Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (20 page)

For some, it was true, life went on mostly as it had, except now it was just that little bit tougher. For others it was harder by far. But for everyone there was a sense of things having paused, as if they were all waiting for something, refusing to believe what had happened, unable to move forward, even though it was now a year since Edinburgh had fallen to Edward’s army. A year since Scotland had become an English fi ef.

While Will had left Edinburgh with his sister’s family, heading for the Midlothian estate, the English Army moved on to Stirling. They later learned the castle had been abandoned by everyone but the gatekeeper, who handed over the keys to an undoubtedly triumphant Edward. With the crossing over the Forth secured and the last of Scottish resistance broken, the king advanced north as far as Elgin on a royal progress, making sure that at each town and 110 robyn

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castle he rested at, every prominent landlord in the area came to pay him homage. They heard that Edward received Balliol at Montrose, where the Scottish king gave his formal surrender and was stripped of his royal arms. The man Edward chose to be his puppet king, who had rebelled and cut free of his master’s strings, was sent, subdued and humiliated, to the Tower in London.

With him went the seal of Scotland, broken in four. In one fi nal, devastating act, Edward had the Stone of Destiny removed from Scone Abbey and conveyed to Westminster. This ancient rock, the seat of crowning for the kings of Scotland for over four hundred years, was more than just a relic: it was the symbol of a nation, and with its removal and interment in England, Edward thus sealed his conquest. By the autumn, Berwick’s fortifications were complete and the town, rebuilt over the mass graves of its people, became the new center of government. Leaving John de Warenne as lieutenant of the realm and Hugh Cressingham as treasurer, along with a vast number of English bureaucrats and officials to run the country, Edward returned to England.

One saving grace, that came later, was the release of a number of the Scottish magnates imprisoned in England, David Graham, Sir Patrick’s heir, among them. These men, along with fifteen hundred of their countrymen, had been forced to do fealty to Edward and now owned their estates in his name, but minor landowners, such as Duncan, had been allowed to keep their holdings running much as they had before. For most of the time, Ysenda and the children remained at the Midlothian estate, rather than in Kincardine with Duncan, having found that it was far enough away from the main centers not to be taken much notice of by the English justices under the hated Cressingham.

Approaching the house up the steep track, sweating with the climb, Will and David saw a plume of smoke rising into the haze.

“Looks like our supper’s on,” said Will, feeling his stomach growl at the promise of food.

“Go on in,” said David, taking the horse’s reins. “I’ll see to the unmaking.”

Sensing his nephew, who had been quiet since leaving the forest, needed to be on his own, Will let him lead the horse with its burden to the barn, the lymer barking exuberantly at his heels. In the paddock, Tom, their manservant, who had remained at the estate all through the war, was feeding their two goats. They had lost three during the winter and hadn’t yet been able to replace them. Food had been scarce, most of the harvests either having been destroyed or else having withered in the fields while the men were away at war.

Heading round to the back of the main house, through the herb garden his mother had planted, Will pushed open the door.

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Ysenda was chopping sage at the kitchen table. She looked up as he entered. “Did you catch anything?”

“Your son did. A hart.”

She smiled. “That should last us a good long while.”

Will kicked off his boots. Pulling up a stool, he sat at the table, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. His skin felt tight. “Duncan’s not back?”

Ysenda shook her head as she scraped the sage into an iron pot where a broth was bubbling away. Her sandy hair curled around her forehead in the heat.

The herb smell reminded Will of his mother and, for a moment, he closed his eyes, listening to the knife grate against the wood, held within the memory.

Everyone else here had their tasks that kept them busy, kept them from thinking about the past, or the future. David had his hunting, Ysenda the running of the estate, Duncan his work under Sir David Graham in Kincardine, Tom and the girls their allotted duties. They all had a place, something to do. He was the only one who didn’t fit, who flitted from task to task, helping each of them in turn, but ultimately aimless. He felt suspended, hanging frozen like the rest of Scotland, waiting for something to change. For the string to snap.

“Is the food ready?”

At the singsong voice, Will raised his head from his hands to see Alice come skipping into the kitchen. He smiled at his niece, then went still, his gaze locking on a tiny silver pendant that swung to and fro from her neck. He stood, the stool tipping to clatter back behind him. Alice halted at the sight of his rigid face, her own smile fading. Ysenda looked round.

“Brother—” she started to say, but the rest of her words were cut off as Will strode to Alice.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded.

“What?” Alice’s eyes grew wide.

“The pendant! Where did you get it? Have you been looking through my things, girl?”

“Will!” exclaimed Ysenda, setting down the stack of bowls she was carrying.

“It was Margaret’s,” said Alice, clearly terrified as Will loomed over her and snatched up the pendant from where it hung against her chest. “She gave it to me last month when I turned thirteen. Father gave it to her when she was my age.” Alice looked round as Margaret came into the kitchen. “It was yours, wasn’t it!” she blurted.

Even as she was speaking, Will turned the pendant over in his hands and 112 robyn

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realized his mistake. Instead of a man with his foot on a serpent, there was the delicate outline of a woman, crowned by a cross. St. Margaret of Scotland. He remembered now: her sister presenting it to her with much ceremony and a rare smile from Duncan.

Margaret plucked the pendant from his palm. Holding her sister’s shoulders protectively, she glared at him.

“What is wrong with you?” said Ysenda in a low, fierce voice, coming up alongside him.

“I’m sorry,” Will murmured. “I thought it was . . . I’m sorry.” Returning to the table, he righted the stool. He sat, recalling the moment when he had handed the St. George pendant to the trader in St. Albans, the day after his desertion. How could he have forgotten? Ysenda returned to the broth, but her eyes kept flicking to Will as she stirred it. Margaret took up the bowls and began to set them around the table as Alice slid on to a stool, fi ddling self-consciously with the pendant. Margaret slammed Will’s bowl down in front of him, making him wince. He had only just started to form a bond with his elder niece and now he had gone and ruined it.

The door opened and David entered, his earlier despondency replaced by a broad grin. “Look who I found.”

“Father!” said Alice, as Duncan headed in behind his son. She threw herself into his arms and he staggered back with a grunt of surprise.

“Anyone would think I’d been gone for a month.”

“It feels like it,” said Ysenda, kissing his cheek.

The tension in the room dispersed gradually, Duncan shrugging off his traveling cloak and David standing his bow up by the back door, while Ysenda spooned broth into the bowls.

“Venison soon,” she said, with a smile toward David as she sat. “We’ll feast like kings.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” said Duncan wearily. “God be thanked.” They all bowed their heads as he murmured a prayer.

Will raised his spoon, then let it fall, finding his hunger had gone.

“It must be better now the harvests are coming in?” asked Ysenda, watching her husband eat.

“It would be, if the treacherer let people keep enough to feed themselves.”

David smiled coldly as his father used the nickname most Scots were calling the treasurer, Hugh Cressingham.

“But no sooner has the grain come in than most of it goes out again, all go-the fall of the templars

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ing south, along with our rents and our wool. I’ve seen families bled dry in Kincardine, unable to feed their children, and it’s getting worse since the fi ghting broke out. The English sheriffs are coming down harder and harder on all of us because of these rebels.” Duncan glowered into his broth. “They should be out in the fields bringing home what they can like the rest of us, not dis-rupting what little peace we still have.”

David’s smile vanished. “We have no peace, Father. Not under the English.” He set down his spoon. “We should be
joining
the rebels, not criticizing them.”

Ysenda shot him a warning look. “Don’t talk to your father like that.”

“But it’s true.” David glanced at Will. “You agree with me, Uncle, I know you do. You don’t want to be sitting here doing nothing, pretending everything is fine, do you?” He looked back at his father, who had gone silent.

“When Tom was in Edinburgh he heard William Wallace killed the sheriff of Lanark and overthrew the justiciar at Scone. Sir William Douglas is said to have joined with him, others too. Don’t you want to do something? Don’t you have any pride?”

Duncan jerked to his feet, his face scarlet. He raised his hand to strike David, but faltered at a shocked cry from Alice.

The back door opened and Tom entered. He frowned at the frozen tableau, then nodded tentatively to Duncan. “There’re men coming up the track, sir.

Five of them.”

“I’ll come out in a moment,” murmured Duncan, staring at his defi ant son. “Go and greet them.”

“Who would it be?” asked Ysenda, as Tom headed out.

Duncan picked up a cloth and wiped his hands. “I don’t know,” he said, crossing to the door. “I’ll go alone,” he added sharply, when Will rose. “I’m still lord of this estate.”

Duncan headed into the oppressive afternoon, anger hot in his veins. But beneath that was an uncomfortable sense of shame. His son was right. He shouldn’t be out with Sir David Graham each week, traveling the length and breadth of his young lord’s lands, both of them under the yoke of the English, draining the people of Kincardine of their food and their money. He should be standing firm with his countrymen against this tyranny. His pride, however, was fighting a more powerful urge to protect his family.

Coming around the house, he saw Tom greeting the riders. Duncan’s heart sank as he saw their mail armor. English soldiers. One of the five was dressed 114 robyn

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differently, in a fine cloak of green and gold brocade. He remained on his horse while the soldiers dismounted. “Good day to you,” called Duncan, bracing himself as he approached.

“Who is the lord here?” asked the man in the cloak, staring imperiously down. His accent was thick and treacly, the words seeming to stick together as he spoke. The horse tried to toss its head, but he jerked hard on the reins.

Duncan’s eyes moved to the sword that was hanging from the man’s hip, beside a large leather pouch. “I am.”

“I’ve come to collect this quarter’s rents.”

Duncan shook his head. “There must be a mistake. I’ve already paid. A collector came last month.”

“Unfortunately the rents have risen since then.”

“By how much?” asked Duncan, straining to keep his voice calm.

“Father?”

Duncan glanced around as David came out of the house. “How much?” he said incredulously, turning back as the collector answered him. “That’s out of the question. I cannot pay that.”

“We can take other forms of payment,” responded the collector. He nodded to the paddock, where Duncan’s horse, a silky-coated piebald, was tethered. “That’s a fi ne beast.”

Duncan clenched his teeth. “I need a horse in order to travel to my lord’s lands so I can help seize his tenants’ assets for your lord.”

The collector’s brow furrowed. “Is King Edward, not
our
lord?”

Duncan glanced at the soldiers, who were surveying the house in an appraising way that made him feel uneasy. He wished suddenly that he’d brought his sword out with him. “Go back inside, David,” he called, hearing footsteps coming up behind him.

“Is this your son?” asked the collector. “A healthy-looking lad. Well fed too.

Wouldn’t you say so?” he commented to one of the soldiers.

The man smiled unpleasantly. “Yes, sir.”

Glaring at the collector, Tom stepped in front of the soldier who had answered.

“Times are hard,” continued the collector, shrugging at Duncan. “If you want to blame anyone, blame your countrymen. If they weren’t rebelling against Lord Edward we wouldn’t have to raise the rents. The funds to crush their little mutiny have to come from somewhere. They fight and you and yours pay for it.”

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“Sounds like they have enough to win that
little
mutiny, what with the plunder Wallace and his men took from your justiciar at Scone.”

Duncan whipped around as David’s voice rang out. “Go back inside, will you!”

The collector’s eyes narrowed. “I would keep your son on a shorter leash if I were you. I can always raise the rents some more, should I see fit.” He kept his gaze on Duncan. “But I’m a fair man. Have your manservant here bring me your horse and we’ll leave it at that for today.”

“I’ve told you, I cannot do that.” Duncan took a few steps toward him and lowered his voice. “I will give you more next time. I’m a knight of Sir David Graham, he will vouch for me.”

“This is the last time I will ask you.”

“Listen to me, damn you!” shouted Duncan, frustration getting the better of him.

“Kill him,” said the collector, gesturing at Tom.

Duncan and David shouted at the same time as one of the soldiers drew his sword. Lunging forward, the man thrust it into Tom’s belly. The manservant looked more surprised than anything as the length of steel entered him. The soldier twisted the blade and withdrew it in two brutal movements. Tom crumpled, clutching his stomach, blood pumping thickly between his fi ngers.