Kingdom (58 page)

Hearing footsteps in the passage, Aymer turned from the window. The surprised voice of his squire was followed by the gruff tones of someone else. After a moment, there was a loud banging on the door. Before Aymer could respond, it opened. The king’s steward stood there, flanked by four royal soldiers.

‘Sir, the king wishes to speak to you.’

Aymer’s pulse quickened at this abrupt announcement, but he offered the steward a frown and a quizzical smile. ‘At this hour?’

‘Right away, sir.’

‘Then, you must excuse me while I dress more appropriately for such an audience.’

‘Now, Sir Aymer. The king insists.’

Aymer bristled, his face flushing, but seeing the tight expression on the steward’s face and the hands of the soldiers on the pommels of their swords, he realised he had no choice but to obey. His smile gone, he strode to the door, pausing to grab his robe from the clothes perch. Pulling the garment on over his undershirt and hose, he followed the steward out of the guest lodgings towards the king’s quarters, beyond which the walls of the keep, up on its high mound, were stained with the dawn’s stormy light.

King Edward was waiting for him. He turned abruptly as the steward ushered Aymer inside his chamber. Aymer was at once struck by the change in the king. These past few days Edward had been feverish in his anxiety over Piers’s disappearance, alternating between begging his men to track down Piers, praying fervently for his safe return and castigating himself for sending him to Perth in the first place. Now, however, despite his bloodshot eyes and dishevelled appearance, Edward looked poised. Dangerous. Aymer thought the young man had never looked so much like his father. His unease swelled.

‘Where is he?’ The king’s voice crackled with suppressed emotion.

‘My lord?’

‘Piers? Where is Piers?’

‘I’m not sure I understand what—’

‘
By God, Aymer, don’t you play the fool with me!
’ As Edward roared this, he raised his fists and started towards the earl.

Aymer stepped back.

‘Henry de Bohun saw you!’ Spittle flecked from Edward’s mouth. ‘He saw you with Thomas and Guy – saw you take Piers from the Scots. Henry arrived last night, half dead from his wounds, barely able to stay in the saddle, but determined I should know the traitors in my midst!’

At the word
traitor
, fear flooded Aymer, bringing with it images of William Wallace on the executioner’s slab, John of Atholl hauled up on that high gallows and Niall Bruce’s neck being pressed down on the block. He knew he was caught. There was only one thing to do. Aymer collapsed on his knees before the furious king, clasping his hands together in pleading prayer. ‘My lord king, I beg your forgiveness. I never should have gone along with their plan. I thought they were acting in the best interests of the realm – but they were wrong. I see that now.’

‘Whose plan? Tell me!’

As Aymer gave up the names of the men who had met in Humphrey de Bohun’s castle, Edward’s face changed from livid red to ashen white. He stumbled back, raising a hand to his brow. ‘Dear God. You are all against me?’

‘My lord, we—’

‘Where were they taking him?’ Edward said, rounding on him. ‘Henry followed them, but lost them on the road.’

‘To France. Lancaster arranged for him to be placed in custody there.’

‘This was my cousin’s plan? He is at the heart of this?’ Edward stared down at Aymer. ‘My God, what have you done?’ Before the earl could answer, the king was shouting for his steward.

Blacklow Hill, England, 1312 AD

They rode north, leaving Warwick Castle behind them. The distant torchlight on the walls flickered faintly through the rushing darkness of the woods. As the ground rose, snatches of sky appeared between the breaks in the canopy. A sliver of moon hung in the blackness like a torn fingernail. Catching a flash of pale wings, Thomas of Lancaster looked up to see an owl swoop over him. He felt the knot of tension in his body coil tighter.

All the way from the border, Thomas had felt as though he were being watched. On the journey, he insisted their company sleep outside, not wanting to risk being seen in inns or monasteries, even though they were unknown in the towns and none of them wore anything to identify them. Guy de Beauchamp had mocked him for his caution, but had gone along with him – well aware of the risk they were taking. It hadn’t been a hardship, the June nights mild and dry, but the men had been glad to reach Warwick that afternoon, with its promise of soft beds and warm food. Their prisoner secured, they had feasted well, Thomas making sure the pages kept Guy’s goblet filled. The inebriated earl and his men had retired early, giving Thomas the chance he had been waiting for since they left the border.

The horses slowed, their heads bowing with the effort of the climb as they neared the crest of the hill. The men leaned forward in the saddles to make it easier for them.

‘Sir?’

Thomas looked round as one of his knights called to him. The man was leading a palfrey on which sat their prisoner, his head covered with a hood, hands tied to the pommel.

‘Let us be done with it,’ the knight urged in a low voice. ‘We’re far enough from the castle, surely?’

Thomas could hear the unease in the man’s voice. He had to do this now, before any of them backed out. Or, indeed, before he did. He had planned to do the deed beyond the town walls, where it would not be interrupted or witnessed, but although that had been the case for the past mile he had kept on going. The moment he halted his horse, the moment he would have to commit to what he had decided to do months ago. That night in Humphrey de Bohun’s castle, the others had all gone along with his plan, trusting his word. They hadn’t known he never intended to keep it.

Ahead, the ground levelled.

‘Here,’ said Thomas, reining in his horse.

The crown of the hill was cast in the moon’s spectral light. Trees surrounded them in a ring, surging in the breeze. Dismounting, Thomas watched as his men untied the prisoner and hauled him from the saddle. Two of them forced him to his knees.

Thomas walked towards the kneeling man, the weight of his sword hanging heavy from his hip. Earlier, he’d had his squire whet the blade. It scraped against the leather as he drew it from the scabbard. ‘Take off his hood.’

Piers Gaveston shook his head wildly as the hood came away, desperate to see where he had been brought, and by whom. He was gagged, but his eyes spoke volumes as they fixed on Thomas. He went still, seeing the sword in the earl’s hand. After a pause, Piers tried to speak, but the words, muted by the gag, were incomprehensible.

Thomas stared at him, feeling the tension tighten every sinew in his body. Despite his disgust and his hatred of this man, this wasn’t the same as facing an enemy on the field of battle, where death was roaring and eager. Death, here, was silent, reluctant – went by the name of murder.

The plan Guy, Aymer, Humphrey and the others had agreed to – sentencing the king’s lover to perpetual imprisonment – Thomas had never believed in himself. Edward would find out; some day he would find out and Piers would be brought back to his side. He was certain of it. Thomas gripped the hilt of his sword. Sweat broke out on his brow. There was only one way to deal with this disease at the heart of their realm. The corruption must be excised, once and for all.

Piers struggled madly as Thomas stepped towards him, but the two knights held him firm. Somewhere in the woods surrounding Blacklow Hill an owl screeched, covering the muted cry as Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, was run through.

Chapter 44

Lochmaben, Scotland, 1313 AD

The keep was a fractured finger of stone, pointing skyward. Charred remains of buildings lay scattered around the base of the motte; blackened timbers of barns sticking up like the ribs of some great corpse that weather and time had stripped of flesh. Robert stood in the ruins, staring at what was left of the castle that had once been the heart of the lordship of Annandale, stronghold of his grandfather and the place where he had left behind boyhood and become a hunter, a fighter, a man – the place where he made a promise to his grandfather to uphold their claim to the throne, and where this journey had begun.

The Bruce family had moved their chief castle to Lochmaben almost two centuries ago, after the river swallowed their fortress at Annan, the waters said to have risen at the command of St Malachy, in vengeance for the lord’s betrayal. Now, looking at the devastation wrought by the English in more recent times, Robert thought of the Irish saint’s curse echoing down the years. Had that one treacherous act of his ancestor been as a stone in a pool? Were these still the ripples of that? And what of his own sins: his lies and betrayals, the spilling of John Comyn’s blood at the altar? How far and how wide would those yet spread?

There was a rustle of undergrowth and Fionn appeared. The hound trotted over, strands of reeds caught in his shaggy coat. Robert guessed he had been hunting by the loch. It was midsummer and the evening sky was a washed-out blue. The twilight cast the ruins in an eerie glow, making them seem even more forlorn. He wondered if he would ever see this place whole again; wasn’t even sure he wanted to. To build over this corpse of a castle seemed somehow disrespectful. It had become a monument, a tombstone for his family – a reminder both of what had been lost and what he had yet to regain.

‘My lord.’

Robert turned as Nes approached through the broken line of what had been the castle palisade.

‘Sir Gilbert de la Hay has come, my lord. He has word from the siege camp at Stirling.’

Robert felt a jolt of anticipation. ‘It has fallen?’

‘The messenger didn’t say, my lord – only that Sir Gilbert must speak with you urgently. Our man was on his way to Dumfries to alert you when he saw us here.’

Robert set off across the debris-strewn ground, back to his horse and the men who had accompanied him from Dumfries, where he had been accepting pledges of fealty from local landowners. Dumfries had fallen to him in the spring, its garrison finally starved out. Soon after, he had taken the Isle of Man with the aid of Lachlan MacRuarie and Angus MacDonald. Caerlaverock and Lochmaben had followed, along with Buittle, once chief stronghold of John Balliol. Now, the entire south-western approach to Scotland was under his control. The English had lost the Solway Firth.

All these victories had been made possible by the English themselves, deeply embroiled in their own internal struggles this past year, following the unprecedented execution of Piers Gaveston. It was an outcome Robert hadn’t foreseen when making the secret pact with the former Knights of the Dragon, but one that had favoured him greatly. With risk of retaliation a distant threat – the barons and their king at war with one another – he had used England’s turmoil to his advantage, finally fixing his sights on one of the great eastern castles: mighty Stirling, the key to the kingdom.

When Perth fell to his forces, he had razed it, the royal burgh too vital a staging ground to be allowed to remain. Its destruction left Stirling isolated. The cliff-top fortress, under the command of Sir Philip Moubray, a Scottish knight loyal to the English king, had become an island, cut off from aid. In the spring, Robert sent his brother to surround it; his intent, to starve Stirling’s garrison into submission.

As he approached his men, waiting for him beyond the castle ruins, Robert felt his anticipation build. If Stirling had indeed fallen, then the struggle to reclaim his kingdom was almost won. Of the other chief strongholds in enemy hands, only Edinburgh, Roxburgh and Berwick remained. When they fell the realm would be in his control and, then, he could concentrate on freeing his family. He now felt satisfied he had made the right choice in appointing his brother as commander of the siege. Edward, whom he had made Earl of Carrick and Lord of Galloway, had become increasingly impulsive, determined to fight this conflict his own way. Head of a growing war-band of his own, he had made several unauthorised assaults on secondary fortresses, one of which almost ended in disaster. Robert had sent him to Stirling to keep him fixed on one target. Now, it appeared, he was justified in that decision.

By the time he and his party rode in through the gates of Lochmaben’s New Castle, the first stars were splinters of light in the eastern sky. The compound, built by Edward Longshanks using material from the old castle, was surrounded by earthen ramparts topped with a palisade. A wooden fort stood at the centre. Robert had been using it as a base to store supplies and the plunder taken from Dumfries and elsewhere. He saw some of Gilbert de la Hay’s men outside talking to the garrison. They greeted their king with respectful nods as he entered the fort.

Gilbert de la Hay was waiting for him in the main chamber, along with Thomas Randolph, who Robert had left in charge in his absence. His half-nephew had changed out of all recognition these past few years and had become one of his most trusted captains. For his loyal service, Robert had made him Earl of Moray, a new earldom created out of the lands of Buchan and Badenoch.

Thomas and Gilbert both looked concerned and Robert’s anticipation of good news from Stirling curdled at their expressions.