Insurrection (26 page)

‘France?’

At the gruff voice, Robert glanced round to see an elderly man in a brocaded mantle, fastened at his wrinkled throat by a jewelled clasp.

‘So, even our distant Scottish neighbours know of our troubles?’

Robert had heard of the battle that started the conflict soon after it occurred the summer before. The French fleet had attacked several merchant ships crewed by English and Gascon sailors off the coast of Brittany, apparently without provocation, but in the skirmish that followed it was the English who were victorious, capturing three ships and putting the rest to flight. Before he could explain that he had been in England for the past year the old noble continued.

‘Mark my words,’ rasped the man, gesturing with his knife, a slice of meat slipping off the end on to the table, ‘tournaments and feasts will only buoy up the barons for so long. Their high spirits will sink as swiftly as a stone ship come the parliament.’

Robert’s interest was snared by the mention of the parliament. Despite his reservations, he had been looking forward to hearing the king’s plans for a new crusade and the opportunity therein, for one way he would be certain to further his family’s standing would be to take the Cross under Edward’s banner. He could still hear his father’s bitter words the night they learned Balliol would be king, clear as the moment they were uttered.

The blood runs thin in all our sons. Thin as watered wine. How will we make crusaders out of such diluted stock?

He had suffered those words for a long time, the last of any feeling his father had said to him before leaving for Norway. Part of him had fought against them – they had come from one of his father’s drunken rages and were of no substance, just sour bile like all the rest. Another, more persistent part had told him this was true. He couldn’t live up to the crusaders who had gone before him; he who had been raised in years of peace with only a quintain on a deserted beach to tilt at. This, perhaps, was his chance to prove the man wrong. Robert had been envisioning the prospect of heading home to Annandale with grants of land, bags of bright Saracen gold and a reputation as formidable as his grandfather’s to present the old lord with a new palm frond for his mantle, taken from Jerusalem itself.

The elderly noble’s attention, however, was far from crusading. ‘The king is in for a difficult session,’ he told Robert, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Yes indeed.’

The thin, well-dressed man across from Robert cleared his throat meaningfully, his stare full of warning.

‘You know I’m right,’ the old man growled at him. ‘King Edward never should have sent his brother to treat with Philippe on his behalf. If he’d gone himself he wouldn’t now be facing the loss of English rule in Gascony.’

‘From what I’ve heard,’ said Robert, looking between the two men, ‘the surrender of the king’s lands in Gascony is only temporary, until a peace agreement is sealed with King Philippe. It was meant as a gesture of good faith.’

‘That is correct,’ said the thin man emphatically. ‘King Edward was to return the captured ships and cede the duchy. When he goes to France to make peace with Philippe, Gascony will be restored to him. Those are the terms Earl Edmund has agreed in Paris.’

‘Bah!’ spat the old noble. ‘Did you not wonder how a couple of merchant cogs managed to defeat the French fleet in the first place?’

The thin man frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying it was a trap and our king walked right into it! Philippe made it clear from the start of his reign that he didn’t want an English king to rule in any part of France. He told the captains of those ships to let themselves be captured and give him a reason to demand the surrender of Gascony.’

‘Preposterous,’ scoffed the thin man. But his tone held a note of dis­com­fort.

‘And I know too why King Edward agreed so readily to Philippe’s terms,’ said the old man, pointing his knife towards the dais, where the king was seated with his officials. He arched his shaggy eyebrows. ‘It was the promise of young flesh.’

Robert leaned forward expectantly. He had heard rumour of the marriage agreement that had been part of the French negotiations for the ceding of Gascony, but it hadn’t been confirmed.

‘King Philippe’s sister, Princess Marguerite,’ murmured the old man with relish, nodding at Robert. ‘Not a day over thirteen. Mark my words.’ He dug his knife into a bloody piece of beef and sucked it from the blade. ‘Our king traded his wide French lands for a tight French hole.’ With that, he licked his knife clean and pushed away his food. Ignoring the stares of those who had overheard his diatribe, he shuffled from the table and disappeared in the noisy crowd.

The thin man began muttering to someone next to him.

Robert looked at his brother. ‘As I said,’ he murmured, ‘the king has been busy.’

Edward leaned back, picking something from his teeth. ‘I still think he should have welcomed you properly, no matter how preoccupied he is. You are an earl, brother. And it wasn’t so long ago that our grandfather was competing for the throne.’

Robert tucked into his meal in taut silence.

At first, his anger over the loss of the throne had been dampened by grief following his mother’s death, but over the past year it had risen again to plague him. The only cold comfort had come in the knowledge that the reign of Scotland’s new king was anything but content.

After his enthronement, John Balliol had been forced by English lawyers meekly to accept that as King of Scotland he was subject to Edward’s superior authority. The promise Edward had made, assuring the Scots that his overlordship would be only temporary, had been revoked – Edward compelling Balliol to issue documents declaring this guarantee null and void. The English king then set about demonstrating his clear superiority by interfering in Scottish affairs. Lawsuits that ought to have been settled in Scotland were soon being reviewed in Westminster. When the Scots, led by John Comyn, protested, Balliol was summoned to present himself before Edward’s judges. In mourning following the recent death of his wife and queen, a subdued Balliol was treated to a humiliating dressing-down from the king himself and sentenced to lose three royal towns and castles for his contempt.

Robert’s brother had reflected it was a poisoned chalice Balliol had supped from and that they were better off without it, but Robert couldn’t help but think their grandfather would have been able to stand up to the English king better. These thoughts had since grown into the darkening suspicion that this was the prime reason why his grandfather had not been chosen. More than once in the past few months, Robert had recalled the words of Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and the fiery Earl John of Atholl: that King Edward was only interested in expanding his own borders, at the expense of his neighbours. His grandfather had charged him with upholding the Bruce claim to the throne of Scotland, no matter who sat upon it in defiance of their right. But it seemed as though a fight for control of that throne was already well under way and he wasn’t even in the running.

Robert drained his wine and pushed away his plate as the servants began to clear the tables. The minstrels struck up a spirited tune and a line of men and women thronged into the centre of the hall to dance. People clapped as they laced between one another. Edward was talking to the fat woman again, telling her about monstrous beasts that roamed the Scottish hills and snatched children from villages.

‘Sir, are you the Earl of Carrick?’

At the question, Robert’s jaw tightened. He looked round, no longer in the mood for conversation, to see a man dressed in a blue cloak with a bold white stripe. Up close, the knight looked even younger than he had on the tournament ground. He had brown hair that had flopped in his eyes, a striking shade of green set in a broad, open face. Robert’s irritation vanished. ‘I am. You’re Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex?’

Humphrey smiled, a cleft appearing in his cheek. ‘Not quite. My father is the earl. But as I am his heir I suppose the title isn’t far wrong.’

‘Let me introduce . . .’ Robert went to motion to Edward, but his brother had risen and was leading the tittering fat woman into the centre of the hall, as the dancers beckoned guests to join them. Robert turned back. ‘Congratulations on your win today. It was well deserved.’ He wanted to go further and tell Humphrey he hadn’t seen a display like it, but he stopped himself, not wanting the knight to think him unsophisticated.

‘It is I who should be congratulating you, Sir Robert. The way in which you resolved that dispute between our fathers’ tenants in Essex was admirable.’

Robert shook his head, embarrassed by the gratitude. ‘It was the least I could do. Our men were clearly in the wrong. They should never have been hunting in your father’s park in the first place. I hope the reparations I had them make to the earl were satisfactory?’

‘More than. My father wanted me to extend his thanks. He asked after your family.’

‘Well, my brother Alexander is at Cambridge studying divinity and my sister Christian is due to be married to the heir of the Earl of Mar.’ Robert thought about Mary and Matilda in Lochmaben, and Niall and Thomas in Antrim training for knighthood, but he guessed the knight was just being polite. ‘And I believe my father is well,’ he finished, his tone cooling. ‘He is in Norway at the court of King Eric.’

‘Ah, yes, your new brother-in-law.’

Robert was taken aback. Some months ago he’d received a message with the unexpected announcement that his sister was to marry the Norwegian king. The letter had been brief, perfunctory, with no word of greeting from his father. Robert had sent a gift of a silver brooch in the shape of a rose to Isabel, hoping it was a fitting present for a woman who was to become a queen, but he had heard nothing more from over the sea. He hadn’t expected the engagement to be common knowledge yet.

Humphrey laughed at his expression. ‘You shouldn’t be surprised, Sir Robert. Your family’s noble name is well known here and you’ll soon discover that your business is everyone else’s in court.’

‘I’m a little behind in the game.’

‘You’ll catch up. Just keep your eyes open and watch your back.’ Humphrey’s amiable grin seemed out of odds with the warning. ‘Enjoy the celebrations.’

Robert rose. ‘Perhaps we can speak more later? I’m keen to know how I might enter the lists.’

‘Is that so?’ Humphrey looked interested, but then shook his head regretfully. ‘Another time. I’m afraid there is a gathering I must attend this evening.’

‘Of course,’ said Robert, trying to conceal his disappointment. Humphrey’s easy manner was refreshing after the guarded arrogance of most of the other nobles he had met so far. Sitting back down as the knight walked away, he toyed with his goblet, watching his brother spin the fat woman in breathless circles. Perhaps if he wasn’t the one on whom all the family’s hopes were pinned he too could be that carefree. As eldest son, Robert had known this day would come, but at nineteen it had come far sooner than he’d expected. He couldn’t well use youth as an excuse, however, for by this age his grandfather had been designated heir to the throne and had married the daughter of an English earl, obtaining enough property south of the border to rival his Scottish lands.

Robert’s gaze was caught by the sight of Humphrey de Bohun returning.

The young knight looked hesitant, but he smiled. ‘Do you want to join me?’

Robert stood after a pause, sensing that silent acceptance was more valuable than gratitude in the face of the cautious offer. As he followed Humphrey across the crowded hall, he tried to catch his brother’s eye, but Edward was too engrossed in the dance to notice and now they were moving through the press of bodies and out of a door into a narrow passage.

Humphrey led him past watchful guards on to a walkway that spanned the walls of the inmost ward. Day had turned to evening and banks of clouds had drawn in from the east. A chill wind blew their cloaks about them as they made their way along the parapet and down stone steps towards a huge, round tower.

‘These are King Henry’s former apartments,’ said Humphrey, as they passed more guards outside the tower’s entrance. ‘King Edward lets us use them sometimes.’

Wondering who the
us
were, Robert nodded, but said nothing. He felt anticipation bubble up through him. Ascending spiralled stairs inside the tower behind Humphrey, he could hear voices and laughter drifting down. Humphrey opened the arched door at the top and Robert followed him into a spacious chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling, the walls of which were painted dark green, scattered with yellow stars. Couches draped with silks had been placed either side of a grand hearth. There were ten men in the chamber, several of whom Robert recognised from the tournament. Before he could attempt to put any names to the young men’s faces, his attention was caught by a large banner that hung down from supports on one wall. The material was worn and it had been patched in places, but the colour, while faded, was unmistakably scarlet and the embroidered threads, though frayed, showed a golden dragon, shrouded in fire. Robert wanted to ask Humphrey the significance of the symbol, the same emblem that decorated their shields, but the men in the chamber had fallen silent and were staring at him.

‘What is this, Humphrey?’ The man who had spoken was long-limbed and well-built, with black hair swept back from a hard, angular face. He gestured at Robert, a goblet grasped in his extended fist. ‘Who is he?’

‘Did you leave your manners in the lists?’ asked Humphrey, his tone, although jocular, holding a note of caution. ‘This is a guest.’