Insurrection: Renegade [02] (28 page)

Quickly, the marshy ground grew treacherous with the dead and dying, giving the French little room to manoeuvre in the crush. The Flemish attacked relentlessly, allowing their assailants no chance to fall back. Those knights who did manage to wheel away found themselves floundering into hidden bogs. Others, caught up in the chaos, tumbled blindly into the deep, water-filled trench at their backs, dragged down by the awful weight of their destriers.

Compelled by the shouts of their leaders, fired by the scent of victory, the Flemish fought on, their ranks closing over the fallen. Exhausted and bloodied, many ravaged by wounds, they refused to tire. The French had occupied their country and these past years they had suffered the brutality of the king’s men. Now, their rage was released, compelling them beyond the limits of body and mind. With every hammering blow, every arm-wrenching stab, they downed another knight. No mercy was given. No prisoners taken.

In the heart of the battle, Count Robert d’Artois, unhorsed and bleeding, found himself surrounded. Throwing down his sword and pulling off his helmet, he raised his hands in surrender, knowing he was finished. Expecting to be taken captive, his sweat-drenched face registered utter surprise as his head was wrenched back by one man and his throat took the full thrust of another’s spear. As their commander collapsed, gargling blood down his surcoat, the remaining Frenchmen began to abandon the field. Those who made it across the swampy plain, to where their infantry and archers were already turning to flee, were pursued by the Flemish.

In less than an hour, the weavers and fullers of Flanders had crushed the flower of French chivalry, killing more than a thousand of the king’s best men, leaving the fields outside the town of Courtrai drenched in blood and littered with golden spurs.

Picardy, France, 1302 AD

John Balliol stared down at the maps and letters spread across the table, hands splayed on the wood. The corners of parchment lifted in the warm wind coming through the open shutters. Beyond, the valley of the Somme was drowsy with summer. Cattle sheltered in the shadows of trees, the pastures baked brown.

Balliol glanced up, distracted by the faint voices of servants, stringing coloured flags around the courtyard outside. That evening he was hosting a feast for his vassals from the Picardy estates during which he would command them to join the French force he would be leading to Scotland. Edward, his son and heir, he had set in charge of one of the companies, satisfied to see the young man’s enthusiasm for the coming struggle. The great hall was lavishly decorated, food prepared and barrels of wine delivered – everything had been readied for the occasion. Everything, that was, except the army.

He had heard nothing for weeks now of the men the king had promised him. Balliol knew Philippe was preoccupied with trouble in Flanders. He had tried to tell himself that once the king had put down the rebellion he would turn his attention to the matter of Scotland, but such thoughts had done little to mollify his impatience. The oppressive heat had frayed his temper further.

The maps beneath his palms traced the outline of his kingdom, which he hadn’t set foot in for six years. The letters, most of which bore the seal of his brother-in-law, the Lord of Badenoch, were charged with hope, conveying the strong support for his return among the barons of Scotland. Balliol had come to France a broken man, humiliated by defeat and incarceration. But over the past year these messages from Comyn, along with Philippe’s pledge, had wrought a change in him. Smoothing over the cracks in his faith, gradually they had made him whole again. He was ready to return home, eager to regain his honour and dignity; to reclaim the throne for himself and for his son.

The door opened and his steward appeared. ‘My lord, riders approach the west gate.’

Balliol frowned irritably. ‘I told you to deal with the guests, Pierre. I do not need to know of every arrival. I will see them all tonight.’

‘I beg your pardon, my lord. These men are not guests. They bear the royal arms.’

Balliol straightened, his pockmarked face flushing with expectation. As he moved to the door the sleeve of his robe caught one of the letters. It fluttered to the floor in his wake, the red wax seal like a bright drop of blood.

Once in the courtyard, Balliol crossed quickly to the west gate, ignoring the respectful bows from his staff. Ahead, through the archway, he saw the riders approaching, plumes of dust rising from the track. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he fixed on the blue banner raised above the company, decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis. He stood there waiting, a tense smile on his face, as they rode in through the gates.

The man at their head was Sir Jean de Reims. The royal knight looked taken aback to see Balliol waiting to greet him. ‘Sir John.’ Jean swung down from his saddle, leaving his comrades mounted behind him. His cloak was stained with horse sweat. ‘I bring tidings from the—’

‘At last,’ Balliol cut across him. ‘It has been weeks.’

‘Let us speak inside,’ said Jean, looking beyond Balliol to where the servants were stringing flags over the doors to the great hall.

‘First, tell me when King Philippe will send his men. I’ve waited long enough.’

Jean hesitated, then began to speak.

Balliol remained silent as he spoke of a battle outside Courtrai, which had seen the deaths of a thousand French knights. He heard of the outrage, raw from Jean’s mouth, that had been stirred in the royal court and the retaliation Philippe had been forced to plan in response to the catastrophe. At last, Jean told him that the king was calling every fighting man in France to raise arms and, when this army was gathered, Philippe himself would lead it into Flanders to wreak vengeance upon the rebels.

‘You must understand, Sir John, my king can no longer aid your return to Scotland. Not when Flemish peasants pick through the bodies of our noble comrades, stealing spurs and armour, leaving carrion to strip the flesh from their bones. He must bring Flanders under his dominion.’

‘Everything is ready.’ Balliol threw a hand towards the hall. ‘My vassals are joining me this very evening. My kinsmen in Scotland have paved the way for my return. Now is the time to make my move!’

‘I am afraid any move will have to be made without my lord’s support. He bade me send you his deepest regrets.’ Jean turned to his horse, then looked back. ‘Perhaps in time, when Flanders is subdued . . .?’ He left his words hanging, apologetic. Unconvincing.

‘You came to me, damn you!’ When Jean mounted, Balliol’s pitch changed, becoming soft and pleading. ‘I beg you, let us talk. There must be something the king can do. Some men he can spare? Anything!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Balliol, as Jean and his men kicked at their horses and sped through the gate. ‘This will be the end of my
kingdom
!’

Behind, in the yard, servants and kitchen boys stared in bewilderment as the former King of Scotland snatched up a handful of grit and flung it at the backs of the fast retreating riders. As dust from the hooves billowed up around him, John Balliol slumped to his knees.

Chapter 23

Lochindorb, Scotland, 1302 AD

John Comyn watched as the walls of Lochindorb Castle drew closer. The fortress, rising dark against the dusk from its rocky island, took its name from the waters that surrounded it, which in the Gaelic tongue meant
loch of trouble
. As a boy, he had relished that name, believing it added a potent defence to the already indomitable structure; shrouding it in menace as well as stone, warning enemies what would face them if they dared to cross uninvited. Now, the omen seemed to turn against him, the black waters pressing close against the rocks. He thought of his plan and shuddered in the breeze.

Torches guttered on the battlements, glowing in the red shields that hung between the arrow loops. His father’s banner swirled from one of the towers. As the oarsmen guided the boat around the island beneath the high walls, Comyn caught a whiff of sewage where the latrine chutes opened. Jutting into the water from the east wall was a landing platform, where two men in his father’s livery were waiting. They grabbed the rope an oarsman threw to them and hauled the vessel in alongside the jetty. Comyn stepped on to the boards, leaving his squires to gather his belongings. As he headed for the archway in the east wall, Dungal MacDouall fell into step beside him.

The captain’s face was bruised by the torch flames. ‘Will you speak to your father tonight?’

Comyn glanced at him. Despite having confided in MacDouall, he was still uncertain as to whether he could rely on his full support, for the man had been a faithful vassal of John Balliol’s for years. The white lion of Galloway, embroidered on the captain’s surcoat, seemed to blaze in the firelight. ‘I cannot delay,’ he admitted, after a pause. ‘The delegation will remain in France only for so long. My best hope of raising the support I need will be in their absence.’

MacDouall nodded as they passed beneath the portcullis. ‘Your father will need to stand aside. Without his endorsement your plan cannot work.’

‘I am well aware of that,’ muttered Comyn, though the captain’s words made his stomach churn. All through the journey home from the assembly in Selkirk Forest, he had thought of little else.

Entering the castle courtyard, he was greeted at once by his father’s steward. The grave, officious man who had served the Red Comyn for decades was unusually animated, his steps more hurried than seemed comfortable for his stooped frame.

‘Sir John!’ He came towards him out of the darkness. ‘Praise God, you’ve returned!’

‘What’s wrong, Duncan?’ The steward’s manner halted Comyn in his tracks.

‘It’s your father, sir. Please, come.’

Comyn followed Duncan across the courtyard into the stone and timber building that housed his father’s chambers. Once inside, he overtook the steward, mounting the stairs two at a time, hastening down the passage to the lord’s room. The door at the far end was ajar, candlelight and low voices spilling out.

The well-appointed chamber was stuffy, the windows covered up with drapes. The air smelled of urine and herbs. As he stepped inside, Comyn’s gaze alighted on two figures standing by the canopied bed. One was a man in clerical vestments, the bald scalp of his tonsured head gleaming in the candlelight. The other was his mother.

Eleanor Balliol, sister of the exiled king, turned as her son entered. Her lined face, framed by greying chestnut hair, softened with grief. ‘John . . .’

Comyn moved past her to the bed. Lying there, dwarfed by the expanse of covers and pillows, was his father. The old man’s face was ashen, his eyes sunken holes. A scrawny arm, once corded with muscle, lay outside the sheet. It was bruised where the leeches had suckled.

When the message came, calling them to the urgent assembly in the Forest, his father, weakened by the malady that had plagued him for the past year, bade him go alone. But though frail he hadn’t been bedridden then, let alone teetering on the very brink of life. As he groaned through desiccated lips, Comyn turned to his mother. ‘The physician?’

‘Has done all he can.’ It was the priest who spoke. ‘Your father’s care is in the hands of God now.’

When the priest picked up his crucifix and a phial of oil from the bed, Comyn realised, with spreading numbness, that his father had been given the last rites. He stared at the once proud lord lying before him. How was it possible that a man who had been the iron will behind two kings could be reduced to a wizened vessel ready to crack open and spill its soul? He barely felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder as she and the priest departed, leaving him alone. Their voices resumed beyond the door, joined by the steward’s. They were murmuring funeral plans.

Comyn sat on the edge of the bed, staring into his father’s bloodshot eyes.

The lord licked his lips. ‘What happened at the council?’

Comyn had to lean in close to hear him. He could smell his breath, stale and familiar. ‘King Philippe reneged on his promise, Father. Instead of sending an army to Scotland, he will lead the French into Flanders. Bishop Lamberton and Ingram de Umfraville intend to leave for Paris at the head of a delegation. Their hope is that even if Philippe cannot be persuaded to aid us militarily, he will continue to occupy Gascony until Edward agrees to Balliol’s return.’

The old man’s eyes closed. When they opened again, Comyn exhaled, realising he had been holding his breath.

‘They leave you sole guardian of Scotland?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ The lord’s eyes fluttered, but stayed open.

‘I had time to think, Father,’ Comyn began, his heart thudding, ‘on the journey home. The events of the past year have made me question whether our hopes for King John’s return to the throne are realistic. Whether, in fact, to cling to them is to ignore other paths to the reclamation of our liberties.’

A frown puckered the lord’s brow.

Comyn continued, quickly now, impatient to get it done. ‘King Philippe has gone back on his word before. There is scant reason to believe, whatever promises the delegation receives in Paris, that he will fulfil any pledge. With Balliol isolated and Philippe occupied, I have no doubt Edward will attack us the moment the current truce has expired. To face him with any hope of victory we need a leader who can unite the strength of the barons, a leader whose authority cannot be disputed, or undermined by others.’ He steeled himself. ‘Our family has a claim by marriage to the throne. It was a claim recognised by King Edward himself, during his trial to choose Alexander’s successor.’