Kingdom (25 page)

‘The box?’ Aymer’s brow knotted. ‘I found that on the brother.’ He gestured to Niall, who had raised his head to the leaden sky. ‘He went down fighting at Kildrummy with it on him.’ His frown deepened with Humphrey’s surprise. ‘Did the king not tell you?’ When Humphrey shook his head, Aymer looked puzzled. ‘Lord Edward forbade me from speaking of it, but I assumed he would have told you at least.’

The crowd surged forward, eager to see the hanging. A few people fell in the crush. Others were shoved back by soldiers.

‘Tell me what?’ When Aymer didn’t answer, Humphrey pressed him. ‘Robert betrayed us both, Aymer. I deserve to know.’

‘The box was broken,’ confessed Aymer. ‘There was nothing inside it. My guess is we will find the prophecy when we find Bruce. Either that or he has destroyed it.’

Humphrey didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed as he watched Niall and Christopher being hauled into the air above the roaring crowds. Why on earth had Robert charged his brother to guard an empty box?

PART 3

1306–1307 AD

Then shall there be a slaughter of foreigners; then shall the rivers run with blood. Then shall break forth the fountains of Armorica, and they shall be crowned with the diadem of Brutus.

The History of the Kings of Britain,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

Chapter 16

Rathlin, Ireland, 1306 AD

In the heart of the fire a log burst with a crackle of sparks that gusted into the night sky. Around the courtyard weathered walls ascended to the broken teeth of battlements. Inside the castle’s chambers, veiled with dust and cobwebs, most of the chimneys had been blocked by the matted nests of seabirds and so the men had set their fire outside. The tang of wood-smoke mingled with the smell of roasted meat from the geese, bartered from an old woman in the village. Their lips and beards glossed with the grease of their meal, they nursed the last of the wine and listened to one another’s stories, rendered in a mixture of French, Scots and Gaelic.

As Neil Campbell finished a stirring account of William Wallace’s bravery against the English at Stirling, Cormac rose. ‘My lord king, may I tell the tale of the salmon?’ The young Irishman looked over at Robert, who was seated beside his brother, Edward, faces bronzed by the flames.

Robert said nothing, but gave a half-smile, permitting his foster-brother to continue.

‘On this night,’ began Cormac, eyes glinting with humour beneath the thick fringe of his cúlán, ‘my father invited two neighbouring chieftains to our hall in Glenarm. His cooks had baked a salmon for the occasion, caught by my father himself.’

Edward Bruce chuckled at the memory. He leaned in to Gilbert de la Hay and James Douglas, quietly translating Cormac’s words. Others of the king’s company who didn’t speak Gaelic crowded closer to listen.

‘The day before, my father had been telling young Lord Robert and Sir Edward about the ancient heroes of Ireland and Robert’s blood had been stirred by the tales of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and his band of warriors, the Fianna. One story had been about the time Fionn, as a boy, had cooked the Salmon of Knowledge for the Druid, Finegas, and on accidentally brushing the flesh with his thumb had sucked it and gained the gift of wisdom. Robert, then my father’s page, was waiting in the hall for the guests to arrive, with the feast laid out and that salmon on a platter in the centre.’ Cormac spread his hands wide to show the watching men the size of the fish. A few grinned. ‘As my father and his men entered, with God as my witness, there was young Robert leaning over the table with his thumb stuck in the creature.’

Laughter echoed around the walls. Even David of Atholl cracked a rare smile.

Robert found himself surprised by how many of these stories he had forgotten. They all seemed part of someone else’s life. Someone without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘Have you heard the one about the maid and the miller?’ ventured Gilbert de la Hay.

More laughter burst up as the barrel-chested Lord of Erroll began the joke. Robert saw his brother, Thomas, pour out more of the rationed wine for himself and the Irishmen seated with Cormac. He let it go. It was the eve of the Christ Mass.

His gaze wandered over the tight circle of men. Less than a year ago, most had stood on the Moot Hill, witness to his coronation. They had been dressed then in silks and velvets. Now, they were swaddled in tattered cloaks, with holes in their boots and hair and beards long and unkempt. Looking at them, he recalled another tale of Fionn Mac Cumhaill. In this one, the Fianna had been invited to sup in the hall of a rival and, on entering, had been awed by the splendour of their enemy’s court, where tapestries of every hue adorned the walls, fires burned merrily and wine flowed from a fountain. Slowly, this vision had changed and Fionn and his men found they had been lured not to a magnificent hall, but to the House of Death, their table the damp floor of a cave with rough walls shrouded in rags and their cracked cups filled with blood.

As Gilbert started another lewd tale, Robert realised Alexander was staring at him. His brother’s eyes narrowed expectantly.

When a few calls and whistles joined Gilbert’s story, Alexander rose, his face taut. ‘Lest we forget, brothers, we have come together this evening to honour the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. I believe, my lord,’ he added meaningfully to Robert, ‘a story from the Gospels would be more appropriate.’

Robert bridled at the chastisement, but after a pause he motioned for his brother to speak. Some of the men exchanged looks, but most settled down to listen as the former dean retold the story of Christ’s birth from the Gospel of St Luke.

Alexander and Thomas had arrived on Rathlin after receiving Robert’s message, delivered to Islay in the hands of a fisherman. In his report, Thomas had told Robert of Alexander’s intervention at the council of Angus MacDonald, which might otherwise have ended in bloodshed. It was his impassioned speech, Thomas said, that led to the Lord of Islay and his men pledging their support for the war and to Lachlan MacRuarie agreeing – for a price – to build a fleet of ships and fill them with his galloglass. Robert, surprised by Alexander’s actions, had expressed his gratitude, which his brother accepted, seemingly with some pleasure. But, on learning of Robert’s excommunication for the murder of John Comyn, he once again distanced himself, spending most of his days alone in prayer. Robert had meant to speak to him, but the business of planning his return to the mainland had taken up all his time, and he had let it.

In the next few days, when the full moon calmed the seas, Thomas and Alexander would return to Ireland with Cormac, bearing orders for Lord Donough and the men of Antrim to launch an assault on Galloway. While his foster-father was attacking the lands of his enemies in the south-west, Robert, bolstered by the combined strength of Angus MacDonald and Lachlan MacRuarie, would strike for Carrick by way of Arran. He had no doubt King Edward’s men would have occupied his earldom, but he intended to retake it, gathering more men and the much-needed revenues from his vassals with which to pay his debt to the MacRuaries. The Irish, meanwhile, would make their way north from Galloway, scouring the west of enemy forces before joining him in Turnberry, the prelude to a larger campaign, which he would lead east against his English and Scottish foes.

Alexander finished his solemn retelling of the birth of Christ to a muttering of amens.

In the quiet that followed, James Douglas lifted his cup. ‘Blessings upon those beyond our circle.’ The young man met Robert’s gaze, his eyes glittering in the firelight. ‘To the missing and the fallen.’

As Robert raised his goblet his men followed suit, among them Edward and Thomas, Cormac, Gilbert, Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell and David of Atholl. When they were done drinking they lapsed into silence, staring into the flames, each man thinking of those they had lost and those they had left behind.

The spell of silence was broken when Nes got up to gather more firewood. As low-murmured conversations started up again, Robert rose. Leaving Edward to preside over the gathering, he climbed the crumbling steps to the battlements, his mind crowding with thoughts of his daughter and the rest of his family. He couldn’t regret his decision to divide the company back at St Fillan’s, for the women and children would have suffered on this rock, dogged by cold and hunger, but neither had he been able to dispel the gnawing concern for their safety. Where were his wife and daughter this Christ Mass? Holed up in Kildrummy, or elsewhere? He tried to conjure an image of Marjorie sitting by a fire, eating gingerbread and drinking spiced wine, but the vision faded quickly in the face of his fears.

Away from the fire the night air was glacial. Robert’s breath steamed as he made his way around the walkway to where the walls fell sheer to the shore. Far below, waves dashed themselves against the rocks, booming as they rumbled on into caves in the cliffs. Here, in the ruins of this sea-girt fortress, his men had made a home, finding shelter within its walls and encouragement in the promises of support from Islay and Antrim. To him, however, it remained a place of exile. Across the race, the waters of which glimmered like quicksilver in the moonlight, the cliffs of Kintyre rose from the sea, blacker than the star-studded sky. Only twelve miles away, his kingdom had never seemed so far.

Robert leaned on the battlements, watching the waves rush towards the cliffs, trailing skirts of foam. This place reminded him so much of Turnberry. As a boy he would stand on those battlements and lean out, arms stretched, until it felt as though he were in the sky, wheeling above the salt spume with the gulls and cormorants.

Turnberry. The place where he was born, thirty-three years ago, pulled into the world by Affraig’s hands on a night when Mars smouldered like a coal in the heavens. It was there that he learned of the death of King Alexander and watched his grandfather make his claim to the throne; where he witnessed the births of his brothers and sisters, delighted in his mother’s laughter and dwindled in his father’s bitter silence. Turnberry: where he learned to fight and to ride, and waited one endless summer for the men to return from their war against John Balliol in Galloway. His leaving of its walls had heralded the ending of his childhood and his march towards manhood, which began in the hall of his grandfather at Lochmaben and took him to the daunting majesty of King Edward’s court.

In the Knights of the Dragon he had been seduced by prophecy and power, finding new purpose among England’s elite. On the road to war in Wales he was promised fortune and glory, only to discover that the promise was soaked in the blood of nations. Years later, it was to Turnberry that he came home a man, disillusioned by Edward’s desire to unite Britain under one crown, sickened by his father creeping on his belly to beg the king for a throne, and riddled with guilt for his part in the theft of the Stone of Destiny. In defiance of the king and his father, making good on the oath sworn to his grandfather in Lochmaben, he had sought out Affraig and there, in her house in the woods, had watched her weave him a crown out of heather, wormwood and broom.

And what is your destiny?

To be King of Scotland.

He had felt the ghosts of his ancestors gathering around him in the shadows, their will working within him, the voice of his grandfather reminding him that the blood of kings flowed in his veins. That same night he had tossed the scarlet shield with its golden dragon from Turnberry’s battlements and watched it disappear beneath the waves, before telling his family and followers that he would be their king.

Everything had seemed so clear – the road wide open before him. He hadn’t foreseen the twists and turns that had followed: the rough politics of William Wallace’s Forest court where he was plotted against by those who still supported John Balliol, the relentless campaigns of the English, the horror of Falkirk and, always, his rivalry with John Comyn, heating like a slow, inevitable fire. Sailing to Ireland to keep the Staff of Malachy from Edward’s hands and deny his ambition to fulfil Merlin’s prophecy, he found himself hunted by an assassin who turned out to be the last man to have seen King Alexander alive. Robert had survived the crossbow bolt only to be struck a greater blow in the rumour of Balliol’s return to the throne.

It had been the bitterest of pills to swallow; his submission to Edward in Westminster Abbey, with the staff in his hands and his darkening suspicion that the king may have been involved in King Alexander’s death. For two years he bided his time in Edward’s court, hated and mistrusted, forced to lie to those he loved and spill the blood of his countrymen to prove his loyalty. His final move towards the throne, the result of months of careful plotting, had been ruined by John Comyn’s betrayal, after which the tumbling of stones had become an avalanche: Wallace’s execution, the flight from England, Edward’s declaration of war, the murder at Dumfries and his swift coronation.