Insurrection (71 page)

When the high steward finished, Robert saw a shift in the company as the men reacted to these words. Some were nodding, in thought or agreement, others leaned in to murmur to their neighbours, a few were shaking their heads. It was impossible to tell what the vote would decide.

Wishart moved into the centre, his broad face dour, but set. He might have fought for Wallace to remain, but with that hope ended he had committed himself to the selection of a new guardian as vigorously as the steward, although as yet had not made his own preference known. ‘We have heard statements for and against the nomination of Sir Robert. I suggest we return within the hour to cast our—’

Through the trees came shouts and the ring of bridles. Bishop Wishart turned, frowning at the interruption. Other men were looking round. Robert turned with them to see a mounted company approaching. The horses were mud-splattered, nostrils flaring from a hard ride. Robert’s gaze fixed on a lean young man with lank black hair and a wolfish face, riding at the head. It was John Comyn, son of the Lord of Badenoch. There were around thirty men with him, bearing different devices on surcoats and shields. Many were decorated with three sheaves of wheat on red, others with the white lion of Galloway. Robert saw Dungal MacDouall among their number. His apprehension rising at the sight of his enemies, he glimpsed the same concern reflected in the steward’s face.

John Comyn dismounted from his sweat-stained courser and strode through the crowd, his knights forcing their way in behind him. As he came into the centre, he gave Robert a look of hostile contempt, before facing Wishart and James. ‘Has a decision been made?’ he demanded, his high, haughty voice carrying over the murmurs of the assembly.

Wishart’s brow puckered in surprise.

‘We received word of this assembly a week ago,’ John went on at the bishop’s expression. ‘My father is occupied fortifying our strongholds in the north and sent me in his stead. Yesterday, met by one of your patrols, I was told that Sir William had renounced the guardianship and that an election for his replacement was taking place. My men and I rode through the night to get here.’

James faced the belligerent younger man. ‘Sir Robert Bruce has been put forward for the position.’

‘Has he been nominated?’ demanded Comyn.

‘No,’ said Wishart, before the steward could answer. ‘Not yet.’

‘Then I want to be considered also.’ John Comyn turned, raising his voice over the calls of protest and anger coming from Robert’s men. ‘I have a right to be heard.’

‘Sir Robert is an earl,’ called Alexander Seton, ‘you are a knight. Rank should hold sway here.’

John Comyn rounded on him. ‘I am also the son and heir of one of the most powerful nobles in the kingdom, and the nephew of the king.’ He raked them all with his stare. ‘Will anyone deny that?’ When no one answered, John Comyn’s dark eyes narrowed in satisfaction. ‘Had my father known the importance of this assembly he would have come himself, but I will stand for guardian in his place.’

‘I will second the proposal.’

At the voice, a huge man with a barrel chest and a thatch of white hair pushed forward from the ranks of Comyn’s company. It was the elderly, militant Earl of Strathearn. The man had been a supporter of William Wallace and had joined his raid into Northumberland the previous year. He was married to a sister of the Earl of Buchan, head of the Black Comyns, and was a potent force in the old order of the kingdom.

Robert looked over at James Stewart and saw, by the frustration in his face, that they would have to allow Comyn a voice, not least if he was supported by a man with the reputation of Strathearn.

‘Then you should state your testimony now, Sir John,’ said the high steward finally. ‘For we cannot continue our deliberations any longer. All the while we dally, you can be certain King Edward plans his next campaign.’

John Comyn looked angry at the steward’s demand for haste, but he turned to the gathering. ‘Very well.’ He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then began to speak.

He was clear and articulate, surprising Robert who had always thought the young man to be a pale shadow of his powerful father.

John spoke of his father’s position as Justiciar of Galloway and as one of the six guardians elected after the death of King Alexander. He spoke too of his family’s long standing in the realm and of their unequivocal support for the return of his uncle, King John Balliol. It was a clever speech and one that clearly awoke the interest of many men in the clearing, not least because this declaration of support for Balliol was a part of the argument that James Stewart had expressly left out of his endorsement of Robert.

‘I stand in the name of King John,’ finished Comyn. ‘As should any who proposes to be our leader.’ As he said this, he looked over at Robert.

Surprisingly, it was one of  Wallace’s men, the brawny Gilbert de la Hay, Lord of Erroll, who challenged the haughty statement. ‘These words would ring sweeter from your mouth had it not been the Comyns who led the nobles from the field at Falkirk, leaving Sir William and his foot soldiers to face the English cavalry alone.’

Robert, whose aspirations had begun to crumble at Comyn’s speech, felt a spark of hope as he saw Gray and Neil Campbell nodding in agreement.

John Comyn flushed, but confronted Lord Gilbert at once. ‘At least my father was at Falkirk, standing alongside his countrymen. The man you have nominated as our guardian wasn’t even on the field of battle!’ He pointed at Robert. ‘Perhaps it was simple fear that kept the Bruce away, or maybe it was his old allegiance to King Edward that stopped him lifting his sword?’

The steward and several others protested, but Robert’s voice rose over them. ‘If my past allegiance to the King of England is to go against my bid, then your present commitment should be noted. You are married to the king’s cousin, after all, and were in his service more recently than I.’

‘I forfeited my marriage when my father and I broke from the king’s orders, as it was our intention to do the moment we were freed from the Tower.’ John Comyn spoke over the scornful calls of Edward Bruce. ‘Joan and my daughters are in England. For the sake of my kingdom I have lost my wife and children. What have you sacrificed?’

The argument continued, swelling out from Robert and John at its centre, to engulf the entire assembly. The steward and Wishart strove to keep order, yelling over the din until they were hoarse, but no one listened. Robert, tearing his livid gaze from Comyn’s, saw open mouths and raised fists. Comyn’s men were facing his. His brother had a hand clamped around his sword, as had John of Atholl. Dungal MacDouall had drawn his. Out of the corner of his eye, Robert noticed a lean, wiry figure in a hooded black robe moving through the crowd. He glimpsed the smooth, clean-shaven jaw of a young man beneath the shadow of the hood. As the man came to stand in the centre of the crowd, he pushed back the cowl, revealing a sharp, striking face and a tonsured head. One of his eyes was blue, the other a strange, milky white. It was some moments before anyone else noticed him.

Wishart, arguing with Strathearn, halted in mid-sentence. His face changed, his mouth opening in surprise. ‘Praise God, Lamberton, I thought you dead!’

At the bishop’s ebullient outburst, other men quietened. Gradually, all eyes turned to the newcomer. At the name, Robert realised that this must be William Lamberton, the man Wallace and Wishart had elected to the bishopric of St Andrews, the most eminent diocese in the kingdom.

‘My journey to Rome was longer than anticipated, your grace,’ replied Lamberton. His voice was not raised, but it had a strident power to it that caused the last murmurs of discontent around the clearing to fade. ‘But I return to you consecrated in the sight of God by the hand of His Holiness, Pope Boniface. And, it seems,’ he added, his intense gaze taking in the assembly, ‘in a time of need.’

Wishart was looking Lamberton up and down. ‘How did fortune bring you to us, my friend?’

‘A good question,’ answered Lamberton, with a brief, hard smile, ‘with an answer for another time.’ He looked around. ‘I have heard some of what has been proposed here. I would suggest the election of Sir Robert Bruce and Sir John Comyn jointly as guardians. If the men of the realm stand divided on this issue, as they clearly do, then why not remove the object of division and unite the two men whom all of you support, one or the other?’ When no one spoke, Lamberton continued, his voice strengthening. ‘For unity is what is needed. I managed to elicit support for our cause from His Holiness in Rome, but while in Paris I discovered the truce between England and France has been formally agreed.’

‘We have heard this too, your grace,’ said James Stewart.

‘It is worse than you know, Lord Steward,’ responded Lamberton. ‘The truce is set to be a permanent alliance, cemented in the coming year by the marriage of King Edward to Marguerite, sister of King Philippe. By this alliance our former treaties with King Philippe are to be rescinded. Scotland stands alone.’

66

Robert crouched in the wooded hollow, his mail coat settling around him. Picking a twig from the ground, he pushed back the hood of his green cloak, the better to see. Around him in a circle stood a dozen men, clad in similar garments, worn over hauberks to hide the glint of steel. From the leafy canopy above came the chatter of blackbirds and thrushes, disturbed by the intruders. Beyond the lattice of branches, the sky was white with heat. The trees shaded the men from the sun’s ferocity, but the air was thick with humidity and insects that tormented them: midges and flies, ticks that burrowed and lice that could drive a man to madness, prickling on his scalp and groin.

‘As we know, the carts will come down this road,’ said Robert, drawing a line through the dry soil with the twig. ‘Heading for Roxburgh.’ He pointed the stick to a lump of rock placed on the ground at the end of the scored line, before drawing a circle at the other end. ‘Sir James and his men will keep a watch for them here, where the ground is higher and they have a clear view of the track. Meanwhile, our forces will be waiting here.’ He sketched two crosses in the dirt either side of the line. ‘Now, we don’t know when exactly the English will arrive, but the scouts believe it will be some time this afternoon, almost certainly before nightfall. Sir John and his men have walked the track.’ He glanced up at his brother-in-law, who nodded.

Atholl’s curly black hair was hidden beneath his hood. He looked keen. ‘We estimate it will take around ten minutes for the baggage train to reach our positions once they have passed the steward’s company.’

Robert met the dark gaze of John Comyn. ‘I take it you have chosen someone to watch for Sir James’s signal?’

Comyn’s pale face was sullen. ‘Fergus will do it,’ he muttered, jerking his head to one of his men, a wiry, athletic-looking Scot, whose arms were folded over his chest.

Robert glanced at the others with Comyn, most of them his knights, with a few men from Galloway. Their expressions shared a common surliness that he knew had less to do with the approaching enemy and more to do with his men who stood facing them. Of his own people, Atholl was the only one who appeared focused on the plan. Gartnait was frowning, Alexander Seton reserved, Christopher on edge, his eyes on Comyn’s tense group, Neil Campbell nonchalant, picking something from his teeth with a stick he’d carved to a point with his dirk. Edward was staring at John Comyn, his blue eyes filled with loathing.

‘Good,’ said Robert grimly, returning to the line he had carved in the dirt. ‘The steward will allow the English to pass into the teeth of our trap, before moving in to block their rear while we close the jaws and—’ Robert stopped, hearing a muttered voice. His eyes settled on Dungal MacDouall, standing to the right of Comyn, wearing a thigh-length mail hauberk under his brown cloak. ‘Do you have something to say?’

MacDouall’s eyes met his unflinchingly. ‘I think it risky to attempt the ambush this close to the castle. If the garrison at Roxburgh are alerted to the attack they might sally out. Why not let the steward’s force engage and we will ride to aid him?’

Before Robert could answer, Edward spoke. ‘We’ve been through your objections already, MacDouall. Have you not listened to anything we’ve said?’

Robert shot his brother a warning look and held up his hand as Dungal spat something beneath his breath. ‘This is the best place for an ambush.’ He spread his hand to encompass the woods around them. ‘The terrain is suitable for our horses and we can attack simultaneously from both sides. We know the train is well defended. The scouts said thirty horsed and almost double on foot, then there are the drivers of the carts. No. This is where we will make a stand. If we act quickly we can destroy their supplies and retreat into the Forest long before the garrison at Roxburgh has a chance to mount any offensive.’

As Dungal murmured something to John Comyn, Robert swiped irritably at a fly buzzing around his face. The heat was as cloying as treacle, making it hard to breathe. He imagined a Welsh hillside in snowy darkness, fires blazing in the night, bodies strewn around the carts, wounded horses on their knees, crying piteously. He had planned the ambush with Nefyn in mind, but couldn’t deny that it was different here, more dangerous than it had been for the Welsh, able to slip away into the mountains. It was daylight for a start and the terrain although easier for them to attack was just as easy for an enemy to pursue if things went wrong. Dungal’s words caused a worm of doubt to uncoil inside him. Roxburgh Castle was filled to the walls with starving English soldiers, desperate for supplies to reach them. He forced away the concern. It would work. Standing, he tossed the stick aside and met the gaze of his fellow guardian. ‘Are you with me, John? I need to know.’