Authors: Robyn Young
For a while, Lachlan said nothing. Then, reaching forward, he closed the lid. ‘I am not sure King Robert will be in any position to make good on such a promise. A force of English knights aided by men from Galloway defeated your brother near Perth, over a month ago.’
‘Dear God.’
Ignoring Alexander’s murmur, Thomas took a step forward. ‘You lie.’ As he said this, he searched Lachlan’s green eyes, but could see no trace of falsehood. He turned to look at Angus MacDonald for any sign he knew about this, but the lord appeared genuinely surprised. He and Alexander had been far from their brother’s camp for months now, in Antrim and Islay, with no access to word from the mainland. Such a thing was conceivable. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded, turning back to Lachlan. ‘Was he captured?’
‘The last I heard, he was on the run. But with the MacDougalls, the Comyns and the English after him, I doubt he will be free for long.’
Images of Robert, Niall and Edward, his sisters and his friends crowded in Thomas’s mind. He pushed them away, knowing he must not falter here, not if there was still a chance. ‘Then you do not know my brother. For I tell you now, whatever defeat he has suffered he will come back from it. He is cut from the same cloth as our grandfather, who fought the infidel in Palestine and was named heir to the kingdom when he was barely out of boyhood.’ His voice strengthened. ‘You can walk away now without these coins and be seen for ever by your king as cowards and freebooters. Or,’ he finished, turning to include Angus MacDonald’s men in his address, ‘you can throw your strength behind him and help him take back our kingdom.’
Chapter 12
Loch Lomond, Scotland, 1306 AD
‘There’s no way across.’
Robert looked round, hearing the exhaustion in Gilbert’s voice. The tower of a man was slumped on the bank, unable to hold himself upright any longer. His usually hale face was drawn and his blond hair was clotted with blood. Around him, other men were collapsing on the sandy ground, or leaning on comrades for support, breaths ragged, faces oily with sweat. The damp dawn air was clouded with flies that swarmed about bloodstained clothes and oozing wounds.
All eyes were fixed on the loch that stretched away before them. The tree-bristling backs of islands broke the glass-smooth surface in places, but for all the tantalising glimpses of land the vast expanse of water remained indomitable. The far shore was veiled in mist curling down from the sides of the mountains. To the north, where the loch narrowed over the course of many miles, the peaks were giants. Distant waterfalls, white as milk, gushed silently through rifts in their stone faces.
‘It’s got to be three miles across here,’ said Neil Campbell, thrusting a hand through his sweat-slick hair.
‘Nearer four,’ answered Robert. He wanted to shout his frustration to the sky.
From the deep valleys of the surrounding mountains they had struck blindly for the banks of Loch Lomond, hoping to tackle it from the south where it tapered into the mouth of the River Leven. They had emerged at least ten miles too far north. Robert wanted to sink down with the rest of them, close his eyes and let weariness overwhelm him, but to falter now was to risk ruin. The enemy, who had trailed them relentlessly from the battleground, would not be far behind. Now they had left the sanctuary of the mountains, stumbling on foot through the dense woods that fringed the loch, they were easy prey for their mounted pursuers, who had spread far into the region until every wooded hollow and crag-shadowed valley was filled with possible death.
Watching some of his men cupping water from the shallows to revive themselves, Robert recalled a hunt with his grandfather years ago in Lochmaben. He remembered riding into a clearing and coming unexpectedly across the wolf they had been trailing. The wretched animal had been hunched over a puddle, lapping desperately at the stagnant water. It had been so exhausted it hadn’t heard them approach.
‘We have to keep going.’ Robert raised his voice so the men clustered on the shore would hear him. ‘We’ll head south from here. Make our way along the—’
‘My lord!’ James Douglas had waded into the shallows, past the men splashing water on their wounds. He was staring intently up the banks. ‘There’s a boat!’
Pushing past Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell, Robert strode into the water. It gushed through the holes worn in the leather of his boots, stinging the blisters that had bubbled up on his feet. Following James’s finger, he looked north along the tree-fringed banks. Sure enough, he glimpsed the outline of a small vessel. Some sort of fishing craft, it appeared half submerged in mud. ‘It will take hours to ferry everyone,’ said Robert, calculating quickly and not liking the conclusion. ‘A day at least. MacDougall’s men could be on us before that. Those left on shore would be trapped.’
‘Not if the stronger swimmers among us go across with the boat, using it to aid them when they tire,’ ventured James.
‘He’s right,’ said Edward, joining them in the shallows. His jaw was bearded with several weeks’ growth and his lean face was dark with sun. Blood had dried in a brown crust along a deep gash on his neck. His surcoat had soaked up most of the flow from the wound. The smell coming off the stained garment was sour. ‘If it takes a day we’ll still be quicker than if we skirt the loch and attempt the river.’
‘Take David and his men with you,’ Robert told James, after a pause. ‘Be quick.’
James hastened back up the bank, motioning to David of Atholl, who was with a band of knights from his father’s earldom. The young man nodded at the instruction, but Robert saw him throw a glance in his direction. David’s dirt-streaked face was tight. He had barely said two words to him since the battle. Robert knew he resented the fact he had been ordered from his father’s side, but he had no time to appease recalcitrant youths. They had all had to make sacrifices.
‘Here,’ said Edward, passing Robert his skin.
Pressing it to his lips, Robert upended the container. The water, taken from a mountain spring, had a coppery taste. When he’d finished, Edward took the skin, but held his gaze. Robert tensed, thinking his brother was going to challenge him again over his decision to split their forces, but Edward simply put a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, Robert broke from his brother’s grasp and made his way back to the bank. Emotion could overwhelm him if he let it.
Ahead, someone was shouting. A man fought his way through the crowd to reach the king. Seeing it was one of the men he’d set on lookout, Robert felt apprehension fire life through his leaden limbs. ‘What is it, Alan?’
‘Horsemen,’ panted Alan. ‘In the next valley.’
‘Show me.’
As the word went round, the men began drawing weapons, faces tight with unease. Alan led Robert through the trees, Edward, Gilbert, Neil and Nes following closely.
‘How many?’ asked Robert, as he climbed the steep, bracken-covered bank they had descended earlier, using tree roots and branches to haul himself up. Robert, along with the rest of his men, had removed his mail the quicker to move by, but it was a tough ascent nonetheless and after three days on the run his legs and lungs screamed with the effort. Sweat broke out on his forehead and dripped from his nose.
‘Fifty at my reckoning,’ panted Alan.
At the top of the ridge another scout was waiting, eyes fixed on the land before him, which fell into pleated valleys bristling with birch, ash and towering pines, dark against the pallid dawn. As the man pointed north, Robert picked out a slow-moving line of mounted men, maybe a mile or two distant. They were coming their way.
‘MacDougall’s men?’ questioned Neil Campbell, moving up beside them, breathing hard.
‘Too far to tell, sir,’ said Alan.
Robert cursed bitterly. All he needed was a few goddamned hours more.
‘We could hide?’ said Gilbert, tossing his blood-streaked hair out of his eyes. ‘Wait for them to pass?’
‘The moment we take that boat out we’ll break our cover. They would be on us before we could get even half our men across.’ Robert scanned the vale south of the horsemen. ‘There.’ He fixed on a place where the folds of the hills narrowed the valley into a bottleneck. ‘If we’re quick we could lie in wait for them.’
Edward’s eyes narrowed keenly. ‘Agreed.’
Sending the order for one hundred of his men to join him, leaving the others to begin ferrying the first men across once James and David had transported the boat, Robert led the company into the cleft of the valley.
Occasionally pausing to check their bearings, they moved swiftly, lightly, like hunters on a trail. The lack of mail and other armour rendered their progress virtually silent, only the snap of twigs and swish of surcoats against the undergrowth betraying their passing, but what was now an advantage would make them vulnerable in the fight. Robert knew they would have to attack fast and hard, overwhelming the enemy with surprise and superior numbers. He kept a tight grip on the hilt of his broadsword, the gold pommel glinting dully in the dreary light seeping through the trees. Still sheathed in its jewelled scabbard, the magnificent blade seemed incongruous strapped against his blood- and sweat-soiled surcoat, which was ripped in places and hung loose over his gambeson and hose. He looked like an outlaw who had stolen the sword of a king.
As they reached the place seen from the ridge, Robert heard the unmistakable ring of bridles. The horsemen were drawing near. Sending Alan shinning up through the splayed branches of an oak to check on their approach, Robert gestured for his men to settle. They hunkered down on the slope above the narrow valley, hiding in the tangle of undergrowth. The rustling of branches faded, broken only by soft whispers of breath that were soon drowned by birdsong.
Robert, crouched by the silvery trunk of a birch, glanced around him at his men, concealed among the green fronds of bracken. Only weeks ago there were almost a thousand in his company. The attack at Methven Wood and the ambush orchestrated by the Lord of Argyll and the Black Comyn had reduced them to less than four hundred, and a quarter of those were now gone from his side. Robert’s brow furrowed, the fracturing of their company all too fresh in his mind.
Leading his men from the plain, leaving behind scores of dead and wounded, Robert had caught up with the women in the woods beyond St Fillan’s shrine. Here, with the horns of the enemy sounding a strident pursuit, he had made the excruciating decision to split the company. Ordering his brother, Niall, and John of Atholl to lead a large group of men, he bade them take the horses and bear the women north into the mountains to the stronghold of Kildrummy, the great fortress of the earls of Mar, held in trust for his nephew, Donald. The farewells had been brief and bitter.
Christian was beside herself, screaming for Christopher, missing in the chaos of the battle. The Countess of Atholl had grasped David’s face, kissing his cheeks until John pulled her away, his eyes on his son, no words to say. Marjorie clung to Robert, begging him to stay with her. Of all of them, it was Elizabeth who surprised him most. Though visibly shaken, his wife remained calm, promising him she would take care of the women. Lady Isabel, who had seen her husband’s banner on the field, also managed to keep control of her emotions, taking the wailing Donald from his mother’s grief-tight grip and leaving Christian in the care of her sisters, Mary and Matilda. Thrusting his weeping daughter into Elizabeth’s arms, Robert had led his men at a run through the woods, heading south towards the rising hills. They had dumped helms, greaves, shields and mail coifs as they went, leaving a trail of detritus for the enemy to follow.
Robert looked up as Alan whistled from the heights of the oak. In the valley, the ring of bridles was now accompanied by thudding hooves. Robert gripped his sword. His heart began to pound, sending blood racing through his veins. His eyes fixed on the breaks in the trees through which he saw the first riders appear. He waited until the company was stretched into a long line by the narrow valley, then propelled himself to his feet. Roaring, Robert plunged down the slope, followed by his men. They hurtled through the undergrowth to burst out on the fifty horsemen.
Robert went straight for the man at the head of the company, the momentum of his charge allowing him to throw himself bodily at his enemy. He yelled as he leapt, bringing his sword crashing down towards the startled man’s side. The man managed to bring his own sword round in time to deflect the blow, but he was rocked back with the impact. Panicked horses squealed and reared. Some of the animals attempted to bolt, but Edward and Gilbert were blocking the bottleneck with a cluster of men, whose ranks bristled with swords, hammers and axes. The vale echoed with the clash of steel, as the enemy wrenched their own weapons free to engage.
Robert ducked as the man he had targeted thrust his sword at his face. Swinging upright, gripping his broadsword two-handed, he slammed the blade towards the man’s exposed thigh in a blow that could have taken his leg off had it struck. His opponent reacted quickly, bringing his shield in to block. As the blade crashed into the wood, Robert saw flashes of red – a saltire and four red roses were painted on its scarred white surface. As the man shoved his sword away with the shield, Robert caught sight of a handsome face and a pair of blazing blue eyes. He pulled his sword wide, recognition flooding him like ice water, shocking him out of the heat of the battle.