Kingdom (48 page)

‘Sir!’ called one of his knights, his smile gone from his face. ‘Is that Bruce? How is it possible? They said he was dying!’

The Black Comyn had no idea. Maybe the bastard had made a miraculous recovery, or perhaps those deserters had lied to draw him into a trap. Either way, it did not matter. Robert Bruce was clearly far from death’s door, riding fast and furious towards the faltering foot soldiers. With him, their surcoats vivid against the snow, rode Gilbert de la Hay, Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell, Thomas Randolph and the knights of Carrick and Annandale. Behind the cavalry Bruce’s infantry came pouring, hundreds upon hundreds of them, swarming on to the plain.

Coming to his senses, the Black Comyn slammed his spurs into the sides of his horse. The courser took off, thundering into a gallop. He wrenched his sword from its scabbard as he rode, his men riding with him. But it was too late. Bruce and his knights had already smashed through the first lines of infantry.

Men were sent flying. Weapons thrashed and spun. The crack of iron on steel resounded. Blood arced, black against the snow. With the king’s men cutting a swathe through them and his foot soldiers coming rushing up behind, Comyn’s men began to panic. As some, caught up in the violence of the king’s furious charge, scrambled to get away from the stamping horses and plunging swords, those behind started to flee. Now, the Black Comyn and his knights found themselves riding full tilt towards their own ranks. Comyn yelled at the brigands to turn and fight, but all he saw were faces stretched with fear and his men scattering before him.

Edward Bruce slid down from his sweat-soaked horse. His legs felt weak, trembling from the exertion and the shock of the battle, but inside he was soaring, triumph coursing through him. As he handed his broadsword to a squire, he realised his gambeson and surcoat were sodden with blood – none of it his own. Men were crowding around him, more pushing in through the trees, their voices lifted in elation. Others had been left on the plain to despatch the dying, overseen by Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell, but the battle itself was over. The Black Comyn and his knights had fled the field, leaving hundreds of foot soldiers to be butchered by Robert’s forces.

‘My lord.’

Edward turned to see a middle-aged man, gripping a blood-streaked spear. His face was alight with adoration. He knelt in the snow, bowing his head.

‘My lord, never have I seen such valour in all my life.’

There were many calls of agreement.

‘
Long live the king!
’

The lone shout was swiftly taken up by others. Knights, lords, squires and peasants, all began dropping to their knees around Edward. He viewed them through the eye-slits of his great helm, grinning as they cheered him, feeling a heady rush of pride. So distracted by their praise was he that it took him a moment to realise Nes had emerged from the crowd. The knight nodded subtly, tilting his head towards the king’s tent. Punching his fist into the air and eliciting another loud cheer from the men, Edward turned and followed Nes through the trees.

Inside the makeshift tent, he saw Robert’s head had been propped up on blankets. His eyes were open, focused for the first time in days, although his face was still deathly pale and slick with sweat. Robert’s eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of the man entering the tent, clad in the royal arms.

Now, concealed from the crowds, Edward removed his helm and crouched beside his brother. ‘You’re awake.’

Robert licked his cracked lips, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained surcoat. ‘What happened?’

‘I led us to victory. The Black Comyn’s army was routed.’

‘Comyn? Is he dead?’

‘No. But we killed many of his men.’

Robert sank back, his eyes closing. His breathing was shallow. After a moment, he looked back at Edward. ‘We cannot stop. We have to finish it.’

Edward nodded, his face uncompromising. ‘I will, brother. I will.’

Chapter 35

Westminster, England, 1308 AD

The council had been in session for two hours and tempers were starting to fray. As one of the pages hovering on the edges of the Painted Chamber came forward with a jug of wine to refill empty goblets, Humphrey de Bohun caught the man’s eye and shook his head. With a nod, the page returned to his place, his bright silk tunic making him appear as though he had just stepped out of the gaudy mural on the wall behind him. Humphrey looked back at Aymer de Valence who was still speaking, his voice raised, face flushed. There was no need to add more fuel to this fire.

‘This is the third such message we’ve received in as many weeks.’ Aymer stabbed a finger at one of the pieces of parchment furled on the table. There were several of these letters scattered between the silver platters, littered with remnants of food. All bore seals of Scottish magnates – Earl John of Buchan, William of Ross, David of Atholl. ‘It is clear our allies in Scotland are becoming increasingly desperate for aid in their struggle against Bruce. He is winning his war, damn it! We must act now, before it is too late. If he defeats his enemies in the north and east there will be nothing standing between him and our garrisons at Aberdeen, Perth, Edinburgh and Stirling. And if he takes those castles, what then?’ Aymer looked around the table at Ralph de Monthermer, Robert Clifford and Guy de Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick. ‘He will turn his attention to England. That is what.’ His eyes settled meaningfully on Henry Percy.

Percy nodded in support. ‘We cannot allow Bruce to consolidate his position any more than he already has. I agree with Sir Aymer. We must strike while he is still vulnerable.’

Both men turned their attention on Piers Gaveston.

The young man, reclining in his high-backed chair at the head of the table, showed little reaction to their stares. His black eyes drifted to one of the platters of meat and cheese in front of him. He drew his knife from its sheath, the mother-of-pearl hilt glimmering in the jewelled light coming through the chamber’s stained-glass windows. The dagger was a present from Edward, who had lavished gifts on Piers since his companion’s return from exile, the most extravagant and unpopular of which had been the earldom of Cornwall. The ire among some of the older barons, simmering beneath the surface at the young man’s rapid promotion, had boiled over last week when Edward, preparing to set sail for France to marry Isabella, had made Piers regent of the realm.

As Piers set the tip of the dagger on the table and began to twist it idly round, Henry Percy glared at him.

Aymer half rose from his chair, planting his palms on the table. ‘We have received reports that Welsh and Irish recruits have been joining Bruce’s army since the summer. He has been using the Prophecy of Merlin against us, saying that the king’s death marks the dawning of a new age, and that the Britons will rise to take back their lands. They are calling him King Arthur for Christ’s sake!’ He swept a hand towards Guy de Beauchamp, Thomas of Lancaster and the others. ‘We are knights of the Round Table. Bruce stole our precious relic and is now twisting our sacred prophecy for his own ends. He must pay for this!’

As Guy and some of the others nodded in agreement, Humphrey recalled, wryly, that Aymer had never been so committed to the beliefs of their brotherhood while the king was alive, focused on fighting the enemy with his sword rather than with prophecy. How strange, he thought, that it was him now sitting here in silence, unmoved by this impassioned speech. Only a year ago he would have been the one making it.

‘Will we continue to do nothing while our enemies band together against us?’ Aymer demanded. ‘While Bruce lays waste to all we have laboured to achieve?’

Piers stabbed his dagger forcefully into a lump of cheese. ‘The king was very clear, Sir Aymer. While he is in France I am to prepare the city for his coronation, not start a war.’ He sat back with a shake of his head. ‘Let the Scots fight among themselves. We will not waste any more of our resources on futile endeavours in the north.’

As Piers plucked the cheese from the tip and chewed it nonchalantly, Thomas, who until now had been sitting in stone-cold silence, slammed his fist on the table, upsetting several goblets and making Henry Percy start. ‘How much have you taken from the royal coffers for your new tournament armour?’ Thomas pushed the words through his teeth. ‘Or that Arabian broodmare you bought at Smithfield? Or your attire for our king’s coronation? Decked with a hundred pearls – so my squires tell me!’ He stood abruptly, his grey eyes flashing in the prisms of light coming through the windows. ‘And you have the gall to speak of wasting resources? You, Gaveston, are the greatest wastrel in our realm!’

For a long moment, Piers stared at Thomas, saying nothing. Silence swelled to engulf the chamber. Tossing the half-eaten wedge of cheese on to the table, the young man rose to meet the earl, his chair screeching on the tiled floor. ‘The king was also very clear, Lancaster, about who held the authority in his absence.’ Piers’s voice was low. ‘Be aware that by insulting me, his regent, you are insulting him.’

Humphrey cut in. ‘My lords, the hour grows late. I believe we can achieve nothing more today. I suggest we retire.’

After a pause, Piers sheathed his dagger with a stab, his gaze still on Thomas. Turning, he swept out of the chamber, gesturing sharply at those of his followers who had accompanied him to the council.

Humphrey was disappointed to see his nephew, Henry, was one of the young knights who followed the Gascon automatically. As the rest of the council broke up, the barons murmuring among themselves, Humphrey headed out of the hall, seeking fresher air.

The perishing afternoon revived him. The Thames, swollen by January’s storms, had broken its banks and the waters were lapping over the wharf, pooling outside Westminster Hall. A group of men worked in a line, hefting sacks of sand off a cart and piling them up along the river’s edge. Humphrey watched them, thinking the flood would not be so easily held back.

‘Humphrey.’

He turned to see Thomas of Lancaster crossing the damp cobbles towards him, tightening his cloak against the chill.

‘We cannot let that arrogant son of a bitch treat us this way,’ Thomas spat. ‘I swear to God, I’ll . . .’ He trailed off, his jaw pulsing.

Humphrey gripped Thomas’s shoulder, forcing the angry young man to meet his gaze. ‘Our king returns in a fortnight. We can discuss plans for Scotland then. In the meantime, let us prepare for the coronation. When that is done there will be fewer things to distract Edward.’

Thomas shook his head, unwilling to be placated. ‘I fear my cousin will always be distracted with that degenerate son of a whore filling his ear with poison.’

‘It is possible, now both are married, that their wives will help to temper their passions.’

‘Wives?’ scoffed Thomas. ‘My cousin’s marriage was arranged by his father purely for political gain – Edward never wanted it for himself. And Piers and Margaret de Clare? The purpose of that wedding was merely to increase the bastard’s power at court and put paid to the gossipmongers.’ Thomas’s tone was grim. ‘Make no mistake, Humphrey, these women are no more than silks for our king and his lover to cloak their unholy liaisons in. Their passions must be tempered by other means.’

Pleshey Castle, England, 1308 AD

Thomas’s words of warning stayed with Humphrey all through the next day as he travelled to Essex to prepare his household for the king’s coronation. By the time he rode in through the gates of Pleshey Castle in the evening gloom, a heavy sense of foreboding had risen to shadow him.

His steward, Ranulf, met him outside the stables as the earl dismounted with his men beneath the motte. The tower on top of the high mound loomed above the buildings of the bailey, its whitewashed walls seeming to glow faintly against the gathering dark.

‘Welcome, Sir Humphrey.’

‘Good evening, Ranulf. You received my message?’

‘Yes, my lord. The arrangements have all been made. Your retainers have been informed of when and where to assemble, and your tailors have almost completed the robes.’

Humphrey nodded tightly. The king had insisted that not only must all of London be decked out in finery, but his vassals, too, should be garbed to suit the occasion of his coronation in cloaks of gold samite. Humphrey had borne the cost of fitting himself and his knights with new robes, but it was a reluctant hand he had put in his purse to do so. At a time when England was still suffering the aftermath of the long war with Scotland, poverty and disorder rife throughout the realm, it felt like an unnecessary expense.

‘Have food brought to my chambers, Ranulf. I’ll eat alone tonight.’ As Humphrey started towards his lodgings his steward called after him.

‘Sir, the lady has been asking when you might return. She has been rather – insistent.’

Humphrey looked back at Ranulf. He paused. ‘I’ll see her now.’

‘My lord, I am sure it can wait until . . .’

But Humphrey was already heading for the guest quarters, a timber-framed building that overlooked the kitchen gardens. Nodding to a maid in the passage, who greeted him courteously, he approached the door at the end. After knocking, he slid back the bolt.