Insurrection (6 page)

‘I believe, Father,’ the earl cut across him, ‘that some introductions are in order before we begin. Our comrades here may know one another by name, but not all by sight.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but rose, his crimson robe settling around him as he extended a hand to a broad-shouldered man with black, oily hair, seated along the head table. ‘Sir Patrick, Earl of Dunbar.’

Robert tore his gaze from his grandfather’s rigid expression as his father continued.

‘Sir Walter Stewart, Earl of Menteith, and his sons, Alexander and John.’ The earl moved his hand to three men who shared the same red hair and ruddy, freckled skin. He then gestured to the aged Lord of Islay seated to his right, wrapped in the furs. ‘Sir Angus Mór MacDonald.’ He nodded down the table to a stocky man with a frank expression and the blue-eyed youth beside Robert. ‘His sons Alexander and Angus Og.’ At last, the earl motioned to the steward. ‘And, of course, Sir James Stewart and his brother, John.’ He seated himself beside the countess, his arms spread expansively. ‘The Lady Marjorie and I are honoured to welcome you to our hall, despite the circumstances.’ He inclined his head to James as the servants entered, bearing tureens of steaming venison stew, laced with fragrant thyme. ‘Now, Lord Steward, do begin. I am anxious to hear your tidings in full.’

Robert stared around the table, putting names and histories to the faces before him. He knew he was in the company of some of the most powerful men in the kingdom, which was thrilling enough to take the sting out of the fact that his father had ignored him in the introductions.

The steward rose. ‘You all now know the devastating truth that our noble king and lord, Alexander, died last month while riding to visit his queen at Kinghorn. He was separated from his escort in a storm. It appears his horse lost its footing and took him over the cliff. His neck was broken by the fall.’

Only the scrape of ladles against the tureens accompanied the steward’s grave words, the servants waiting on the head table first. Robert’s nose filled with the smell of meat as a servant spooned the thick stew on to the trencher in front of him. The slab of bread had a hollow in the centre to catch the juices. Glancing at his father, Robert saw he was sitting forward, listening intently. As he felt for a spoon, he realised he hadn’t been given one. The servant had passed on down the line of men and Robert didn’t dare call out. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and his stomach wrenched.

‘No sooner was his body discovered than the Comyns sought to take control.’ A note of anger entered the steward’s poised tone. ‘Fortunately, many of the king’s officials had been in Edinburgh for a council and we were able to halt their ambitions.’ He nodded to the Earl of Dunbar. ‘Sir Patrick and I, with the support of the Bishop of Glasgow, forced the election of a council of six guardians. They will rule until the throne is filled.’

‘Who are the six?’ asked the Lord of Islay, his rumbling voice filling the chamber. His French was blunt and awkward, Gaelic his native tongue.

‘Myself,’ answered the steward, ‘the bishops of Glasgow and St Andrews, the Earl of Fife, and the heads of the Red and the Black Comyns.’

‘A balance of power,’ muttered the Earl of Carrick, digging his spoon into the stew. ‘It is a pity you could not swing the scales more firmly in your favour, Lord Steward.’

‘The Comyns hold some of the most powerful offices in our kingdom. They could not well be kept out.’

Robert was studying his dinner, wondering if he could eat with his hands, when a spoon slid into view from his right. Angus Og MacDonald took a small knife from a sheath on his belt, sliced a wedge out of his trencher and stuffed it in his mouth, his blue eyes glittering in the torchlight. Robert nodded his thanks to the Lord of Islay’s son then thrust the spoon into the stew.

‘We are all well aware of the Comyns’ endeavours to control the throne,’ continued James. ‘They have always done so, even by force, as some of us well remember.’ The steward’s eyes moved to the Lord of Annandale, who nodded but said nothing. ‘But there is something more worrying than their rush to power.’ He returned to addressing the rest of the men. ‘At court, I have learned that it pays to watch those closest to the king. For a time now, my men have kept an eye on dealings in the royal household. In the wake of the king’s death, one of my spies overheard Sir John Comyn directing one of his knights to take a message to Galloway. Comyn spoke of Alexander’s death and that the king had granted the release of a prisoner, petitioned for during the council. But there was one thing in particular that caught my man’s attention. Comyn said, tell my brother-in-law that I will meet him soon, for the time is at hand when the white lion will blush.’

Several of the men spoke up at once.

The Earl of Carrick stared at the steward, his brow furrowing. ‘Balliol?’ he said sharply.

‘We believe,’ said James, nodding at the earl’s expression, ‘that the Red Comyn intends to put the Lord of Galloway on the throne.’

Robert’s spoon halted mid-way to his mouth. He looked around the table at the men’s grim faces, but none of them revealed how this startling conclusion had been reached. He put down his spoon as the men began to talk over one another. All at once, he got the connection. The lion on the banner of Galloway was white. The lion on the royal banner of Scotland was red. When the white lion will blush.

The Lord of Islay’s deep voice sounded over the others. ‘That is a grave charge to lay upon men who have taken the oath of fealty.’ Angus Mór MacDonald leaned forward, his furs shifting on his huge frame. ‘It is only two years since the lords of Scotland swore to recognise Alexander’s granddaughter as his heir. Margaret now holds the right to the throne. All of us made that pledge. I have no love for the Comyn men, but to accuse them and John Balliol of Galloway of breaking that oath . . .?’

‘Who among us imagined we would have to fulfil it, especially after the king’s marriage to Yolande?’ countered Patrick of Dunbar, running a hand through his oily hair. ‘The recognition of the king’s granddaughter in Norway as his heir was a sensible precaution, not a reality any of us wanted to face. The fealty we swore on that day sits heavily upon all of our shoulders. How many will now sit back, content to be governed from afar by an infant queen in a foreign court?’ He nodded to the steward. ‘I have no doubt that Balliol, led by the ambitions of the Comyns, aims for the throne.’

‘We must move swiftly,’ said the Earl of Carrick. ‘We cannot let the Comyns put their kinsman on the Stone of Destiny.’ He banged his fist on the table, rattling dishes and goblets. ‘We cannot let them take what is ours!’ He stopped, glancing at the Lord of Annandale. ‘What is yours, Father,’ he corrected. ‘If any man in this kingdom should take the throne it is you. Your claim is greater than Balliol’s.’

‘Not by primogeniture,’ said the Earl of Menteith quietly, his eyes on the lord of Annandale, who had remained silent. ‘By the law of first blood, Balliol’s claim wins.’

‘It isn’t simply through blood that my father can claim the throne. He was designated heir presumptive by the father of the king!’

As the men began speaking at once, Robert stared at his grandfather. The old lord had spoken to him of this once, several years ago. Robert remembered well the look of pride in his grandfather’s face as he had recalled in vivid detail the day King Alexander II had named him as his successor. They had been on a hunt and the king had fallen from his horse. He wasn’t badly hurt, but the event clearly touched a concern, for he made all the lords with him get down on their knees in the dust of that forest track. There, he bade them recognise Sir Robert Bruce, whose veins ran with royal blood, as his heir should he die without issue. His grandfather had been eighteen at the time. Two years later, the king had a son and the royal line was secured, but the promise made remained embedded in the Bruce through all the years after. It had seemed, to Robert, just an incredible story in the telling; true, but relevant only to the distant past, like the stories of the Irish hero Fionn mac Cumhaill his foster-father had told him in Antrim. Now, sitting here in his father’s hall with these great men, the story took on a reality that sent shivers through him.

His grandfather could be king.

As the conversation among the men grew louder, threatening to swell into argument, the Lord of Annandale rose, the firelight casting a red glow across his craggy face. ‘Enough.’ His voice cut through their words, silencing them to a man. ‘I loved Alexander not only as a subject loves his king, but as a father loves a son.’

Robert saw a flush rise in his own father’s cheeks at this.

‘I promised to serve him with my last breath,’ continued the lord, staring at each of them in turn. ‘And that means fulfilling the oath that I, that all of us swore – to recognise his granddaughter as our queen. We must keep John Balliol from the throne. We must protect it. But for her. A man who breaks his oath isn’t worth his breath,’ he finished harshly, sitting back down.

‘I agree,’ said James Stewart in the quiet that followed. ‘But how do we protect the throne? If the Comyns intend for Balliol to become king they will not listen to anyone’s protests. I fear they wield enough power in the realm to make it come to pass, with or without the support of the guardians.’

‘Councils and guardians are not the answer,’ replied the Lord of Annandale. ‘I thought about this long on our journey here. There is only one thing Comyn men understand and that is force.’ He looked at the others. ‘We must put a ring of steel around Galloway. With a series of attacks we will seize key strongholds held by the justiciar, John Comyn, and by the Balliols. With one stroke we can nullify Comyn presence in Galloway and discredit Balliol as a weak man who cannot even defend his own borders, let alone be king.’

Robert knew his grandfather’s hatred of the Comyn men, who controlled vast areas of Scotland and had been influential in royal circles for generations. When the first Comyns crossed the English Sea with William the Conqueror they had done so not as lords of rich estates in Normandy, as Robert’s ancestors had been, but as humble clerks. It was in this role that they thrived in England under the succession of kings that followed the Conquest, later coming north to Scotland. Through patronage and cunning their fortunes reached such magnitude that it was a Comyn, not a Bruce, who became the first Norman earl in Scotland and even secured a minor claim to the throne through marriage. The sons of clerks had no place in the nobility, Robert’s grandfather had always maintained. Yet, still, the old man’s hatred had always seemed to run far deeper than mere disdain. Robert had never fully understood it and, until now, had never thought to ask.

‘We should contact Richard de Burgh,’ said Robert’s father. ‘The Earl of Ulster will be only too willing to provide arms and soldiers. The men of Galloway have long been a thorn in his side with their attacks on Ireland. Also, we should inform King Edward. As Alexander’s brother-in-law he will want to be involved in the succession as soon as he learns of his death.’

‘The King of England was the first to be informed outside Scotland,’ responded the steward. ‘The Bishop of St Andrews sent a message to Edward in France the day Alexander’s body was discovered.’

‘All the more reason we should contact him ourselves,’ said the earl, fixing on his father. ‘If Margaret is brought here to rule she will need a regent to govern in her stead until she comes of age and an heir presumptive will have to be chosen. By seizing Comyn strongholds we prove our worthiness to be named in such a capacity. We also prove our strength. And strength,’ he added firmly, ‘is something King Edward appreciates.’

‘We will petition Sir Richard de Burgh should the need arise,’ agreed the Lord of Annandale. ‘But there is no need to involve the king in our affairs.’

‘I disagree,’ countered the earl. ‘With Edward’s support we will be best placed to establish ourselves at the head of the new government.’

‘King Edward is a good friend and ally, and our family owes much of our fortune to him, but he is his own man and will do what is in the best interests of his kingdom, and none other.’ The old man’s tone was implacable.

The earl continued to stare at his father for a moment longer, then nodded. ‘I will raise the men of Carrick.’

‘I too can spare some men,’ said the Lord of Islay.

‘We cannot all support you openly,’ said James Stewart, ‘not with arms. This kingdom has been divided enough over the years. I cannot let a blood feud become a civil war.’ He paused. ‘But I agree. The throne must go to Margaret.’

The Lord of Annandale sat back and took up his goblet. ‘Then God grant us strength.’

4

Robert sank to his knees in the grass, gasping for air. Sweat trickled down his cheeks as he hung there, the blood thumping in his head. As the black spots in his vision cleared, he collapsed on to his back. He could hear breathless voices getting closer, muffled footsteps pounding the earth. Propping himself up on his elbows, he squinted into the sunlight and watched his three brothers come panting up the hill towards him.

Thomas came first, head down, concentrating on making the ascent. Niall was behind, scrabbling hand over foot, desperate to beat Thomas, despite being two years younger. Alexander was last by some distance, making his way up deliberately slow. Thomas won, slumping on the warm grass beside Robert, drawing breaths through his teeth. His tunic was drenched.

Some moments later, Niall joined them. ‘How are you so fast?’

Robert grinned at his youngest brother and lay back, letting the pain fade from his muscles.