Authors: Robyn Young
‘Sire!’
Robert looked round as Nes called to him. The knight was gesturing to the battlements. Following his gaze, he saw the lookouts waving their arms. It was time to leave.
‘Let’s take them out,’ Robert called sharply.
The last few packs were hurled into the boats as the men climbed in, some taking the oars. Robert vaulted over the side as those on the beach pushed them into the shallows, faces straining with the effort. Robert felt the vessel lighten and lift, borne aloft by the waves. The men at the oars dug them into the water to get them through the first rollers. A wave smashed into the prow, drenching those at the front and misting the rest of them with spray. Gilbert, on a bench in the centre, closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer, clinging on for dear life. The rush and drag of stones being ground beneath them sounded like a lion’s roar.
While the men heaved on the oars, taking them through the rough green shallows out into the deep blue, others wrenched on the ropes to unfurl the sail, which came down with a great snap, filling at once with wind. Shouts and creaking timbers rose on the air as the crew in the other three boats did the same. A few of the men left on the beach raised their hands in farewell. Robert saw others salute back, before their comrades turned and headed up the cliff path that led to the castle. It was a small garrison he had left there, but he hoped it would be enough to fool those who were coming for them.
Their enemies, led by John MacDougall, had pursued them from the shore of Loch Lomond to the head of Loch Fyne and down through the woods of Argyll. Sleeping in thickets and caves as the autumn air grew chill and the first storms swept in from the west, they had been hunted like beasts until they were stumbling through the miles, as dazed as sleep walkers. Desperate to make Islay, on reaching the coast they found their path barred by scores of galleys patrolling the sea, sails adorned with the MacDougall arms. Unable to stop, or else risk being overrun, Robert led them south past rings of stones and barrows where the ancient dead slept under the green skin of the land. As they followed the serrated shoreline, Islay and Jura rose ever from the waters to their right, tauntingly close.
In this desperate flight, Robert lost several men through wounds that had become infected. He lost more when a band of the enemy caught up with them. With the fresh strength of Malcolm of Lennox and his men, who hadn’t been harried as long, they won the skirmish. When it was over and the corpses were looted for boots and weapons, Robert saw familiar arms on the surcoats of several. The men were John of Menteith’s, who had drawn William Wallace into John Comyn’s trap and had been made keeper of Dumbarton Castle by King Edward for that service.
In this time, Robert dwelled often on his excommunication, proclaimed by the pope, condemning him for the blood of John Comyn that had stained his hands and his soul. Outlawed from Christendom. Outcast by God. It was a terrible sentence, carrying the promise of eternal damnation unless he repented. He thought, too, of the Stone of Destiny encased within Edward’s coronation chair in Westminster Abbey: Scotland’s sovereignty entombed in the heart of England. Did these roads all lead back to the desperate moment he helped the Knights of the Dragon take it? The stone, on which Scotland’s kings had ever been made, tied the king to the land and through it to the people. Had Scotland rejected him because he hadn’t been crowned upon it?
As the boats edged out into the churning deep of the stretch of water known as the race, Robert watched the green edge of the land diminish. Dunaverty’s walls shone gold in a flash of sunlight. He had hoped to rest there longer, but an army was sighted that morning approaching in the distance and he knew then that they had run him out of his kingdom. He needed a safe haven where his men could rest, where wounds could heal and strength could be regained; somewhere his enemies could not find him, close to friends and allies.
Robert thought of his daughter and his wife, his sisters and his brother, Niall, John of Atholl and Christopher Seton: all those he held dear now scattered to the winds. He thought, too, of his trusted supporters, bishops William Lamberton and Robert Wishart, languishing in one of King Edward’s dungeons, his nephew, Thomas Randolph, and James Stewart, still missing. Sending up a prayer for all of them, he turned his face to the prow. In the distance, the black cliffs of Ireland’s northern coastline loomed. Nearer, just a few miles off that dark forbidding shore, was a tiny speck of an island.
Berwick, Scotland, 1306 AD
As autumn wrapped its withering gold mantle around Britain, the king’s judgements were carried out across the land.
One raw, bright morning in London, when the streets were mottled with the first frost, John of Atholl was taken from the Tower with a host of Scottish prisoners captured at Methven Wood. Passing London Bridge, where the rotting head of Simon Fraser and the skull of William Wallace leered down the Thames from their pikes, the Scots were drawn through the jeering crowds to Smithfield. After the sentences had been passed at Lanercost, John had appealed to Edward, reminding him of the high-born status of those he condemned to death. Here, on Smithfield’s plain, was cruel evidence of the king’s acceptance of this: a gallows thirty feet higher than the others for the earl.
Closing his eyes as he stood on the gallows, in the place where William Wallace had been butchered the year before, John cradled the images of his wife, his son and his daughter in his mind. Asking God to deliver them from harm and to lend all His strength to Robert and his cause, he felt the noose snatch him up, high above London’s roaring mob.
Many miles north, at the royal manor in Burstwick, Elizabeth Bruce stared at the cramped, gloomy chamber she had been ushered into. There was a bed, a table, a small fireplace and a stool. The dour woman at her back told her brusquely that a meal would be brought twice a day, before the door was shut behind her. Elizabeth listened to the key twist in the lock, her thoughts on Marjorie – eleven years old and on her way to a cage in the Tower. After a moment, the queen crossed to the narrow bed and sat on its hard edge, staring numbly at the cracks of light bleeding through the shuttered window.
Not far away, in Lincolnshire, Christian Bruce wept as her fair hair was cut away by one of the Gilbertine sisters of the Sixhills nunnery. To either side of her, Matilda and Margaret knelt on the cold stone floor, sharing the same fate. Locks of hair, blonde, brown and grey, fell around the knees of the three sisters, the only sounds the scrape of the knives and Christian’s muffled sobs. Margaret Randolph, who had been told at Lanercost that her son, Thomas, was alive and in English custody, leaned across and took her sister’s hand, telling her she must take heart – Donald would be well cared for in the royal court, his young life guaranteed by the king. She could do nothing for Christopher, but she could keep her strength and spirits up so as to nourish his child, now growing inside her.
In a turret of Roxburgh Castle, Mary Bruce sat hunched against the bars of her newly made cage, knees drawn up to her chest. She had screamed herself hoarse for the first few days in the prison, feeling the bars and the walls closing in around her. Now, in shocked silence, all her defiance and protest gone, Mary wrapped her arms around her head and wept, not knowing that some thirty miles to the east, in the tallest tower of Berwick Castle, in an iron cage, eight foot by eight and fashioned in the shape of a crown to remind her of her crime, Isabel Comyn was doing the same.
The countess’s face, arms and thighs were livid with bruises, a parting gift from her husband, the Black Comyn, who had come to visit her that first night. Despite her pleas, he had shown no mercy in demonstrating the consequences of her betrayal, first by exercising his right as a husband, forcing her down on the wooden boards of the cage floor, then by beating her with his fists until even her screams were silenced.
Isabel’s bloodshot, swollen eyes flickered open as a ragged cheer came from somewhere beyond the castle walls. She closed them again and curled even tighter around her pain. The sound could only mean another hanging.
Humphrey de Bohun, seated on his palfrey in Berwick’s market square, watched as Niall Bruce and Christopher Seton were drawn, stumbling, through the seething mob. The young men already had nooses looped around their necks, the ends of which were tied to the horses of the royal knights who had escorted them from the castle. Their hands were bound behind their backs. A light rain misted the air, which stank of mud and brine from the River Tweed.
A cheer went up as Niall collapsed in the street and was dragged a few yards on his stomach, before he managed to get to his knees and then to his feet. As he did so, Humphrey saw one man, wearing the white apron of a stonemason, make a fist at the side of his neck and pull on an invisible noose, his face contorting grotesquely. His companions laughed and raised their tankards as the man swaggered back into their midst. The crowds had swelled with these labourers, granted a few hours off their back-breaking work on Berwick’s defences to watch the executions. Many were from towns in Northumberland, which had been sacked and raided by the Scots over the past ten years of the war. All were keen to witness these men swing for their crimes and more appreciation filled the air as other Scots, taken at Kildrummy and Tain, were led into the square behind Niall and Christopher, each man sentenced to be hanged and beheaded.
‘A great day for England.’
Humphrey glanced round at Aymer de Valence’s harsh voice.
The Earl of Pembroke was seated beside him on his horse. He didn’t take his eyes off Niall and Christopher, who were being led towards the gallows erected in the market. ‘A great day indeed.’
Humphrey nodded but said nothing, thinking of the similar displays taking place across Scotland and England. Edward, ensconced in new, comfortable lodgings at Lanercost, wouldn’t witness any of his judgements, but Humphrey had no doubt he would agree.
When ordered by the king to escort the prisoners to Berwick and from there head west to join Prince Edward on his way to Dunaverty Castle, where Bruce was reported to be trapped, Humphrey had thought Edward seemed in rare good spirits. He was still weak, but his skin was flushed with new life and his appetite increased. Humphrey had listened to his instructions, while watching the royal physician place the leeches on the king’s arms. Seeing the colour in Edward’s cheeks, he had been struck by the thought that while the worms fed on him, the king himself seemed to be feeding on the blood of the Scots.
After the sentences had been passed at Lanercost, Humphrey, Ralph de Monthermer and several other barons had privately petitioned the king to temper the harshness of his judgements. John of Atholl’s execution, especially, had left them all uneasy. No one could remember the last time an earl had been executed. Edward, however, was in no mood to be lenient and even when Queen Marguerite implored him to reconsider his treatment of little Marjorie Bruce, he bluntly refused.
Humphrey watched Christopher flinch as someone pelted him with mud. ‘Sir Ralph told me you released Alexander Seton? That he pledged to apprehend Robert if you spared his cousin’s life?’
Aymer’s dark eyes flicked to Humphrey at the questioning tone. ‘He seemed adamant he could bring me Bruce. I judged the promise of the prize to be worth the risk of losing a prisoner who would have otherwise rotted in a cell.’
‘But if he learns you reneged on your word?’ asked Humphrey, gesturing to Christopher. ‘If he hears of his cousin’s execution before he brings you Bruce?’
‘Then he can tell the son of a bitch all about it.’ Aymer’s handsome face hardened. ‘I want Bruce to know exactly what has been done to his family. I want him crushed – body and spirit.’ His gaze moved back to the condemned men.
The soldiers had untied Niall and Christopher from the cruppers of the horses and now compelled them on by the tips of their swords, up the steps of the platform, past the block and axe where they would be beheaded after they were cut down, still alive. When Niall hung back, his white face tilted to the beam above, he had to be marched forcibly up the steps, much to the jeers of the watching crowd.
‘The king’s brother has pissed himself!’ someone shouted. There was a scattering of loud jibes.
Humphrey swallowed back the knot that had collected at the back of his throat. This wasn’t the way noblemen should die, whatever their crimes. He remembered Robert speaking fondly of his carefree younger brother. What measure of grief would assail him when he learned of Niall’s death? Would he feel the way he himself had after Bess? He forced away the pity, angry at himself for feeling it. This was Robert’s doing – this, here, was the price of his betrayal. He deserved this. The thought, however forceful, didn’t quite reach Humphrey’s heart.
‘The whelp told me his brother would avenge him,’ said Aymer, his lip curling as he watched Niall being forced up the steps. ‘I told him he could charge Bruce with that when he sees him in hell. Whether by Seton’s hand or by your men at Dunaverty, the whoreson will soon be brought down and this goddamned war will be over.’
People at the back of the jostling crowds craned their necks the better to see as the ropes of the nooses around Niall and Christopher’s necks were thrown over the beam of the gallows. There were scattered calls of approval from some of the watching men; supporters of John Comyn, glad to see one of his killers receive this justice. Among them was Dungal MacDouall. A cold smile graced the captain’s face.
‘We still have to retrieve the Staff of Malachy and the box containing the
Last Prophecy
and return them to Westminster,’ Humphrey reminded Aymer. ‘Then, perhaps, this will be over.’