Insurrection (18 page)

‘But he is a son of the
second
-born daughter,’ challenged Comyn. ‘As grandson of Huntingdon’s
first
-born, John Balliol should be king. By primogeniture, the elder line is the dominant line.’

‘We have been one of the most influential families in this kingdom for almost two centuries. My father was designated heir to the throne by King Alexander II, for the sake of Christ!’

The Abbot of Scone winced at the earl’s last words and tried to protest. John Comyn didn’t give him the chance.

‘That claim is as antiquated as your family’s power in this realm,’ spat the Comyn. ‘The act was performed when the former king had no heirs. When his son was born it became meaningless. Who has held sway in the royal court these past decades?’ he demanded, turning in a circle to confront the men. ‘The Comyns. If power and influence should be called upon to determine the next king, then it is my family who stand at the fore.’

The earl’s face flushed with fury, but as he went to argue the Lord of Annandale stepped in. ‘We are in a dark and difficult time.’ His voice echoed in the church. ‘We lost a king and now we have lost the hope of a queen. What this kingdom needs is strength and unity. Choose Balliol and you will get nothing but a weak-willed man who is led by others.’

‘And if they choose you?’ demanded Comyn. He turned again to the magnates. ‘Do not forget that this man who comes armed into a place of worship was the same man who, in our time of crisis, invaded Galloway. He speaks now of unity? King Alexander’s body was not cold in the ground before the Bruce attacked his neighbour! Would you have a tyrant for a king?’

Robert, watching the exchange, stepped forward at this, clutching the hilt of his sword. The bands of leather around the grip were hot beneath his fingers. A few of his grandfather’s knights also moved in, their faces tightening with anger at the insult to their lord. Some of the magnates retreated uneasily, but Comyn stood his ground, levelling the Lord of Annandale with a belligerent stare. Robert pulled his sword a little way out of its scabbard at the threat in Comyn’s dark eyes.

‘Please, my lords!’ called the abbot, looking to the other nobles for support. ‘This is not the place for such conflict!’

‘I have a right to be heard,’ the Lord of Annandale demanded, pushing past James Stewart, who stepped in front of him. ‘My claim cannot be ignored!’

‘Cease, my friend,’ James was saying.

‘You have no claim, Bruce,’ responded Comyn. ‘It is over.’

‘By God is it not!’ fumed the Earl of Carrick, forcing his way through the throng and striding down the aisle, eyes alight.

Robert saw his father was headed for the altar, upon which was a large block of stone. It was creamy-coloured with some sort of crystalline sand within that glittered in the torchlight. Two iron rings were fixed to either end and it was placed on a cloth of gold silk, upon which he made out the creased paws and head of a red lion. Robert knew at once that this was the Stone of Destiny, the ancient seat that would be carried up the Moot Hill for the inauguration of a new king. It had been brought to Scone more than four hundred years ago by the first King of Scots, Kenneth mac Alpin, but its origins were lost in the depths of time. It was the seat Macbeth had sat upon before being overthrown by Malcolm Canmore.

‘I will take what belongs to my family by force!’

The Lord of Annandale shouted as his son went for the stone. Other nobles cried out in protest. In the confusion, Comyn stepped towards the lord.

Robert saw Comyn reach for the food knife that hung from his belt beside a money-pouch. At once something fired in his blood. Pulling his blade free from its scabbard he lunged. There was a rasp of metal on leather and a flash of steel. The men all turned to the storm-eyed youth, standing between the Lord of Annandale and the Lord of Badenoch, his sword pointed at Comyn’s throat. The Earl of Carrick had halted in the aisle between the rows of stone angels and was staring in disbelief at his son.

Robert, his heart hammering in his chest, met Comyn’s gaze, his sword tip wavering inches from the lord’s neck. He wanted to tell the men that the lord had no right to challenge his grandfather, who had fought justly against Comyn’s secret scheme to put Balliol on the throne in defiance of King Alexander’s wishes. He wanted to shout that his grandfather was a better and wiser man than any of them and they would be honoured to have him as their king. But before he could, he felt a hand come down upon his shoulder.

‘Lower your sword, Robert,’ said his grandfather, his voice low and implacably stern.

Slowly, Robert obeyed, realising the attention of every man in the church was now on him. He noticed his brother staring at him in astonishment from out of the line of Carrick knights.

‘Nothing can be determined here tonight,’ said James Stewart, surveying the hushed crowd. ‘This decision must be made by the men of the realm. I suggest we convene again when cooler heads prevail and when all are present to make their voices heard.’

‘I agree,’ said Robert Wishart. His assent was joined by others.

The gathering began to move, murmuring agitatedly. The Earl of Carrick made his way back down the aisle, his face like thunder. As the Lord of Annandale turned to go, John Comyn grabbed his arm and leaned in close. Robert, caught between them, smelled a bitter odour coming from the wolf pelt that trimmed Comyn’s cloak. He heard him breathe words.

‘My father should have killed you in that cell in Lewes when he had the chance.’

The Lord of Annandale jerked from Comyn’s grip. Propelling Robert in front of him, he headed for the church doors, past the Bishop of St Andrews who was speaking urgently with Wishart.

‘There will be blood,’ the bishop was saying. ‘Unless this matter is settled quickly.’

16

As he stepped into the evening, Robert heard his father call his name harshly. He didn’t look back, but fought to match his grandfather’s stride. ‘What did Comyn mean? About Lewes?’ His brow knotted. ‘Grandfather!’

The lord halted abruptly. ‘Do not raise your voice to me, boy.’ He took hold of Robert’s chin roughly. ‘And you should not have drawn your sword against him like that. Do you hear? It is time to make our case with words, not violence.’

‘I thought Comyn was going to attack you,’ said Robert, pulling from his grandfather’s grip. ‘And why would you care that I drew my sword against him, when you attacked his castles? You hate him!’

‘Yes!’ barked the old lord. ‘And that hatred has the power to rip this kingdom apart!’ He stopped, seeing the earl striding towards them. Turning from Robert, he headed for their horses.

Robert followed doggedly, his need for answers greater than his awe of this lion of a man. ‘You’ve taught me to ride and to hunt, trained me to fight. You took me to Salisbury and Birgham, introduced me to the most powerful men in the kingdom. You tell me how important I am for the future of this family. Yet you’ve told me almost nothing about your hatred of the Comyns, despite all the times I’ve asked. I want the truth, Grandfather!’

‘You’re too young for it.’

Robert halted. ‘If you become king, I will be an heir to the throne. That right is not determined by age. Why should the truth be?’

The Lord of Annandale turned, his craggy face changing, anger fading into surprise. After a moment, the lord crossed to him and grasped him by the shoulder. ‘Come.’ He glanced round as Robert’s father approached with his knights and Edward. ‘Get the horses. We’ll follow.’ Before the earl could respond, the lord steered Robert away across the courtyard.

As they came out from between the buildings, Robert realised his grandfather was leading him to the Moot Hill. Together, they climbed the slope to the bare crown. The sun had set and the shadows were gathering. From the royal burgh of Scone, beyond the abbey grounds, smoke drifted on the chill. It would soon be All Souls. Their breath misted the air as they reached the top. There was a stone plinth rising from the earth in the centre of the circle of trees. As Robert saw it, he knew at once that it was where the Stone of Destiny would be set for the inaugurations. He stared at it, struck by the gravity of this place.

Even with all that had happened since the maid’s death, he realised he had still been seeing his grandfather’s claim as something distant and unreal. Now, in this hallowed setting, where since time immemorial Scotland’s kings had been made, he felt the profound weight of this truth settle inside him: it wasn’t just words, claims and counterclaims – it was something as real and solid as the stone itself. He thought of the tree his grandfather had spoken so seriously of when he first arrived at Lochmaben; the tree with roots stretching back into the past. Men whose blood flowed in his veins had ascended this hill to this very spot. He was standing on the echoes of the footsteps of his ancestors. All around him now, in the dusky shadows, Robert could feel them: the ghosts of his history. The kings of old.

In the dying light, his grandfather turned to him.

Lewes, England

1264 AD

The council of war had ended and letters of defiance had been exchanged. There were to be no more words. Now, only swords would make statements, expressing themselves in the flesh of the enemy.

One by one, the three divisions of the royal army left the safety of the town walls, riding behind their commanders.  White clouds chased one another across the morning sky, sweeping vast shadows over the Downs that surrounded the town of Lewes. May blossom fell on the heads of the cavalry and their horses, and on the foot soldiers that followed in their wake. Sunlight flashed in and out, glinting on lance tips and glittering across mail. Riding up on to the higher ground, banners flying, they left the town below them. The castle keep was still visible for a time, jutting from its grassy motte, beyond which the land tumbled into the valley cut by the river. Ahead, nearer now, were the men they had come to meet.

The enemy was arrayed on the hillside in three contingents half a mile long. They had the advantage of the high ground, the terrain studded with trees at their backs. In the front and centre of one company a banner was raised, one half white, the other red. It was parted down the centre, a fitting image for the division in the kingdom that had led these men, once allies and comrades, to these cloud-crowned English hills. The knights of the royal army, who had ridden out of Lewes, were fixed on that banner like archers to a target, all their focus channelled into that distant, undulating cloth, the mark of so much hatred and the reason for their being here: the arms of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.

Sir Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, Sheriff of Cumberland and Governor of Carlisle, watched as the motionless enemy lines grew closer with every stride of his horse. His men rode around him, eleven lances in all, with a banneret to bear his standard. The ring of their bridles was loud in his ears, above the thunderous din of the three-thousand-strong company he moved within, led by the King of England. Beyond the circle of his knights were his countrymen, who, like himself, had crossed the border at King Henry’s summons to do service for their English lands. Among them were John Balliol, Lord of Barnard Castle, and John Comyn of Badenoch. Both lords were in their fifties, ten years his senior and grey-haired and soft-bellied with it, but they were set for battle, their men formed up around them. The division between the two armies extended even into families, for while John Comyn was here to serve the king, another branch of the family, the Comyns of Kilbride, were with the rebels. Fighting for Simon de Montfort, they were no doubt hoping for a slice of the glory already attained by the more influential branches of the Red and the Black.

This was the closest Bruce had been to Comyn since his arrival in England. Until now, the two men had kept apart, their animosity seething, invisible between them. It was only seven years since the Comyns had kidnapped King Alexander in an attempt to gain control of Scotland. Despite the fact that Alexander had since been restored to his throne and peace bargains struck, it wasn’t long enough for Bruce to forgive the treachery against the young king, whom he looked upon as a son. Neither was it long enough for the Red Comyns to forget that Bruce supported their enemies during the crisis and had been instrumental in Alexander’s restoration, an act which almost destroyed their family.

It was thus with watchful unease that the Lord of Annandale rode his horse on to the Downs, aware that the enemy beside him might be more dangerous than the one arrayed on the hilltop. A stray blade in his back. A misdirected arrow. Such a thing would go against every code of chivalry, for nobles did not intentionally kill nobles, even in battle. But the Comyns had little true noble blood in them, despite their high position.

Hearing a horn, Bruce looked ahead to where King Henry’s banner marked his position in the vanguard of the royal army’s left flank. The front lines of the king’s company were slowing. Bruce reined in his horse, his men gathering around him. Through the forest of lances he could see two more contingents stretching away across the hillside. The centre was commanded by Henry’s brother, the Earl of Cornwall, the right flank by the king’s son. Edward was visible even at this distance, unmistakable in scarlet and gold. He had returned from France the year before at the head of a large company of French nobles, intending to liberate his lands in Wales from Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. Instead, he had been plunged into the conflict between his father and godfather that had escalated into the unthinkable. Civil war.