A beard, streaked with grey, covered his mouth and jaw. There was a new scar on his forehead and it looked as though his nose had been broken. The past year had clearly not been kind to him. Robert couldn’t help but feel gratified.

Alexander dropped to his knees before him. ‘My lord king.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me.’

Robert looked down on him, strands of their long friendship tugging him in one direction, resentment and mistrust pulling him in another. ‘Arise,’ he said, after a moment. He watched Alexander get to his feet. ‘Where have you been?’

‘After Aberdeen I was in East Lothian for a time.’ Alexander kept his eyes on the sand. ‘I submitted to the English in the hope I would gain back my lands, but then I learned you were attacked in Lorn by John MacDougall’s forces.’ He raised his head. ‘It was then that I realised the depth of my mistake. I couldn’t bear not knowing what had happened – to you, to my friends, to Christopher – so I set out to find you.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Hoping I could make amends.’

Robert wondered suddenly whether Alexander had heard what had happened to his cousin. He guessed he hadn’t, since James hadn’t known of it. He was thinking how to broach the subject, when he saw a woman approaching. It was Brigid, her bare feet sinking in the sand. Her expression caught his attention at once. He had seen that look on too many faces in recent months not to know what it meant.

The men and women wound their way down to the shore in the blue dusk, the flames of their torches gusting. Dark clouds tarnished the sky, casting shadows across the water. Waves whispered on the sand. When the procession came to the boat, raised up on a cradle of firewood near the water’s edge, they spread out in a circle around it. Some glanced at one another for guidance, unsure, nervous even, of the unfamiliar ritual.

Robert was the first to approach the vessel. In one hand he held a piece of parchment, in the other the destiny Affraig had made for him. The brittle crown at the centre of the web swung on its thread. He paused at the side of the boat, a miniature version of the birlinns, no bigger than a coffin. Lifted from the sand on a dais of logs and tinder, it came up to his waist. He looked down at the body inside. Affraig looked tiny, wrapped in her shabby brown cloak, only her sunken, wrinkled face visible. Kindling and scraps of material had been stuffed in around her, making her look as though she were lying in a nest. She had died only three days ago, but even though the cold had helped preserve her, he caught the sweet stench of decay beneath the smell of freshly chopped wood and the herbs Brigid had placed around her.

After a pause, he placed the web of twigs on her chest. He remembered Affraig telling him his father had once come to her, drunk, demanding that she weave him his destiny; that he would be king. She had done so, but when one of his men assaulted her and the earl refused to give her justice, she had torn down that destiny and left it in pieces outside the castle walls. The curse had come to pass. His father had never been crowned king. The memory made him wonder if what he was doing here was right, but Brigid had told him this was what Affraig had commanded before she passed.

Tell him to burn it
.
Burn it with my body
.

Robert stepped back into the crowd, still holding the parchment. He caught Brigid’s eye and she inclined her head. Elena was beside her, clutching a spray of ferns. At a gentle push from her mother, the girl approached the vessel. She had to stand on tiptoe to place the ferns into the boat with the old woman’s body. When she was done, she turned and hastened back to Brigid.

Christiana moved through the gathering to stand at Robert’s side. ‘My lord?’

Robert met her questioning gaze with a nod.

Christiana motioned to those of her men who bore torches. Together, they moved forward, surrounding the vessel with a ring of fire. One by one, they thrust the torches deep into the cradle of logs beneath the boat. As the pyre smouldered, tongues of fire flicking along the undersides of the vessel, the men moved back into the solemn crowd, watching as this rite from the old world was performed once again on their shores. No Christian burial for a witch. Affraig had wanted to burn. On Robert’s request, Christiana had spoken to the elders among her people, those who had lived here under the Norse and remembered the ship burnings for the Viking dead.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ he murmured.

Christiana smiled, but said nothing, her green eyes filling with firelight as the breeze fanned the flames and sent sparks swirling into the evening sky.

The fire grew quickly, engulfing the small boat and lighting the faces of the assembled gathering. Robert’s gaze drifted over their silent ranks. Lachlan MacRuarie was standing nearby, a jewelled goblet clutched in his hand. A fresh wound carved through his cheek from the fight at Turnberry, a new scar for the collection on his face. The captain had lost fifty in the skirmish. Angus MacDonald three times that. The Lord of Islay was standing with his men, his eyes on the flames. Edward was there, with Nes and Neil Campbell, Cormac among them, his injuries still livid. Malcolm and Gilbert were behind, the Lord of Erroll towering over his companions, his face unusually sombre. James Douglas stood close beside his uncle. On the high steward’s other side was Alexander Seton.

Seeing many heads bowed and eyes closed in prayer, Robert was surprised. He had asked them to join him in honouring Affraig, but none, apart from Brigid and Elena, had known the old woman. He realised, looking from Edward to Cormac, James to Angus, that each man was caught up in his own private grief. Affraig had become an embodiment of all their losses; a hundred deaths bound in her ancient body to be mourned as one. Looking back at the blaze, he thought of Niall, John of Atholl, Christopher Seton and Donough, holding each in his mind for a moment, before letting go.

Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let everlasting light shine upon them.

He thought of Marjorie and Elizabeth, Mary and his other three sisters, Robert Wishart and William Lamberton, his nephews, little Donald of Mar and young Thomas Randolph, Isabel Comyn: all locked up in English prisons for their loyalty to him. He thought of Thomas and Alexander, their fate unknown, but the worst feared. Tonight was for mourning the dead, but tomorrow was for the living. Whether with an army of ten, or ten thousand, he would liberate Scotland from his enemies and bring back his family.