Kingdom (51 page)

While everyone’s attention was on the food, Edward rose, his white mantle, strung with emeralds, falling heavily around him. A few people got to their feet, but he waved them back down. His hand briefly brushing Piers’s shoulder, he headed from the dais and out through a side door. Ignoring a man in a boar’s mask, who had pressed a maid up against the passage wall and had a hand inside her gown, Edward hastened through the shadowy maze of corridors.

Inside the Painted Chamber, the warm light from the braziers glowed in the gold of the murals. Beneath a scene of Chastity conquering Lust, a firm hand pressing down the leering Vice, Edward halted, staring at the canopied bed. It had been decorated with scores of ribbons and bells, green leaves and fragrant herbs strewn across the covers – emblems of fertility. His hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to tear down the foolish garlands – burn them in the braziers’ coals. Hearing a rap on the door, he turned.

Piers entered, his face hidden by the wolf mask. ‘My lord king.’

Edward crossed the chamber in a few strides. After pushing the door shut, sliding the bolt in place, he shoved Piers against the wood, pulling up the mask so he could get at his mouth. He kissed the man hard. Piers drew back after a moment, his lips wet, surprise in his eyes at Edward’s ardour. Then, he smiled.

They fell together on to the bed, the bells jingling madly, ribbons swirling down around them as they rolled across the covers. Edward wrenched off Piers’s silk surcoat. Opening the man’s shirt, he paused, devouring the sight: an expanse of muscle and smooth skin he had mapped so well with hands and tongue. This was what he wanted – this man he had loved since he had known how – not some pale, plump girl-child, who, like the war in Scotland, was just another product of his father’s ambition. He leaned forward to kiss Piers’s neck.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Ignore it,’ murmured Piers, reaching up to grasp his shoulders.

The knock came again, more insistent. Edward cursed. Jumping up, he drew one of the curtains around the bed, concealing Piers, then strode to the door. Pushing his hands through his hair, he opened it.

Humphrey was outside. The earl frowned on seeing him. ‘My lord? Is everything all right? You left the feast.’

‘I was feeling unwell,’ Edward responded curtly.

‘Do you need your physician?’

‘No. Just a moment to rest. Alone.’

Humphrey’s eyes flicked into the chamber.

Edward wondered if he had seen Piers leave. He moved to block Humphrey’s view of the bed. ‘I will return shortly.’

Humphrey put a hand out to the stop the door closing. ‘My lord, I realise you have had much on your mind with the coronation, but we need to discuss the matter of Scotland as soon as possible. We need to make preparations – strengthen our garrisons in case Bruce attacks.’

‘He doesn’t have the strength to mount an assault on our castles.’

‘Not yet perhaps, but soon he may have.’ Humphrey’s brow furrowed further. ‘My lord, are you not concerned that you could lose lands your father fought so hard to win for you – lands on which so much silver and blood has already been sacrificed?’

Edward bristled at the comment, having just heard something similar from Charles de Valois. ‘My father’s obsession left England in a state of suffering, Humphrey. For now, the Scots pose no danger to us. Bruce is clearly intent on dealing with enemies among his own people. I will ensure that continues by negotiating a truce with him. When I am ready I will tackle him, but not until England is healed.’

‘A truce?’

‘Yes. I intend to send one of the prisoners with the offer, as soon as the celebrations are done.’

‘Which prisoner, my lord?’

But Edward was already closing the door.

Portchester Castle, England, 1308 AD

‘On your feet.’

William Lamberton, Bishop of St Andrews, stared up at the two guards who had entered. He shielded his eyes from the flame in the lantern held aloft by one of them. The chains around his wrists rattled. ‘What do you want with me?’ His voice, which had once boomed sermons around churches, had become a dry whisper after almost two years in this dank darkness.

‘The king has a mission for you,’ said the guard. ‘Now, get up.’

Lamberton rose with difficulty. The irons that bound him to the wall of his cell allowed him some room to move, but not much. His muscles had grown weak from lack of use. He watched, his heart quickening, as the guard stooped to unlock his manacles.

As they led him, on trembling legs, down a foul-smelling passage, Lamberton glimpsed a figure, hunched in the shadows of a cell some distance from his. He knew who it was, even before the light from the lantern bled through the bars into the cell, briefly illuminating his old friend and mentor, the Bishop of Glasgow.

Robert Wishart’s tonsure had grown out and his hair sprouted wild from his crown. His jaw was covered with a patchy beard and his skin was as wrinkled and yellow as old parchment. His eyes were open, staring in Lamberton’s direction, but his once blue pupils were filmed with cataracts. The old man had gone blind during his incarceration.

‘Brother!’

Wishart let out a surprised croak at Lamberton’s call. ‘William? Is that you?’

‘It is me, old friend.’

‘Come on,’ the guard said roughly.

Lamberton twisted his head towards Wishart’s cell as they marched him down the passage. ‘Keep faith, brother!’

Chapter 37

The Pass of Brander, Scotland, 1308 AD

The boulder smashed into the side of the mountain, pulverising the bedrock in a cloud of dust. The men, riding fast and furious along the narrow ridge below, lifted their shields as loose rock and earth cascaded down on them. A large chunk of stone struck Robert’s shield, the impact knocking him off balance. As his boot slipped through his stirrup, he fell heavily against the pommel of his saddle, losing his grip on the shield, which tumbled away down the mountainside. His horse lurched, pitching him half from the seat, until he was hanging precariously out over the pass, his grip on the reins the only thing that saved him from plunging into the dark green waters of Loch Awe below.

‘
My lord!
’

Robert barely heard the shout over the wind screaming through the visor of his helm. As he struggled to right himself, his horse galloping dangerously close to the edge, his mind flashed with a vision of King Alexander falling from the cliffs at Kinghorn. Then, someone rode up swiftly alongside him. He caught a glimpse of red hair as the rider bent forward, hand outstretched. With a lunge, Cormac caught hold of the bridle. Teeth clenched with the effort, he pulled the horse back on track, enabling Robert to haul himself upright and find his footing on the stirrup. The pass tapered ahead, curving out around an outcrop of rock. Cormac fell back, allowing the king to ride on.

Robert’s heart thrummed in his chest as he manoeuvred the agitated horse around the tight turn, stones skittering out from under its hooves. The palfrey, seized from the Black Comyn’s stables, was used to the rolling, fertile plains of Buchan, not this land of craggy peaks and thundering winds, where the heads of the mountains were cloaked in cloud and lochs were vast mirrors of ever changing sky. Sweat poured down his face stinging his eyes, the slit of world before him little more than a blur of motion and colour.

Another stone sailed up from one of the galleys, this time striking the ridge some feet below the pass. The crash of it echoed around the hillside. There were three ships on the water, where the expanse of Loch Awe narrowed to become a river flanked on one side by towering black cliffs and on the other by the hulking mass of Ben Cruachan, around the lower slopes of which the Pass of Brander wound. Each galley was mounted with a siege engine. Robert, risking a glance over the edge, caught sight of men rolling more stones across the decks. As the arms of the mangonels sprang up another two missiles were hurled towards the pass. They struck in rapid succession, but only succeeded in showering the riders with scree. This time, however, after the stones had bounced away down the hillside, the rumbling continued, growing louder.

For a moment, Robert thought it was an echo, but looking up he saw the cause. Three huge boulders were crashing down from the heights of Ben Cruachan, heading straight for the ridge. With a jolt of shock, he realised the enemy was going to try to do to him what he had done to the English at Glen Trool. Roaring a warning, his shout ringing around his helm, Robert wrenched his horse to a halt, forcing those behind to pull their own steeds up short. Many of his men had seen the danger and were stopping, faces tilted up the mountain, trying to determine the boulders’ trajectory. A few rode on, oblivious.

Robert watched, helpless, as the rocks struck the pass, sweeping six men – Lennox’s by their colours – out into the air. They screamed as they fell, their horses twisting and thrashing, to plunge into the dark loch. Robert’s jaw clenched as he heard the faint cheers from the decks of the galleys – another victory for John MacDougall. The Lord of Argyll, he knew, was on one of those ships. MacDougall had been waiting for him to attempt the pass, the route to his chief seat and the very heart of his lordship. Knowing Robert aimed at Dunstaffnage Castle, he had set his trap here, hoping to prevent him from reaching it.

In the wake of the boulders, men appeared on the slopes above. Many were barelegged, clad in the short woollen tunics favoured by Highlanders. One, a giant even at this distance, leapt on to an outcrop of rock and lifted his axe to the sky. His savage cry was taken up by others, who began to charge down the steep hillside. There were hundreds of them.

‘Where the hell is Douglas?’

Robert recognised the voice behind him as Gilbert de la Hay’s. He reached for his sword. Dear God, these men were going to force them off the mountain. There were too many. They would be overrun. More stones were flying up from the galleys, smashing into the ridge. One struck a knight from Carrick, killing him instantly. Another caved in the head of a horse. Mounts were panicking, rearing up.

All at once, the sky behind the incoming Argyllsmen darkened, filling with arrows. Robert’s eyes followed the feathered barbs as they arced upwards, before stabbing down at the running men. Many struck – punching into spines, necks and buttocks. Men fell in mid-stride, some flying head over heels down the slope, cracking skulls on rocks, breaking bones. The giant on the outcrop arched suddenly, dropping his axe as he tumbled into space. The huge man hit the pass just in front of Robert, his neck snapping.

After the storm of arrows came men, their own battle cries reverberating. Inside his helm, Robert grinned in triumphant relief as James Douglas swept down on the Argyllsmen from the high slopes of Ben Cruachan, leading a host of men from his uncle’s lordships. Turning in his saddle, Robert yelled an instruction at Nes, a few riders behind. The knight grabbed the hunting horn that hung from his baldric. Setting it to his lips, he blew three fast notes. Those further down the pass, hearing the signal, spurred their horses on.

John MacDougall’s galleys let fly a desperate barrage of stones, but now the king’s men were out of range and the cumbersome ships couldn’t match the speed of the horses. The ridge descended, dropping close to the water as the river cut a course down to Loch Etive and, finally, the sea. In the far distance, a bridge appeared, spanning the rushing water. A few miles beyond lay the object of their race through the mountains – Dunstaffnage Castle.

Dunstaffnage Castle, Argyll, 1308 AD

Robert stood in the castle grounds, close to the chapel and its graveyard. The evening light burnished the towers and turned the windows of the many outbuildings to molten gold. Lavender and rosemary perfumed the air, coming from the kitchen gardens. Birds chattered in the treetops on the edge of the promontory, beyond which the mouth of Loch Etive opened into the Firth of Lorn. In the distance, across the water, the sun was starting to set behind the mountains of Mull. It was a tranquil scene, very much at odds with the one just hours before, when Dunstaffnage had fallen to his company.

MacDougall’s scouts, seeing Robert’s men coming along the pass, had tried to burn the bridge in a desperate attempt to prevent them reaching the castle, but Robert’s forces, led by Edward Bruce and Neil Campbell, had swept across, scattering the smouldering piles of logs and straw, riding down the fleeing men. Most of MacDougall’s force had been with their lord on the loch or above the pass, leaving only a small garrison to defend the castle, which capitulated after a relentless two-day assault.

Lines of men, women and children were being led out through the gatehouse, across the drawbridge. Robert’s soldiers escorted them, hauling anything of value to a pile of plunder in front of the chapel, where others sorted sacks of grain and barrels of meat from silverware and chests of money. Among them was James Douglas, who had joined them after leading the successful attack on the slopes of Ben Cruachan.

Douglas was quickly making a name for himself, having recently won back his father’s lands in a daring assault on his castle, held by men in the pay of Robert Clifford. Thomas Randolph was with him, helping to separate the garrison, who were to be taken prisoner, from the women, children and servants. The two young men had become friends in recent months and Robert was pleased to see the influence James had over his nephew. Gone was the sullen youth who had fought for the English against him. Thomas was fast becoming a valuable member of his company.