Authors: Robyn Young
Perth, Scotland, 1312 AD
The walls of Perth towered over the moat, a mass of solid darkness against the midnight sky. The black waters were still, except for the occasional bubble or ripple as things moved below. Mist curled off the surface like smoke. It was a murky night with only a thin waxing moon to light it, and cold for May.
Robert crouched on the banks where the reeds grew tall. He heard a croak, followed by a splash, as a frog leapt to safety from the men crawling up to the water’s edge. There were hundreds of men, concealed by the reeds and made one with the shadows by their dark clothes and mud-smeared skin. Robert’s gaze travelled up the smooth stone face of the town walls to the battlements above. He caught the flicker of torchlight, but some distance along the walkway, towards the west gate. He thought of the message that had come to him in Turnberry, the image of the dragon stamped in wax still vivid in his mind. It seemed the information given about the town watch was right. So far, so good.
He glanced at his brother, hunkered beside him. Edward’s face was daubed with mud, leaving only his eyes to glint in the gloom. His brother hadn’t wanted them to come here – had protested vehemently against it in council and, when overruled, warned Robert in private that he was foolish even to consider acting on their enemy’s proposal. Now they had Mary back, Edward believed they should simply renege on the deal, but Robert had no doubt his daughter, his wife and his other sisters would suffer the consequences of such betrayal. William Lamberton had spoken of the harsh conditions he and Bishop Wishart had been kept in and the change in his sister Mary told him all he needed to know of her terrible ordeal. He wouldn’t risk the comfort Humphrey had promised him Marjorie and Elizabeth were being kept in. Besides, there was another, more critical, reason to act.
To the English, Perth was an artery, by which supplies could be channelled to other strongholds in their dominion, most notably Stirling. As a walled town its defences were impressive. The River Tay that ran through it allowed supplies in by sea and an escape route out. It was well garrisoned by English soldiers and by Scots loyal to them. Christiana had told him to go for the vulnerable part of his enemy and, by their own hand, the English earls involved in this conspiracy had weakened Perth – giving him information not only on the town watch, but also numbers of the garrison and where they were stationed. This deal with the devil offered the opportunity he had been waiting for.
Yet still, as he studied the walls before him, Robert couldn’t help but think of that summer’s evening, six years ago, when he had looked down on Perth from the fringes of Methven Wood. The English had drawn him here then, too. Was his brother right – was he making a mistake? Was the wheel about to shift again? Robert looked over his shoulder into the shadows, picking out the gleam of many eyes. Over the past years, his force had grown from a few hundred war-weary men to several thousand. He had led them all here to this place, through fire and battle, desperation and fear, hunger and heartache. It was time for one last push; time to throw caution to the wind and take back his kingdom.
Rising into a crouch, Robert moved forward, hefting the rope ladder, made by Islay’s fishermen, over his shoulder. The iron grappling hook attached to the end bumped against his back. Slowly, he made his way down the bank, into the black water. The ooze beneath him shelved suddenly, but he kept his balance and kept going. He had sent a lone man across earlier to check the depth. At its deepest point the moat only came up to the chin of a medium-sized man. It was, however, freezing, snatching his breath as it washed up over his waist. He was dressed, like his foot soldiers, in hose and hide boots, with only a leather aketon for armour. All of them had forgone mail, too heavy for their task tonight.
Robert checked behind to see his men following – lords and earls, knights and peasants – moving slow and silent through the moat in the wake of their king, most up to their necks in blackness. If anyone looked down from the battlements now, he thought, they would see a tide of heads gliding towards the walls. Robert halted a few feet from the jutting base of the defences. Something switched past his thigh – an eel or a fish. The others who carried rope ladders fanned out to either side of him. He had made them practise this for days, back in Turnberry. It would be harder here, in water, but the movement was the same.
Eight rope ladders were hurled up, one after the other, over the walls. The grappling hooks made dull clinks as they struck the stone walkway beyond. Robert waited, holding his breath. No shouts of alarm sounded, no bells, no running footsteps. He pulled on the ladder, testing it was secure. The three-pronged hook held fast. Carefully, his muscles straining with the effort, the ropes twisting and creaking under his weight, Robert began to climb. His men followed, placing dirks between their teeth, swords, hammers and axes dangling from straps and sheaths. With water trickling from them, their hands and faces black with mud, it was as if the moat itself had come to life and was crawling up the walls of Perth.
Piers Gaveston pulled his hauberk over his gambeson, while his squire struggled to attach the greaves to his shins. The bell of St John’s was clanging, echoed by other bells around Perth’s walls, but their ringing was gradually being drowned out by the approaching roar of many men and the clash of weapons, interspersed by screams. Piers cursed and kicked out at his squire, still fumbling with the buckles of the greaves.
‘They’ll have overrun the town before you finish, you fat-fingered fool! Go! Saddle my horse!’
The squire fled.
As he swung his green mantle, emblazoned with six golden eagles, around his shoulders, Piers heard shouts outside, much closer now. He crossed to the window. The two-storey hall, one of several commandeered by him and his men on their arrival in Perth, looked out over the market square, partially lit by the ghostly glow of lanterns. Piers fixed on the scores of men flooding in from the main street behind a fleeing rabble of citizens, caught outside their homes. Shock jolted through him as he saw the black faces of the invaders, before he realised they were smeared with something. His own men, Henry de Bohun among them, were racing on foot to engage, joined by Scots, whose loyalty proved in no doubt as they cut their way savagely through the first few attackers. But Piers could see the enemy greatly outnumbered Perth’s garrison.
Snatching up his sword, he hastened down through the building, barking at pages and servants lingering in the passages to take up any weapon to hand and follow him. Outside, there was no sign of his squire, or his horse. Piers caught sight of Henry de Bohun by the stables, engaged with a knot of black-faced attackers. There was no time to think or plan. The enemy were pouring in from all sides, fierce fighting breaking out across the square. With a roar, Piers, Earl of Cornwall and champion of countless tournaments, set off towards the incoming horde, entering the fray like a lion.
Henry de Bohun sat hunched against the stable wall, his breaths coming fast and shallow. The battle was over, but the cries of wounded men and the rough shouts of the enemy continued. Henry clenched his teeth as he pressed down on his thigh, torn open by a sword stroke. He had to staunch the bleeding. His eyes flicked to the corpse lying in the entrance. The dead man was Piers Gaveston’s squire. Blood, black in the gloom, was still pumping from the man’s opened scalp, cleaved by an axe Henry guessed.
Using his hands, he pushed himself across the dusty floor, sweat trickling down his cheeks. Pausing at the edge of the stable’s entrance, he glanced outside. His English comrades were being rounded up, relieved of their weapons and marched down the main street. The loyalist Scots were among them, hands tied behind their backs. It appeared those of the garrison who had survived were being escorted out of Perth, allowed to leave with their lives, but nothing more. How had this happened? They were supposed to be safe here – the king had told them so.
The coast clear, Henry edged his way to the corpse. Removing the belt from around the squire’s waist, he slid back out of sight and wrapped the length of leather around his thigh, buckling it with a grunt of pain. Risking another glance outside, he was wrestling with the question of whether to stay hidden or give himself up when he saw a company heading towards the stables, marching a cloaked man between them.
Henry crawled into one of the stalls and pushed the door to as the company hastened into the stables.
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘No.’
‘You are certain? They cannot know he was taken alive.’
Henry frowned. These men were speaking French, not Scots. What was more – he had heard that last voice before.
‘I am certain, my lord.’
Henry pressed his face to the crack in the stall door. He could see men moving outside. His breath caught as he saw the face of one of them. It was dark and the man’s cheeks were coated in mud, but Henry knew him. It was the rebel leader himself. Robert Bruce.
There was a snort behind him. Henry looked round as a black destrier loomed out of the shadows. As the beast lowered its head and nudged at him, Henry pushed its nose away. The warhorse belonged to Piers.
The voices came again.
‘Here, put this on him.’
Henry returned to the crack. The cloaked figure he had seen being marched between these men was now in view. His hood had been pulled back and Henry saw a length of cloth tied around his mouth. One of his eyes was badly swollen and blood spattered the side of his face, but the man was still recognisable. Piers Gaveston. The Gascon struggled as they tugged off the cloak that had been thrown over his shoulders and removed his mantle and surcoat, both of which displayed his arms. Holding him fast, they pulled a plain tunic over his hauberk, before wrapping the cloak back around him and pulling up the hood.
While this was being done, four of the men split off, moving into the stalls on the other side of the stables. As they led out four horses, Henry heard Robert’s voice again.
‘Take him straight to the border. Don’t stop for anyone.’
When the first horse was ready, Piers was hauled into the saddle by two of the men. As his hands were tied to the pommel, sounds of protest came through his gag.
Robert clutched the arm of one of the men, who moved to climb up behind the Gascon. His voice was low, but Henry caught the words. ‘Neil, make sure he is delivered to Lancaster himself. I don’t want any misunderstanding.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
The clatter of hooves drowned out all other sounds as the men rode out of the stables, Piers, hooded and gagged, among them. After they had gone, Henry leaned back against the stall door, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed. The pain in his leg had dulled to a throb. He looked round as the destrier snorted again. Teeth gritted, Henry pushed himself upright and reached for the bridle, hanging on the stall door.
Chapter 43
York Castle, England, 1312 AD
Dawn was breaking, spilling scarlet light between purple towers of cloud. Aymer de Valence stood in the window, watching the sky change. The clouds looked like thunderheads, their bruised shadows reflected in the waters of the King’s Fishpool and the River Foss. It had been a humid night, without a breath of breeze, the air thick with the cloying scent of overripe fruit from the orchards. Scooping water from the basin in front of him, Aymer splashed his face. He had been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling as the sweat trickled off him to soak the sheets. So far, everything had gone to plan, but he didn’t think he would be able to rest now until the deed was done.
He had been at the border with Thomas of Lancaster and Guy de Beauchamp when Piers had been brought to them by the Scots. Aymer half hoped Bruce might deliver him himself, at which point, he had decided privately, he would take action. But the man hadn’t been so foolish. After Neil Campbell made the exchange, Lancaster and Warwick headed south with Piers, planning to take him to Dover where Humphrey de Bohun had arranged a ship to spirit him to France. Aymer, meanwhile, had gone to York, it being agreed one of them should be with the king when word came of Piers’s disappearance, to keep the finger of blame pointed at the Scots. He had been only too happy to volunteer; keen this dangerous business would soon be over and they could return their attention to the downfall of Robert Bruce.
When Aymer arrived in York, Edward had been furious about the reported disappearance of Mary Bruce from her cage in Roxburgh Castle. The king had already ordered the removal of Isabel Comyn from her prison at Berwick, afraid she might be liberated next. The countess was to be placed in the custody of one of the king’s trusted companions, the French knight, Henry Beaumont. Mary’s disappearance, however, had soon paled into insignificance when word came of the fall of Perth to Bruce’s forces, along with news that several high-ranking nobles were missing in the wake of the attack, among them Henry de Bohun and Piers Gaveston. Edward, beside himself, had at once sent messengers into Scotland, offering a generous reward for the safe return of Piers. Only silence came back.
Aymer had settled down to wait for the news that Piers was on his way to France. Soon now, the king’s grief would turn to rage and the Scots, God willing, would feel the full force of England’s wrath.