Insurrection (37 page)

Dismounting in the village of Nefyn, Robert stared around, trying to imagine the forlorn settlement as the cradle of prophecy. A few dilapidated homes huddled around a church in a cleft of land between wooded slopes to the east and south. Back the way they had come, over steep cliffs and the booming sea, a fading line of torchlight marked the rest of the king’s company still making its way in, like a necklace of fire draped around the hills.

The men of the vanguard were spreading out, some heading to search the deserted homes, others looking for fresh water for the horses, more moving down on to the shore to find driftwood for fires. In the blue wash of evening, several boats were visible, beached on the expanse of sand, left by those who had abandoned their homes at the start of the war and headed into the forests, driving their livestock before them to keep them from the advancing English. They had left behind a land of echoes, in the frozen silence of winter. The knights were subdued, numb fingers plucking at bridle buckles and packs, breath fogging the air, muscles tortured by the march.

‘Where should we bed down?’

Robert looked round at his brother’s voice. Edward wore a heavy cloak over his mail and surcoat, but his face was tinged blue and his lips were chapped. The air was pure ice. ‘By those trees will do.’ Robert nodded to a copse of hoary oaks by a tumbled-down house. ‘Have the squires get a fire going.’

Half an hour later, he was leaning against the trunk of an oak, the undersides of the branches flushed by firelight. His body thawed slowly in the burgeoning heat as he rested, half listening to murmured conversations, punctuated by the whinnies of horses. Men busied themselves digging pits for fires and collecting brittle branches. Nes and some of the other squires had gone to collect more fuel, and his servants and steward were preparing the evening meal, such as it was. Watching the knights sharing dregs from skins and breaking stale bread that was swallowed down with difficulty, Robert felt his stomach ache. It would be at least a few hours until the wagons arrived with more supplies. Humphrey was nearby, as were some of the others who had travelled in the vanguard.

Since the fight, Robert had kept himself at a distance, partly not wanting the animosity that lingered with Guy to be noted by anyone outside their circle, partly stung that the ending of his affair with Helena had been down to them, the choice taken from him. The duel with Guy didn’t seem to have damaged his standing in the order; if anything Humphrey, Thomas and Ralph respected him more, but the divisions that already existed had been made clearer, the lines drawn, immutable. The enmity between himself and Aymer, which before had been little more than juvenile aggression, had formed into something solid, something adult and dangerous.

‘Do you trust him?’

Robert glanced over at his brother’s question, realising he had been caught staring at Humphrey. Edward was sitting opposite, the fire writhing between them, illuminating his face. They were alone for a moment, the knights from Essex seeing to the horses, the servants searching through the packs for more food to dole out. When Robert didn’t respond, Edward continued, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the flames.

‘I know you won’t speak of this order, or whatever it is you have been accepted into, but I wonder if you’ve stopped to think about what it is you now belong to.’ Edward picked up a twig that had jumped from the fire and was smouldering on the grass. He tossed it back into the flames, his face taut in the amber glow. ‘These knights serve a man who robbed our family of the throne. Do not forget that.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Robert sharply, meeting his brother’s gaze. ‘Our grandfather sent me here to raise our standing. He knew I could do nothing to further our position in Scotland, not with Balliol on the throne, but he believed I could recover some of our losses here. That is what I am trying to do.’

Edward leaned forward. ‘Is it?’ he asked intently. ‘Because from where I stand this has nothing to do with strengthening our family and everything to do with you. I think you’ve been seduced, brother, just as our father was, by King Edward’s dazzling promises. These men – and all their talk of King Arthur – have turned your head to the truth. By joining their ranks, by making whatever oaths you made, you have forsaken the very thing our grandfather charged you with. How, by furthering the ambitions of a king who denied our right to the throne, are you helping our family?’ Edward shook his head, his expression bullish. ‘Next you’ll be bowing to St George, St Andrew forgotten.’

Robert kept his voice low with effort. ‘If anyone is endangering our family’s standing here it is you. You say you don’t like being treated like a churl. Stop acting like one.’ He glanced past Edward, seeing Nes and the others approaching, carrying bundles of firewood. Robert looked back at his brother, his tone hard. ‘You aren’t the one on whom our future depends, Edward. If you were, maybe you would not be so quick to judge me.’

He fell silent as the others settled in around the fire. Edward accepted a wine skin one of the servants handed to him, his gaze lingering on Robert, who leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

Some time later, Robert woke from the fog of a disturbing dream to the sound of raised voices. He sat up groggily, his neck stiff. His brother and the Essex knights were on their feet, staring into the darkness beyond their pool of firelight. As Robert stood, he saw men hastening past, their faces agitated in the glow of the campfires. The raised voices grew louder, more urgent. He caught sight of the broad figure of John de Warenne heading for the church, in which the king had bedded down. Robert moved in behind his men. ‘What is it?’

‘Look,’ murmured Edward.

Following his gaze, back into the hills they had come from, Robert saw a faint orange glow beyond one ridge. It was a large fire, some miles away. He was distracted by two figures, emerging from the blackness ahead. Between them they were hauling a third man, whose hand was clamped around a wad of cloth at his neck. As they passed, Robert saw the cloth was sodden with blood.

‘Wake the others,’ Robert ordered his knights, bending to grasp his mail coat. He was pulling on his arming cap when Humphrey met him, dressed and armoured. The shield on his arm didn’t bear his coat of arms, but rather the golden dragon. ‘What’s happening?’ Robert asked him.

‘The baggage train has been attacked. We’re riding out.’

‘Nes, saddle Hunter for me,’ Robert called to his squire, who nodded and disappeared. ‘Madog’s force?’ he questioned, looking back at Humphrey.

‘We don’t know. It happened quickly.’ Humphrey watched as Robert hefted his sword from the pile of his belongings. ‘Get your shield. Just you, Robert,’ he added, glancing at Edward and the Essex knights. ‘We need the bulk of our troops to stay, in case the attack was a diversion for a larger assault. The Earl of  Warwick will be in command here.’

As Humphrey moved into the commotion of the waking camp, Robert crouched down beside the sack that contained the shield. He paused for a moment, then pulled it out, feeling a tightening in his chest as the blood scarlet bloomed in the firelight. As he rose, he met Edward’s gaze.

Nes’s voice called out. ‘Hunter’s ready, sir.’

Swinging his cloak around his shoulders, Robert moved to follow the squire.

‘Brother,’ said Edward, grasping his arm.

‘Warwick will tell you what to do,’ Robert said, heading past him, into the black.

King Edward was already mounted on Bayard, a large group gathered around him. Torches held by several knights blazed, reflected in the dragons on their shields. The king’s face was filled with anger, a righteous, burning anger, which would only be sated by bloodshed. The enemy had attacked without warning, not man against man on an open field, but in the dark, exploiting their weakness.

As the king dug his spurs into Bayard’s sides, the company, several hundred strong, followed him determinedly out of Nefyn. Robert, riding beside Humphrey, glimpsed his brother by the fire pulling on his sword belt, alone. Gripping his shield, he kicked Hunter on, moving in the midst of the knights, their differences for the moment put aside, any enmity gathered together and turned outwards, towards the invisible enemy on the hillside. For the first time on the long campaign, Robert felt a sense of exhilaration. He was part of the king’s company now, chosen and trusted. His brother didn’t understand.

Up over the cliffs they went, the crashing waves loud beneath them. Robert could see the white peaks tumbling all along the shore, faint in the grey light seeping from the east. Another hour or so and it would be dawn. Feeling something soft against his face, he realised it was snow.

After a couple of miles, the glow on the horizon growing steadily brighter, they rounded a steep slope and saw flames gusting in a rocky valley between two hills. The snow was falling thickly now. The company slowed, the men staring into the shadowy heights to either side, wary of attack. The devastation became apparent in the feverish flames as they rode in through the wreckage of the baggage train. Bodies were strewn on the ground, scattered with a dusting of snow. Some had arrows protruding from them, while others had clearly been involved in closer combat, their enemies armed with brutal weapons: axe and spear in the main, the telltale wounds in their flesh deep and jagged. Necks were torn open, faces split, heads cleaved to the brain, limbs hacked from bodies. Most of the dead were carters or squires, their armour no match for the forces that had attacked them.

The knights of the king’s company dismounted, kicking over the bodies of a few Welshmen, whose drab woollen garments were bright with blood. The thick stench of death was muted by the smoke swirling from the crackling fire that had been set in a large group of carts. Dead carthorses made bulky shapes between the men. One, wounded, squealed piteously as the knights moved in. It staggered upright, entrails hanging from the gash in its stomach. At the approach of the men, the beast stumbled a few steps, ropes of intestines sliding from it with the movement, until it collapsed on to its knees.

King Edward surveyed the destruction in silence from the saddle of his destrier. Several knights had split off on the orders of John de Warenne to search the hillside for any signs of the enemy, but it was clear they had gone, melting back into the darkness that had been their cover. There were a few scattered barrels littering the valley and some visible as hazy shapes within the flames, but it was obvious that most of their supplies, if not ruined or burned, had been taken.

‘Bastards,’ murmured Humphrey.

In the ashen light, Robert could see snow settling on the knight’s shoulders.

‘There’s one alive here, Sire!’

The king turned sharply as two of his men hauled a figure upright from between two smashed beer barrels. The man was dressed in a brown woollen cloak. He groaned bitterly as the men dragged him towards the king. His side was washed with blood.

Edward spoke in English, his voice cutting the smoke-tinged air. ‘Where is Madog?’

When the man didn’t respond, one of the knights punched him in the side. ‘Answer your king,’ he said roughly, his fist coming back red.

The man sagged between the knights, sweat and snow glistening on his face. He licked his lips and met Edward’s gaze. Grimacing, he hissed words through his teeth in Welsh, before averting his eyes.

Edward stared at him for a pause. ‘Throw him on the fire.’

As the knights who had hold of him pulled him towards the burning carts, the man yelled and struggled in their grip, blood pumping from his wound. ‘No! I speak!
I speak!
’ The English was thick in his mouth.

Edward held up his hand. ‘Where is Madog?’ he repeated, as the knights halted.

‘Snowdon,’ gasped the rebel, jerking his head towards the jagged darkness of the distant skyline. ‘Mountain.’

‘Where on Snowdon?’ demanded one of the knights.

‘I know not where.
Dinas
tomen . . .
’ The man shook his head wildly and rushed into a stream of  Welsh. ‘I know not!’ he finished.

‘He said something about a fortress,’ said one of the knights, frowning. ‘A ruined fortress on a hill under Snowdon. I don’t think he’s been there.’

‘There are several fortresses beneath Snowdon, but only two that are in ruins.’ As he switched back into French, Edward’s tone was poised.

The man peeled back his lips in a pained half-smile. ‘Mercy, King,’ he said tentatively.

Edward’s gaze didn’t leave his. ‘Burn the wretch.’

The knights picked up the man, one grabbing his ankles, the other his wrists. Some of the watching men cheered harshly as they carried him to the fire. The man screamed, throwing back his head and twisting in their grasp, but, wounded, he was no match for them. The knights began to swing him, to and fro, the curves his body made in the air getting wider.

Robert, watching with the others, was reminded of a game he had played with his brothers when they were younger. They had taken it in turns to fling one another into the sea one summer in Turnberry. That same action played out here in the wreckage of carts and corpses, the man in the centre screaming blood from his mouth, was obscene.

Finally, the knights let go and the man was flung into the centre of the bonfire. He flailed and shrieked for a moment, a writhing thing in the heart of the flames, before his hair and clothes went up and his skin shrivelled and blistered away.