Insurrection: Renegade [02] (48 page)

The closer they came to the castle’s walls, the thicker the smoke became, hanging in veils across the battlements. The prince scanned them, searching for sign of movement. Below the walls, he glimpsed limbs protruding from the debris strewn across the pathway that led to the drawbridge. Now the assault had paused a few crows had alighted on the rubble and were pecking the rotting flesh from the bones of the men who had fallen foul of the defenders’ sporadic counter-assaults.

‘Edward.’

The prince tore his gaze from the walls as his father called sharply to him. The king had paused a short distance from one of the trebuchets. He was sitting back against the cantle, letting Bayard crop the springy turf. Edward pricked his courser over to him. ‘Yes, my lord?’ He hoped his father didn’t hear the tremor in his voice.

The king studied him. ‘This siege will soon be over, Edward, and with it this war. I intend to return to Westminster as soon my lieutenant is in place here. I have left affairs in England alone too long. There are reports that disorder has been growing in the shires. With the barons and sheriffs at war, bands of armed felons have been terrorising towns across the country. Murder, racketeering and robbery have increased. The kingdom has been without its lord and master for too long.’ The king paused. ‘And there are other matters too, I have left unattended. Your marriage.’

The prince’s brow knotted at the subject he had sought to avoid for months, grateful for Stirling’s stubbornness and the disappearance of William Wallace, which occupied his father and kept him turned from the issue. ‘I haven’t even been knighted yet. Why hasten me to marriage when I am still learning the craft of war?’

‘War is the very reason this marriage should be hastened,’ the king responded, glancing over at Humphrey, waiting nearby with Thomas of Lancaster. ‘Your sister, Bess, will have her first child by midwinter and you will have a nephew. But I want you to have a son. I am not long for this world, Edward. When the time comes for you to take my crown your line must be established. I have written to King Philippe,’ he said brusquely, as his son lowered his gaze. ‘To arrange terms.’

As his father continued to discuss the marriage plans, the prince remained silent, his mind wandering through dark passages of the future. He saw himself placing a ring on his veiled bride’s finger. Her hands would be cold and small. He saw a marriage bed, festooned with ribbons. His jaw clenched as he saw himself climbing into it with this cold, pale stranger. He walked back from the image, repelled by it, seeking comfort. His gaze drifted to the siege lines where Piers Gaveston waited. Isabella of France, daughter of King Philippe and niece to Queen Marguerite, was only eight years old. She couldn’t marry until she was at least twelve. He had four years left of freedom.

‘Isabella will make a good match,’ finished the king. ‘Now conflict with France has ended and Gascony is returned to me, it can only help strengthen those bonds.’

Edward met the king’s uncompromising gaze. ‘Yes, Father.’

The king opened his mouth to say something further. Before he could, he jolted forward, slamming into his pommel. Bayard, startled by the sudden motion, bucked, almost pitching him out of the saddle. The prince saw something long and thin protruding from his father’s back. It took a second for him to realise it was an arrow. He shouted in fear as more arrows stabbed down around them. Suddenly, everything was in motion. There was a flash of blue as Humphrey de Bohun swept in on his horse, lifting his shield above his head as he grabbed Bayard’s reins. Kneeing his horse into action, he sped away down the hillside, the warhorse and its royal burden in tow. Thomas of Lancaster rode up alongside the prince, yelling at him to move. A rush of blood fired Edward’s limbs and he kicked at his courser for all he was worth, riding back towards the siege lines, where men were shouting and running, and archers were lining up to counter the arrows thumping down from Stirling’s battlements. Edward’s blood pounded in his temples. Ahead of him, he saw his father sprawled over the front of the saddle, the shaft protruding from his shoulder like an exclamation. Then, the king and Bayard were swallowed by the rushing crowd.

Leaving Nes to show James Douglas a stall for the men’s horses, Robert ushered William Lamberton quickly into his lodgings on Stirling’s main street. Fionn greeted them with a bark and trotted over to nose the bishop. ‘You found the steward,’ said Robert, ordering the hound out of the way and closing the door behind them. ‘Where is he?’

The bishop scanned the place, his pearl-white eye gleaming in the sunlight slanting through the shuttered windows. The house was a well-appointed timber building with two rooms leading off the central chamber. A bed stood against one wall partially hidden by a drape and a trestle and bench were placed near the shallow hearth, which had a jug of dead flowers in it. Meadowsweet covered the floor, masking the faint odour coming from a latrine, concealed behind a wattle screen. Shelves built along one wall held a collection of pewter goblets and plates, shiny with the patina of long use.

Lamberton picked up a Book of Hours that was lying on the end of a shelf, covered in a fine layer of dust. He turned it over in his hands. ‘I wonder whose home this was? A burgess I presume?’ He looked up at Robert. ‘You’ve certainly won King Edward’s favour, Sir Robert.’

‘Your grace.’

Lamberton set the book down at the sharpness of Robert’s tone. ‘Sir James is in Atholl, with your brother-in-law.’

For Robert, the good tidings that the steward had been found were made all the better by the unexpected news. Having heard nothing of John of Atholl in months, he had feared the worst. ‘And Thomas and Niall?’

‘Your brothers are with them. Safe and well.’

Relief tempered Robert’s impatience. Preoccupied by the long wait for word and the delay to his plans, he hadn’t realised how concerned he had been for his brothers. ‘So, James has offered to submit to the king?’

‘The steward thought it prudent. He didn’t want to be hunted like Sir William, with a price on his head and no safe haven. He wasn’t the only one. Sir John has also offered his surrender.’

Robert nodded, taking this in. ‘This way we should be able to work towards my plan without undue interest from the king. The more such threats to his peace are mitigated, the more he will turn his full attention to those that remain.’ He began to pace. ‘Although that does present its own difficulties. When we spoke in St Andrews you said you didn’t know where Wallace had gone to ground.’ Robert turned to the bishop. ‘Did James have any idea how to contact him?’ He continued before Lamberton could answer. ‘The sooner we do so the better. Stirling cannot hold out much longer. When the castle falls, William Wallace will become the king’s primary target and he will avail himself of any means by which to ensure his capture. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been found yet, given the number of Scotsmen already employed in hunting him down.’ Robert paused, studying Lamberton’s expression. ‘You did speak to Sir James of my intentions?’ His brow furrowed when the bishop didn’t answer. ‘You gave me your word at St Andrews, your grace.’

Robert watched as Lamberton crossed to the trestle and bench and sat himself down. Four months ago, shortly after the death of Robert’s father and his return to Edward’s court, the bishop had sought him out to ask why he had sent Nes to warn them of the English raid in Selkirk. Knowing he had exposed himself to the rebels by his actions, knowing too that he would need all the support he could get to set his bold plan in motion, Robert had confided in him. Admitting that although he was with the king in body he was not so in spirit, he spoke of the hope, held all this time in secret by himself and James, that if Balliol was prevented from returning to the throne of Scotland he, Robert, might one day lay claim to it. King Edward, he explained, had been a shield, protecting his interests without knowing it.

Robert had gone on to tell Lamberton his plan, inspired by the return of William Wallace: to persuade the rebel leader to build another army in secret, the like of which had been raised for Stirling. With this force, they would strike back at Edward, using Robert’s knowledge of his weaknesses. If successful, he would take the throne and rally the support of the men of the realm, using Wallace’s reputation to help him. He had finished by asking Lamberton to find the steward; the one man who could convince Wallace to aid him to this end.

The bishop had agreed, telling him to do nothing until he returned. Initially encouraged by the prospect, Robert had grown increasingly impatient for word. Now, by the gravity in Lamberton’s bearing, he had the distinct impression his faith in the bishop had been unjustified.

‘I spoke to Sir James, as I said I would,’ said Lamberton, looking at him. ‘I told him what you told me. Word for word.’

‘He didn’t agree with it?’

‘He and I both agreed that there is a chance we can undermine Edward’s control. Once the king has established the new government he will return to London with the majority of his men. Trouble grows for him in England, crime and poverty rising. He needs to turn his attention to his own kingdom if he is to prevent it from descending into disorder. That will be our moment for action. For a new uprising.’

Robert was nodding. ‘Exactly.’

‘In previous campaigns our struggle has been weakened by divisions among our leaders. Our rebellions have been wildfires, burning bright and fierce for a short time, but ultimately consuming themselves. Animosities and personal ambitions have driven a wedge between each formation of guardians. With one man in charge – backed by all factions – the steward and I believe we stand a better chance of an uprising lasting more than a season. We can win back Scotland. But to do so we need to unite it.’

‘And this is what I intend to do, as king. With Wallace as my sword.’

Lamberton laced his slender hands on the table’s pitted surface. ‘William Wallace can no longer help you to do this, Robert. You said it yourself: he is the king’s main target. Many of the nobles have been incited to hunt him down by promises from Edward that he will reduce the terms of their exile or the costs of buying back forfeited estates. Wallace cannot unite Scotland; indeed his presence would, I believe, disintegrate any attempt at unity we could make. The bastards would fight one another to be the one to drag him in irons to the king.’ He fixed Robert with his gaze. ‘You know I am right.’

Robert shook his head, but the denial lacked conviction. The bishop’s words echoed concerns that had built in him these past months; seeing the king’s desire to find William Wallace growing into the fever of obsession, listening to reports coming in, many from Scots who had sighted the outlaw in this place or another.

‘In the eyes of many,’ continued Lamberton, ‘John Balliol still has the better right to be king. Do not forget that while he lives you are talking about overthrowing him. This is not a simple task. If you crowned yourself tomorrow, few would follow you. Even men who once supported you now see you as a traitor. In order for you to be accepted as king and for us to achieve the unification that could win us our kingdom we need the whole country to stand behind you. The only way to do that is to secure the endorsement of the one man who holds the greatest power in the realm. That man is not William Wallace. That man is John Comyn.’

Robert stared at the bishop, stunned. ‘This is your plan?’ He gave a hard bark of laughter. ‘The steward’s plan?’

‘As guardian, John Comyn is invested with the right to speak for the men of the realm. But more than that, these past years he has built up a large and loyal following, supported by the army of Galloway. As Lord of Badenoch he has many vassals, augmented by his kinsmen, the Black Comyns and Comyns of Kilbride. Most importantly, he has delivered hope of victory with his triumphs at Lochmaben and Roslin.’

‘Victory?’ Robert shot back. ‘He caused the deaths of hundreds of Scotsmen through his own greed!’

‘And at whose hands did those deaths come?’ Lamberton responded, rising suddenly. The accusation blazed in his eyes. ‘That is what people will see if you stand before them now, Robert: your part in our defeat. I admit I find it hard not to see it myself. Alone, like Wallace, you have become a divisive force. Comyn, by contrast, has become the mortar that binds this realm together.’

‘I cannot believe James went along with this.’

‘He took some persuading,’ admitted Lamberton. ‘But in the end he saw I was right.’

Anger pulsed through Robert. Anger at the steward for agreeing to this, at Lamberton for suggesting it and at the tiny part of himself that knew the bishop spoke sense. He fought against it. ‘James convinced me to submit to Edward. He put me in this position!’

‘He was right to do so. At the time, he believed King John would return. We all did. Submitting to Edward was the only way to safeguard your interests. Had you fought in the rebellion you too would now be struggling to buy back your forfeited lands, perhaps spending time in exile. Instead, you are immune from persecution and find yourself in the unique position of being instrumental in setting up the new government; of being in a position of power in conquered Scotland.’

Robert stared at him. ‘You’ve been fighting all this time for Balliol’s return, your grace. You headed the delegation in Paris. Why would you help me overthrow him?’

‘Because I know now that John Balliol will never sit on Scotland’s throne. I know, too, that the steward and Robert Wishart pledged support for your claim a long time ago. I trust their judgement.’

‘There are others with a claim,’ murmured Robert. ‘John Comyn included.’