Kingdom (13 page)

Bringing his horse to a halt outside the tent, the Lord of Alnwick dismounted heavily. Henry had grown fat over the last few years and his horses had likewise become larger to compensate. His fair hair appeared almost white against the red of his face, mottled with wine and sun. ‘Captain Dungal MacDouall has come, my lord. He requests to speak to you in person. He says he has a gift from Scotland.’

Edward leaned forward. ‘Gift?’ His mind sharpened with anticipation. His first thought was whether it could be Bruce himself, but he couldn’t imagine Aymer trusting a Scot to deliver such a prize.

‘He wouldn’t say what it was, my lord, just that it would please you to receive it. I can compel him to tell me, if you wish.’

Edward waved his hand impatiently. ‘Bring him to me.’

Henry heaved himself into the saddle and retreated with the order.

Edward set down his wine, suddenly aware of the meagre meal in front of him. It was why he now ate alone – the extent of his weakness revealed in the paltry offerings. There were beggars in his realm who would eat better. ‘Clear this,’ he ordered his servants, pushing the plate roughly away from him.

Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, and Constable of England, lay drunk in his tent. He had vowed that morning at prayer that he would not end another day like this, but as the afternoon stretched on and the empty hours opened up the dark places in his mind where his dead wife, Bess, still lingered, he had ordered his servant to pour one goblet. The wine was potent, softening the jagged edges of his thoughts as he watched the sun slip beyond the hills. One goblet became five, before he retreated to the warm womb of his tent, nursing the sixth.

The dome of the tent seemed to spiral above him in the ethereal glow of a lantern Humphrey couldn’t recall his servant lighting. Meadowsweet, spread on the ground, clogged the air with its sickly perfume. His thoughts were jumbled, floating in a soup of mixed emotions. On the one hand he felt comfortably drowsy, lying here waiting for sleep to claim him. On the other he wanted to rise up and do something; as if by his own action he could galvanise the king’s army and move it forward from this godforsaken plain.

Voices filtered into his consciousness. Hearing the word
prisoners
, Humphrey turned his head to the sound. Through the flaps he could see a figure. The bright yellow of the man’s surcoat told him it was Sir Ralph de Monthermer. Humphrey sat up, his head spinning. Feeling like an old man, he struggled on to his hands and knees.

As he stumbled out of the tent, Ralph looked round, as did the other speaker. It was Robert Clifford. The two men paused in their conversation.

‘Prisoners?’ Humphrey asked thickly. He frowned when neither man answered. ‘Well? Am I to guess?’

‘Dungal MacDouall has come,’ Ralph told him. ‘He has two of Bruce’s men.’

Humphrey made for the royal pavilion.

Ralph caught his arm. ‘Perhaps you should wait, my friend. Speak to the king in the morning?’

Humphrey focused on Ralph’s face. He hated the look he saw there – part consternation, part pity. They had come up together at the royal court, both of them Knights of the Dragon, along with Robert Clifford, Henry Percy, Aymer de Valence and other young noblemen: England’s elite, who had sworn to uphold their king’s cause. Ralph had recently become Humphrey’s brother-in-law by his marriage to the king’s daughter, Joan, a marriage that had landed him the earldom of Gloucester. Still, Humphrey would be damned if he’d let the man tell him what to do.

Pushing past Ralph, he made his way towards the pavilion, staggering as he negotiated the guy ropes of tents, ignoring the greetings from his knights, who were sharing a meal around a campfire. The smell of food made Humphrey’s stomach knot with hunger. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He pushed a hand through his hair, aware of the state he was in, his face rough with stubble and his shirt stained with wine, but he had to see who these men of Bruce’s were. It was an urge driven by a powerful need for answers. The memory of Robert holding him while his grief for Bess poured out of him as though his soul had turned to water haunted him still. The man had been betraying him even as he comforted him. Judas with a kiss for Jesus. If he looked Robert in the eye now would he see an enemy staring back at him, or would he see his old friend? He had to know.

As Humphrey approached the pavilion, he saw Dungal MacDouall at the head of a company. Scanning the devices on shields and surcoats, he realised there were knights of the Black Comyn with the captain, as well as men from Galloway. Royal guards stood to attention around the edges of the pavilion, their eyes on the Scots. Henry Percy was with them, standing by the king’s table, his stomach straining against his belt. The lord looked preposterously fat; a big blond egg set beside the king, whose gauntness could not now be concealed, even by the sumptuous folds of his mantle. Humphrey concentrated his shifting vision on two figures in the centre of the ring of men. They were kneeling on the grass, their tonsured heads shiny with sweat in the light from the lanterns. The prisoners were William Lamberton and Robert Wishart.

Even through his stupor, Humphrey was well aware of the value of this prize. The bishops had been at the heart of the rebellion since the earliest days, especially Wishart, the aged, but bellicose Bishop of Glasgow, who had been one of the guardians of Scotland in the interregnum that followed the death of King Alexander. An advocate and friend of William Wallace, he had since thrown his considerable influence behind Robert’s uprising. Wishart was sagging against Lamberton, hands bound tightly behind his stooped back.

Edward, seated at his table, looking down on the two men, appeared pleased with his bounty, although Humphrey found his pain-clenched face hard to read these days.

‘. . . and we caught his grace at Cupar, my lord king,’ Dungal MacDouall was saying. ‘He was using the gift of timber you sent for repairs to his cathedral to build siege engines. They were to be employed in Bruce’s war against you.’

Edward fixed Wishart with his barbed stare. ‘What say you?’ When the bishop didn’t answer the king rose, planting his hands on the table. ‘Answer me, damn you! Why did my charity warrant such flagrant abuse?’

Wishart raised his head. ‘What good, Lord Edward, is a new roof to a congregation who are prisoners in their own land? The people of my diocese want freedom, not shelter.’

The bishop was nudged roughly in the back by the knee of one of MacDouall’s men. He pitched forward, but managed to avoid falling on his face by steadying himself against Lamberton.

‘Peace, old friend,’ Lamberton murmured, as Wishart struggled upright.

‘Have you questioned them on Bruce’s whereabouts?’

‘They would not say, but I do not believe they know. They seemed most unsettled,’ MacDouall added, with a ghost of a smile, ‘when we told them of Bruce’s plight. Besides, my lord, we do not need their cooperation. I can tell you myself where he is.’

Edward’s eyes flashed with expectation at this, but he wasn’t yet finished with the bishops. He looked down on them, his thin hair drifting around his haggard face like cobwebs. ‘I see not the robes of your orders, only the rebels inside. I cannot send men of the cloth to the scaffold, however deep their treachery. But be assured you will spend the rest of your lives in irons. Look to the north, both of you. Mark it well.’ Edward pointed to the distant hills. ‘This will be the closest you will ever come to your land again.’ He gestured to his guards. ‘Take them.’

As the condemned bishops were marched away, Humphrey made his way over to the king. Edward acknowledged him with a brief glance. Feeling a wave of dizziness, Humphrey gripped the edge of the table. Henry Percy frowned at him, disapproval plain in his cold blue eyes.

He, along with Humphrey, had been the greatest beneficiary of Robert’s treachery. The king had granted Percy Turnberry and Carrick, while Humphrey had been given Robert’s lands in Annandale and his estates in England. The prize, although great, had not been enough to soothe the deep wound gouged in Humphrey by Robert’s betrayal, a wound since poisoned by his own anger, humiliation and creeping self-doubts. His mind tormented him, telling him he had been closest to Robert; he was the one who should have seen the enemy masquerading as his friend. He didn’t want land – he wanted answers. Answers as to how he had been made such a fool and what, in turn, that said about him.

Humphrey met Percy’s disdainful gaze, determined to assert himself here. If anyone was going to be given the task of hunting Bruce down, he wanted it to be him.

The king had turned his attention back to Dungal MacDouall. ‘Tell me, Captain. Where is Bruce?’

‘We know he left Aberdeen ten days ago with what was left of his army, my lord. He is heading for Islay. There, he plans to rebuild his forces with the strength of the men of the Isles and his tenants in Antrim.’

‘Islay?’ Edward’s face was pensive in the coppery lantern light. ‘So, he hopes to sway the loyalty of the MacDonalds? Is my cousin in pursuit?’

‘This I do not know, my lord. Sir Aymer had left for Aberdeen by the time we discovered Bruce’s plans. I have sent word to him.’

‘And how, exactly, did you discover this?’

‘I captured one of Bruce’s followers in Perth. Alexander Seton claimed to have deserted and wished to surrender, but he wasn’t willing to divulge Bruce’s plans, at least not at first. I took him to Sir John of Buchan. My master wrested the information from him. Sir John has gone with all speed to warn the MacDougalls that Bruce is headed their way. Bruce, we were told, has women and children with him. His progress will be slow. God willing, my master and the lords of Argyll will be able to bar his route to Islay and capture him.’

Edward was silent, thinking. Finally, he nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain. My men will show you where your company can rest for the night. We will speak again at first light.’

The king watched as the Scots were ushered down the hillside, before turning his attention to Humphrey. His grey eyes were alert, the pain that clouded them replaced by fierce intent. ‘Prepare your men, Humphrey. You will ride to Carrick and there join forces with my son. Take MacDouall with you, he can escort you to the Black Comyn. Use the Comyn’s strength by all means, but I want you to confront Bruce and his men.’

‘I will not fail you, my lord.’

‘All his possessions must be brought to me intact. You understand?’

Humphrey knew what Edward spoke of. ‘I swear, my lord, by Michaelmas you will have Bruce in custody and the Staff of  Malachy will be back in Westminster Abbey. I will not let him undermine all we have sacrificed in the struggle to protect our kingdom.’

Edward drummed his thin fingers on the table top. ‘Do not forget the prophecy, Humphrey. I want that box returned to me at all cost.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

The king held his gaze, looking as if he might say something more, but then he turned to Henry Percy. ‘Go to Aberdeen. Tell Aymer to stay in the city in case Bruce evades the trap and attempts to head back east. I want the son of a bitch surrounded.’ Edward made a fist of his hand. ‘With a noose tightening around his neck.’

Dismissed, Humphrey made his way back to his tent, surer and more sober with every step. Feeling new energy pulsing through him, he thought of the day he was initiated as a Knight of the Dragon, tasked by the king with a quest on which the future of their kingdom depended.

He had first learned of the
Last Prophecy
from his father, who told him of its discovery at Nefyn in Wales, following the fall of the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. Translated by a Welshman loyal to King Edward, the prophecy revealed that the four relics of Brutus, the founder of Britain, must be gathered together again, united under one ruler. According to the ancient text, consigned to a locked box to prevent it crumbling into dust, the division of the kingdom between the sons of Brutus, who had each taken one relic as a symbol of his reign, had caused Britain’s descent into centuries of chaos, war and poverty. The island’s final ruin was now approaching, as foreseen in a vision of Merlin, and only the unification of the treasures – and thus the kingdom itself – would prevent it.

The king had charged his knights to seize the relics alluded to in the prophecy from the four corners of Britain. Curtana, the Sword of Mercy, symbol of English royal power, had been the first to be presented at the shrine of the Confessor in Westminster Abbey. Next, the Crown of Arthur, taken from the rebels during the conquest of Wales, and the Stone of Destiny, removed from Scotland. Last was the Staff of Malachy, Ireland’s holiest relic, brought to the king by Robert Bruce on his surrender; a peace offering.

Telling his knights to finish their meal and be ready to receive orders, Humphrey asked his servants to fetch food, a basin of water and a razor. Ducking inside the tent, his eyes went to his armour and broadsword. Rust had bloomed on the mail. He would have his squire clean it and whet his sword. Bending to pull a fresh shirt from his pack, his gaze alighted on the half-finished wine by his bed. Picking it up, he stared into the red depths.

He remembered raising his goblet to Robert the night of the young man’s inception into the Knights of the Dragon at Conwy Castle, drinking to their sacred brotherhood. Robert had taken the same oaths he had. The man had seemed so sincere in his utterance of them, but how could he have been when, by taking the staff and the prophecy from Westminster, he had set Britain back on the path to destruction? His betrayal had made a mockery of everything Humphrey had worked for; everything he trusted. It made a mockery of him too. He had stood up for the man when no one else would, defended him. How could he have been so foolish? Had Robert ever believed, or was it all just lies?