Insurrection (13 page)

‘He was dead in the womb, sir. I could do nothing for him.’

Wishart cursed loudly.

James turned away, thrusting a hand through his hair. As he did so, he caught sight of John Comyn’s keen expression.

10

Bordeaux was awakening, the bell-tower of the cathedral pouring a cascade of clanging chimes across the labyrinth of streets. Birds flew up from the rooftops, their wings a flurry of white in the crisp blue sky. Shutters opened and banged against shop-fronts, buckets of night soil were emptied into gutters, and cobblers and mercers, smiths and farriers called to one another as they began their day’s work, harsh stutters of words that echoed in the narrow streets.

Adam rode his palfrey through the waking city, the din of the cathedral bells filling his ears. It felt strange to be back in the place of his birth after so long in a foreign land. The city seemed oddly new and filled with promise, rather than somewhere that was as familiar as his own skin. Yet he knew each twist and turn of these alleyways and recognised the smells that greeted him at every corner, from the bloody stink of the slaughterhouses by the city gates, to the pungency of the cattle market and salty sourness of the Garonne River. The air was mild, the winter wind less cruel, and the weight of secrecy had fallen from his shoulders, allowing him to experience every sound that greeted him, every smell that assaulted him, every conversation overheard or altercation witnessed, without assessing either its danger or its merit.

As the cathedral bells fell silent, Adam urged his horse up the street towards the imposing walls of the castle that overlooked the city. Banners and flags flapped from the turrets, making gaudy statements in the sky. One scarlet banner, larger than the others and adorned with three golden lions, held Adam’s gaze as he headed towards the gates, then the guards in their well-fitted gambesons and colourful hose were asking his business and his attention was diverted. Dismounting, Adam took a roll of parchment from the bag strapped to his saddle, the leather soiled from the journey through France. One guard inspected the seal attached to the document, while the other questioned him. His answers being to their satisfaction, they moved aside, allowing him to pass beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis.

Although it was early, the courtyard was bustling with servants and royal officials. The pale elegance of the buildings and the rich dress of the men and women Adam passed breathed sweetness into him after the long winter in Edinburgh, shipwrecked on that coarse black mountain, where the howling wind haunted the halls, along with so many white-faced Scotsmen. Seeing men unfurling lengths of coloured flags and tying them to the sides of the buildings, he realised with surprise that it must be approaching the Christ Mass. The mildness of the air, which had increased the further south he had travelled, had fooled him into believing spring had come. A girl with spice-brown hair passed him, escorting three plump geese. Adam allowed himself a moment to appreciate the supple swing of her young hips, before heading to the stables. After leaving his palfrey with a groom, he made his way to the tower in the west corner of the compound, from which flew the scarlet banner with the three lions.

There were more guards at the tower’s entrance and more questions, but eventually he was led up a spiral of stairs to a small chamber where a smell of incense barely masked the caustic odour of fresh paint. He waited as the page who had escorted him rapped on a door. When it opened, Adam caught sight of another servant as his escort slipped inside. Moving to the chamber’s single window, he peered through the criss-cross panes of glass, which distorted his view of the city, spread out below. The door opened and he turned expectantly, but the page headed off down the stairs without further word or instruction. Adam leaned against the wall, for there was no furniture, just a tapestry showing a group of young knights all bearing scarlet shields, adorned with a symbol that was as familiar to Adam as his own family crest: a rearing golden dragon, wreathed in fire.

After a time the door opened again and a man beyond motioned Adam to enter. The solar was bright with morning sunlight that flooded in through arched windows. After the gloom, it took Adam a moment to become accustomed to the light. As he did so he saw a man standing behind a table that was laid out with neat stacks of parchment. At well over six feet, the man was still one of the tallest Adam had ever known. His shoulder-length hair, streaked with white, was curled at the ends as was the fashion, but his linen robe, dyed a solemn blue, was simple in design, unlike the flamboyant stripes and silks of his courtiers. It was perfectly tailored around his athletic frame and pulled in by a belt of leather, embossed with silver. His face was austere, an ash-coloured beard clipped close and neat around an unsmiling mouth. Only his intense grey eyes revealed anything of his thoughts, filled as they were with an alert impatience. One of his eyelids drooped a little, the one blemish in an otherwise orderly face. It was more prominent these days, Adam noted, than it had been when they had first met twenty-four years ago, when the man before him had been a fierce young lord in exile. Now, at almost fifty, he was King of England, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland and conqueror of Wales.

‘My lord,’ greeted Adam, bowing low.

The king’s pale eyes moved to the page by the door. ‘Leave me.’

As the page left the chamber, Adam saw a painted scene on the far wall. It hadn’t been here when he was last in this room. It too showed the knights with the dragon shields, but this time they were crowded around a man seated on a stone throne, wearing a gold circlet. In one hand the man held a sword, the blade of which was broken, in the other a slender gold staff. There was an ornately carved lectern positioned below the fresco. Adam noticed a large, leather-bound book lying on it at an angle. He could see words written in gold leaf on the cover. He hadn’t seen the book before, but he knew what it was.

‘I was expecting you sooner, Sir Adam.’

Adam looked back as Edward’s voice broke his thoughts. ‘The queen’s labour came later than anticipated, my lord.’

‘I take it you completed your business?’

Edward’s tone, usually so poised, was sharp with agitation. Even more unusual was the concern in the king’s gaze. He had leaned forward, planting his veined hands on the table.

‘God did the work for us. The child was dead in the womb.’

Edward straightened. ‘Good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This is good.’ He seated himself in a high-backed chair, his gaze at once hard, accusatory. ‘This business should have been finished months ago, before the queen even fell pregnant.’

Anger swelled in Adam, although he was careful not to show it. He deserved Edward’s praise, not his admonishment. True, the queen’s pregnancy had been an unexpected hindrance, but killing the king had been no easy task. Had it been murder at a distance, a crossbow bolt through the throat, then Adam could have accomplished it long before the queen conceived. But Edward had insisted that the death be made to seem like an accident and so Adam had been appointed to travel north to Scotland in the retinue of Alexander’s new bride, one faceless servant among many.

Poison, his first thought, had been ruled out instantly; he couldn’t get near the kitchens without notice and, besides, the king had tasters. Each role in a royal household was fulfilled by specific servants and each man and woman guarded their duties zealously. It was some weeks before Adam reached a decision, after travelling the treacherous coastal path between Edinburgh and Kinghorn. Even with the location chosen it had taken time to plan the deed itself; ingratiating himself into the queen’s trust and waiting for the right opportunity, which finally presented itself in the form of the feast. The king would have been drinking and easier to overpower if it came to it, and the spring tides meant the cliff path would be the only viable route. The only things he’d had to do were persuade the young queen to have him summon the king to her bedchamber, unwittingly sealing her husband’s fate with a honey trap, and make sure the king’s most competent manservant would be unable to escort him, leaving only that fool, Brice, to contend with. The storm had been a boon Adam couldn’t have predicted, although the poetic symmetry of the proclaimed Day of Judgement had been mostly lost on him.

‘Still,’ said Edward, releasing Adam from his stare, ‘it is done.’

As the king sifted through the documents on the table and pulled one from the pile, Adam saw a large seal fixed to the bottom. He had seen it before. It was from the papal curia in Rome.

‘I have the permission of His Holiness,’ said Edward, flattening the letter with a stroke of his palm. ‘I will finalise the matter when I return to England. For now, I have more pressing concerns. King Philippe has been at pains to exercise his control over my dealings here in Gascony. It does not please my young cousin that I wield more power in the duchy than he does. I believe it makes him nervous.’ There was satisfaction in Edward’s eyes as he said this.

‘Can you afford to wait that long, my lord? There has been great unrest in Scotland since the king’s death. The Bruce family took up arms against the Balliols, accusing the Lord of Galloway of plotting to take the crown.’

‘The Bruces do not concern me. The Earl of Carrick has already sent me a message, pledging his support for any decision I make on the future of the kingdom. He will do as I say. As for the rest of Scotland’s magnates, I will send out missives, ordering them all to abide by the rule of their council of guardians, until such time as the child can be brought from Norway.’

‘Do you think the magnates will obey?’

‘None of them would risk their lands in England by defying me.’

Adam knew what this man had done in England, Wales and the Holy Land; knew what he had accomplished over the years and how. He nodded, respectful of the flat certainty in Edward’s eyes. ‘What do you wish me to do now, my lord?’

‘You may return to your command.’ Picking up the document with the pope’s seal attached, Edward rose and crossed to an iron door embedded in the solar’s inner wall. Adam saw a keyhole on one side. Edward opened it and placed the parchment inside. He pulled out a leather purse, tied with a drawstring. ‘Here,’ he said, offering it to Adam. ‘Your final payment. I apologise for the dust it has gathered.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ murmured Adam. He paused, then asked something he had wondered about since the king first charged him with the dangerous task. ‘Have you told anyone else in the order of my involvement in this matter?’

Edward’s eyes bored into his. ‘King Alexander’s death was an accident. It stays that way.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Adam, stowing the bulging purse in his belt-pouch. ‘An accident.’

The door opened behind them and a soft, musical voice drifted in.

‘I am sorry. I did not know you had a visitor.’

Adam turned to see a tall woman, with olive skin and delicate features. Her hair was hidden beneath a headdress that trailed gossamer silks and her floor-sweeping gown was richly embroidered. Adam hadn’t seen her in some years and the lines that creased the queen’s face surprised him.

‘I will leave you.’

‘There is no need, Eleanor,’ said Edward, moving to her. ‘It is only tidings from England.’

Eleanor’s face filled with concern. ‘The children?’

‘Are fine,’ said Edward, his hard face softening into a rare and surprisingly tender smile. ‘It is politics, nothing more.’ Putting a hand on his wife’s slim shoulder and guiding her into the chamber, Edward glanced at Adam, his smile vanishing. ‘Sir Adam was just leaving.’

As Adam headed for the door, he glanced at the fresco and the lectern beneath it. The elaborate gold writing on the front of the large book glinted in the light, spelling out words.

The Last Prophecy of Merlin

PART 2

1290 –1292 AD

They do not wish to wait to get possession of the kingdom lawfully, but seize the crown.

The Life of Merlin,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

11

All around the horns were sounding, their strident calls echoing over the baying of the hounds. The pack was running hard, the scent thickening in their throats. For hours they had pursued their quarry, from the cold reaches of dawn to the early morning, the dense mists lightening to a diaphanous haze. Now, death was near and they plunged headlong to meet it, compelled by the horns.

Robert urged his horse on after the dogs, the woods flashing past. The trees were scattered with young green buds and the verdant smell of new growth filled his lungs as he fought to keep the pace, the courser obeying every twist of the reins in his gloved hands. Ahead was a fallen tree, a victim of the winter storms. He kicked hard at the horse’s sides and rose to meet it. The courser vaulted the rotten trunk and thundered on, kicking up a shower of leaves. The dogs had disappeared over a steep ridge. Robert could hear their howls, louder than the horns, which echoed some distance behind him. Anticipation fierce within him, he drove the horse up the incline. At the top, the ground fell away into a bowl-like clearing, which ended at a high bank of earth, riddled with tree roots. Within this bank was a wide opening. The hounds were gathered outside, baying into the dark.

Realising the quarry had evaded the trap, Robert dismounted with a curse and made his way down to the dogs. The mists were thicker here, so too the dank odours of moss and earth. He reached for the horn that hung from his belt. As his fingers brushed it, he heard a noise from within the cave. It sounded like low thunder. Robert’s fingers moved past the horn to grasp the hilt of his sword. The older hounds were snarling, ears pressed flat against their heads, hackles high. Some of the younger ones whined, hinds quivering with exertion and fear. With any other quarry, even fully grown harts and ferocious boar, they would not be so apprehensive. Robert drew his sword and went forward through their guarding line, determination forcing back his nerves. He heard his name being called, somewhere distant, off in the fog, but he ignored it.