Insurrection: Renegade [02] (47 page)

As they came together, the rider with the black lance thrust forward in his saddle, jabbing savagely at his opponent’s red shield. He caught it dead centre. These were lances of peace crowned with coronels, the three-pronged iron heads spreading the force of impact. Even so, the strike managed to shatter the shield as well as the lance. The splinters flew up into the face of the rider, who was tumbled back out of his saddle. As the rider in black galloped on past, his opponent went slamming into the grass, his horse continuing without him. He rolled to a stop and lay still among the shards of his shield, his pages running to help him. At the other end of the field, the winner brought his horse to a prancing halt, lifting his broken lance in triumph.

‘Excellent, Piers. Truly excellent!’

Edward Bruce looked round at the shout to see the prince applauding.

The prince caught his eye and grinned. ‘You look worried, Sir Edward.’

‘On the contrary, my lord, I am eager to face such a worthy opponent.’

The prince laughed. ‘Well said.’ Tall and well-built like his father, he cut an imposing figure in his polished mail coat. His scarlet surcoat was emblazoned with the same three gold lions, the only difference the blue indented band across the top. His face was gentler than the king’s, a blond beard softening the lines of his cheeks and jaw. His blue eyes gleamed in the sunlight as they followed Piers Gaveston, trotting his spirited courser back to the starting line. ‘When this war is over, I intend to take my company to France. With Piers as our champion we’ll win any tourney.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

After seven months in the prince’s household Edward Bruce had learned many things, the foremost of which was always to agree when it came to the Gascon. Employing this rule early on, he had quickly won the prince’s affection, hoping this would allow him to get closer to the king’s son and glean valuable knowledge that might help Robert when his brother finally broke these hateful bonds of loyalty and turned on the English. But he had soon discovered that with Piers around there was little room for anyone else at the prince’s side.

The distant call of a horn broke his thoughts. It was followed by the faint thud of stones striking Stirling’s walls as the day’s assault began. The echoes sent a couple of crows flying up from the woods that bordered the meadow. Beyond the treetops the castle rock thrust into the sky, the standard that hung from the battlements just a speck of gold at this distance.

‘Until then we will have to content ourselves with my father’s planned contest,’ mused the prince, passing Edward a gem-studded wine skin.

Edward took a swig, his gaze on the fallen rider who was being helped up by his pages. The young man shook them off after a moment. Grabbing the new red shield that was handed to him he staggered to his horse. The watching men applauded his resolve. Piers Gaveston waited at the starting point, flexing his arm, before taking the fresh lance his page passed to him.

‘My father held a tournament for his new Round Table when he conquered Wales.’ The prince didn’t take his eyes off Piers. ‘At Nefyn. I don’t remember it of course. I was just born. But men still speak of it – the jousts, the prizes. Not my father though. All he recalls is the conquest.’

An explosion resounded from the heights of Stirling’s rock, this one sending a black mass of birds scattering up from the woods. The young men on the meadow turned, staring up at the distant fortress. Edward saw plumes of smoke rising and wondered what new devilry the king had devised with which to torment the garrison.

Only the prince seemed to take no notice, staring across the meadow as the riders steadied their agitated horses, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were looking out over another vista, or time. Beneath his blond fringe his brow furrowed. ‘I wonder, if Stirling falls today, what my father will do next. His whole life has been spent in war. I don’t think he knows anything else.’ The prince seemed to come back to himself as Piers surged into a gallop, spurring his courser fiercely across the meadow. ‘I find it interesting,’ he said suddenly, turning to Edward with a curious smile. ‘How we’re both named after my father, yet neither of us are firstborn sons. It’s as if they thought we could never live up to the expectation of that name.’ He laughed, though the sound had little humour in it. ‘My brother Alfonso, my father’s first heir, died just months after I was born. But I sometimes think, even now, I am still the second son.’

Across the field, Piers Gaveston shattered his third lance against his opponent’s shield.

Edward stared at the prince, surprised by his candour. ‘I know what it means to be in a brother’s shadow.’ He frowned, feeling the sting of the truth. ‘I think it was easier for Alexander, Thomas and Niall; they never expected to inherit. Me – I was always that much closer to the promise. Now my father is dead . . .’ He faltered. ‘Well, I see how great the gulf is.’

The prince nodded and grasped his shoulder. ‘You’re in my household now. We will make our own fortunes.’

‘Are you sitting this one out, Sir Edward?’

Edward Bruce looked round at the sour enquiry. Piers Gaveston had spurred his horse over to them while they were talking. He had removed his helm and his face was hard with question.

‘I’m ready whenever you are, Master Piers,’ retorted Edward, enjoying the flash of anger in Piers’s coal-dark eyes. It had become a petty, yet pleasing pastime, reminding the arrogant young cock that he wasn’t yet a knight, like himself.

The prince released his hand on Edward’s shoulder and smiled approvingly. ‘Come then,’ he said, gesturing to the field, ‘let’s have it!’

As Piers turned his courser, Edward crossed to Euan, his squire. The young Annandale man held his grey mare steady as he dug his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Euan passed him his helm, which he pulled down over his coif, smelling the tang of the iron. Taking his shield, decorated with the arms of Annandale, Edward pushed his arm through the strap on the back and looped the reins in his hand. Digging his spurs into the mare’s sides, he urged her across the meadow. Euan followed in his wake, bearing three yellow lances.

Piers turned in his saddle as Edward rode up alongside him. He had donned his swan-winged helm, but the visor was lifted. ‘It would seem my prince has taken a liking to you.’ His French was different to that of his English comrades, Piers having spent his early years in Gascony. He had been taken into the royal household in adolescence, shortly after his father, a favoured knight in King Edward’s service, had died. ‘I hope you can forgive him for showing you what might appear to be genuine affection.’ Piers smiled and looked away. ‘Edward just has a weakness for ruffians. Boorishness amuses him.’

Before Edward could respond, Piers roused his courser into a canter, heading for the other end of the meadow. Edward trotted his mare to the starting point, then took the first lance from his squire. ‘I’ll give you rough, you son of a bitch,’ he murmured.

As Piers took a new black lance, Edward kicked at the mare’s sides, impelling her to flight. Full of fire she was and ready for the race. Though there was little breeze today, the air seemed to rush and buffet against him with the speed. Edward leaned forward as the mare’s hooves drummed the ground. He went with her, rolling his body in time with the motion, as he’d first learned to do under Lord Donough’s tutelage in Antrim. As he swung the lance down his eyes narrowed behind the slits of his helm, all his concentration focusing on Piers Gaveston coming fast towards him.

Edward bared his teeth for the blow, driving the lance towards the centre of the black shield. He knew it was a perfect strike at the moment of impact; felt the sharp release as the lance broke upon the wood. Piers reeled sideways, dropping his own lance and only just managing to stay in the saddle. As the Gascon came to an ungainly halt, Edward wheeled his mare around, punching the jagged shaft into the air. Across the field, the prince and his men cheered.

Breathing hard with exhilaration, Edward Bruce rode back down the meadow, noting the wink of silver as the men began to exchange coins. He passed Piers, who had righted himself, at a trot. ‘A good try, Master Piers.’ As Gaveston growled something through his visor, Edward grinned inside his helm, returning to the starting point to take another lance from Euan.

They set off again, surging towards one another, pricking their horses to a ferocious burst of speed. Edward saw Piers’s lance swing down towards him, saw him rise in the saddle. He leaned forward, aiming again for the centre of that black shield, just as the Gascon aimed for his. At the last second, Piers feinted, thrusting the lance towards Edward’s face. Even though he was protected by his helm, Edward flinched, turning his head instinctively. His arm went wide, veering from the centre of Piers’s shield to skid along the outer edge, before pulling out of his grasp. The three-pronged tip of Piers’s lance, meanwhile, shattered on the turned side of his helm. Edward reeled with the blow, his head whipped back and his spine cracking against the cantle. His armour saved him from the worst of it, but he was dazed enough to lose control of his mare, who careened wildly on.

Managing finally to bring her to a shuddering stop, he shook his head to clear the concussion, gritting his teeth as he heard the cheers, this time for Piers. Edward turned his mare and set off down the field, meaning to end the bastard. His gaze was caught by a rider emerging from the canopy of trees, through which a track led to Stirling. It was Thomas of Lancaster.

The earl rode up to the prince, who, after a brief exchange with his cousin, motioned to Piers.

Seeing the other men begin to mount up, Edward kicked his mare towards them. ‘My lord, we’re leaving the field?’ he called, tugging off his helm, angry at the prospect of the joust ending without a chance for him to redeem himself.

But the prince had already climbed into the saddle and was riding away, Piers at his side.

Chapter 39

Prince Edward’s company rode into the camp, men moving quickly out of the way as the young nobles spurred their sweat-soaked horses between the rows of tents. As he approached the siege lines, the prince slowed his courser, his gaze fixing first on his father, surrounded by his barons, then moving to the walls of Stirling Castle, blackened and battered by fire and stone. Smoke and dust had turned the air a gauzy grey, diffusing the sunlight. The vapours caught in the prince’s throat making him cough.

The king, on seeing him, lifted a gloved hand and beckoned. Edward steeled himself as he dismounted, holding his head high as he walked to his father. Thomas of Lancaster went with him, as did Piers, blithely ignoring the dark looks some of the older barons shot him as he swaggered through their midst, though he had the sense to bow as he came before the king.

‘You summoned me, Father?’

‘I want you here.’ The king’s pale eyes flicked from the prince to Piers. ‘You’ve spent enough time at play.’

Edward felt his cheeks grow warm, acutely aware of the earls and lords in their midst. The barons were involved in their own conversations, but he felt sure they each had an ear open to the exchange. ‘The Saracens’ fire is working well,’ he observed stiffly, following his father’s gaze towards the castle. Beyond the walls, smoke billowed from the shattered roof of the chapel. The siege engines had paused, their crews making adjustments and rolling fresh stones from carts.

‘It will not bring down the walls,’ remarked the king. ‘But Warwolf may. I’m having the beast brought up after nones.’

Hearing female voices lifting above the rough tones of the men, the prince turned to see the queen and her ladies filtering into the royal pavilion, which stood at the centre of the encampment. The flaps had been pulled back and several chairs were set out on the carpet inside. Pages attended the women, escorting them to their seats and handing them goblets of watered wine to quench their thirst. The crispness of dawn had dissolved with the burgeoning warmth of the morning and it promised to be a hot day. The notes of a harp rose above as one of the queen’s minstrels began to play.

Prince Edward noticed his father smile as Marguerite settled into the cushioned throne. The queen, who was only two years older than himself, had been lodging with her ladies in a building in the town, but his father wanted her here for the climax of the three-month siege, as if the walls of Stirling were a stage, set for some grand performance.

‘Come, Edward,’ said the king briskly, suddenly full of energy. ‘Ride with me. I want to inspect the damage.’ As the prince made to follow, the king turned back. ‘Just you.’ His gaze was on Piers as he spoke.

The king’s destrier, Bayard, was saddled and ready, a scarlet trapper embroidered with the royal arms covering his great rump. After speaking with his chief engineer, the king mounted, straining a little with the effort. At his gesture, Thomas of Lancaster and Humphrey de Bohun followed suit, along with a number of royal knights.

As the prince climbed into the saddle of his courser, he glanced worriedly at the castle. ‘Can one of the engineers not inspect the walls?’

‘I don’t need another man’s eyes when I can see well enough for myself. Besides, it will give us a chance to talk.’

Unease churning his stomach, Edward followed his father through the siege lines as the king urged Bayard up the craggy slope. He rode from one engine to another, pausing to speak with the crew before moving on to the next, getting gradually closer to Stirling’s walls, the two earls and royal knights following at a discreet distance. The king was clearly enjoying himself, sitting at ease in the saddle of his warhorse, which he handled expertly from prancing trot to strutting walk, even occasionally flicking his spurs across the beast’s muscular flanks, causing Bayard to rear up and strike the air. Edward caught his father glance at the royal pavilion and knew he was showing off for his young wife. He’d had the window of the house Marguerite had been lodging in widened in order for her to be able to view the siege. Now, here he was in full pride before his lioness, circling his prey.