Kingdom (40 page)

Landing on the Carrick coast a fortnight ago, Robert at once sent spies into Galloway, knowing if he didn’t complete the task Donough and the men of Antrim had been sent to undertake his back would remain at threat the moment he turned his attention to the English in Turnberry and Ayr. The spies had returned with the unwelcome news that Dungal MacDouall had been joined by a strong English force. Leaving his fleet anchored off Arran under Lachlan’s command and ordering trusted men to begin collecting rents from his vassals in Carrick, funds necessary to make a goodwill payment to the acquisitive captain, Robert had led the bulk of his army by hidden glens and high, snow-mottled passes, down into the lands of his enemy.

After the losses and injuries sustained at Turnberry, and without the full force of Lachlan’s galloglass, he was down to six hundred men, all on foot. His spies had estimated MacDouall’s force, bolstered by the English, at two thousand. An open confrontation seemed hopeless, but Galloway’s wild landscape offered its own deadly arsenal in boulder-strewn mountains and wooded slopes. With his thoughts on the lightning attacks of the Welsh rebels in Snowdon and William Wallace’s Forest ambushes, Robert had devised a plan, sending Neil Campbell and James Douglas to lure their enemies into his trap.

At his side, Fionn whined quietly, sensing his tension. Robert looked over at Edward, who was standing with Angus MacDonald and the small group of men who had stayed up here with him, all of them silent, waiting. Meeting his gaze, his brother headed across.

‘I should be down there with them,’ murmured Robert.

Edward said nothing for a moment, then shook his head. ‘As Sir James said, you need to pick your battles from now on. Some you will have to lead, but others you must direct. You’re too valuable for us to lose.’

Robert caught the stiffness in Edward’s tone. He knew his brother, craving vengeance against MacDouall, dearly wanted to join the army sent into the glen in the wake of the boulders, but in just six months Robert had been bereaved of three brothers. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of losing Edward too. But now, listening to the battle rage below, he wondered uneasily whether he was following James Stewart’s counsel to avoid the front lines because he agreed with it or whether, after his narrow escape at Turnberry, he’d lost his nerve. After all, he hadn’t followed the rest of the high steward’s advice.

Before leaving Barra to gather his vassals, James tried again to convince him to remain in the Isles until King Edward died. Robert refused, adamant the longer the English were allowed to stay in Scotland, the more entrenched they would become. His family could perhaps yet be freed by the ransom of Henry Percy, but the liberation of his kingdom would require strength of arms.

At the thought of Percy, Robert’s mind shifted to Alexander Seton, and another decision he had been questioning himself over.

‘Do you hear that?’ Angus MacDonald moved up beside him, his shaggy black cloak beaded with rain.

‘Yes,’ Edward said suddenly.

Robert heard it too – a ragged cheer rising from the valley’s depths. The faint sounds petered out and silence descended over Glen Trool. The men looked at one another, but didn’t speak, apprehension and anticipation battling within them.

Some time later, they heard the snap and rustle of undergrowth. Figures began to emerge from the fog. The company with the king had drawn their swords, but sheathed them on seeing their countrymen. Few soon became many, men panting with exhaustion as they appeared out of the murk, clothes soaked with blood and rain. A number held fistfuls of spears or swords and others clutched wine skins, cloaks and boots, stripped from the enemy. Some hauled wounded comrades. But all carried victory, borne in weary, but jubilant faces.

Robert saw Lachlan’s brother, Ruarie, with a group of galloglass, his axe balanced over his broad shoulder, the blade dripping blood. There was Cormac, his face fierce with triumph, and James Douglas, bearing up a sandy-haired youth. Seeing Neil Campbell emerge with Gilbert de la Hay and Malcolm of Lennox, Robert went to meet them, relief flooding him.

‘It is done, my lord,’ Neil said, bowing before his king. ‘The English have been vanquished.’

‘Many were killed or unhorsed by the rocks,’ said Gilbert, between breaths. ‘We reckon we took half their number.’ He grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow with his arm.

‘MacDouall?’ cut in Edward, appearing at Robert’s side.

Malcolm of Lennox shook his head. ‘The men of Galloway were still a fair way south down the glen, following the English on foot. My knights saw them fleeing.’

‘The battle was fierce for a time, my lord,’ Neil added. ‘We had no chance to go after the Disinherited or the English who managed to escape.’

‘We should follow,’ said Edward at once, turning to Robert.

Cormac headed over, having heard the comment. He looked keenly at Robert, clearly hopeful of his king’s agreement.

For a moment, Robert didn’t speak, his own desire to seek vengeance for his brothers and Lord Donough wrestling with his need to stay clear in his command. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘If we follow MacDouall out of Glen Trool we will be in his territory – vulnerable. Even losing half their force our enemy still outnumbers us. But if we move now, while they’re in disarray, we have a chance to attack the English in the north with the threat to our rear greatly reduced.’

‘Brother—’ began Edward.

Robert wasn’t listening. He had caught sight of James Douglas, who had set down the sandy-haired youth he had been helping up the hill and was now standing over him, sword drawn. Robert realised with a jolt that the youth was his nephew, Thomas Randolph, captured a year ago at Methven Wood. Stunned, he started towards him.

Neil, following his gaze, caught his arm. ‘My lord,’ he murmured, ‘your nephew was taken with a blade in his hand, fighting for the English.’

Robert’s brow furrowed, but pushing past Neil he headed to where the youth was kneeling, clutching his side, his face clenched in pain.

Thomas raised his head as Robert approached. His expression filled with fear, before closing in on itself. He looked away.

James Douglas moved aside, but kept his blade trained on the young man.

‘There is no need for such rough treatment, Master James,’ Robert said sternly. ‘He is my kin.’

James lowered the sword, but stood his ground. ‘My lord, he admitted the English freed him on the promise he would serve their king.’

Robert stared at his nephew. ‘A clever ruse, no doubt. To gain his freedom.’

Now, Thomas did look up. His face was ashen, except for two hectic points of colour in his cheeks. ‘They told me you were hiding in the wilderness, too ashamed after what you did to John Comyn to show yourself. They said your countrymen had rejected you in their thousands – that God Himself had turned his face from you, unable to look upon a once cherished son who had murdered a man in cold blood!’ Sweat dripped from Thomas’s nose. ‘All those months locked up in their prison, I refused to listen when they called you a coward. I told myself the English were lying when they said you were no better than a brigand, an outlaw, without the courage to face them on the open field. When I took up my sword for their king, I did so because I wanted to return home and prove them wrong. But now I see they were right!’

‘Thomas, I—’

‘I brought my father’s men to fight for you at Methven – pledged myself to you. You left me there!’ cried Thomas. ‘I saw you ride right past me!’ He clutched his side tighter, gasping with pain. ‘Now, here you are in hiding, while your men fight your battle for you!’

Robert felt shame run hot through him as his sins and his secret fears poured from the mouth of his own nephew; damning him here on this hillside in front of his watching men. He thought of David of Atholl and all who had joined the ranks of his enemies. He thought of those who had died for him and those he had left behind. How many of them now cursed him from their prisons? For a moment, he quailed in the face of his own towering guilt, then he caught sight of Cormac, whose face still bore the scars of the assault in Stranraer.

‘Did the king’s men tell you what they did to my brothers?’ he asked Thomas, his voice low. ‘What they did to my wife and to your mother? Did they tell you they burned Turnberry to ash and put women and girls to the sword? That they imprisoned Robert Wishart and William Lamberton, men of the cloth, in irons?’ His voice rose, hoarse with emotion. ‘Did they tell you they hanged John of Atholl and strung up Niall, your uncle, only to cut him down alive so the mob could enjoy his terror as they put his neck on the block? Or how my foster-father knelt in mercy before Dungal MacDouall, who took his life in far colder blood than I took Comyn’s? Did the English tell you that their king put my daughter in a cage like an animal? Answer me, damn you! Did they tell you this?’

Thomas averted his eyes from Robert’s wrath. He bowed his head.

Robert stared down on him for a moment longer. ‘Keep him under guard.’ Turning, he strode back up the hill towards his banner, his men parting before him. ‘Get ready. All of you. We march north.’

Ayr, Scotland, 1307 AD

Humphrey stood still, feeling the cold bite of the dagger against his neck. His instinct, after the shock had faded, was to fight, but whoever had hold of him was strong – he could feel that in the tautness of the arm around his chest. As lightning flared again, he caught sight of a reflection in the rain-stained window. He saw himself and, over his shoulder, a man in a hooded cloak, with a hard, desperate face. It was Alexander Seton. Humphrey had last seen the lord from East Lothian when Prince Edward’s men took him from the battlefield in Lorn. ‘What do you want with me, Alexander?’

The lord stiffened at the sound of his name, but when he spoke his voice was harsh, commanding. ‘I know where Robert Bruce is.’

‘Perhaps you should tell Sir Aymer. He is the one who had you released for this purpose.’ Humphrey kept his voice calm, but his heart pulsed fiercely at the news. He wondered how Alexander had got in here, but the hammering outside reminded him the barracks were in chaos. It wasn’t hard to imagine how someone might steal in unnoticed and get a servant to reveal where his lodgings were.

‘I do not trust Aymer.’

‘Very well. Tell me.’

‘I will, when my cousin is released.’

At this, Humphrey realised Alexander didn’t yet know about Christopher’s execution. Did that mean Robert had no idea what had happened to his family – that King Edward’s intention for him to suffer was as yet unfulfilled? ‘That will take some time,’ he began slowly. ‘How will I know Robert won’t have moved on before your cousin is set free?’

In the window’s reflection, Alexander’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know where his base is – where he will retreat to when he leaves the mainland. Where his fleet is harboured. This is what I will tell you in return for my cousin’s freedom.’

Humphrey’s mind raced. So Robert was on the mainland now? ‘How do you know this?’

‘Because he sent me from there with a message.’

Humphrey wondered queasily whether this message might now be delivered by the blade at his throat.

‘Robert has Henry Percy,’ Alexander continued. ‘He wanted me to tell you he is willing to exchange him for his wife, daughter and sisters. But I’ve not come here for that. All I want is my cousin.’

‘I understand. As a sign of good faith, tell me where Robert is now.’

Alexander paused. ‘Somewhere on the west coast. He was planning an attack when I left, but I was only with him for one night – not long enough to hear the details.’

Humphrey’s eyes alighted on the book on the floor at his feet where he’d dropped it. ‘Have you heard tell of a prophecy – a vision of Merlin – in which the Welsh and Irish will rise with the Scots against us?’

Alexander didn’t speak.

Humphrey could feel the man’s heart beating fast against his back. ‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘And I’ll give you what you want.’

‘Yes,’ said Alexander. ‘I heard it from Robert himself. The night before I left he told his men it was the prophecy taken from Edward. He said the king kept it locked away because he didn’t want anyone to know it predicted his death and that with that event the Britons would reclaim their lands. He is planning to send out messengers, proclaiming this to the Welsh and the Irish.’

Humphrey caught the cynicism in Alexander’s tone. ‘You do not believe it?’

‘I remember what Robert said when he left Edward’s service. He told those of us closest to him that the box he took from Westminster was empty – that there was no prophecy. Whatever he says now is for the benefit of his new followers. All those fools who have no idea he will lead them down into hell.’

Alexander’s words ricocheted in Humphrey. A chill ran through him. He was brought back to focus by the sting of the blade.

‘I’ve told you more than enough to prove myself. Now it is your turn. I want Christopher taken to my old estate in Seton. There’s a chapel in the grounds where you will leave him in one week’s time. You can send one of your men with him, but only one. When I see my cousin is unharmed I’ll tell your man where Bruce is based.’

Thoughts swarmed in Humphrey’s mind: he thought of the two prisoners, right now being prepared for interrogation, and of Aymer and Ralph, the king’s cousin and his son-in-law, both steadfastly loyal without question. Maybe the prisoners would give up Robert’s base and maybe they wouldn’t, but, either way, Humphrey knew he wanted more than just a location now. He wanted the truth. ‘I want you to play along with Bruce. Tell him I’ve agreed a parley to discuss an exchange of prisoners, to which he will bring Henry Percy. Tell him I—’