Authors: Robyn Young
‘The villagers have returned?’
Robert glanced round at Brigid’s question. She had paused on the edge of the building work, a strange expression on her face. He saw she was holding her daughter’s hand.
‘Some.’
The ones who survived
, he thought, but did not say.
Robert realised the look on Brigid’s face was sadness. He had assumed she would be happy to see the new village resurrected from the ashes of the old.
She seemed to read his thoughts, for she forced a smile. ‘Affraig would be glad.’ She paused. ‘My lord, would you give us leave for a while? I should like to visit my aunt’s old home.’
‘Of course. Wait here and I’ll have my men escort you.’
As Brigid nodded her thanks, Elena slipped from her side and went to a cluster of primroses growing on the edge of the dunes. Crouching, the young woman picked the flowers, arranging them into a bunch in her hand. As she lifted them with a smile to show her mother, the scars on her face crinkled. All at once, Robert felt he knew the cause of Brigid’s sadness. He had started to rebuild what had been destroyed in the war, but there were some things that could never be healed. Not even with time. The scars, in his people and in the land, would remain.
Christiana threaded her fingers through his. ‘What is it?’
Robert realised he had been frowning. ‘Sometimes it feels as though the war is over. Then I remember there is still so much to be done – so many battles yet to be won.’ His hand in hers, he led Christiana towards the castle, which towered over the half-built village.
The sense of normality here – the men busy at work and the children at play – was part illusion. Turnberry’s cellars were stockpiled with food to outwait a siege and the men on the battlements had horns and beacons, ready to sound the alert. Carrick was back in his possession, but further south and to the east the English still had dominion over the royal burghs and great castles of his realm: Edinburgh and Perth, Dumfries and Berwick, Roxburgh and, most vital of all, Stirling. The enemy was a shadow, always there, even when the sun was shining.
‘Sir James told me I must win back my kingdom one castle at a time. He just didn’t tell me how.’
‘You miss him.’
It wasn’t a question, but Robert nodded, James Stewart’s face conjured in his mind. The high steward had died several months after the parliament at St Andrews. His surviving son, Walter, a young man barely out of boyhood, had taken on his mantle. Yes, he missed James – missed him dearly.
‘The ladders you have Lord Angus’s men making? They will surely be of use?’
‘For some strongholds, yes.’ Robert shook his head. ‘But grappling ladders and battering rams will not be enough for others. Without siege engines and skilled engineers . . .?’ He motioned to Turnberry’s scarred walls. ‘This was a victory hard won and it has nothing like the defences of Stirling. I watched Longshanks batter that castle for months with his engines and his Greek Fire. In the end, Stirling’s garrison were the ones who opened the gates.’ He exhaled sharply. ‘I feel I am nibbling at the extremities of some enormous beast.’
The two of them entered the castle’s bailey, the guards standing sentry at the gates nodding in greeting. Robert called two others in the guardhouse to gather a party to escort Brigid and Elena. There was more activity here, stables and other outbuildings being erected along the walls. Smoke drifted from campfires. There was a heap of rubbish piled in one corner, left over from the English occupation. Most of it was useless, his men having picked through it for anything of value – weapons and clothing, rope and firewood. Up on the battlements the royal banner of Scotland hung limp in the lifeless afternoon air.
‘Go for its eye.’
Robert glanced at Christiana as they walked across the courtyard. ‘Its eye?’
‘Go for the beast’s eye, or whatever is vulnerable. Then, maybe, you can bring it down.’
‘I’m not sure any part of this beast is vulnerable,’ Robert answered, leading her into the castle.
A few hours later, as dusk was falling and the wind was picking up, driving rain across from the mountains of Arran, Robert, lying awake in his chamber, heard a horn sound on the battlements, signalling the approach of someone. Leaving Christiana asleep in his bed, he shrugged on his robe and made his way down to the courtyard. The gates, shut for the evening, were being hauled open and a company was riding up. Robert smiled, seeing the banner raised in the hand of one rider – three white stars on blue – the arms of James Douglas. The young man had been busy fortifying his lands, since taken from the English.
James dismounted in the courtyard, then took something from the bag strapped to his horse’s saddle and crossed to Robert. ‘My lord king.’
‘It is good to see you, James. What word from the south?’
‘All is quiet for the most part, my lord. Sir Edward and Sir Neil are patrolling the border, but there has been no sign of reinforcements coming north to relieve English garrisons. Five days ago, Sir Gilbert seized six supply wagons from Edinburgh, headed for Dumfries.’
Robert nodded, pleased. He might not be able to tackle the larger castles directly, but he could disrupt their supply lines; eventually starve them into submission.
‘There is one thing, though, that has come from England, my lord.’ James raised the object he had taken from the bag. It was a leather scroll-case. ‘A man carrying this was caught by our scouts trying to cross the border near Annandale. When questioned, he insisted it was delivered directly to you. He said it would be in your interest to receive it – that it was from an old friend. The scouts brought him to me.’
Robert took the case. ‘Do you know what it is?’
‘No, my lord. It wasn’t for me to read.’
Robert nodded with a half-smile. He put his fingers in the top of the opening and pulled out the rolled parchment inside. Opening it, his eyes went first to the seal on the bottom. It was one he recognised, but hadn’t seen in years: a winged serpent stamped in red wax. It was the seal of the Knights of the Dragon. His brow furrowing in uneasy surprise, Robert read the message. ‘The enemy wants to make an exchange,’ he murmured.
‘An exchange?’ James stared at him. ‘An exchange for what, my lord?’
Roxburgh Castle, Scotland, 1312 AD
Mary Bruce started from a fitful sleep. Moonlight slanted in through the tower’s slit of a window, gleaming on the iron bars of her cage. A raw April wind moaned through the aperture, bringing with it a mist of rain. Thinking it was the cold that had woken her, Mary pulled her thin blanket tighter around her body. The thing was teeming with lice, but these past six years she had learned to live with them crawling on her skin and in her hair; learned to live with her cramped confinement and the offerings of watery porridge and gristly stews, in the early days sometimes flavoured with a glob of spit from the guards. She had learned to live with it all by pushing everything that was good and light deep down inside herself – by burying hope. Now, she was numb, moving mechanically through the same routine, day in, day out.
There were sounds outside the cell door: a deep grunt followed by something heavy hitting the door. Mary sat bolt upright, the blanket falling back. The moonlight faded as rain began to hammer on the roof of the tower. She listened, tense, over the sound of the downpour. Once, three summers ago, a guard had come in the night. Pinning her down on the boards of the cage, one hand around her throat, he had pulled up her dress and tried to force himself on her. She had fought like a wild thing, twisting and scratching, screaming hoarsely until another guard had come in and hauled him out. She hadn’t seen the man again, but night sounds always woke her now.
After a pause, Mary heard the rattle of a key in the lock. She scuttled into the far corner of her cage, where a cloth was strung up to conceal her bucket. Her spine banged painfully against the bars as the door opened. A figure entered. She could see his silhouette through the cloth. Her bladder felt full, heavy. She felt a fierce urge to void it, but was desperate not to for shame. She bit her lip hard. The cage door creaked as it was opened.
‘Come out.’ It was the voice of Sim, one of her night guards. Of all of them, he had always been the least unpleasant. ‘Quick now.’
Mary stayed where she was, uncomprehending.
After a moment, Sim entered with a curse. Bent almost double, he made his way over to her. Taking her by the arms, he pulled her from the cage. ‘Hush now,’ he urged as she cried out. His eyes were wide in the gloom. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Understand?’
Mary shook her head, frozen in confusion, but she didn’t struggle as he led her through the cell door. She gasped as her foot caught on something. Looking down, she saw a figure slumped against the wall. It was Osbert, her other night guard. Down through the tower, her legs trembling from fear and lack of use, Mary stumbled on the steep steps, but Sim kept a firm grip on her and didn’t let her fall. At the bottom, he shrugged off his cloak and threw it around her shoulders.
‘It’s cold out.’
Mary stood shivering under the weight of the garment, staring at Sim in bewilderment as he unbolted the tower door, then checked outside.
She sucked in a breath as he ushered her out, the rain striking her like needles. Sim hastened her across the yard, her bare feet splashing through puddles. The moon had vanished, obscured by clouds. Through the bailey, past the stables, the black hulks of towers rising all around, he led her to a small gate in the walls. The rain pelting them, he unbolted it.
Beyond, a path wound down the steep mound on which the castle was built, between two rivers. Sim didn’t take the path, but headed instead alongside the curtain walls. Mary’s feet slipped in mud, threatening to tumble her down the bank. There was a foul stink as they passed a latrine chute where the ground was slimy. As the wall ended, the mound sloped down to the broad waters of the Tweed. Sim paused, glancing up at the battlements, then took her hand and guided her down the bank. In the rain-soaked gloom, Mary saw the outline of a boat, moored among the reeds. There were two figures inside.
She tried to resist Sim’s pull on her arm as she saw them, but he compelled her forward. As one of the figures in the boat stood and reached out his hand, Mary looked over her shoulder at Roxburgh’s walls, towering behind her. If she screamed, the guards on patrol would surely be alerted. But, then, they would just put her back in the cage. As the hand grabbed hers, she didn’t fight, but allowed the men to help her into the boat. She sat on a bench at the prow, shivering madly inside the wet cloak, as Sim pushed the boat off and jumped in behind her. The splash of oars was drowned by the bubbling of rain on the water. The men didn’t speak until they reached the north bank of the Tweed, at the edge of woods. One jumped out and pulled the boat in, allowing the others to disembark.
Under the shelter of the trees, Sim took his cloak from Mary’s shoulders. ‘You’ll go with them now.’
‘Where?’ she asked him, her voice quavering with cold and fear.
Sim didn’t answer, but turned to the men. ‘My payment?’
One of them had a bag over his shoulder. He held it out to Sim, but kept hold of it when the guard reached for it. ‘This buys your silence.’
Mary felt a new rush of fear as she caught his English. Most of her guards had been Scots.
‘You have my word.’
Taking the bag, Sim ducked off through the trees and disappeared. As the two Englishmen led her through the woods, Mary heard the whinny of a horse. Waiting in the darkness was a small company of five or so riders. After she was hoisted into a saddle in front of one of them, the man dug in his spurs and the horse took off along a track.
Mary clung to the pommel. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked. But her voice was a whisper that the wind and the rain and the pummelling hooves snatched away without answer.
Some time later, after several miles, they came to a halt by the banks of a fast-flowing burn. The rain had ceased and the moon, sailing out from behind the clouds, turned the waters silver. Mary, chilled to her bones, realised it was a ford. She was expecting the men to cross, but instead, the one she had ridden with dismounted and helped her down.
‘Go,’ he said.
She shook her head, not understanding.
‘You’re free,’ he told her, digging his foot in the stirrup and swinging into the saddle.
She stayed where she was, not trusting his words. What cruel trick were they playing? Hoof-beats approached. More riders appeared on the other side of the ford, steam pluming from the mouths of their horses. Mary stepped back from the water, terrified by the sight of yet more men coming for her out of the darkness.
One jumped down from his horse. ‘Mary!’
At that voice she felt hope – the bright thing she had buried all these years – come bursting up through the layers of desolation and despair. She cried out with the strength of it, almost sinking to her knees. The man ran across the ford, his feet splashing through the water. His hood was back and she could see his face in the moonlight. It was him. It was her brother.
Edward took Mary in his arms, holding her tightly as she wept.
Chapter 42