Kingdom (43 page)

Rising from the bed, he snatched his robe from the floor and pulled it over his nakedness. Opening the door, he saw Edward was outside. Beyond, the debris of the night’s celebrations littered the settlement. Men slept, sprawled on the grass, shattered jugs and empty goblets strewn around them. Smells of stale smoke and vomit soured the crisp morning air. A few people were awake, stoking fires and taking buckets down to the stream for water.

‘What is it?’ Robert asked, seeing his brother’s gaze flick past him, into the room where Christiana slept.

‘Alexander Seton has returned. He has a message from Humphrey de Bohun.’

Lanercost Priory, England, 1307 AD

King Edward declined the hands of his pages as they reached out to help him rise. His legs shook beneath him and he had to grasp the bedpost. Sweat broke out all over his body, seeping through the freshly laundered shirt and hose his servants had dressed him in. His scarlet surcoat, which they had pulled gently over his underclothes, felt uncommonly thick. He had caught the worried glances exchanged by his pages on seeing how loose the garment had become on his gaunt frame. The belt they had looped around his waist, drawing in the folds of scarlet cloth, wrinkling the snarling faces of the three golden lions, had been punctured with two new holes by his tailor.

As one of his men came forward, holding his scarlet cloak, trimmed with ermine, Edward’s eyes lingered on the worn creases in the leather further along the belt, from a time when his waist had been thick with muscle. He was vanishing. The thought made him clench his teeth against the discomfort as his page placed the heavy mantle around his shoulders. Across the chamber, Nicholas Tingewick stood watching, wringing his long-fingered hands. On the table beside the physician were his bowls and instruments, phials of ointment, herbs and leeches. Nicholas had come to make one last plea for him to reconsider, but Edward had rejected his counsel. He was finished with potions and prayers, done with bloodletting and bed-rest.

Steeling himself, he let go of the bedpost and crossed the room, light-headed and unsteady. The locked chest he kept at the end of his bed was gone, packed on a cart along with the rest of his belongings. The only things left in the chamber were the bed and his desk. As he shambled past the desk, his pages clustering nervously at his back, Edward’s eyes alighted on one of the letters strewn on its surface, with the seal of Aymer de Valence attached. The parchment’s yellowed edges had curled, dampened by the sweat of his fingers. The letter had come four weeks ago, the earl informing him of a skirmish against the forces of Robert Bruce at a place called Loudoun Hill. The gist of the battle was vague, Aymer glossing over his failure to capture the rebel king and speaking of an unfortunate and unavoidable loss of men, before writing at length on his renewed, unquestionable determination to crush their Scottish foe. But the earl’s report wasn’t the only one Edward had received.

Others told a different story. Messengers came with news of the massive defeats suffered by the English forces in Galloway and Loudoun Hill. They spoke of men flocking to Robert’s banner from across Carrick, Ayrshire, Bute, Kyle Stewart and Renfrew, and of the rebel’s command of an indomitable fleet that now controlled the waters. They spoke, too, of a prophecy sweeping Scotland: a prophecy that foretold his own death and augured the rise of Bruce as a new leader of the Britons. King Arthur reborn.

His men had failed him. His son, estranged from him in London, had disappointed him. No one else could be trusted to do what must be done. Edward knew that now. Sending missives into England and Wales, summoning the commissioners of array to call all able-bodied men to muster in Carlisle in three weeks’ time, he had ordered his court to make ready to leave Lanercost Priory. He would meet his army in the city, then lead them to the Solway Firth where he would cross into Scotland and take the head of the traitor himself. He was Arthur – the Dragon King, ruler of all Britain. No one else would wear this mantle, least not Robert Bruce, the man who had threatened to undo his life’s work and who now threatened his very legacy.

As Simon opened the door for him, eyes downcast, Edward moved slowly out into the passage, every part of his body protesting. He could barely breathe for the awful, solid pain in his bowels. He’d pissed black blood that morning. Outside, the June sunlight caused his eyes to water. He squinted against its glare as he made his way across the priory’s lawn, away from the timber building that had been his dwelling all these months. He felt good to be leaving it, despite the agony of doing so. Too long had he stayed within its walls; too long had he relied on others to fulfil his last intent.

Carts piled with chests, sacks, coffers and barrels were lined up, grooms adjusting the harnesses, porters making last checks of the loads. The royal knights were waiting with their horses and squires. Queen Marguerite was there, mounted on a dappled palfrey, with his sons, Thomas and Edmund, and his infant daughter, Eleanor, swaddled against her wet nurse. His family would ride with him to Carlisle where he would leave them. Maids and cooks, tailors and clerics, all watched in silence as their once formidable, proud king, limped painfully across the grass to where Bayard stood. The warhorse was held by his squire, its scarlet trapper drifting in the wind. His men had prepared a litter for the journey, but Edward was determined he would ride into Scotland of his own volition; ride in as the warrior king he had always been. It was time to end this war, once and for all.

Chapter 30

Near Ayr, Scotland, 1307 AD

‘They’re coming.’

Robert turned at his brother’s voice. ‘How many?’

Edward pushed through the trails of ivy that cloaked the chapel’s entrance. The doorway was one of the only parts of the ancient structure still standing. The rest was a pale skeleton of weather-stained stone, ribs of arches and crumbling walls holding up a ceiling of sky. ‘Ten,’ answered Edward, joining him in the ruins. ‘As promised.’

Robert nodded, but the tension didn’t leave him. He glanced towards the cracked remains of the altar, where Gilbert and Neil stood over the kneeling form of Henry Percy. The lord’s head was covered with a hood, his hands bound behind his back. He had lost weight during his captivity, although his stomach still bulged over his belt. When they hauled him from the galley that morning, up the cliff path to the ruins, Percy had cursed them, spitting threats through his hood. Now, he was silent, waiting. The fourth figure standing with them was Alexander Seton, his dark eyes fixed on the archway.

So far, everything was going as planned. Robert’s men had been scouting the area these past three days for any sign this was a trap, as James Stewart and others had feared, but they had found nothing to indicate such. Now the English had arrived as expected with the number of men stipulated, a number matched by Robert’s company. Alexander Seton’s contrition and desire to make amends thus seemed proven, but he’d hardly said a word on the crossing from Barra and his reticence had begun to make Robert uneasy. He felt the man was keeping something from him. But, if so, he wasn’t the only one. Robert hadn’t yet told Alexander about Christopher’s execution and had ordered his men to keep quiet on the matter for the time being. He didn’t want anything disrupting this parley, especially in light of David of Atholl’s reaction to his father’s death.

Hearing hoof-beats drumming outside, Robert looked back at the chapel’s entrance to see a company come into view through the ivy-covered arch. They pulled their horses to a halt a short distance away, where knights from Carrick were waiting to greet them. Robert watched closely, his hand resting on his sword, as the ten men dismounted. In the cove below, Lachlan’s galley waited, enabling him to beat a hasty retreat if necessary, but that was scant comfort now. If he was wrong in his judgement everything could be over for him in the next few moments.

There was a brief exchange and a figure stepped forward. He wore a blue surcoat, slashed with a white band, on either side of which were six golden lions. Unsheathing his sword, the man handed it to one of the knights, then began to walk towards the chapel, looking guardedly around him. Robert felt the blood pound in his temples as Humphrey de Bohun entered the ruin, his green eyes falling on him.

Humphrey had last seen Robert almost two years ago, when the man fled Westminster, his plan to take the throne in defiance of King Edward revealed in documents found on William Wallace. He was stunned by the change in his former friend. Robert, fresh-faced and handsome in youth, looked older than his thirty-three years. The glare of the midday sun beating down on the chapel’s rubble-strewn aisle made a stark display of the scars on his cheeks and the lines that furrowed his brow. The stubble that shadowed his jaw was black, but his dark, shoulder-length hair had a few streaks of grey at the sides. Despite the fact he looked leaner in the waist he was still broad in the shoulders and clearly hadn’t spent long without a sword in his hand. His surcoat displayed the red lion of Scotland, but the garment was damaged, crudely stitched in places.

After his surprise passed, Humphrey felt a tide of emotions sweep in. First came a spike of anticipation – the realisation that the quarry he’d been hunting all these months was now just within his reach. He thought briefly of Aymer, several miles away in Ayr, unaware that he was here, only paces from their mortal enemy. There was a heady moment where he wondered, if he killed Robert right now, whether the war would be ended, but as Humphrey’s fingers drifted towards his hip he remembered he had given up his weapon. He noted Robert’s hand curled around the hilt of his sheathed sword and felt at once vulnerable without his own. Beneath the urge to violence were older emotions – glimmers of friendship, shadows of regret and betrayal. But, as Humphrey came to a stop before Robert and Edward, one feeling lifted clear above the rest: hope that the man in front of him held the answers he needed.

Flies buzzed in the sticky air as the three men studied one another in silence. Humphrey saw only hostility in Edward Bruce’s eyes, but there was something more thoughtful and pensive in Robert’s. Beyond the king and his brother, down by the remains of an altar, three men, one of whom was Alexander Seton, stood over a kneeling, hooded figure, who, by the arms on surcoat and his girth, Humphrey knew was Henry Percy.

Robert followed his gaze with a nod. ‘As you can see, I have what you want.’ He looked back at Humphrey. His tone was stiff with cold formality. ‘I want something in return.’

Humphrey studied him. If Robert felt anything about this dangerous reunion, he was keeping it well hidden. ‘Sir Alexander told me – you want your family freed.’

‘When they are released I will give you Sir Henry, unharmed. You have my word.’

Humphrey bit back the impulse to demand how he could be expected to trust the word of a traitor. ‘May we speak alone?’

Edward Bruce cut in angrily. ‘Say what you will. I am staying.’

Robert held Humphrey’s gaze for a long moment, then nodded to Edward. ‘Let me hear what he has to say.’

‘Brother—’

‘That’s an order.’

Edward looked as if he were going to protest, but then he backed away and joined his comrades and their prisoner.

Humphrey waited until he was out of earshot. There were so many questions. He paused, then chose the first that came to mind – the easiest. ‘Where is the Staff of  Malachy?’

Robert let out a rough bark of laughter. ‘You think I will answer that? This parley is for an exchange of prisoners – nothing more. I’ve not come here for an interrogation.’

‘And I’ve not come to satisfy your wishes. I could have brought an army with me today – taken Percy by force and seized you. I haven’t. But in return for that I want something for myself.’

‘What?’

‘I want answers, Robert.’ When the man didn’t respond, Humphrey continued. ‘Why did you do it? Why take the staff, knowing what you knew?’

Robert turned away, shaking his head.

Humphrey stepped in front of him. ‘Or did you never believe? Was it all a lie when you took the oath in Conwy? Did you join our brotherhood never intending to keep your vows? Did you always know you would betray me?’ That last question bubbled up unexpectedly, the strength of feeling behind it surprising Humphrey. He realised, on asking it, that deep down, no matter Robert’s deception, he had not been able to bring himself to believe that their friendship had been a lie. He could not square that with the man he had known all those years. ‘I trusted you, Robert – fought alongside you in battle, laughed with you, confided in you. I bore your burdens, just as you bore mine. Did none of that mean anything? Please, tell me. I have to know.’

Robert didn’t look as though he were going to answer. A gull landed on one of the fractured arches and called into his silence. ‘It wasn’t all a lie.’

His voice was so quiet Humphrey had to strain to hear him over the crying of the gull.

‘I believed in the oaths I had taken and I believed in our friendship, until the night we rode into Scone.’ Robert glanced behind him to where his men stood, some distance away. ‘Until you forced me to take the Stone of Destiny.’

‘It wasn’t belief that turned in you then,’ countered Humphrey, anger shooting through him. ‘It was pride. You wouldn’t give up your claim to the throne, even if it meant bringing both our kingdoms to ruin!’