Insurrection (50 page)

‘We are the Knights of the Dragon,’ answered Humphrey. ‘We have come to take the Stone of Destiny on the orders of King Edward of England, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland, conqueror of Wales and overlord of Scotland. Stand aside and you will not be harmed.’

‘By God, I will not,’ murmured the abbot, stepping forward, closely followed by the man with the axe. His voice trembled, but his wizened face was adamant in the torchlight. ‘I will not stand aside!’

Percy and Clifford were struggling to lift the stone into the wagon. Ralph moved to aid them.

‘None of us will,’ the abbot went on, raising his voice. In answer, the monks clustered forward. Most of them looked terrified.

‘Then you will die,’ growled Aymer de Valence.

Humphrey called out, but Aymer ignored him and thrust towards the abbot, who staggered back in terror. Before Aymer could strike, Robert brought his own sword slicing round to Aymer’s throat. He checked the blade at the last second, but it made contact with Aymer’s skin, just above the collar of his mail. The knight stopped dead, head tilted back from the edge of steel pushed up against him.

‘Lower your weapon,’ Robert said through his teeth. ‘Or I’ll slit you.’

Aymer’s black eyes flicked to Guy, standing behind Robert. ‘Do it then!’ he hissed, ‘and I shall die watching as you’re run through.’

Robert felt Guy’s sword point as a pressure against his back.

The man with the axe had moved closer, his gaze darting between Aymer and Robert, his shoulders hunching, as if to strike. Some of the monks were closing in, clutching their sticks and knives. A bell began to ring somewhere and distant shouts echoed in the dusk, from the town. More help was coming.

Humphrey stepped in. ‘Robert.’ When Robert didn’t move, the knight placed a mailed hand on his blade and pushed it firmly down.

Freed, Aymer stepped back. As he did so, the man with the axe made his move. Aymer turned, whip fast, and ran him through, spitting with effort as he twisted the sword in the man’s gut. The man’s eyes bulged and his mouth stretched. The axe fell from his fingers to clang in the dust. The abbot cried out as Aymer wrenched the blade free with a spray of blood and the man thudded to his knees, curling over the gaping wound, trying to hold his stomach together with his hands.

Shouts erupted from the company. Some men fell back in fear, others surged forward. As one of the monks went for Humphrey, brandishing his knife, the knight punched him in the face. There was a crunch of bone as the man’s nose broke and he reeled away, blood flowing between his fingers. The other knights closed in, forming a wall to block the monks as Percy and Clifford finally hauled the stone into the wagon. The knights moved forward determinedly, their shields raised, Robert caught up among them. Aymer, his blade dripping blood, was at their head. Two of the monks grabbed the abbot and pulled him back from their advance.

‘Let’s go!’ yelled Ralph.

Through the trees came the gleam of torchlight as people from the town hurried to see what the commotion at the abbey was. Mounting, Ralph led the way, the knights on the wagon cracking the whip, sending the horses into a canter.

‘
Go!
’ shouted Humphrey, racing for his horse.

The wagon bounced over the dusty ground, the horses pulling it straight towards the crowd of monks. They scattered. Two tried to grab hold as it rumbled past. One was sent spinning away, struck by a wheel. The other managed to cling on for a few moments, before being tossed off as the wagon jolted over a rock.

The knights mounted and spurred on their horses, leaving the body of the man Aymer had killed spilling blood across the ground outside the church. Robert’s cowl had slipped down in the scuffle and, as he grasped the reins and hauled himself up, he met the gaze of the abbot. There was no recognition in the old man’s face, just helpless rage.

Robert rode hard after the Knights of the Dragon. Ahead, the wedge of stone in the belly of the wagon shuddered with the ruts of the road. In his mind, Robert saw his grandfather, his black eyes blazing.

PART 5

1297 AD

Meanwhile Taliesin had come to see Merlin the prophet who had sent for him to find out what wind or rain storm was coming up, for both together were drawing near and the clouds were thickening.

The Life of Merlin,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

45

The English Justiciar of Scotland, Sir William Ormesby, stood in the window of the hall looking out over the royal burgh of Scone. Smoke bled from roof vents to disappear in the white sky. The sun was up there somewhere, struggling to burn through the fug. Ormesby could feel sweat prickling in his armpits. His fur-trimmed robe felt like an encasement of armour and he longed to slough it off, but he still had many more appointments this morning. The next one, he had been informed, was waiting downstairs. Ormesby would make him wait a while longer. It was good to have them restless and agitated before they were brought to him. He found it made them less able to articulate their objections.

Down below, people went about their business, traipsing through the muddy thoroughfares. Ormesby watched a skinny swineherd corralling his pigs. Further down the street an elderly friar was shuffling along. He paused as a woman in a tatty shawl stooped out of a butcher’s in front of him, a thin package clasped in her hands. Dotted among the townsfolk were soldiers, swords slung from their hips. They stood out from the drab people of Scone in their military garb, each man wearing a white band of cloth around his upper arm, decorated with the red cross of St George. The bands had been prescribed by King Edward so that the English soldiery would recognise their own. The red crosses moved in groups of two or three, or else lingered around the hall, the soldiers’ hands resting on the pommels of their swords. There were more of them these days, reinforcements having been sent up from Berwick after reports of growing unrest had begun to circulate. Most of the trouble seemed confined to the Highlands, far north of Scone, and in the west, where the MacRuaries had captured, looted and burned three English ships on patrol in the Isles. The MacRuaries were a notorious family, mercenaries and cut-throats all, who would capture any ship that strayed into their territory, no matter the colours it was flying. The English officials at Berwick, however, were taking no chances and had strengthened all major garrisons.

As Ormesby watched, two of the soldiers outside the hall peeled away and headed towards a huddle of beggars, who had emerged from a side street and were trailing after townsfolk, hands outstretched. They looked more like beasts than humans, tattered skins and hides swaddling their forms, their hair matted, faces daubed with filth. There were more of them these days too. Since Ormesby had taken up his post as justiciar, the sights of ragged mendicant friars or lepers with their clacker bowls had been supplanted by the uneasy vision of former freemen with homes and trades reduced to begging on the streets. Although better dressed, they showed clear signs of the destitution that would envelop them in its grey, anonymous shroud in the coming months. Ormesby found it disturbing how someone of standing, however humble, could fall so quickly from grace.

The soldiers were gesturing at the beggars, ordering them to move on. One of the soldiers shoved a man moving too slowly for his liking. Another drew his sword threateningly. Turning from the scene, Ormesby headed back to his table, which was covered in rolls of parchment. The spacious hall, cluttered with fine furniture and wall-hangings, was occupied by four clerks perched at writing desks and two royal officials, quietly conferring over a document. One of the clerks, seated close to Ormesby, glanced round. He wore a pair of thick, wood-rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose and gave Ormesby the impression of a large-eyed fish, blinking at him.

‘Should I have the next sent in, sir?’

Ormesby took a breath that puffed out his chest. ‘Do.’ He seated himself behind his table as the clerk crossed the hall.

After a brief exchange with the soldiers outside, the clerk sat back down, a goose-feather quill poised in his grip over a fresh sheet of parchment. Moments later, a man was escorted in between two soldiers, clutching his cap in his hands.

As he was brought to stand before Ormesby, the justiciar noticed the felt hat looked crushed, as if the man had been grasping the thing for some time. Satisfied, he granted him an officious smile. ‘Good day to you, Master Donald.’

‘Sir,’ murmured the man, glancing round warily as the soldiers left.

‘I have been informed by the sheriff that you have refused to pay the taxes for your holding this season.’

‘No, sir,’ replied Donald firmly, ‘not refused. I couldn’t.’

‘Is that not the same thing?’

Donald gave his head a curt shake, but said nothing. In the quiet, the clerk’s quill scratched at the sheet, summarising their words.

Ormesby felt a stab of impatience. Clearly, these churls had no idea who they were dealing with. This was the fourth one this morning who had given him this response, almost verbatim. The man, he realised, was staring him straight in the eyes, despite the fact he was still wringing the cap in his hands. The air of nervous defiance ruffled Ormesby’s calm. Was this some plot against him, devised by the local landholders? This would not do at all. Hugh de Cressingham in Berwick had been adamant that revenues due be paid on time. Lords such as Sir Henry Percy, who had been granted Galloway and Ayr on the occupation, hadn’t yet been paid their wages and this was apparently a priority. It was rumoured even Sir John de Warenne hadn’t received his dues. Ormesby wasn’t particularly sorry for that. The earl had been made Lieutenant of Scotland last autumn, but barely weeks after King Edward crossed the border back into England Warenne had followed, preferring to spend his time on his Yorkshire estates. Cressingham, though, was a hard taskmaster and it would not do to anger the man, who in Warenne’s absence had become virtual ruler of Scotland. Images of the beggars outside fresh in his thoughts, Ormesby rose stiffly. ‘These monies are owed to us by law, Master Donald. By refusing to pay them you are in violation of that law. It is a punishable crime.’

Donald blinked, but shook his head again. ‘Sir, I do not have the money. The rents are too high for me to pay.’ He hesitated, then continued in a rush. ‘They are too high for anyone. People are losing everything. Families are starving, children sickening. Animals are slaughtered needlessly because they cannot be fed. Our churches are falling into ruin, the clergy forced to hand over everything to the Treacherer.’ He stopped abruptly, realising his mistake.

Treacherer
. Ormesby had heard this name before, although not so openly. It was what the Scots were calling Cressingham. Privately he rather enjoyed it, for he disliked the obese royal treasurer, who dominated the kingdom’s administrative centre at Berwick. But, personal feelings aside, he had a job to do here and he wasn’t going to let the failings or insolence of a few sorry men interfere with it. Ormesby planted his hands on the crowded table, sending a few rolls of parchment skittering. ‘It would be a fool, Master Donald, who put money above his freedom. For that is what is at stake here. Your freedom.’

The man flushed, but didn’t take his eyes from Ormesby’s. ‘Freedom?’ he said quietly. ‘Is that what this is?’

From outside came sounds of shouting. Neither Ormesby nor Donald heard.

‘I have the authority to imprison any who refuse to pay their dues on time. I
will
exercise that authority. Do not test me!’

The shouting was louder, joined now by screams and the thud of running feet. The clerk stopped scratching at the parchment and looked up, his spectacles flashing in the daylight. Ormesby faltered in his tirade, jerking round as a roar came from outside, swelling to fill the chamber with a ferocious torrent of sound. Beneath the incoherent noise came the rumble of hooves. The officials had dropped the document they had been consulting and the clerks had risen. Ormesby crossed to the window and stared out.

From the woods that surrounded the burgh came a mass of men. Some rode, others ran. All carried weapons, mainly axes or spears. A few wore mail shirts and cloaks, but most just leather aketons. Among them were a handful of men clad in the short tunics favoured by Highlanders. These men were bare from thigh to foot, an alarming sight to Ormesby, who had only heard rumour of these wild men of the north. As they came, they roared a multitude of battle cries. Ormesby caught one name in the din, issuing from a group of mailed riders who followed a burly man on a finely caparisoned horse.

‘For Douglas!’ they howled. ‘
For Douglas!
’

Below, the townsfolk were scattering. The English soldiers had formed a tight knot outside the hall, blades drawn, but even as Ormesby watched, the forlorn group of beggars he had seen threw off their ragged skins and furs, revealing thickly muscled warriors. They fell upon the soldiers with savage cries, daggers thrusting.

Footsteps sounded on the hall stairs. The door burst open and two soldiers appeared.

‘We must go, sir!’

The clerks and officials were already hastening across the chamber. Donald was running with them.

Ormesby remained rooted. ‘Who are they?’ he demanded, his voice high as he turned back to the window, seeing the horde rushing into the town. His eyes fixed on a giant of a man running, almost loping in the front lines. Taller than all those around him, agile in the stride, he wore a simple dark blue tunic and wide-brimmed kettle hat. The other men seemed to be running in unruly formation around him. But it was the blade in the man’s hands that Ormesby’s eyes were drawn to. He had never seen such a sword, so broad and long the giant had to grasp it in both hands as he came.