Insurrection (31 page)

Humphrey raised the wine skin. ‘One left!’ he called, laughing as Robert approached.

‘I’ll wager he makes the second,’ said Edward, turning to the knight, his eyes glinting with challenge.

Humphrey chuckled good-naturedly and shook his head, but Henry Percy, the Earl of Surrey’s grandson, nodded to Edward.

‘I’ll accept that wager,’ said the stocky, blond lord with his lazy smile. On his wrist was a handsome buzzard, its talons hooked over a thick glove. Henry motioned to Robert, who had pulled Hunter to a halt. ‘Ten pounds he doesn’t take the ring.’

Robert looked over at his brother and shook his head discreetly at the sum. Acting as lord of their English estates in the absence of his father, he had summoned three knights and five squires from Essex to serve him, along with his brother and their Scottish entourage, in the war in France. It was Robert’s duty to provide for them all on campaign and unwise wagers were the last thing he needed.

Edward, however, ignored his look. ‘Done,’ he told Henry Percy.

Some of the other knights clapped approvingly, eager for the sport. They had been training for months, all through the delay, and the spice added to their usual practice session was appreciated.

Unable to back down now the wager had been set, Robert turned his horse and moved into position, gritting his teeth and hefting the lance. Forcing all else from his mind, he waited for that single, perfect moment when everything, the horse beneath him, the lance in his hand, his gaze on that distant ring were aligned. When it came it felt like a push. He dug in his spurs and Hunter set off, racing down the centre of the field towards the posts. The wind stung his cheeks, but Robert didn’t take his gaze off the ring. He crouched forward, lance swinging down. Suddenly, a flash of white darted across his path. Hunter’s head jerked round at the motion. The horse missed the next step and came down hard, front hoof slipping in the mud. As the destrier smashed into the ground at furious speed, Robert was flung from the saddle. Tumbling over and over, Hunter’s scream of pain echoing behind him, he came to a shuddering stop.

After a few moments, Robert swayed up on to his hands, spitting blood and mud from his mouth. He could see his horse struggling to stand. His squires were running towards him, Nes heading straight for Hunter. Edward was sprinting with them, his face filled not with concern, but fury, fixed on two men and a woman who had appeared on the edge of the field. One was taller than the others, his sleek black hair swept back from his angular face. On Aymer de Valence’s wrist, swallowing down a piece of meat, was a white saker. Robert realised the flash of white that had spooked Hunter had been the rush of a bird’s wings.

‘What were you thinking, Aymer?’ demanded Humphrey, heading over as Robert swiped blood from his split lip.

‘I thought we were flying our birds today.’ Aymer’s tone was smooth, but he was looking at Robert as he spoke, his eyes bright with amusement. ‘I apologise, Sir Robert. I didn’t mean to distract you.’

Beside him, his sister, Joan de Valence, wore a delicate smirk, half hidden by her gloved hand. Robert’s gaze moved from Joan to the young man next to her with pallid skin and lank black hair, her new husband, John Comyn. He hadn’t even bothered to hide his mirth. It was plastered across his lean face.

The son of the Lord of Badenoch had arrived in London two months earlier with his father and other Scottish magnates, summoned by King Edward to do service in France for their English lands. It was said that Comyn, backed by his fellow Scots, told the king that none of them would serve in a foreign war unless he adhered to the provisions agreed at Birgham and left Balliol to rule his kingdom without English interference. Robert and the other knights didn’t know whether the king had accepted these terms. What they did know was that soon after, a hasty wedding had taken place at the Tower, between Comyn’s eighteen-year-old heir and Edward’s cousin, Joan, the daughter of the Earl of Pembroke. The growing closeness between the new brothers-in-law had turned the air between Robert and Aymer, who hadn’t warmed to him at all, even colder. He sensed the knight was resentful of his burgeoning friendship with Humphrey, but until now Aymer had vaunted his disapproval with nothing more than snide comments and snubs, all of which had been easy to ignore.

Edward stepped towards the three, wrathful at the cheap trick, which had wounded his brother and lost him the wager. ‘You cast that bird on purpose, Valence. Anyone can see that.’ His eyes flicked to John. ‘Take that smile off your face, Comyn.’

John Comyn scowled, but before he could respond Henry Percy moved in, stroking the dappled chest of his buzzard.

‘I say all’s fair.’ Henry looked from Aymer to Robert. ‘We’re training for war. Do you not think there will be distractions on the field?’

Some of the other men nodded in agreement, but Humphrey shook his head adamantly. ‘This isn’t the field of war. There are rules.’

Robert took the wine skin one of his squires handed to him and swilled the liquid round his bloody mouth. He glanced round as Nes called to him. The squire had hold of Hunter’s reins and was trying to help the distressed animal.

‘I think he’s lamed, sir.’

Robert stared at Nes’s troubled face, his thoughts filling with the money he’d paid for the beautiful animal, his best weapon for the coming fight. As he turned back to Aymer, fury flooded him. He went for his sword, meaning to challenge the French knight, determined to recover his loss and his pride, but before he could act there came a shout.

Thomas of Lancaster was sprinting across the grass towards them. ‘There’s rebellion in Wales!’ he panted, as he reached the group. ‘Messengers arrived an hour ago. The king is gathering the magnates for an emergency council.’

‘A rebellion?’ questioned Humphrey sharply. ‘Led by whom?’

‘A man called Madog. My father says he’s a cousin of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd.’

‘All of Llywelyn’s line were captured in the last war,’ said Henry Percy. ‘King Edward made certain of it.’

Thomas shrugged this away, breathing hard. ‘Well, whoever he is, it is serious. Caernarfon has fallen and other castles are under attack. The king is to take immediate action.’ He paused to catch his breath, excitement in his eyes as he met Humphrey’s gaze. ‘The rebels have the Crown of Arthur.’

27

Taking a swig from the skin, Robert savoured the warmth of the wine that flooded his throat. It was colder this far north and west, winter closing in. The sky beyond the broken screen of trees was a frost-tinged blue. He was reminded of Carrick by the clarity of the air, so different to London, clogged with the stink of its seething multitude.

Returning the skin to his pack, Robert leaned back in the saddle, letting Hunter find his own path along the furrowed track. The branches of oak and silver-white birch were almost bare, the ground dense with rotting leaves. Around him men, horses and carts moved through the trees, following the deep ruts in the soil, made by many who had gone before.

Six days out from Chester and he was surprised by the peaceful region through which they travelled. From his father’s talk of wild mountains and scarred plains of rock, gale-swept hills and rain-dashed coastline, he had imagined something quite different to the green, rolling land that opened slowly before them. There were no desolate peaks, no plunging waterfalls, just hills like knucklebones protruding from the soft haze of distant woodlands. He wasn’t complaining, for although Hunter had mended well from the injury and was stronger than he’d dared hope, he was still cautious of pushing the animal too hard. His anger towards Aymer de Valence for the malicious trick played on the practice field hadn’t diminished, despite Hunter’s recovery, but there had been no chance to vent it, the shock that greeted the Welsh revolt consuming the court.

The intensity with which the king had fixed on Wales was visible in the fact that many of the commanders, infantry and supplies at Portsmouth that had been destined for France had at once been redirected. Leaving the Seneschal of Gascony to lead a diminished fleet to France to mount a holding operation, the king chose his bases for the advance, one at Cardiff, the others at Brecon and Chester; a three-pronged attack designed to strike at the rebels from all sides. According to reports that were soon flooding in, each more desperate than the last, English castles were being besieged, towns burned and officials murdered all across Wales, the uprising begun by Madog ap Llywelyn in the north setting flame to the whole country, from Conwy and Caernarfon to Gwent and Glamorgan.

Robert, undeterred by the sudden change of enemy, had been placed in the king’s division with the three knights and five squires he had raised from the Essex estate, and his Scottish entourage. To his satisfaction, neither Aymer de Valence nor John Comyn was present. William de Valence, veteran of many of Edward’s campaigns, was heading the division from Cardiff and his son had gone with him. John Comyn meanwhile had been ordered to serve in France, along with a number of Scottish nobles. On the journey from Westminster, Robert’s brother had gleefully imagined various fates the young knight might meet on hostile, foreign fields.

At Chester, the king’s company, made up of more than six hundred lances, had been augmented by throngs of milling foot soldiers from Shropshire and Gloucestershire. They were followed by seventy skilled crossbowmen and a mass of infantry from Lancashire, led by a pompous, grossly fat royal clerk named Hugh de Cressingham, who had been forced to change horses three times already, each tiring under his weight. From here, the head of this force, several thousand strong, had crossed the border into Wales, the mass of men channelled into a long line that crept, slow and dark as a slick of oil, through the landscape.

The company was split into smaller contingents, who all moved at different paces and had since spread out along the route. Robert and his men had been placed under the joint command of John de Warenne and the Earl of Lincoln, who saw the first action of the campaign when the Welsh in his district at Denbigh had risen, forcing him to flee into England. Henry Percy was also in this company, along with Humphrey de Bohun. Robert had been surprised by this since Humphrey’s father was in the south leading the advance from Brecon, but on the march Humphrey had confided that his father and the king wanted him to prove himself on this campaign.

Hearing the haughty tones of Henry Percy ahead, Robert saw the lord manoeuvring his horse in beside Humphrey.

‘My grandfather is going to order a rest. The terrain gets harder further on.’

Pulling up Hunter’s head, Robert nudged the horse into a faster walk, leaving his brother frowning after him. The knights looked round from their conversation as he came up alongside.

‘We’re stopping at the top of this hill,’ Humphrey told him, nodding to the path through the trees that climbed steadily upwards.

‘Did you say the way gets harder?’

‘According to my grandfather,’ answered Henry.

Humphrey gestured to Hunter. ‘How is he faring?’

‘I think he’s good for a couple of hours.’ As Robert rubbed the horse’s neck, he noticed Henry look away, his chilly blue eyes showing a lack of interest. Doubtless he cared nothing for the horse now he’d been paid the ten pounds Edward had owed him for the wager. Robert was still annoyed with his brother for that. Edward’s audacity had amused him when they were children, but here it just felt reckless and unnecessary.

The ground ascended, their horses pushing into the climb. Gnarled oaks gave way to birch and ash.

‘At this rate we’ll reach Conwy by the Christ Mass,’ said Humphrey, settling back into his saddle and sniffing at the wintry air.

‘And, God willing, be back in Westminster with the crown by Easter,’ added Henry with a hostile smile.

Humphrey gave him a look, but the lord didn’t seem to notice.

‘King Edward hopes to find this crown in the possession of the rebels?’ Robert asked, keeping his voice light to disguise his interest. ‘Is it valuable?’

Ahead, men’s voices lifted as the vanguard reached the crest of the hill.

‘Time for a rest,’ said Humphrey.

Robert bit back the urge to press his friend further. On the journey through the endless woods there had been much opportunity for talk and on several occasions he’d heard the Crown of Arthur mentioned. He had asked Humphrey about this crown, but the knight had guided the conversation, politely yet firmly, in other directions. It had made Robert think back to that private gathering in King Henry’s former apartments the night of the feast, months ago. He’d had a sense then of some bond between these men, beyond their status and wealth, something he guessed not all the young nobles in Edward’s court were privy to – something to do with those dragon shields, which he hadn’t seen since the tournament. The crown had lingered in his mind, hinting at a greater meaning behind the hasty December campaign. His father had spoken in slurred, broken sentences of his service in Wales in winter: the blizzards and the brutal cold that could kill a man at night, wolves gathering after a battle, slinking in before the victors had gone, teeth tearing at warm flesh before it froze. This seemed to be more than just a rebellion to be put down, rather something personal to the king and his knights that would make them risk such conditions. Something that had rendered the older men silent and pensive, and their sons restless and eager.

Hearing murmurs of surprise from up ahead, Robert turned from Humphrey to see the cause. Before them the hill dropped away, plunging into a valley where the trees became an impenetrable cloud of cover, bare boughs of ash and willow interspersed with thick yew, holly and towering pines. It looked to Robert like the Forest of Selkirk, the dark vastness of which stretched from the Scottish Borders to Carrick in the west and Edinburgh in the east. To either side of the valley hills rose in waves, the tree-cover marching almost to the top, where it gave way to ridges of slate. The sight of the dense forest fading into green haze was breathtaking enough, but even more striking was the wide path that had been hacked right through it. It was a dead, grey scar that slashed across the vista, following the contours of the land, its desolation starkly at odds with the verdant woods that bordered it on both sides. Robert had heard his father mention the enormous number of woodcutters and carters the king had employed during the conquest of Wales to clear paths through the impassable forest that covered most of the kingdom of Gwynedd. Here, stretching before him into the far distance, was the evidence of that great labour.