Kingdom (52 page)

Movement on the battlements caught his eye. Looking up, Robert saw the Argyll standard being pulled down. The black galley of the MacDougall arms folded in on itself as it was dragged from its pole. He felt grim satisfaction at the sight. Not only was MacDougall one of the greatest obstacles to his reign, but the ambush in the wilds of Lorn had caused the splitting of his company, which had led, ultimately, to the loss of his family. At long last, justice was served.

‘Please! No!’

At the cry, Robert saw an adolescent girl trying to break from the crowd. She was reaching towards a young man being corralled into a group with the rest of the garrison, but was prevented from going any further by one of Angus MacDonald’s men, who had hold of her arm.

The girl’s face was taut with anguish. ‘Let me stay with him – I beg you! He is my husband!’

The desperation in her voice was hard to hear. As Robert watched the soldier got tired of trying to pull her back and cuffed her across the face, sending her reeling. Her husband shouted in rage. Robert crossed quickly to the Islesman, who had raised his hand again, threatening to strike the girl as she cowered on the ground.

‘Get up, bitch!’ growled the soldier.

Robert grabbed the man’s hand, twisting it until he cried out and buckled to his knees.

The soldier’s face changed from anger to shock as he saw who had hold of him. ‘My lord! I . . .’ He trailed off in bewilderment, looking from Robert to the girl, who had scrabbled back and was staring wide-eyed at the king.

‘Do that again and I’ll see you hang. Do you understand me?’

The crowd had fallen into a hush, those directing the prisoners stopping what they were doing to watch. Many of the men looked surprised.

‘I said, do you understand me?’

‘Yes, my lord king,’ murmured the Islesman, flame-faced.

The girl shrank back as Robert came towards her, but when he held out his hand to help her up she took it, glancing nervously at her husband, watching in stunned silence. Her cheek was red where she had been struck.

‘Your husband will not be harmed in my custody,’ Robert assured her. ‘You have my word. When John MacDougall surrenders to me his men will be allowed to go free.’

Tears welled in her eyes. She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Robert addressed the rest of his troops. ‘These men and women are sons and daughters of Scotland. They are under my protection. All of them.’ His eyes raked them until he was satisfied to see many nodding in agreement.

Turning away, Robert caught the gaze of his brother. Edward was frowning in question, but Robert carried on past him, heading to inspect the pile of plunder. Things between him and his brother had been strained, ever since his sickness in winter had seen Edward take command of the army.

When Robert had returned to health, Edward seemed reluctant to relinquish that control – questioning his decisions, arguing against his strategies. Eventually, after the razing of Buchan, Robert had given his brother a mission of his own, in the hope this would temper his growing insubordination. While he marched on Aberdeen, intending to seize the port from the garrison left by Aymer de Valence, Edward was sent into Galloway to deal with the remainder of the Disinherited. He had returned a fortnight ago to join the attack on Argyll. Despite his failure to capture Dungal MacDouall, missing since Glen Trool, Edward had been victorious, bloodying the soil of Galloway with the slaughter of hundreds. The tales of his brutality had left a sour taste in Robert’s mouth. The harrying of Buchan had been necessary, as was the campaign here in Argyll, but while his brother seemed to revel in the death and destruction, he himself had found he could take no pleasure in it.

The passing of King Edward, a year ago, had begun a change in Robert. For so long his war had been against the man; all his hatred, fear and rage directed at the ruthless king, who had taken so much from him. He had thought that to fight him he would have to become him, but now Edward was gone and the landscape of this conflict had changed, Robert realised he did not want to be the same. He knew all too well what it was to lose those he loved and had no desire to see that pain in others. The bitterness of this civil war in contrast to the devotion he had found among his followers had shown him that he didn’t want to be a tyrant, who ruled with an iron fist. He didn’t want to build his throne on the skulls of his enemies. He wanted his people to kneel before him of their own free will, out of honour and respect.

Robert turned at the sound of approaching hooves to see Neil Campbell riding into the castle grounds at the head of a company. He had sent the knight to track down and capture John MacDougall and his old and ailing father, thought to have been on the galley with his son. Neil had been only too keen, eager to hunt down the men responsible for the death of his father and his exile from his lands. Now, seeing a number of Campbell’s men returning with prisoners on their mounts, hands tied to the pommels, Robert’s anticipation rose.

Neil pulled his sweating horse to a halt and swung down from the saddle to greet the king. ‘My lord.’

‘MacDougall?’ asked Robert, glancing past him to the crowd of horsemen.

‘No, my lord,’ answered Neil, pulling off his helm. ‘He and his father fled to their castle on Loch Awe. I’ve left men on the banks to keep watch, but we’re going to need ships to reach them.’

Robert was disappointed, but the news wasn’t hopeless. Angus MacDonald’s galleys had been following their progress down the coast and the lord was due to join them here any day now. They could use his ships to sail up from Loch Etive.

‘We did find a few men hiding in the hills,’ Neil went on.

‘We’ll hold them with the garrison, until the lords of Argyll have surrendered.’ As Robert gestured for his soldiers to come and take the prisoners, Neil spoke up quickly.

‘My lord, there is one who will be of great interest to you.’ The knight called to two of his men, who came forward, marching someone between them.

Robert stopped dead at the sight of the prisoner. His cheeks were hollow from lack of food and his jaw was covered with a beard, but he was nonetheless immediately recognisable. It was Dungal MacDouall, former captain of the army of Galloway, leader of the Disinherited – the man responsible for the beheading of his foster-father and the capture of Thomas and Alexander. MacDouall’s clothes were torn, the white lion of Galloway lost under layers of dirt. The scarred bulb of his wrist stuck out from under his gambeson, the hand taken by Robert in the chaos of that burning village five years ago. He met Robert’s gaze, his eyes glacial, frozen with hatred.

Edward Bruce had seen him too. He pushed through the throng, his face filling with triumph at the sight of the hated enemy, who had evaded him in Galloway. Cormac appeared on the edge of the crowd, his axe in his fist. The Irishman stood motionless for a moment, staring at MacDouall. Then, he rushed at him with a strangled yell. Robert shouted at James Douglas, who lunged and grabbed hold of him. With Thomas Randolph’s help he just managed to restrain the roaring Irishman.

Robert went to his struggling foster-brother. ‘Enough!’ He planted a hand on Cormac’s heaving chest. ‘I’ll not give the devil another body. Not today. I have given him an army already.’

‘I watched that bastard kill my father!’

‘And he delivered my brothers to the gallows,’ said Robert, not taking his eyes off Cormac’s. ‘But I killed John Comyn, his master, and my father killed his. So tell me, where does it end?’

Cormac let out a hoarse cry, but with the sound the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped, his axe falling from his fingers. James and Thomas kept hold of his arms.

‘We have won, Cormac,’ murmured Robert. ‘Now, the killing has to stop. Our kingdom must heal, or we’ll be left with nothing. MacDouall will be tried for his crimes. You have my word. But justice will be served in my court. Not here.’

There were scattered shouts of alarm. Robert caught a rush of motion, but by the time he turned, Edward had launched himself at MacDouall. Robert roared at his brother, but it was too late. Edward took the captain’s head with two brutal strokes of his broadsword.

Chapter 38

St Andrews Cathedral, Scotland, 1309 AD

In mid-March, when spring lambs were growing bolder in the meadows and the snows were receding up the slopes of the mountains, leaving a land fresh and green in their wake, Robert held his first parliament.

The magnates and clergy of Scotland gathered in the chapter house of St Andrew’s Cathedral, filling the hall in front of the dais, upon which their king was raised on a throne. Behind him, strung from wall to wall, was the royal banner of Scotland, the red lion rampant on gold. The banner, hidden by Bishop Wishart before his capture, had been brought by William Lamberton, who arrived in the autumn with the offer of a truce from King Edward II. Robert, overjoyed to see the formidable bishop returned to his circle, agreed the treaty with England, after which Lamberton had busied himself endeavouring to get Robert’s excommunication, already dismissed by a council of the Scottish clergy, formally lifted by the pope.

Lamberton stood on the dais to Robert’s left. To his right was James Stewart. Over the past months, while he led the campaign in Argyll, the high steward had been making preparations for the new government. Already, under his guidance, royal officials had been appointed and, slowly, the administration of the realm was coming back to life. Since Robert wrested Aberdeen from the English, trade had started to flourish with the Low Countries, the North Sea routes opened once more. Even more crucially, King Philippe of France – recalling the alliance the two countries had made at the start of the war – had recently recognised him as king.

There was a strange atmosphere in the hall, men struggling with a mixture of emotions. For many this was a moment of long-awaited celebration, but for others it was a time of mourning, their thoughts on those who weren’t here to witness the fulfilment of thirteen years of struggle. For some, the assembly was the conclusion of their defeat, among them Earl William of Ross, the Earl of Sutherland and John of Menteith, all of whom had raised arms against Robert, but who had since surrendered.

A few men, Neil Campbell and Edward Bruce the most vocal, had been vehemently opposed to clemency for these barons – Ross had seized Robert’s women at Tain and Menteith was responsible for the capture of William Wallace – but the king was adamant that any who now submitted would be accepted into his peace. Forgiveness, he told his men, would be the balm that healed the wounds of this war. But although his campaigns in Buchan and Argyll had seen the last real resistance against him crumble – the great houses of the Comyns and the MacDougalls falling after centuries in power – not all his foes were willing to accept his mercy. The Black Comyn had reputedly died in exile in England, but David, now the Earl of Atholl, Ingram de Umfraville and the earls of Angus and Dunbar remained at large, as did John MacDougall of Argyll, who, with his father, had fled his castle on Loch Awe.

Despite this, the parliament was an occasion for triumph, a day that Robert, in the dark months following the disasters in Methven Wood and Lorn, had not expected to see. The Wheel of Fortune had raised him up and now it was time to thank those who had helped him reach these heights.

One by one they came to him, those rewarded with lands and titles kneeling to perform the act of homage, clasping their hands and placing them between Robert’s as they swore their undying loyalty. Some had been with him from the beginning: men like James Stewart, Nes and the knights of Carrick and Annandale. Others, many of whom fought for Wallace in the first days of the insurrection, had joined him along the way, pledging their swords and their hearts to him: Cormac of Antrim, Earl Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell of Argyll, Gilbert de la Hay of Errol, Lord Angus MacDonald of Islay, Captain Lachlan MacRuarie, James Douglas, Thomas Randolph.

When the vows of homage and fealty were done, Robert was recognised – before all present and in the name of the community of the realm of Scotland – as the rightful king and true heir of Alexander III. By this declaration, John Balliol’s reign was thus erased. On the smooth skin of the parchment it was as if the last seventeen years had never been. Under the skin of the land, countless bones told a different story.

After the parliament drew to a close, the men dispersing to prepare for the evening’s feast, Robert walked the cathedral’s cloisters with James Stewart.

‘Still no word from Richard de Burgh?’ the high steward asked him.

Robert shook his head. He had sent a message to the Earl of Ulster months ago, informing his father-in-law that he had secured Elizabeth’s protection and appealing for him not to take up arms against him, should he be called upon to do so by the English. ‘Could his silence be a good sign? It isn’t a no, after all?’

When James didn’t answer, Robert realised the steward had fallen back, unable to match his stride. He waited for him to catch up, noting again how old the man was looking. The high steward, once formidably tall, was rather stooped these days, his hair more grey than black. He repeated himself when James reached him.

‘My brother-in-law will always do what is in his best interests. If it doesn’t benefit him to join an English campaign against you he may well seek to avoid it. Edward Longshanks had to forgive Ulster his debts in order to encourage him to fight and the new king certainly doesn’t have the kind of influence his father had.’