Insurrection (22 page)

‘Does he really think his father has a hope of being chosen?’ muttered Edward.

‘He must know he doesn’t,’ Robert murmured back. ‘Comyn isn’t even pressing his claim. He wants Balliol to be king. Grandfather reckons he just wanted his claim put on record, a formality.’

Young John glanced round, his look of pride shifting to one of hostile dislike as he met the gaze of the Bruce brothers.

Robert’s attention moved to the men gathered on the king’s right, now joined by the Count of Holland and John Comyn. Most, like Comyn, didn’t seem truly to believe their claims were strong enough to gain them the throne. Despite the king’s assertion of a fair hearing everyone knew that in reality there were only two men in this competition. Those two were the last to step forward and submit to the king’s authority. First came John Balliol, eager and smiling.

‘If he bows any lower he’ll snap,’ whispered Edward.

Next came the Lord of Annandale and it was Robert’s turn to feel pride swell within him. His grandfather knelt slowly, with a pained expression, his huge frame protesting at the awkward position into which it was forced. But even as he bowed the lord lost not one inch of his authority.

Robert studied the English king while his grandfather was addressed by Bishop Bek. He could discern very little emotion in those grey eyes, except perhaps a distant sadness, but maybe he just thought he saw that, for tidings of Queen Eleanor’s death had preceded the king. They had all heard how Edward had ordered masons to erect monumental crosses, marking the places where his wife’s body had rested during its procession from Lincoln to London. Robert had imagined these stony pillars of grief dotted along England’s countryside. He had heard a great deal about the king: his valour as a crusader, his skill and fearlessness as a warrior, his canniness as a statesman and his passion for hunting and the joust. He had been surprised by Edward’s cold and threatening demeanour, for it seemed so at odds with the man his father had always spoken of with such admiration.

His grandfather rose, stoop-backed, to join the other claimants. As Bishop Bek addressed the assembled men, Robert felt a rush of impatience. Since the moment his grandfather had led him on to the Moot Hill, the old man’s fight had entered his blood. If his grandfather was named king by Edward, he in turn would be heir to the throne, second in line only to his father. Still, Robert tried to force away his impatience, knowing the hearing would not be over for months, maybe longer. After today, once his grandfather’s petition had been lodged, the Bruces would be returning to their homes like everyone else, to await the verdict of Scotland’s new overlord.

19

‘She’s looking at you.’

Robert took a mouthful of plum-dark wine as Edward leaned in close, his voice filled with mirth. ‘Oh?’ Robert leaned nonchalantly against the wall, but his gaze darted furtively across the bobbing heads of the dancers to the other side of the hall.

His brother laughed, seeing the look. ‘No, not really.’

‘Cur,’ muttered Robert. He scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for the scarlet veil that had been there only a few minutes ago. The hall was filled with music, the whine of bagpipes and the thud of drums rising over the footfalls of the men and women. The trestles and boards, on which the feast had been presented earlier, had been pushed aside to make room for dancing. A line of laughing women criss-crossed back to meet the men, obscuring Robert’s view. He looked away and, as he did so, caught a flash of scarlet up on the dais. It was her.

Her name was Eva and she was a daughter of Earl Donald of Mar, one of his grandfather’s staunchest allies. Robert had met her on several occasions over the past year, her father journeying to Annandale to support the lord through the hearing. She wasn’t the first woman he had noticed: there were one or two girls in Lochmaben who had captured his attention during his residency, including the niece of one of his grandfather’s vassals, who had made him a man in a cobweb-strung barn on the edge of the woods. But Eva was different. She was of his rank and, as a young lady of standing with education, was far more self-assured than the town girls. Robert feared she wouldn’t be so easy to impress.

As he watched, Eva bent down beside her father, draping an arm companionably around the elderly earl’s broad shoulders. The silk folds of her scarlet veil, held in place by a circlet of braid, slipped over her shoulder, framing her face. A few strands of honey-blonde hair floated around her cheeks, flushed with heat and wine. She smiled as the Lord of Annandale leaned over and said something to the earl. Robert pushed himself determinedly from the wall, ignoring his brother’s grin, and made his way through the crowd. There was a rush of skirts and breathless laughter as a woman twirled in front of him and away again, back into the arms of a waiting man. Robert lifted his goblet to his lips and tipped the last of the wine into his mouth, then handed the vessel to a passing servant. He wasn’t a squire tonight. Tonight, he was the grandson of the man who might be king.

It was a year since the thirteen men had knelt before King Edward in Norham Castle. A year since the English king had taken control of Scotland. The hearing had opened in the royal burgh of Berwick last summer with written petitions from each claimant lodged, along with rolls detailing their pedigrees. A court had been chosen, composed of one hundred and four men, eighty of whom had been selected by each of the two chief claimants: the Lord of Annandale and Balliol, and the rest by Edward himself. The pedigrees the king had sent to France, to be studied in detail by scholars from the Sorbonne. Now, it was almost over. The king was due to announce his verdict any day and the Lord of Annandale had arranged this evening’s feast at Lochmaben to thank some of the magnates who had endorsed him. The old Bruce, now in his seventieth year, was confident, with good reason. The lord had a blood claim rivalled only by Balliol’s, was a staunch vassal of the English king, serving under Edward in the Holy Land and fighting for Henry against Simon de Montfort. And, most crucially of all, he had garnered the support of seven of the thirteen earls of Scotland, who, by ancient law, could choose a king.

Robert was approaching the dais, his eyes on Eva, when he heard his name called. He turned to see his mother. Lady Marjorie’s raven-black hair, streaked with silver, tumbled from beneath a padded mesh of blue silk that matched her gown. To Robert, she looked like a queen, erect and beautiful. It was only as he went towards her that he saw the shadows around her eyes and the skin stretched taut over her bones. Realising his grandfather wasn’t the only one this hearing had weighed heavy on, he felt ashamed that he hadn’t thought of her in these months. Robert glanced at his father, up on the dais. The earl had a drink in his fist and his face, dark in the plunging shadows thrown by the torchlight, was beetle-browed and glowering. He doubted the man had been easy to live with.

‘My son,’ said the countess, appraising the tall figure Robert cut in black hose and buttoned tunic. ‘You look so handsome.’

Hearing a giggle, Robert saw one of his sisters peering out from behind the countess’s skirts. It was the youngest, Matilda. Still giggling, she ran to where the rest of his sisters were sitting with their nurse. He couldn’t believe how much they had changed since he had seen them last. Mary was an unruly seven-year-old, apparently always in trouble like Edward. At nine, Christian, with her curly fair hair, was serious and sensible, and Isabel was a proud young woman. He wished his other brothers had been able to attend the feast tonight, but Niall and Thomas were in fosterage in Antrim, following in his footsteps, and Alexander was due to enter the priesthood. There was talk of him going to Cambridge to study divinity.

‘I haven’t seen you dancing yet,’ continued the countess, laying a cool hand on his hot cheek.

‘It is still early,’ said Robert, his gaze roving towards the dais.

Lady Marjorie gave him a knowing look. ‘Ask her,’ she murmured, before melting back into the crowd.

Discomforted by his mother’s shrewdness, Robert made his way up on to the dais over the heads of the crowd. He walked down the table, scattered with the remnants of the feast, past his brooding father to his grandfather and the Earl of Mar. The Earl of Atholl, Sir John, was there with his wife, an older daughter of Earl Donald, dressed in red like her sister. Robert approached the men, trying to ignore the blush of scarlet that threatened to fill his view. He opened his mouth, hoping something appropriately courtly might emerge, but his grandfather beat him to it.

‘Ah, Robert, we were just speaking about you.’ The lord’s face was blotchy and tiny purple veins webbed his nostrils.

‘Indeed we were,’ said John of Atholl. ‘Your grandfather was telling us of your exploits on the hunt today.’ The intense young earl leaned towards Robert with a keen smile, his hair curling around his brow. ‘I hear yours was the killing strike. I’m sorry I missed it.’

‘A hart of sixteen tines,’ said the Lord of Annandale, sitting back with a satisfied grunt, grasping his goblet. ‘The best and last of the season.’

Robert couldn’t resist any longer. His eyes flicked to the patch of scarlet crowding his periphery. He locked eyes with Eva. She too was smiling, but it was a cooler, more appraising smile than the men’s, as if she were still judging him and was yet to be impressed. Her eyes were a paler shade of blue than his own. The colour of a spring sky, he decided.

‘Eva.’

She turned as one of her younger sisters, a thin girl, whose hair was more mouse-brown than honey-gold, came tentatively up the steps.

‘Yes, Isobel?’

‘Will you dance with me?’

With a squeeze of her father’s shoulders, Eva stepped lightly down from the dais, taking her sister by the hand. She threw a brief, backward glance at Robert, before disappearing in the throng, leaving a wisp of scarlet to trail in his vision.

The Earl of Atholl rose, taking his pretty wife’s arm. ‘I think we will join them.’ John grinned broadly. ‘Beware, Robert. All the best daughters will soon be taken.’

The young man winked at the Earl of Mar and the Lord of Annandale, who both chuckled in a way that made Robert suspect they had been talking about more than his hunting skills. He was eighteen; no doubt the question of marriage wasn’t far from any of their minds these days, especially given the circumstances. A suitable bride, of high standing and dowry to match, would soon be chosen. If indeed, he thought, taking in the men’s knowing smiles, she hadn’t been already. Keen to change the subject, he fixed on the dried palm leaf pinned to his grandfather’s mantle. ‘Do you think King Edward will answer the pope’s call to crusade?’

As the men’s expressions sobered Robert wished he had thought of a less bleak conversation. It was six months now since tidings had reached them of the fall of Acre, the crusaders’ last stronghold in the Holy Land. Rumour spoke of men and women jumping into the sea to escape the Saracens’ blades, chaos and fire, streets running with blood and ships filled to the gunwales with tattered refugees limping into harbours across Christendom. The pope had since been calling for a new crusade, but nothing had been set.

‘Perhaps, when our throne is filled, we might all answer that call,’ replied his grandfather in a low voice. He drained his goblet.

Earl Donald was nodding. ‘What we need is new blood for the holy war.’ He inclined his head to Robert. ‘If a young and powerful lord were to take the Cross, others would follow.’

There was a hiss from along the table. They turned to see the Earl of Carrick glaring at them, his eyes hooded and bloodshot. ‘Powerful lord!’ He staggered to his feet, his chair screeching back behind him. He flung an arm towards Robert, his goblet still gripped in his fist. Wine splattered the table. ‘If that is your hope for the Holy Land then God help us!’

His words were slurred, but clear enough to ring like a bell in Robert’s ears.

‘Enough,’ growled the Lord of Annandale.

‘I speak the truth. He hasn’t fought in a war. He knows only how to kill
beasts
, not men. New blood?’ The earl grimaced. ‘The blood runs thin in all our sons. Thin as watered wine. How will we make crusaders out of such diluted stock?’ The earl continued his poisoned stream, but Robert didn’t wait to hear any more.

Turning, he strode down the steps into the crowd. Ignoring the protests of people he pushed roughly past, he made it to the doors and out into the night, leaving the music and voices to fade behind him, swallowed by darkness. Out across the bailey he went, past chapel and kitchens, stables and kennels, the buildings silhouetted in the pallid light of a half-moon. Before him, over the rooftops, rose the humped blackness of the motte, its steep sides carapaced in clay. Atop the reinforced mound a round tower pointed a blunt finger towards the distant stars. Instead of climbing the motte to the keep, where he shared lodgings with his grandfather, Robert headed to the palisade that encircled the castle compound. He was almost at the gate, when he heard his name. He turned to see Eva hastening towards him, her scarlet veil black in the moonlight.

‘You’re leaving the feast?’

‘I needed air.’ Not wanting to remain inside the castle another moment, even for her, Robert continued towards the palisade.

Eva fell into step beside him, the skirts of her dress rustling over the icy ground. It was late autumn and the trees were splayed naked against the sky. The guards at the palisade greeted Robert as he approached. One opened the gate with a lingering look at Eva.

‘Careful how you go, Master Robert,’ he called, a smirk lacing his voice. ‘It’s wet down by the loch tonight.’