Insurrection: Renegade [02] (51 page)

Edward scowled and sheathed his sword with a forceful stab. There was an unspoken rule between him and Piers that they never discussed his forthcoming marriage to Isabella of France. ‘You’re not the one facing that prospect.’

‘No, my future is worse,’ Piers bit back. ‘Once that day comes, I will lose you for good.’ He pushed past the prince and went to their horses.

Edward caught him, clutching his shoulder. ‘Let’s not fight.’ The two of them stood facing one another, leaves drifting down around them. The calls of horns were still faint, but the pitch was higher, more urgent now. Edward knew they were looking for him. ‘It doesn’t matter what my father says or does. I will not let him, or anyone divide us.’

‘I need to have more power and greater standing at court, Edward. That is the only way my future at your side will be secure. You must stand up to your father.’

The prince laughed harshly. ‘Stand up to him?’

‘He will respect you for it.’

‘After he has beaten me to a pulp, maybe.’ Edward’s mirth vanished. ‘You still don’t know what he’s capable of.’

Piers reached out a gloved hand and cradled his cheek. ‘I know what you are capable of.’ He took a step closer.

‘Don’t,’ said Edward, trying to turn his head away.

Piers wouldn’t let him. Keeping hold of the prince’s face he leaned in and kissed him.

Edward felt a jolt of desire go through him like a shock. His friend’s lips were warm and tasted of spiced wine and salt. He smelled of sweat and leather. He grasped the Gascon’s shoulder, his fingers biting into flesh, despising and loving it at once as he opened his mouth to Piers, hungry for the taste of him. It had been weeks.

There was a flurry of motion off to their right as something large crashed through the undergrowth, quickly followed by the thud of hooves. The prince and Piers pulled apart as Edward Bruce came hurtling through the clearing in pursuit of the boar. The Scot wheeled to a stop as he saw them, his spear poised in his hand and a shocked expression frozen on his face. For a moment, the three men stared at one another. Then, the clearing filled with barking as the hounds came dashing through, followed by the huntsmen and nobles. A few halted, relieved to see their prince, but most plunged on in the boar’s wake, caught up in the chase.

‘My lord prince,’ panted one of the men, ‘are you injured?’

The prince tore his gaze from Edward Bruce. ‘I’m fine,’ he said roughly. Leaving Piers looking daggers at the Scot, he strode to his horse, his face feeling as though it were on fire.

On the other side of the clearing, hidden by the tangled undergrowth, Thomas of Lancaster watched his shame-faced cousin swing up into the saddle. As the prince kicked his horse after the hunting party, Edward Bruce followed, the spear lowered in his grasp. Piers Gaveston watched the Scot leave before mounting his own courser and urging it out of the clearing, his face like thunder. Thomas remained where he was for a moment longer, hands gripped tight around the reins.

Turnberry, Scotland, 1304 AD

Elizabeth stood in the window watching the gulls swoop and dive, the sea’s rush and drag against the cliffs ever present. Veils of rain drifted between the dark dome of Ailsa Craig and the distant isle of Arran. It was too murky to see the faint line that, on clear days, marked the northernmost tip of Ireland. Far below, the waves churned, making her head swim. Unlike Lough Rea, whose placid expanse she had learned to avoid as a girl, there was no escape from water on this sea-battered outcrop. Her dreams were often filled with a sense of struggle and panic, and the inability to breathe – the childhood fear stirred to the surface – and when she woke to hear those roaring waves it always took a few moments to realise she wasn’t still drowning.

She glanced down at the letter she held, recently received from her father. It was a typically stilted affair, offering some cursory news about her sisters before shifting to the ongoing struggle with the Irish, who continued to press in on the borders of Connacht and Ulster. She sensed the hope, between her father’s lines, that now the war in Scotland was ended, King Edward would be able to turn his attention to his other beleaguered domains.

Elizabeth moved to the stand on which she kept her personal belongings: a mirror, a comb for her hair, a phial of perfume and items of jewellery, among them her ivory cross, now kept in a silk pouch. She rarely even looked at it these days, for it offered more pain than comfort, a reminder of a time when her faith in her father, and in God, were absolute. She couldn’t help but feel that both had punished her, saving her from a husband who she feared had wanted her too much, only to give her to one who didn’t want her at all. She folded the letter and placed it on the stand, as a loud hammering started up in the adjacent chamber. Having completed most of the outer repairs the masons, carpenters and labourers had turned their attention to Turnberry’s damaged interior.

For over a week now, Elizabeth had been unable to escape the ceaseless pounding, with autumn’s storms laying siege to Carrick’s coastline and turning the roads to mud. Not that there was much comfort to be found beyond the confines of the castle; just windswept dunes and lonely marshes hemmed in by tangled woodland and hills. The villagers seemed unfriendly and suspicious, and the few occasions on which Elizabeth had ventured beyond Turnberry’s boundaries had done little to reassure her. Once, exercising her horse in the woods nearby, she had glimpsed an old woman with knotted white hair, staring at her from between the trees. At the woman’s side was a child with a face scarred by fire. Turning her palfrey, meaning to greet the strange pair, Elizabeth had found they were nowhere to be seen. Now, whenever she thought back on them, she wondered if they had been ghosts.

Robert had brought her to Turnberry shortly after the fall of Stirling, but had stayed only long enough to inspect the repairs that had so far been made to his castle. He told her he was going to meet John Comyn on behalf of the king in order to formalise plans for a new Scottish council, but Elizabeth knew he wasn’t telling her everything. Since leaving the English camp she had sensed a change in her husband, who had become even more preoccupied and secretive than usual: receiving messengers in the middle of the night, sending his squire Nes on unspecified errands, meeting with men she didn’t recognise behind closed doors.

Back in Dunfermline Elizabeth thought he had begun to recognise her frustrations, for on his return from the failed raid on the Forest he had agreed to employ a governess for Marjorie. Emma, the wife of one of Sir Humphrey’s squires, was a warm, matronly woman, both comforting and commanding, who had immediately taken the girl in hand. Over the past months, Marjorie, immersed in her schooling, had become a far less troublesome child. While this had been a relief, the sudden emptiness in Elizabeth’s days had been filled by the growing desire for a child of her own.

Turning from the window, she went to the bed and sat. The chamber had only recently been painted, covering up the smoke damage done by the fire, and her head ached with the astringency of the whitewash. Massaging her temple with her fingertips, she thought of Bess, who would surely have her baby soon, if she hadn’t already. She missed her. The loneliness inside her swelled, pushing out all else until she felt like a shell, empty of anything except the hollow boom of the sea.

‘Why are you crying?’

Elizabeth looked up, wiping her eyes briskly as she saw Marjorie standing in the doorway. ‘Aren’t you having a lesson?’

‘I learned to read a whole psalm. Mistress Emma said I could play until supper.’ Marjorie lingered in the doorway for a few moments longer, then entered the bedchamber.

Elizabeth saw she had the doll her father had given her back in Writtle in her hand. The thing looked tattered and grubby. One of its black bead eyes was missing.

‘I found her at the bottom of my chest,’ said Marjorie, stroking one of the doll’s plaits. The other had come loose, the strands of wool knotted. ‘I thought I’d lost her. Do you remember?’

Remember? The girl hadn’t stopped wailing for five days. Elizabeth tried not to smile. ‘I do.’

Marjorie held out the doll. ‘Will you help me? I can’t do a plait.’

‘Me?’ asked Elizabeth, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. ‘Will Judith not do it?’

‘She fell asleep,’ answered Marjorie, hoisting herself on to the bed.

As Elizabeth took the doll, combing her fingers through the woollen hair to loosen the knots, Marjorie sat closer, watching intently.

The girl reached out suddenly, touching the ring on Elizabeth’s finger. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

Elizabeth flinched as Marjorie’s hand touched hers. The feel of skin – of human contact – was a shock. She stayed still, the doll forgotten in her hand, as Marjorie turned the ring this way and that, admiring the way the light caught the ruby.

‘Mistress Emma has a ring. But not as pretty.’ Marjorie frowned. ‘Why do ladies wear them on this finger?’

‘Because there is a vein there that runs to the heart.’ After a moment, Elizabeth put her arm around the girl’s shoulders, closing her eyes as the cries of gulls echoed over the breaking waves.

Chapter 42

Badenoch, Scotland, 1304 AD

Night was falling on the moors, deepening the shadows in the folds of the land. Threading his way around the upper slopes at the head of his company, Robert caught the winking glow of fires on the ridge above him. He urged his horse on up the bracken-clad hillside to where a ring of stones stood dark against the sky. As he drew nearer, the raw wind whipping his hair in his eyes, he saw a number of tents had been pitched around their circle, the canvas sides illuminated from within by lanterns.

On the camp’s periphery, he was challenged by two sentries and allowed to enter. Passing through the rows of tents, not waiting for the rest of his company to catch up, Robert dismounted near the standing stones. A large fire was burning in the centre of the ring, around which many figures were seated, bowls of food cradled in their hands, their faces bruised by the flames. Some looked round, eyeing him. While Robert discerned little welcome in their faces, he did see several familiar coats of arms that gave him reassurance.

‘Sir Robert.’

He turned to see a tall figure striding out of the darkness. His spirits soared. ‘Sir James!’ He clasped the high steward’s outstretched hand. ‘It is good to see you.’

James Stewart offered him a rare smile. ‘And you, Robert. And you.’ His smile faded quickly, but the strength of feeling remained in his brown eyes. ‘It has been a long road that has led us here. In time I would hear all your tidings, but for now we . . .’ He paused, looking over Robert’s shoulder as the rest of the company rode into the camp. ‘Welcome, your grace,’ he called, seeing William Lamberton at the head.

The bishop approached, followed closely by James Douglas. Since meeting Lamberton at Perth, from where they had made their way north together, Robert had noticed the young man rarely left the bishop’s side.

As the steward’s gaze alighted on the youth his eyes widened. ‘James? By God! I hoped you would come, but I realise now I had been waiting to meet a boy. Lamberton,’ he admonished, ‘you did not prepare me for the man I see before me.’ When James Douglas’s pale blue eyes flicked to the bishop in question, the high steward frowned. ‘You have no welcome for your godfather?’

‘Uncle?’ The dark-haired youth took a cautious step forward.

‘Have I changed that much?’ Bridging the gap between them with two strides, the steward embraced his nephew. ‘You have your father’s strength!’ he exclaimed with a laugh as James gripped him fiercely. After a moment he pulled back. ‘How did you fare at Stirling? Lamberton told me he would request the release of your lands.’

‘The king said he would think on it, my lord,’ answered James readily. His expression darkened. ‘But I know Robert Clifford is held in high esteem, so I fear the king will put some price I cannot pay upon my estates to stop me reclaiming them.’

‘Do not be so hasty to assume the worst, Master James. Edward did not dismiss the matter out of hand.’ Lamberton turned his attention to the steward. ‘My messengers informed you of the king’s acceptance of your surrender?’

‘They did. Thank you, your grace.’ The steward’s eyes lingered on the bishop, seeming to communicate a deeper gratitude behind the words. He smiled as he looked back at his nephew. ‘It is a blessing to have you back.’

Robert’s attention was drawn by a group of men heading towards them. At the sight of the familiar faces joy broke like light through his soul.

There was Niall, even taller, with a new maturity in his dark eyes and a confidence in his bearing. Surprised by the change, Robert realised the last time he’d seen him had been on the banks of Lough Luioch, when he’d thrust the Staff of Malachy into Niall’s hands, the hooves of Ulster’s men drumming up behind them. He wondered what his youngest brother – who once adored him – must think of him now. He had his answer as Niall embraced him.

‘I knew you hadn’t betrayed us,’ Niall murmured.

After his youngest brother let him go, Thomas Bruce stepped up, gruff and reserved as ever, but with a firm handshake for his older brother. ‘Welcome back, Robert.’

‘You told them?’ asked Robert, turning to James.

‘It was time,’ came another voice, before the steward could answer.