Insurrection: Renegade [02] (29 page)

The bedcovers shifted as his father tried to move. ‘No,’ he croaked.

‘I am Balliol’s nephew. With him helpless in France and Robert Bruce turned traitor in England I am the next viable candidate.’

His father’s voice strengthened. ‘Balliol’s son is the heir!’

‘Edward Balliol hasn’t led the men of the realm, hasn’t worked to gain their trust as I have. I took us to victory at Lochmaben.’

‘You speak of overthrowing the king!’

Comyn flinched as his father grabbed his wrist.

‘I forbid you to pursue this,’ rasped the lord. ‘Swear to me you will not!’

Comyn tried to free his arm. ‘This is the best hope for our kingdom. Surely you see that?’

The lord jerked his head away. ‘I gave all I had to see my brother-in-law take the throne. I will not have that effort wasted by the actions of my own son!’ He wrenched back to face Comyn, gripping his arm, white-knuckled. ‘My sins will not be in vain! Do you hear me?’

‘Sins?’

The old lord’s eyes clenched shut. His words came in gasps. ‘I sent my man across the sea – to Norway with gingerbread – for the girl. Her sacrifice for the kingdom – for Balliol’s sake. All our sakes!’

‘I don’t understand, Father. Princess Margaret died on the voyage from Norway after eating rotten food. Father . . .?’

The Lord of Badenoch’s hand slipped from around his son’s wrist. A last breath rattled in his throat, then faded into silence. Comyn rose, feeling a storm of emotions as he looked down on the slack face of his father. The strongest, surging up through him, was defiance.

He headed across the room and pulled open the door. In the passage his mother, speaking quietly with the steward, turned. At the look on his face, her hand went to her mouth. She moved past him into the chamber. Her muffled cries faded behind him as he ran down the stairs, out into the evening. Dungal MacDouall was there, waiting.

Comyn pushed his hands through his hair and leaned against the wall. ‘He has passed.’ His voice cracked on the word.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The captain left a respectful pause, then said, ‘Did you have the chance to talk?’

Comyn stared into the sky beyond the haloes of torches on the battlements. The wind rippled his father’s banner. He focused on it with the numb realisation he had inherited the lordship of Badenoch and was now head of the most powerful family in Scotland.

‘Sir John?’

Comyn looked back at MacDouall. ‘Before he died my father gave me his blessing.’ He stood up straight, his voice strengthening with the lie. ‘He believed, as I, that this is the best chance for Scotland’s future. But I need to prove myself. I need another victory.’

When MacDouall nodded, Comyn felt his question over the man’s commitment to the cause answered. When Balliol was deposed, MacDouall and his men lost everything. It seemed his ambition to see his fortune restored was stronger than that old allegiance. Comyn had banked on this fact. ‘I want you to summon your comrades-in-arms, all the Disinherited of Galloway. Raise me an army, Dungal. When I have proven myself in strength as sole guardian, there will be few able to challenge me.’

‘You have my sword.’

Comyn’s gaze went to the white lion of Galloway on MacDouall’s surcoat. ‘From now on, you will wear my arms. That symbol no longer has relevance in my realm.’

Perth, Scotland, 1302 AD

Russet leaves swirled in the water, autumn’s first fall carried on the currents of the Tay. As the men hauled on the oars, some distance upriver the walls of Perth came gradually into view, darkening through the layers of fog. Smells of human settlement hung on the air: the astringency of a tannery, smoke from pottery kilns and bakers’ ovens, the sweetness of overripe fruit in an orchard. Somewhere in the haze, a bell tolled from the tower of St John’s kirk.

At the hollow sound, a flock of crows flew up from the trees on the far bank, wings clapping. The boat’s five passengers looked in their direction, two of them resting hands on the pommels of their swords as they scanned the banks, where herons stood sentry on the mud-flats.

They were an odd group all told, their skin browned by a warmer sun than this northern land knew, fine cloaks swaddling their muscular forms, concealing the mail and the battle scars beneath. All were watchful. From what they knew Perth was still in Scottish hands, but theirs had been a long journey through hostile waters.

One of the five, seated at the prow, head and shoulders above his comrades, dragged a large hand through the river, catching a faded oak leaf. As he held it up, his blue eyes studied it with regret. ‘All these seasons gone and nothing to show for it.’

‘You did what you could, sir,’ responded one of the others. ‘You came closer than anyone to seeing the return of our king. Who would have foreseen such a disaster could happen – a band of Flemish peasants defeating French cavalry?’

The blue-eyed man smiled wryly. ‘We would, my friend. Stirling was our Courtrai.’ His hard smile vanished. ‘I have been away too long. In the courts of kings war is only words. Sooner or later a man must return to the arena of swords if battle is to be decided.’ He drew in a breath and flicked the oak leaf back into the water for the current to claim it. ‘Head in there,’ he called to the oarsmen, pointing to a sandbank. ‘We’ll slip around the town and make for Selkirk.’

As the crew strained against the flow of the river, William Wallace watched the banks draw closer.

Westminster, England, 1302 AD

Robert headed purposefully through the press of men filing out of the Painted Chamber, all discussing the matters raised in the parliament. The most dominant topic of conversation was Edward’s proposal for a new campaign in Scotland, planned for the coming year. A campaign made possible by the news from France.

Word had come of a bloody battle in Courtrai that had seen a horde of Flemish peasants destroy an army of knights. In order to avenge this humiliating defeat, King Philippe had declared war on Flanders, turning his back on John Balliol and his hopes for restoration. Edward, forced into a truce with the Scots by his scheming cousin, had clearly been gratified by the turn of events.

Robert had listened to the news with anticipation, for with Balliol cut off in France Scotland’s throne remained empty. But, despite his satisfaction at his enemy’s plight and the removal of the immediate danger of Balliol’s return, his own path to claiming it was still far from clear. It was known a Scottish delegation had arrived at the French court to try to persuade Philippe to keep his word and, so long as they were there, there was a chance Balliol might yet return. Patience, Robert knew, would have to be his bedfellow for a while yet. In the meantime, he had more pressing preoccupations.

Passing Ralph de Monthermer and Robert Clifford, who glanced at him but gave no greeting, Robert pushed out into the palace yard. It was a bright afternoon in late October, clouds scudding fast across the sky, a brisk breeze rustling the carpet of gold leaves that covered the ground. Ahead, beyond the royal gardens, rose the white walls of Westminster Abbey. Pulling his mantle around his shoulders as the wind snatched at it, Robert strode towards the soaring structure. This was the first time he’d been to Westminster in months and the first opportunity he’d had to seek answers to the questions that continued to burn inside him.

In the royal gardens, a group of young men had gathered with their horses and hounds. Robert looked over, drawn by their loud voices. It looked like a hunting party about to set off. Some of the men wore riding cloaks and feathered caps, horns slung over their backs on baldrics. In the centre of the group was Piers Gaveston, resplendent in a black cloak embroidered with silver birds. Standing beside him, no less tall or well-built, yet somehow overshadowed, was Prince Edward, his blond hair tousled by the breeze. As Piers drank from a wine skin and passed it to the prince, Robert saw Edward’s hand clasp over the Gascon’s. He kept it there for what seemed a long moment, their eyes locked, before Piers let go with a sly smile and watched him drink.

Robert was distracted by his name being called. He cursed beneath his breath, seeing Humphrey de Bohun approaching, his mantle billowing in the wind. Robert nodded stiffly in greeting. ‘Good day to you, Sir Humphrey.’

‘Sir Robert,’ answered the earl, offering a similarly curt nod. ‘You seemed in a great hurry to leave the parliament.’ He smiled, the expression not meeting his cool green eyes. ‘Might I ask where you are going?’

Robert turned to the abbey and continued walking, determined not to be kept from his purpose. ‘To pray, if it please you, at the shrine of the Confessor.’

Humphrey fell into step alongside him. ‘The patron saint of England?’ he enquired wryly.

Robert’s excuse came quickly. ‘My wife is sick. Nothing serious,’ he added at Humphrey’s frown. ‘But she asked me to say a prayer for her over the saint’s bones.’

‘If you don’t mind, I will join you,’ said Humphrey. It wasn’t a question.

Robert said nothing, but seethed with irritation. He had seen Humphrey several times since the fight at Writtle, mostly through the insistence of their wives, but while there had been no repeat of the violence, their friendship remained strained. Clearly, it wasn’t camaraderie that spurred Humphrey to join him. Robert suspected the earl had been ordered to watch him while he was here.

The king may have returned Robert’s Scottish lands and freed his constable, Andrew Boyd, and the men captured at Turnberry, but it was evident he still didn’t trust him. At least Humphrey hadn’t asked again about the attack in Ireland and, since no more had been mentioned of it, Robert suspected his claim not to have known his assailant had been conveyed to the king and been believed. But the mere fact the question had been asked had made him more certain than ever that Adam had been Edward’s man.

Together, he and Humphrey ducked through an ivy-clad archway in the precinct wall and crossed towards the abbey. Its pristine exterior was surrounded by a cluster of smaller buildings, including a watermill, its wheel clacking round in the Tyburn. Beyond, marshes and meadows stretched into the distance, the watery expanse shining like steel whenever the sun dazzled out from behind the clouds.

The dusky gloom of the interior was fragrant with incense and melted beeswax. Entering, Robert and Humphrey made their way down the nave. Westminster Abbey, re-endowed by the Confessor almost two hundred and fifty years ago, had been extensively rebuilt by King Edward’s father, Henry III, but not all the works were complete. Here, the paintings were discoloured with age, the stones worn and the marble limbs of angels and saints smoothed by the hands of passing worshippers. As they moved past the choir towards the crossing of the church the structure changed abruptly, colour bleeding from every surface.

Light made dappled patterns on the gold and vermilion walls, filtering through ruby and sapphire glass in the windows. The new vault rose one hundred feet above them, lost in shadow, while on the floor intricate patterns of serpentine and porphyry glimmered, a pavement of gems. Robert glimpsed the indistinct figures of monks and pilgrims moving in the half-light through the ribbed mouldings of archways and between the gaps in carved wooden screens. Candles on altars in the chapels flickered in agitation as the air was disturbed by their passing. Heading for a carved and painted screen at the heart of the abbey, he and Humphrey came to the shrine of the Confessor.

Before they reached it, Robert’s attention was caught by a chair on a stone dais that was draped with a crimson rug. The chair was painted with the image of a king surrounded by birds and trailing flowers. Its seat was suspended over a large base. Robert knew at once that this was Edward’s coronation chair. The realisation stopped him in his tracks. Encased within that base was the Stone of Destiny. His breathing was loud in the hush, every fibre of his being aching with the desire to hack apart that oak coffin with his sword and free the stone from its prison.

‘Robert.’

With effort, he tore his gaze from the chair to see Humphrey staring at him. Without a word, Robert forced himself forward, around the painted screen.

The Confessor’s shrine, crafted by an Italian mason, had a large stone foundation with steps that rose into recesses. Three men were kneeling there, heads bowed. By their soiled travelling clothes they appeared to be pilgrims. Above them a gold feretory contained the saint’s remains, over which was an elaborate canopy decorated with biblical scenes. The moment he entered, Robert was struck by memory.

He was standing with the Knights of the Dragon, newly welcomed into their order and fresh from war in Wales, watching as King Edward placed the Crown of Arthur on an altar before the shrine. The crown, taken from the head of Madog ap Llywelyn and restored by the king’s goldsmiths, was set beside Curtana and a plain black box that shone darkly in the candlelight. The prophecy box.

The altar was still there, draped in cloth, but other than a pair of silver candlesticks it was empty. Robert turned to Humphrey. ‘I thought the relics were kept here?’

Humphrey’s face, already guarded, tightened with suspicion.

Robert feigned an air of irritation. ‘I ask out of simple curiosity, Humphrey. Do not forget I helped the king retrieve three of the treasures. I played as much a part in their unification as you did.’