Kingdom (14 page)

Writtle, England

1302 AD (4 years earlier)

Humphrey felt Bess’s arm brush his as she leaned forward to push the ivory pawn across the chessboard. He glanced at her and smiled, distracted for a moment from his study of Robert, who sat opposite with his young wife.

A servant left the great hall carrying an armful of silver plates, soiled with the remains of the feast. As the man opened the door a blast of air blew into the chamber, causing the banners on the walls to flutter against their nails and a large cobweb that laced the oak beams to billow and break. The fire in the hearth gusted, sending sparks roaring up the chimney. Writtle Manor was a draughty old place, thought Humphrey, in need of some urgent repairs, but Robert’s father seemed more interested in spending his money on a steady supply of Gascon wine. The old lord had retired drunk to his bed some hours ago, leaving the four of them alone to finish the game.

Bess drew her crimson mantle, brocaded with flowers, tighter and leaned into him for warmth. Slipping an arm around her waist, Humphrey returned his attention to Robert, whose eyes were on the chessboard, his goblet gripped in his hand. He appeared preoccupied, but not, it seemed, by the contest. His stare was distant and unfocused as if he were looking through the board to something only he could see. Firelight bruised his face, highlighting the frown that creased his brow. Not for the first time, Humphrey wished he could see into that closed mind.

It was seven months since Robert had surrendered to the king at Westminster and in all that time, despite searching for it, Humphrey had seen nothing to indicate that his submission was anything other than genuine. But, still, he could not bring himself to trust the man. After his desertion to join the insurrection led by William Wallace, Robert had spent five years fighting against them. Humphrey’s gaze drifted to the fragment of iron that hung on a leather thong around Robert’s neck, visible in the cleft of his shirt. He remembered the king’s order, issued on the day of Robert’s surrender: that he was to rebuild their old friendship and, in doing so, find out what had happened in Ireland. Robert had been wounded by that crossbow bolt and Edward wanted to know who his attacker was and whether or not they were still alive. He had been very explicit about this.

Robert’s eyes flicked up suddenly, meeting his gaze. Humphrey covered himself by taking a sip of wine. Robert’s wife, Elizabeth, moved her knight across the board taking one of their pawns, her young face taut with concentration. Bess smiled and countered.

As Robert’s eyes returned to the board, Humphrey recalled the evening six months ago in this hall when he had asked the king’s question. Robert had said he hadn’t known the man who attacked him, who was killed by Ulster’s knights before he could find out. Humphrey thought he had glimpsed a lie in Robert’s face, but drink and resentment had been hot in both of them that night and thoughts of the truth had been swept aside in the fight that followed. In reporting back to Edward, Humphrey had suggested the king ask Sir Richard de Burgh for his version of events, but the king surprised him, saying the Earl of Ulster had already corroborated Robert’s story. Clearly, even the word of one of his staunchest vassals hadn’t satisfied him.

Humphrey sensed something secret and unspoken, spun like a web between Robert and Edward, that he now found himself caught in. The notion the king was asking after a killer sent by his own instruction had entered his mind, but he had forced that thought aside. The secret slaying of a man of Robert’s rank, without trial or judgement, was unthinkable. Nobles died heroic in battle, like his father, or else were captured for ransom. They weren’t even executed, let alone murdered in cold blood.

‘It is your move, my lord.’

Elizabeth was looking expectantly at Robert.

‘You take it.’

Elizabeth glanced at Bess and Humphrey, then lowered her eyes. Pressing her lips together, she picked up another piece. The flared sleeve of her dress toppled a bishop, which rolled off the board. Humphrey snatched out his hand. Elizabeth reached for it at the same time and grabbed his hand instead. She withdrew sharply as if burned by the contact, her cheeks flushing. There was a clatter as the bishop struck the floor. Humphrey bent and picked it up, setting it back on the board. He smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled self-consciously back. She was seventeen, but seemed much younger.

Bess yawned deeply. ‘I believe that heralds the ending of our game.’

‘Indeed,’ said Humphrey, feeling her pinch his side softly. ‘We should retire. I’ll need to leave early tomorrow. I have matters to attend to on my estate.’

Elizabeth’s face fell, but she covered her disappointment with a forced smile. ‘Of course.’ She looked meaningfully at her husband, who seemed to come back to life.

‘I’ll have Edwin show you to the guest quarters,’ Robert said, rising.

A short time later, after the steward had escorted them to their room and the servant who banked up the fire had left, closing the door behind him, Humphrey sat on the bed and let out a sigh, feeling the tension of the evening ebbing slowly. Across the room, Bess had shrugged off her cloak and was fiddling with the laces on the sides of her gown. Like all the king’s children, she was tall and long-limbed. Her dark hair was trussed up under a pearl-studded net, which matched her crimson dress. Firelight flushed the skin of her neck as she twisted to pick at the knots. Humphrey crossed to her. ‘Allow me.’

She smiled as he pulled gently at the bindings. When he bent forward to kiss her neck, she closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Poor Elizabeth. She seems so unhappy.’ Her eyes opened and she looked over her shoulder at him. ‘I’m not even sure they share the same bed. I’m not sure they ever have.’

Humphrey withdrew, discomforted. ‘A man’s marriage is his own business, Bess. I’ll not get involved. Neither should you.’

Bess took his hand and drew it back to her waist to continue undoing her gown. She pressed her shoulders into his chest. ‘I’m just glad for what I have.’

‘Not as glad as I,’ Humphrey murmured in response, but even as the gown slipped down to her waist and Bess turned to kiss him, his thoughts remained fixed on Robert.

Chapter 9

Dunstaffnage Castle, Scotland, 1306 AD

The hooves clattered off the drawbridge as a dozen riders funnelled in through the stone bulk of the gatehouse. The guards stood aside, allowing them to pass under the iron fangs of the portcullis and into the courtyard beyond, enclosed by high, quadrangular walls, from which projected great towers at the north and west corners. Built along one wall was a grand, two-storey hall, its whitewashed walls glazed by torchlight.

John MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, strode out through the hall’s doors as the riders dismounted by the well, his steward following in his wake. John pushed a hand through his red hair, dishevelled from sleep. Even though the hour was late the courtyard was cast in pale twilight. It would barely get darker than this tonight, although it was now several weeks past midsummer and John discerned a faint change in the light. Over the next few months the nights would slowly deepen to pitch, darkness stretching into the days; a creeping tide of shadows that would eventually fill all hours, the castle besieged by howling winds and winter’s bone-marrow chill. But, for now, all was calm and the breeze mild.

‘Sir, the earl has some fifty men with him, waiting in the grounds.’

‘Make space for them and their horses,’ John told his steward. ‘Clear out the boathouse if you have to.’

As John headed over to the riders he glanced up, checking the parapet walk. Half a dozen guards were stationed there, the half-light making them look more like statues built out of the fabric of the castle. Below, in the bailey, other guards stood sentry: two outside the north tower, the bottom chamber of which was piled high with sacks of oats and grain, and another four beside a long row of spears propped against the wall, ready to furnish an army. Gratified, John approached his kinsman.

John Comyn, Earl of Buchan and head of the Black Comyns, dismounted his palfrey with a metal shiver of mail and spurs. He handed the reins to one of his knights, all of whom were dressed, as he was, in black surcoats adorned with three white sheaves of wheat. The Black Comyn was an imposing man, broad in the shoulders and built like a barrel, but with most of his bulk still muscle rather than fat, surprising in a man of his advanced years. Ten years John MacDougall’s senior, the earl was approaching sixty, his face creased with age and webbed with battle scars.

Holding back his impatience to discover why his kinsman had returned so unexpectedly, John embraced him. ‘Welcome, brother.’ As his steward spoke to one of the earl’s knights, John saw the man gesture to a large sack draped over the back of one of the horses.

The Black Comyn scanned the courtyard imperiously. As his dark eyes alighted on the row of spears, he nodded slightly.

John bore the inspection without comment. He and his father might rule Argyll – their dominion radiating out from Dunstaffnage across the water to Mull, northern Jura, Coll and Tiree, and far inland through the wilds of Lorn – but the Black Comyn controlled a vast swathe of the north-east of the kingdom and was the former Constable of Scotland. Although he had lost some of his standing in the coup staged by Robert Bruce, he was still one of the most formidable men in the realm and commanded the utmost respect.

‘How is Sir Alexander?’ asked the earl, his deep voice gruff.

‘My father is recovering well from the last bout of fever. His strength returns day by day.’ John pressed in, impatience getting the better of him. ‘I know he would have wanted to greet you himself, had he known you were coming.’

The Black Comyn grunted. ‘I’m afraid haste took precedence over etiquette.’

‘Haste? Are the English set for war?’ John felt a surge of anticipation. When the Black Comyn left his company a month ago, he hadn’t expected to see him again until he received word to head east and join forces with him and King Edward. ‘Are we to move on Bruce?’

‘The plan has changed.’

John listened as the earl told him of Bruce’s defeat at the hands of Aymer de Valence, aided by Dungal MacDouall and the men of Galloway. He scowled at this, his initial eagerness dampened by his lack of involvement in the victory.

The Black Comyn read his mind. ‘Do not fear, John, you will have your chance to make good on your blood oath. Indeed, sooner than we thought. By the time I returned to my wife’s estate at Leuchars, Valence had marched on Aberdeen, but I learned there that Bruce had already left the port and was making for Islay.’

‘The whoreson seeks the aid of Angus MacDonald,’ John murmured. His eyes narrowed as he plotted the various routes in his mind. Aberdeen to Islay would take Bruce directly through his lands. ‘Do we know when he left?’

‘A fortnight, give or take.’

John shook his head. ‘Then he should have passed through already.’

‘There are women and children in his company. I suspect they came down through Drumalban, using the mountains as shelter. He may make for the pass.’

‘A dangerous road. If he takes Brander he’ll have to come by Dunstaffnage.’

‘He has five hundred men or more. He may hope to fight his way through.’

‘With women and children? He would have to be desperate to risk being trapped in the pass. No. There are other routes he could take.’ John’s frown deepened as he thought of Bruce’s allies. ‘Campbell,’ he muttered, thinking of the young man whose father he had slaughtered ten years ago. ‘He knows these lands.’

‘If we can block his path to Islay, will you and your men be ready to face him?’

John smiled grimly. ‘Come.’ He led the earl to a set of stone steps that climbed the wall to the parapet. ‘You cannot see it from the road in.’

They emerged on to the walkway above, the Black Comyn breathing hard, weighed down by mail. The guards nodded respectfully, making room for the two men to pass along the wall.

Up here, the wind buffeted them, carrying on its currents the sour tang of the sea and the pungent stink from the outflow of the latrine chutes that opened on to the rocks sixty feet below. Banners, decorated with the black galleys of the MacDougall arms, snapped and billowed. The view was spectacular: dominated by rugged hills and immense stretches of water, all washed in twilight. Built on a wide slab of rock, Dunstaffnage glowered from its promontory over the Firth of Lorn towards the dark ramparts of Mull’s mountains. In the foreground was the lower lying hump of Lismore, over which the MacDougalls had fought bitterly with the MacDonalds for years. The two families, along with the MacRuaries, were all descended from the same man, Somerled, the King of the Isles, but that hadn’t stopped each branch warring for supremacy over the western sea kingdom.

In one corner of the castle grounds stood an ornate chapel, bordered by a graveyard which together with gardens and an orchard made a patchwork of green. Ignoring the scattered collection of outbuildings, stables and boathouses, John pointed to the northern end of the promontory. ‘There.’

The Black Comyn’s gaze focused on the scores of tents just visible through a shroud of trees. Many shadowy figures were highlighted by the glow of campfires. The camp stretched down to the water’s edge where, in a shallow bay that opened into the wide mouth of Loch Etive, a score of galleys undulated. At this distance, with their sails furled, the vessels looked like leaves floating on the current.