Insurrection (11 page)

Robert’s eyes moved over their soiled clothes and bandaged limbs. One had a wad of cloth bound over his right eye, his cheek below crusted with blood. Another had a stump where his left hand used to be, the bulb of his wrist swaddled in linen, his face waxy white. Most were sitting hunched against the sides of the cart, lolling listlessly with the motion. Three were laid out in the middle, one of whom was covered over with a blanket, only his bare feet, livid and swollen, visible. Huddled there, decorated with their ugly wounds, they had a strange blankness about them, as if, like their bodies, their souls were no longer whole. Robert couldn’t take his eyes off them, even as Yothre led him away and the cart rumbled on, taking the injured men towards the castle. He had seen mutilated bodies once before: outlaws strung up in cages outside a castle on the way to Annandale, their flesh eaten by birds. But there had been something unreal about them. They weren’t people he knew.

8

Robert limped across the room, careful not to disturb the sleeping forms of his brothers. Alexander was curled on his side, his face in the nightlight’s glow tense with some inner concern. Thomas was on his back, one arm flung over the edge of his bed, the blanket tangled around his legs. Passing Niall, Robert saw his brother’s eyes were open, watching him. Putting a finger to his lips, he slipped out of the door.

He headed down the gloomy passageway, using the wall for support, the boom of the sea masking his footsteps. He passed the room his sisters shared. Further down, an urgent crying was coming from the small chamber adjacent to his parents’ room. The door was ajar and candlelight spilled out. Robert edged closer, his knee beneath the tight wrap of linen throbbing. He glimpsed the back of the wet nurse as she turned in a slow circle, cradling his sister Matilda, the source of the wails. Then he was moving on, heading for his parents’ room.

He paused outside, dreading to hear his father’s voice. Perhaps the council was finished already? But, no, it was still early and he hadn’t heard his father’s footsteps on the stairs. There was silence beyond. Robert pushed open the door, causing the flames of the candles in the room to flicker.

‘Is that you, Robert?’

His mother’s voice came from the bed, surrounded at the head by wine-red drapes.

‘No,’ murmured Robert, knowing she meant his father.

The covers shifted as she sat up. She parted the drapes, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. The room’s shadows were caught in her face, bruising her eyes and filling the hollows of her cheeks. The birth of Matilda the month before had not been easy and his mother had hardly left her bed since.

‘Are you in pain?’ Concern filtered through her tired voice.

Robert’s knee was aching, so too was the gash on his head that the physician had stitched, but he didn’t want this to get in the way of what he had come here for. ‘No,’ he said, limping closer to the bed, unable to imagine the old woman from the cramped house in the valley ever setting foot in this fine room, adorned with its drapes, rugs and carved furniture. ‘Tell me about my birth.’

His mother’s face filled with surprise, then she looked away. Something seized Robert inside. There had been guilt in that look.

‘Why such a question?’

‘I . . .’ He faltered. The cry of his baby sister filled his silence. ‘Matilda,’ he said suddenly. ‘It made me wonder what my birth was like. Was it difficult like hers?’

His mother stared at him, then sighed. ‘We thought for some time that you would never come into this world.’ She reached out and touched his cheek. ‘But you did.’

Robert pulled away at her touch, impatient for answers. He decided to be blunt. ‘I lied today.’ He saw her frown and he looked down, picking at a fingernail, torn in the fall. ‘I wasn’t on my own in the woods. Someone found me. Helped me.’

His mother had drawn back from him.

‘The old woman with the dogs.’

Her hand tightened around the bedcovers.

‘She said something.’ Robert met his mother’s gaze. ‘She said she delivered me.’

‘Yes,’ murmured the countess.

Robert shook his head, not wanting to believe it. ‘But she’s a witch! How could you let her . . .?’ He couldn’t finish. The thought of the old woman’s filthy hands being the first thing on his naked body made him feel sick. He didn’t stop to think that she would have been younger then. In his mind she had always been a withered crone.

‘Some might call her a witch,’ said his mother quietly, ‘others a healer.’

‘I thought Ede delivered me. You told me she delivered all your children, even Margaret.’ Robert noticed her face grow taut at the careless reference to his half-sister. His mother’s first husband had been a knight who died on crusade when she was pregnant. The knight’s comrade-in-arms, Sir Robert Bruce, had returned from the Holy Land to tell the widowed countess what had happened and the two had grown close. Within a few short months they married in haste, without securing the permission of King Alexander, who in his anger removed them both of their lands. It was only through the intervention of the Lord of Annandale that the dispute was smoothed over and Robert’s father was allowed to acquire Carrick by right of his new wife.

‘Ede did deliver you, or at least she tried. You were dying inside me, Robert.’ Her eyes had grown bright in the candlelight. ‘The labour was going on too long. Affraig lived in the village then. She was well known for her skills as a healer. She saved your life. And mine.’

Robert knew there was more to the story. Other questions crowded in. Why had his parents never mentioned this, even after Alexander had been bitten by one of her dogs? And why had the woman seemed so angry?
Don’t come here again
, she had said.
You, or any of your family.
Robert glanced round, hearing footsteps along the passage. His mother didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘Why did she leave the village?’ he asked quickly. ‘Why did she go into the hills?’

‘She was banished,’ answered his mother hesitantly. ‘Your father—’ She stopped abruptly, hearing the footfalls. Her cheeks stained. ‘Back to bed with you, Robert,’ she ordered, her voice unnaturally loud.

Hearing the door open behind him, Robert turned to see his father’s pensive face.

The earl scowled and pulled the door wider. ‘Leave.’

Robert went to go, then felt his mother’s cool hand on his.

She leaned forward, laying a soft kiss by the wound on his brow. ‘No more talk of it now,’ she breathed into his ear, while her husband shrugged off his fur-lined robe and hung it on a clothes perch.

Robert headed from the room, glancing at his father, who had sat on a stool to remove his boot. The earl’s face was wan in the candlelight. Robert wondered what had happened in Galloway. He longed to go and see his grandfather and find out, but it was late, his wounds were tormenting him and he had too many other questions to fit more answers in his head.

Marjorie watched her son limp from the chamber. Her husband, rubbing at his foot, chafed by his boot, didn’t look up. He could be so loving. Couldn’t he show just a little of that to the boy? He had always told her he didn’t want his heir growing up soft and that was why he was hard on him, but Marjorie knew that wasn’t the real truth of it.

‘What is it?’

Realising she had been caught staring at him, she forced a smile. ‘I am just tired.’ She frowned as he eased his boot back on with a wince. ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’

‘In a moment,’ he said, crossing to her.

Marjorie rested her head against the pillow. She closed her eyes as he kissed her. She wasn’t tired, she was exhausted. The labour had drained what felt like the last of her youth. Ten children was a lot for any woman to bear.

‘Get some rest.’

She felt the bed shift as his hand left it, heard him moving about the room, pouring a goblet of wine, opening a chest. She began to drift towards sleep, the familiar sounds of her husband soothing after so many months alone. A little while later, she heard a rap at the door. Marjorie came awake, worried Robert had returned with more questions. The boy had no idea how angry his father would be if he knew he had been in Affraig’s house. But it wasn’t her son. It was one of her husband’s retainers. She watched the earl give the man a purse. In his other hand, her husband held a rolled piece of parchment.

‘There is enough here to buy you passage to France and back. Be careful.’

‘Do not fear, my lord,’ said the man, taking the purse and stuffing it inside a pouch fixed to his belt beside his broadsword. ‘I’ll get it safe to Gascony.’

‘Deliver it directly to King Edward. I do not want some servant reading it.’

The man bowed and left, taking the roll of parchment. As her husband shut the door, the countess closed her eyes. After a moment, she felt the familiar shift as his weight came down beside her. It was less comforting now.

9

Robert hastened through the woods, holding up his hood as the rain splattered between the branches. The rushing trees drowned the distant roar of waves on Turnberry beach. The first autumn storms had come early this year. Only last week the men of Carrick had been toiling under blue skies to bring in the last of the harvest. Days later and the crops of oats and barley would have been drowning in the fields. Now, the cattle were being driven down from the higher pastures. Those that could not be fed through the winter months would be slaughtered for the meat. It was a busy time, when all hands were called to help work the land. The men the Bruce family had lost during the assault on Galloway had been sorely missed.

Robert thumped the gnarled stick into the ground, every stride propelling him deeper into the woods. He felt foolish, using the stick as his excuse, but it was the only one he had been able to think of. And think on it he had, all through the turbulence of the past few weeks.

The victories won in the capture of the castles of Wigtown, Dumfries and Buittle had been all but swept aside by the queen’s pregnancy, tidings of which had spread swiftly through the kingdom. Robert hadn’t been invited to attend any of the councils that had followed the men’s return, but from snatches of conversation gleaned he knew his grandfather had decided to withdraw from Galloway, leaving a small garrison in each castle until the queen gave birth and the ambition of Comyn and Balliol was ended. His father had clearly been angered by the decision to leave and when the old Bruce departed a fortnight ago, returning with his knights to Annandale, the two had been silent and tense. Despite the unrest within his family, Robert had been preoccupied with his own thoughts, but today had been the first day since the harvest had begun that he’d been able to slip away unnoticed.

As the trees thinned, he could see the house under the hill. Great puddles lay around the base of the oak, the leaves of which were russet and gold. The last glory of a dying summer. The pigs were huddled in the corner of their pen, close under the eaves. Three fine red heifers had joined them. Wondering how the old woman had the money to buy the animals, Robert made his way down the muddy hillside, using the staff for balance.

As he approached the door, a ferocious baying sounded. From around the side of the house came the black dogs, barking and snarling. Resisting the urge to run, Robert stood his ground. The hounds slowed, slinking low to the ground, shoulders hunched. Robert opened his free hand, palm up, towards the beasts, as he used to do with his grandfather’s hunting dogs. Rain dripped steadily from his nose. The larger of the two came closer, growling. Raising its head, it thrust its nose towards his outstretched hand. Robert laughed in relief as its tongue uncurled pink and wet into his palm. The door banged open, revealing the old woman framed in the doorway. The dogs slunk away through the puddles towards her.

‘I told you not to come here.’ Her voice, raised above the torrent, was hard.

Robert went towards her, holding out the staff. ‘I wanted to return this.’ As soon as he said it, he realised how feeble it sounded, how like a lie. He could see it reflected in the old woman’s face in a sneer of contempt. When she moved to close the door, he called out, ‘And to see Brigid.’

The woman paused, her expression caught between humour and irritation. Both were derisive. ‘She’s gone, boy.’

‘Gone?’

‘To Ayrshire. A farrier took a fancy to her.’ Affraig nodded to the stick. ‘Leave it outside,’ she said, shutting the door.

Robert stared at the pitted wood, barring his way. He felt a surge of anger, fuelled by humiliation and disappointment. Until that moment he hadn’t realised that the last part of his excuse had been true: he had wanted to see the strange girl again. Making a fist, he banged on the door. It opened. ‘Why did you let her go?’

Cruel humour broke full across the woman’s face. ‘If I’d known the heir of an earl would have been interested I would have waited. Perhaps the girl would have fetched more than three cows!’

Robert felt repugnance as her lips cracked open to reveal yellow teeth in a laughing mouth. Tossing the stick down in the mud, he made to leave. Then, finding sudden power, he turned back. ‘When I am earl I’ll make sure your banishment continues. You’ll never enter Turnberry again.’

Her scornful laughter faded. ‘How like your father you are,’ she murmured. ‘I wouldn’t have believed two runts could be born of the great Lord of Annandale, but here you are, proof of the failure of that mighty line.’ Her voice lowered further. ‘Shame it is. Shame.’