Insurrection (15 page)

Gradually, the sounds of voices and music became louder and the odours of horse dung and wood-smoke stronger, until finally they were moving through into the field, behind another group of travellers. Robert looked around at the men they passed, quite a few of whom seemed to give his family a lot of attention. Not all their stares were friendly.

‘Robert.’

At his grandfather’s call, Robert slipped down from his saddle and led his horse over to the lord, who had halted near the row of tents. He took the reins of his grandfather’s piebald courser, while the old man dismounted with a wince. Hearing orders being shouted, Robert turned to see men lugging benches over the church wall.

‘The assembly was planned to take place inside the church,’ explained his grandfather, watching as the benches were conveyed to the centre of the field, where a platform had been erected beneath the shading arms of an oak. ‘But the roof was struck by lightning.’

Squinting into the sunlight, Robert saw a blackened hole in the side of the roof, where part of it had caved in.

‘Maybe it’s an omen,’ murmured Edward, moving up behind, holding the reins of their father’s white mare.

Their grandfather didn’t seem to have heard. He had turned away, hailed by a frail, red-haired man with a ruddy complexion, limping across with two younger men.

Robert recognised them. ‘That’s Sir Walter, the Earl of Menteith and his sons,’ he told his brother. ‘They were at Turnberry when Grandfather planned the assault on Galloway.’ As he said this his gaze was caught by a group heading across the field in front of them. Robert stared at the long, lean face of John Comyn, whom he had first seen in Salisbury. The lord’s cloak, trimmed with wolf pelt, was emblazoned with three wheat sheaves on red. His hair hung loose around his shoulders. ‘Look. It’s the devil himself.’

Edward frowned. ‘Who?’

Robert lowered his voice as the men crossed their path. ‘That’s the Lord of Badenoch, head of the Red Comyns.’ There was a pale youth of about his own age with lank dark hair walking behind the lord. He looked too like Comyn not to be related. A son, Robert guessed.

‘I thought he’d be taller,’ said Edward. ‘Who’s that with him?’

Robert followed his brother’s nod to the man with thin chestnut hair, pockmarked skin and a tense expression, walking at Comyn’s side. ‘I think that’s the Lord of Galloway, John Balliol.’

Balliol looked round and, for a second, Robert thought he’d heard him, but he was well out of earshot and, besides, the lord’s attention had fixed first on his father and grandfather. Balliol’s faltering stride made the others with him look round. For a moment, both companies paused, the Bruce men halting their conversation with the earls of Menteith and Dunbar. Robert noticed a young man in Balliol’s party wearing a leather aketon and carrying a pike. But it wasn’t the armour or the weapon that had attracted his attention, rather the depth of hatred in the man’s face. He was looking straight at his father.

‘My lords. Welcome.’

The voice of James Stewart broke the moment. The high steward was striding across the grass towards the Lord of Annandale and the Earl of Carrick. With him was a broad man with a tonsured head and a flushed, sweaty face. It was Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. Robert had met him once, briefly, and had been a little in awe of the forceful clergyman.

As Balliol and Comyn continued towards the platform, Robert saw the young man with the pike spit in the grass, before drawing his hate-filled gaze from the Earl of Carrick and falling into step behind the Lord of Galloway.

James Stewart and the Lord of Annandale greeted one another with an embrace. The high steward, Robert noted, acknowledged his father more cordially.

‘Your grace,’ said the old Bruce, bending to kiss the hand of the Bishop of Glasgow. ‘It is good to see you.’

‘And on such a welcome occasion,’ agreed the bishop. ‘At last, after the great tragedy that befell our realm, the throne of our kingdom will once again be occupied. It augurs well that our new queen shares her name with one of our dearest saints. God speed young Margaret to our shores.’

Robert saw his father’s face tighten at this. It dawned on him what this day meant. The destiny his father had dreamed of was about to be ended. Soon, Margaret would take the throne of Scotland and from her would spring a new line, a line that would branch away from the Bruce family and their claim. He realised, in the same moment, that this was a loss for him also. An image of Affraig tearing the web she had woven for his father into pieces flashed in his mind and he wondered if the witch had somehow made this come to pass. But then he heard the sound of trumpets ringing and he was turning with the others to see a stately procession making its way across the field, banners flying in swirls of colour above their mounted ranks. The English had come.

At their head was John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey and grandson of the legendary William Marshal, one of the greatest knights England had ever raised. Warenne was himself no stranger to battle and, at sixty years old, was a veteran of numerous campaigns under Henry III and his son, Edward. The earl had fought during the rebellion of Simon de Montfort and in Edward’s bloody wars in Wales, and had risen to become one of the king’s foremost commanders. His eminence preceded him and Robert felt no small amount of respect, staring at the thickset, flint-haired earl, riding in imperiously on a massive, sable-coloured destrier. He was clad in a sumptuously brocaded blue and gold mantle, drawn back over one shoulder to reveal the glitter of mail beneath his surcoat and a broadsword with a pommel of gold.

Behind the earl came a burly man in a violet robe who, despite being two decades younger, had almost as formidable a reputation. Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, had begun his illustrious career in the clergy after graduating from the University of Oxford. Returning with King Edward from the Holy Land he was made Constable of the Tower of London and then Bishop of Durham, the diocese of which formed the northernmost defence of England. The power granted to him in this office made him virtual king in his bishopric. Indeed, Bishop Bek looked to Robert less like a man of the cloth and more like a warrior prince as he rode in on his warhorse, with thirty knights in his train.

Robert had seen both of these men at the talks in Salisbury, but here in this sunlit field with the fanfare of trumpets they seemed even more impressive. Perhaps it was just the grandeur of the occasion, or maybe it was the contrast with the men in the field waiting for them. Many of the Scottish magnates had jewelled brooches or silver chains holding their fur-trimmed cloaks in place, feathers in their caps and well-made swords and dirks in decorated scabbards. But their clothes, of dyed wools and linens, were plainer than those worn by the English, and few of them wore mail. They hadn’t come here to fight. No one, it seemed, had told the English that. All of them, from the earl and the bishop down through the knights and squires, wore armour of some kind, if only padded gambesons, and many were on barded horses. Their clothes were fine and gaudy: embroidered silks and patterned velvets in vivid hues that made Robert think of a flight of oversized butterflies sweeping in across the grass.

Dismounting, John de Warenne went first to Balliol and Comyn, who had crossed to meet him. This was no surprise, for Balliol was married to Warenne’s daughter, but it was clearly a source of tension for Robert’s father, who observed their greeting with a scowl. As the other magnates began making their way towards the dais and settling into the benches in front of the platform, James Stewart motioned for the Lord of Annandale and the rest of the party to follow. Robert went forward, but his grand­father turned to him.

‘Stay here.’

Robert went to protest, but the lord was already walking away.

‘I thought we were going to the assembly?’ objected Edward, at his side.

The brothers watched as the men crossed to the growing crowd of earls and barons, bishops and abbots who spoke for the realm, leaving a horde of knights and squires, pages and grooms on the fringes of the field, holding horses, or tending campfires. The minstrels had stopped playing and were lounging in the grass, lutes and lyres replaced by cups of beer.

The excitement Robert had felt on the journey had evaporated in a simmering anger. His gaze lingered on the earl’s back as he wondered if he would have been so excluded if his father wasn’t here. He shaded his eyes from the sun as the men seated themselves. Bishop Bek was ascending the dais and the Earl of Surrey was greeting their grandfather, who had manoeuvred himself in beside John Balliol. ‘Perhaps we’ll hear them from here?’ he murmured, but he could see that the men were speaking and, apart from the odd raised voice, their conversation was inaudible at this distance.

Edward shifted from one foot to the other, then headed to one of the younger knights from Carrick, leading his horse and their father’s white mare. ‘Sir Duncan, will you hold the horses?’

‘That’s your task, Master Edward,’ chided the knight.

John de Warenne had ascended the platform beside Bishop Bek and was addressing the assembly. There were more men than benches and those who hadn’t found a place had crowded in behind. Robert could no longer see his father and grandfather. He glanced round as Edward spoke again.

‘Please, Duncan.’

‘Why?’

Edward paused. ‘If you do, I won’t tell my father you once tried to kiss Isabel.’

The knight laughed. ‘Your sister? I’ve never even spoken to her.’

‘My father doesn’t know that.’

‘You’re jesting,’ said the knight, but his smile had disappeared.

Edward didn’t respond.

The young knight’s face tightened, but he held out his hand to take the reins. ‘Wherever you’re going, you had better be back here before the earl.’

Edward gestured to Robert, who, grinning, led his horse and his grandfather’s courser to the indignant knight. The two youths made their way quickly across the field, ignoring the curious glances of the other squires. John de Warenne was speaking as they moved surreptitiously in behind the crowd.

‘For one hundred years our kingdoms have enjoyed peace. Scotland and England have become true neighbours, flourishing through trade and the gifts of land and offices, and through the blessed union of marriage. King Alexander, God rest his soul, understood the benefits of joining our strength, through the marriage to his first wife, daughter of King Henry and sister to the gracious King Edward.’

Robert and Edward squeezed in behind a group of priors, whose tonsured heads gleamed in the sun.

‘And while his death was a tragedy shared by us all, out of his sad passing a new hope now springs that may bring our kingdoms even closer in alliance. That hope exists in the form of his granddaughter, Margaret of Norway. As confirmed by the Treaty of Salisbury, the child will forthwith be transported to Scotland, where she will be enthroned as your queen.’

Appreciative murmurs followed his words. Robert stood on his toes to try to see over the heads of the priors. He could just make out the bulky form of Bishop Bek in between their shoulders, the violet of his robe garish. The bishop had something gripped in his fist. It was a thick roll of parchment.

‘Two years before his death, Alexander wrote to King Edward, speaking of the possibility of a marriage between the royal houses of England and Scotland.’

As the earl spoke, Robert saw Bishop Bek unfurling the roll. It had a large seal attached to the bottom that hung down from the document.

‘Now, the wish of both kings can at last be fulfilled. We have here a dispensation from His Holiness in Rome, granting the marriage of Margaret with Edward of Caernarfon, the king’s son and heir.’

For a moment, after the Earl of Surrey uttered these words, there was silence. Then, the crowd erupted in a storm of stunned shouts of astonishment and protest.

13

Did you know of this, Lord Steward?’

The Earl of Menteith’s enquiry broke across the raised voices. One by one, the men seated around the table turned to look at James Stewart, the target of the question.

The high steward met the elderly earl’s searching gaze. ‘No, Walter. It was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.’

‘And you, Sir Robert?’ Menteith moved his attention to the Lord of Annandale. ‘You were in Salisbury for the signing of the treaty. Did the Earl of Surrey or Bishop Bek not mention anything of this proposal to you? Or you, your grace?’ he asked of the Bishop of Glasgow, who was looking pensive, his chin thrust forward, resting on his clasped hands.

‘No one knew of it,’ said James firmly.

‘Does anyone here believe Lord Alexander made any such proposition to Edward?’ asked a young man with curly black hair and an intense expression. ‘Because I cannot imagine he would have suggested a royal marriage without discussing it with his court.’

‘Are you saying the English are lying, John?’

The younger man sat back with a defiant shrug. ‘Perhaps.’

Several voices broke out in answer, but Robert, sitting with his brother on the edge of the hall’s dais, kept his gaze on the curly-haired man who had spoken. He had met Sir John the year before, shortly after the young man had succeeded to the earldom of Atholl. The earl, who was also Sheriff of Aberdeen, had a reputation for being a firebrand, but Robert had found his frank outspokenness a pleasant change from the guarded manner of other lords he had met. John was married to a daughter of one of his grandfather’s closest comrades, Donald, the stalwart Earl of Mar.