Authors: Robyn Young
James Douglas emerged from the shadows beyond the pool of firelight, his hair crow-black against his white skin, strangely untouched by the summer sun. James, who had lost his lands and his father to the English, had recently turned twenty-one. The softness of youth had all but faded from his face, his features hardening into those of a determined, intense young man. With him was Niall Bruce, the youngest of Robert’s four brothers, as tall and dark as James yet lighter in manner, with a smile for his brother as he approached. Robert frowned, seeing a third figure behind them – a sandy-haired youth with narrow-set eyes. His nephew, Thomas Randolph, hadn’t been invited to the council. Robert thought to dismiss him, but stopped himself. Thomas, who had recently inherited his father’s lands in Roxburgh, had brought a good number of men to his company. He didn’t have to like the youth, but he ought to give him a chance to prove himself. Besides, he had promised his half-sister, Margaret, he would look after her son on the campaign.
As these young squires sat by the fire, Thomas looking around self-importantly, the last men arrived – James Stewart, Simon Fraser and Alexander Seton. Alexander took the goblet that was handed to him, without thanks. Not meeting Robert’s eye, the lord from East Lothian stood apart from the others.
Robert surveyed the thirteen men, whose faces were bruised by the firelight. There were notable absences in the form of his brothers, Thomas and Alexander, and the bishops of St Andrews and Glasgow, but in the main those here present were, through trust, need or circumstance, his closest advisers. Together they formed a disparate council: great magnates like John of Atholl and James Stewart who had served King Alexander and remembered well the days of peace before the war with England, and hard-bitten warriors like Neil Campbell, Simon Fraser and Gilbert de la Hay, who had cultivated reputations for violence under William Wallace and been lords of the Forest in the glory days of the insurrection. All listened, silent to a man, while their king spoke, the thud of axe-blades and the splintering of trees rising all around as the army laid claim to the woods.
Malcolm was the first to break the silence when Robert had finished. ‘So there’s maybe a thousand in their camp, most of them infantry – but what of Valence and his knights, my lord? Do we have any idea of the numbers within the town?’
Robert looked over at him. Long before Malcolm inherited the earldom of Lennox, with the blue jewel of Loch Lomond at its heart, he had been among the force of Scots who had attacked him and his father at Carlisle, where the Bruce had been governor under King Edward. Later, when Robert joined the rebellion against the English, he and Malcolm had fought alongside one another, but it wasn’t until five months ago, when the man pledged his sword to him in the shadow of Dumbarton Rock, that Robert had come to know him. That knowledge had since deepened into trust and the beginnings of friendship. ‘Based on the numbers seen in the spring by my scouts there could be up to a thousand within Perth’s walls.’
‘What of the reports we’ve had since?’ questioned Niall Bruce. ‘In Galloway we heard tell of many thousands terrorising the city.’
‘I think we can judge those accounts to be exaggerations swelled by fear,’ Robert assured his younger brother. ‘We believe they have two thousand. No more.’
‘Any sign of sentries on the outskirts?’ asked Simon Fraser, looking between Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell.
‘No,’ answered Neil, after a thoughtful pause. ‘But then with Perth’s strong defences and such large numbers in their camp I suppose the arrogant sons of bitches feel secure enough without them.’
‘We did see soldiers questioning people outside the town,’ Gilbert reminded him, swallowing down the last of his bread. ‘They are on the alert at least.’
‘As is to be expected,’ said John of Atholl, his eyes flicking to Robert. ‘Valence wanted you to come here. That much was clear from the reports.’
‘The lack of sentries plays to our advantage,’ Robert told his men, ready to set out the plan he’d been mulling over. ‘It will allow us to mount an assault on their camp.’ Picking up one of the sticks his servants had set aside for kindling, he used it to sketch a line on the ground. ‘The English camp is here, just outside the west gate.’ With his boot he nudged a pine cone into the place. ‘The road leading to it has good cover of trees and we would be hidden for some distance as we approach.’ He flicked the tip of the stick in a long line towards the cone. ‘Using a strong force of cavalry we would attack at dawn from the west, doing as much damage as possible, before retreating to our position here.’ He scanned their faces. ‘I know Valence. He will ride out in pursuit – him and all his knights. That will be our chance.’
‘For an ambush?’ said John of Atholl, nodding in contemplation.
‘Yes. By the main body of our army, that will be lying in wait.’
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ said Christopher Seton, ‘but if the English outnumber us two to one how can we be sure of victory?’
‘The majority of their horses appear to be paddocked outside the walls. In the raid we will target the animals as well as the foot soldiers, limiting the number of cavalry that can pursue us. I believe we can create better odds with the initial attack.’
‘Who will lead the raid, my lord?’ James Douglas wanted to know, his blue eyes glinting in the flame-light.
‘Sir Neil and Sir Gilbert.’ Robert glanced at the two men, who nodded. ‘But they will need strong riders with them, Master James.’ As the young man gave a keen smile, Robert noticed James Stewart staring at him. Disapproval at the role assigned to his nephew and godson was plain in the high steward’s face.
‘One armoured knight is worth ten foot soldiers, my lord. You can be sure Valence has several hundred heavy cavalry under his command. They will still outmatch us considerably.’
Robert studied their expressions, seeing approval in some, but uncertainty in others now the high steward had expressed his doubts. ‘Valence drew me to him with the blood of Perth’s people. I will do the same with the blood of his men. We will have the high ground, the cover of the woods and surprise on our side. We have the advantage.’
‘Valence drew you knowing full well you would not surrender yourself willingly.’ Alexander Seton’s eyes were on Robert as he stepped from the shadows. ‘Those being hanged in Perth are casualties of a war that has seen too much Scots’ blood spilled for any of us to falter now through pity. Do you not think he will have made plans of his own? I say again what I have said since we left Galloway: I believe you are walking into a trap.’
Robert’s jaw tightened. It was a long time since the lord, who had fought in his company the longest of any here, had trusted his judgement. ‘Valence lured me because he didn’t want to waste weeks searching for me. Sir Neil is right – he is an arrogant son of a bitch. I expect he thinks I will come, we will fight and he will beat me.’ He kept his tone confident despite the unease that crept into his mind at Alexander’s warning.
Even when they were brothers-in-arms, bound by the same oaths, Aymer de Valence had hated him. Robert thought of Llanfaes: the town burning and streams of blood in the icy streets as he and Aymer went at one another in that hovel, fuelled by bitter rivalry, their blades still slick with Welsh blood. He recalled the violent joy he’d felt slamming his mailed fist into the knight’s mouth; the crunch and give of the bastard’s teeth. When he first broke his oaths to King Edward to fight for Scotland, Aymer’s hatred of him had been vindicated. Years later, when he returned to Edward’s peace, kneeling before the king in Westminster Hall to beg his forgiveness, Aymer continued to believe him a traitor. His obsession with proving it eventually lost him all respect in the royal court. The irony was he had been the only one who was right.
An image flashed in Robert’s mind: William Wallace being taken down from the gallows while still alive to be opened on the executioner’s table, his naked, ruined body finally beheaded and dismembered in accordance with Edward’s orders for the gratification of the mob. Robert knew Aymer didn’t want to deliver him to King Edward simply for the sake of justice. The earl hoped to witness first-hand his suffering, degradation and death.
‘This is a great risk,’ Alexander continued into Robert’s silence. ‘Whatever men we lose in a raid or a battle will mean fewer in our lines when we face the full strength of England. We lost ten thousand on the field at Falkirk,’ he reminded them all. ‘We have less than a tenth of that number now. King Edward’s cavalry will cut through us like we are corn.’
‘What do you suggest we do, Alexander?’ demanded Edward Bruce. ‘Lay down our arms and give ourselves up?’
Robert raised his hand as Neil Campbell and Gilbert de la Hay began speaking. ‘It is true. I cannot face King Edward’s army on the field of battle. Not yet. But what I can do,’ he finished, locking eyes with Alexander, ‘by liberating Perth, is inspire more loyal men to join me.’
Silence followed.
‘Agreed,’ said John of Atholl, breaking the tension.
When the earl’s accord was added to by most of the others, Robert drained his goblet and tossed the dregs into the fire. ‘Get some sleep, all of you. We make our preparations at dawn.’
As he headed for his tent, James Stewart followed, calling his name.
Robert turned with a rough exhalation. ‘I am tired, James. Let us speak in the morning.’
‘Your campaign in Galloway failed to vanquish those of your countrymen still against you, my lord. The whereabouts of MacDouall and the Disinherited remains unknown. But we do know the Black Comyn is raising his kinsmen in Argyll against you. The English are not the only threat you face.’
‘I cannot change what happened in Dumfries, however much you will it.’ Robert kept his voice low as the men began to disperse, heading for their own campfires. He saw Christopher Seton try to catch Alexander’s arm, but the older man shrugged off his cousin’s attempt to talk and moved off alone.
‘But you can make reparation,’ insisted James. ‘The Comyns may not forgive your crime, but their family has always responded to the lure of power. Grant the Black Comyn a position of authority in your court and he may relent.’
Robert caught something imploring in the steward’s brown eyes, creased at the corners with age and worry. He felt a pang of regret for the dissolution of their friendship, but banished it forcefully, weary of trying to appease his detractors – he had enough of them outside this circle. ‘My grandfather once tried to reason with the Comyns and they left him to rot in a cell in Lewes. There is no reparation.’
‘More than anything, your grandfather wanted you to break that cycle of hatred,’ the high steward called after him.
‘You’re wrong, James,’ said Robert, turning as he reached his tent. ‘What my grandfather wanted, more than anything, was for me to be king.’
Ignoring the troubled glances from Nes and his servants, Robert pushed into the tent. Fionn followed him in, flopping down on the blankets. Light danced around the interior as the flame of a candle guttered in the disturbed air. Robert shrugged off his gold cloak, the red lion crumpling in on itself as it fell to the floor. He unbuckled his belt and removed his broadsword. The high steward had presented him with the blade on the night of his enthronement. It was a beautiful weapon: forty inches of steel with an eight-inch grip made of horn and a tear-drop pommel of gold, a fine replacement for his grandfather’s old sword, broken at Dumfries. Robert tossed it on to the blankets and sat, pulling off his coif of mail and the padded arming cap beneath. His scalp, dampened by sweat, prickled as the air dried his skin.
Lying back, his muscles stretched and sore, he listened to the sounds of the army settling down across the ridge. He closed his eyes, craving sleep, but was unable to stop James’s words repeating in his mind.
More than anything, your grandfather wanted you to break that cycle of hatred.
It was three months, almost to the day, since he’d been crowned on the Moot Hill and there, at the ancient place of enthronement, heard the names of Scotland’s kings read aloud and his own –
Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Lord of Annandale
– added to their number. Three months. John Comyn’s body would be rotted under the soil. Worms might still be sucking on the remnants of his flesh, his organs liquid, bones bared to the earth. Robert imagined the poisons seeping up from his remains to infect the ground above, fragments of him collected by the soles of men and carried far and wide.
His mind replayed the moment the deed had been done: his dirk rising as Comyn came at him, the brief resistance of flesh, before it yielded to a firm shove of the dagger, steel grazing bone as it slid between ribs. Blood flowed hot over his hand and spattered on the tiled floor of the Greyfriars Church. Comyn staggered back, grasping the high altar, the hilt of the dirk protruding obscenely from his side. It was Christopher Seton who had ended the man’s life with a desperate thrust of his sword, but Robert knew that first strike had been a mortal one.
As he opened his eyes the images in his mind vanished like smoke on the wind. Candlelight flooded his vision and the world returned to the solid present. He looked over at the pack Nes had stowed safely in the tent. The leather had sagged and he could see the outline of the box inside. He thought of the moment it had jolted from his fingers to crack on the jewelled floor of Westminster Abbey, the moment he had seen, through the split in its side, that its black lacquered interior contained no ancient prophecy; empty of anything except its own reflection. He thought of the man who tried to kill him in Ireland, his corpse laid out in the cellar of Dunluce Castle, and James Stewart’s shock when he recognised King Alexander’s squire, the last man to see the king alive, all the disparate threads of a tapestry joining to make a dark, disturbing scene.