Insurrection: Renegade [02] (21 page)

One shall come in armour, and shall ride upon a flying serpent . . . With his cry shall the seas be moved, and he shall strike terror into the second. The second therefore shall enter into confederacy with the lion . . .

The History of the Kings of Britain,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

Chapter 16

Westminster, England, 1302 AD

The procession filed in a slow-moving column along the King’s Road, which cut a path through waterlogged fields. Mist hung in ribbons above the marshes and the shallow banks of the Thames, where birds piped in the reeds. It was early morning, mid-February, and the land seemed hushed, still waiting under the held breath of winter. The hooves of the horses crunched through films of ice into pockets of mud, the wagon wheels churning up a black slush. The rising sun was a copper disc, suspended in a sky the colour of parchment.

Ahead, Westminster rose abruptly from the plain, dominated by the towering edifices of the abbey and the hall, which, with all their attendant buildings, stood facing one another on the Island of Thorney, formed between two veins of the Tyburn that flowed into the Thames. This was the beating heart of Edward’s realm, all its weight of Kentish stone and Purbeck marble, Sussex oak and elm thrusting from the frozen marshes and streams that surrounded it. The sight filled Robert with a foreboding that grew with every stride of his horse. Once such a familiar, exhilarating prospect, those sheer white walls and towers now seemed to stand before him in judgement. Trapped within the column of Ulster’s knights, he found scant comfort in the presence of his brother, Edward, who rode tight-lipped at his side.

Five months ago in Dunluce Castle, after he agreed to James Stewart’s plan, Robert had demanded two things. The first, that James would continue to take care of his daughter and the second that his brother would accompany him to London. He had told the steward he would need someone to watch his back, but in reality the demand was born more from a desire to have one man with him who knew the truth. Without that, Robert thought he might lose all trace of his fragile hope that this bleak act was not the end of his ambition, but merely a pause in its attainment. Now, as the first of Ulster’s men crossed the wooden bridge over the Tyburn, the hooves of their horses hollow on the boards, he wished to God he hadn’t brought Edward with him. For the sake of his own solace he had endangered both their lives.

‘No going back now.’

His brother had caught his stare. ‘No,’ Robert agreed soberly, the clop of hooves masking his words from Ulster’s knights. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I involved you in this. I should have come alone.’

‘And let me miss all the fun? I hear the Tower’s lovely this time of year.’ Edward’s mirth faded quickly. ‘I know we didn’t always see eye to eye when we were last here, but I believe you’re doing the right thing now. You have to, for the sake of our family. There will be no future for you, for any Bruce, in a Scotland ruled by Balliol and the Comyns.’

‘There may be an even shorter future here,’ responded Robert tightly.

Edward shrugged, grimly pragmatic. ‘Imprisonment is the worst we’ll face and half the men we know have suffered the discomfort of an English cell. Sooner or later, the king released most of them. Except John of Atholl, who released himself.’ Edward grinned. ‘I can’t imagine anyone managing to keep that firebrand locked up for long.’ He frowned when Robert’s expression didn’t change. ‘Come, brother, the English king is many things and I’ll be the first to name them all, but even in his cruellest moments he’s still bound by chivalry. Who ever heard of the execution of an earl?’

Robert didn’t respond as he was forced to walk his horse on ahead of his brother, following the knights across the bridge, under a grand stone archway. Could he himself say that imprisonment would be the worst that awaited them after what he had discovered the night he came round from unconsciousness to find the steward beside him? He fingered the piece of iron that hung around his neck on a strip of leather, hidden beneath his mantle. His brother could be doughty about their fate because he didn’t know the whole truth. He didn’t know what Robert had seen that night in the bowels of Dunluce Castle.

To the right, the white façade of Westminster Abbey stood stark against the sky. A shudder of anticipation went through Robert at the proximity to the Stone of Destiny that lay within those walls, encased in Edward’s coronation chair. He stared over his shoulder, eyes lingering on the abbey’s colossal doors, as the English knights who had accompanied them from the border escorted them towards the palace. Ahead, over the lead rooftops, loomed Westminster Hall. Passing the Queen’s Chapel, the Painted Chamber and the White Hall, they came to a windswept courtyard where robed clerks and courtiers stared at their company. The hall housed the Courts of the Exchequer, King’s Bench, Chancery and Common Pleas.

Dismounting, Robert gave the reins of his palfrey to Nes, who had led his destrier, Hunter, on the road from Scotland. The roan charger, conserved for tournaments and war, was a symbol of Robert’s intention to make England his temporary home, as were the men of his household who had accompanied him and the wagon filled with his worldly belongings – mostly clothes, coins, armour and equipment brought over from Antrim, the rest a few personal effects handed to him by James Stewart: a jewelled dirk and a tapestry from his grandfather’s hall at Lochmaben, a silver necklace he had given to his first wife, Isobel, a ring that had belonged to his mother and a motley collection of goblets, plates and furniture. It was perverse how the fortune of his family, acquired over centuries to encompass rich estates across the span of three nations, had been reduced down to a cartload.

Seeing the Earl of Ulster talking to a man in a regal blue robe who had come out to greet them – a steward perhaps – Robert headed over. His porters were unloading the cage that housed his hound from the back of the wagon. The pup, the only one of Uathach’s litter he had brought from Glenarm, was just eighteen months old, but already showed signs of being a keen hunter like his mother. Robert had named him Fionn after the legendary Irish warrior whose deeds he had learned by heart as a boy in Lord Donough’s hall. Fionn barked in expectation as he caught his master’s scent. Beyond the cage, rolled up against the side of the wagon, Robert could see his banner. He had resigned himself to wear the white surcoat and mantle decorated with the red chevron of Carrick, but couldn’t bear to have that standard raised above him as he prepared to yield to the man who had destroyed his earldom.

‘The king will grant us an audience?’ Robert asked, coming to stand beside Ulster, his eyes following the man in the blue robe, who was walking purposefully back towards the hall.

Richard de Burgh turned to him. His face, uncompromising in the wintry light, offered no comfort. ‘They received my messengers, so King Edward is expecting us. For now, we wait.’ The earl held Robert in his stare. ‘You will remember our terms.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘I’ll keep my word,’ Robert told him tersely, meeting the challenge in the older man’s eyes. He wanted to ask him the same question – well aware of the danger in Ulster’s knowledge, but he didn’t have to. The devious earl had made certain his keeping of Robert’s secret would be worth his while.

The tension between them was broken by a clatter and a curse. They looked round to see one of Ulster’s men bending over a long wooden box that had slipped from his grasp.

‘Careful with that, damn you!’ snapped the earl, heading over.

Robert stayed where he was, his eyes on the box. Inside that unadorned casket was the Staff of Jesus, wielded by St Patrick, restored by St Malachy. Stolen by him. Less than a month ago, James Stewart had given the relic to him on a deserted beach on the Carrick coast.

Shortly after Ulster had written to King Edward to inform him that Robert wished to surrender and he would personally escort him to London, the high steward had left for Rothesay, his castle on the Isle of Bute. When Robert’s shoulder had begun to heal, he boarded Ulster’s galley and crossed the race to join him. He had wanted to meet the steward at Rothesay where his daughter and brothers were lodged, but James had refused, fearing the temptation for him to explain himself to his family would be too great.

‘It is imperative your surrender appears genuine,’ the steward had told him before leaving Dunluce. ‘The fewer people who know the truth – that you do not intend for this to be permanent – the tighter the ruse will be. King Edward is no fool. Even if outwardly he accepts your submission, I guarantee he will use everything at his disposal to ascertain your loyalty behind your back. We know he has spies. We need every word that comes out of the mouths of Scots about you to be damning; to speak of your betrayal and infidelity to the cause.’

These words had echoed painfully in Robert as he landed on Carrick’s shore, where James was waiting with his brother. From there, under cover of darkness, they had ridden south to the border in the company of Ulster and his knights. Scarcely had Robert set foot upon the soil of his homeland before giving himself up to the king’s officials in Annandale and crossing into England, with barely a blade of grass bent to show he had been there at all.

Robert watched as Ulster’s man righted the unadorned casket, which contained so much more than the precious Irish relic. Inside, lay King Edward’s triumph and his defeat. He waited in silence, standing apart from the others, the cold seeping through him as the bare branches of the trees in the royal gardens rattled like bones in the wind. Foremost in his mind was his grandfather. Things had been so simple when the old lord was alive, his path in life so sure. Now, all the world seemed built upon sand.

At last, the king’s steward re-emerged and bade Ulster’s company to follow him. As the box was passed to him, Robert thought of gruff, scar-faced Brother Murtough, who had given his life in the protection of the staff. His shoulder ached as he hefted the casket and began to walk behind Ulster across the windswept courtyard, through the towering doors of the hall and into a cavernous gloom.

Westminster Hall, built by the Conqueror’s namesake son, was two hundred and forty feet long. Rows of thick, moulded pillars supported the vast roof and divided the hall into three aisles. Doors led into enclosed areas that housed the various courts, while stalls selling parchment, quills and ink to the clerks and lawyers were ranked along the north wall. King Edward couldn’t have chosen a better setting in which to hear his submission than this place of trial and judgement. Robert had to fight the intimidation he felt as he walked the central aisle towards a grand, carpeted dais set against the south wall.

Upon the platform stood a throne, illuminated by the pallid light slanting through the arched windows. A crowd of men was gathered there. They parted as the company approached. Robert was behind Ulster, his view blocked by the earl’s broad-shouldered frame, so he heard King Edward’s voice before he saw the man himself, that familiar steel tone, summoning the earl to approach. As Ulster ascended the steps and dropped down on one knee, the way ahead became clear.

Edward Longshanks was seated on the throne, as stiff and straight-backed as the carved chair itself. He looked older, more haggard, his cheeks gaunt and the droop in his eyelid more prominent. But despite this he seemed as formidable as ever, remarkably tall and erect even when seated, his long limbs swathed in a scarlet surcoat emblazoned with three lions and a gold crown ringing his head.

Robert felt the ache in his shoulder deepen as the casket’s weight pulled on his arms. While the king and Ulster greeted one another, he became acutely aware of many eyes upon him from the crowd. His gaze moved over the faces of the men. There was Anthony Bek, Bishop of Durham, and John de Warenne, the aged Earl of Surrey whose army had been destroyed by Wallace’s forces at Stirling. Beside them were the royal knights, Ralph de Monthermer and Robert Clifford. Once his comrades, both were grim and silent in their appraisal of him. Close by was Henry Percy with his cold blue eyes and Thomas of Lancaster, his face, more manly than boyish now, rigid with dislike. Beside them stood the rangy, red-haired Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. Robert had duelled with him outside the walls of Conwy Castle over an affair with the man’s sister. By his expression, Guy’s enmity seemed not to have diminished in the slightest.

As Robert locked eyes with a tall man standing by the dais, a jolt went through him. It was Aymer de Valence, cousin of the king and heir to the earldom of Pembroke. With the shock of recognition came hostility. His mind filled with an image of the black-haired knight coming at him in that dusty hovel in Llanfaes, his sword levelled at his chest. Aymer’s lips curled back in hatred and Robert saw the glimmer of wire that bound two teeth taken from another man’s mouth to his incisors. His own had been knocked out by Robert’s mailed fist in the fight at Llanfaes. Aymer took a step towards Robert, but a hand grasped his shoulder. It belonged to Humphrey de Bohun. Those green eyes, full of calm antipathy, were the hardest for Robert to meet. The others he had once called brother, but more in a formal sense, through their shared allegiance as Knights of the Dragon. With Humphrey he had meant it. How treacherously those sands had shifted beneath their feet, taking them from brotherhood to battlefield.

‘Come forward.’

The king’s voice brought Robert’s focus back to the dais. Seeing Ulster had stepped aside, he approached, passing through the hostile crowd. Up the steps he went, the carpet muffling his footsteps. Edward’s pale grey eyes were fixed on him. As the king shifted forward, his lean body taut, he reminded Robert of a snake, poised to strike.