Insurrection (72 page)

After a pause, Comyn’s jaw pulsed and he gave a curt nod.

‘For Falkirk,’ said Robert, holding out his hand.

John took it. Their hands grasped briefly, then fell quickly away.

The two groups left the hollow, Comyn and his knights heading towards the track, on the other side of which, some distance from the road, the rest of their company was waiting with their horses. Robert and his men moved deeper into the woods, birds flurrying above them into the bleached sky. It was less thickly wooded near the road, affording scant cover, a problem if the English had any scouts riding before the supply train, who might spot them and raise the alarm. Robert had determined that the two companies hide out of sight and earshot to await the signal from the steward.

Edward glanced back over his shoulder as they walked. ‘I swear that cur MacDouall is intent on fighting every decision you make.’

Robert looked at him. ‘You cannot blame his resentment of us. Our father killed his.’

Edward lifted his shoulders carelessly. ‘His father attacked ours. What does he expect? Besides, it was a long time ago.’

Robert didn’t answer, but lapsed into silence, pushing branches out of his way. In a glade ahead, the rest of his company was waiting, formed in the main of knights from Carrick, including Nes and Walter, and supported by some of Atholl’s and Mar’s men. They were sixty in total, which, combined with John Comyn’s force, would be more than a match for eighty or so English.

‘Is the lookout in place?’ Robert asked, heading to Walter, accepting the cup of beer Nes handed to him.

Walter gestured to the lofty heights of an ancient oak, where Robert could see, through the thicket of leaves, the legs of a man, hanging from either side of one of the higher boughs.

Finishing the beer, Robert settled down to wait. It could be hours before the signal came. He should get the rest where he could. The trees stretched into green all around him, stark light slanting through wherever there was a break in the cover. These woods formed the southernmost reaches of Selkirk Forest. Here, on the border, the trees were mostly oak, hazel and birch, rather than the soaring pines that filled the Forest’s dark heart. The woodlands were interspersed by hills brushy with heather and steep valleys where the spires of abbeys and towers of castles protruded unexpectedly, all built from the same rose-pink stone.

Leaning his back against a trunk, Robert looked over at his men, who were sharing around beer and speaking among themselves. All were sweat-soaked and dirty, their clothes soiled from months living in the Forest and travelling from place to place. Many had grown beards, not having the time to shave. Robert rubbed at his chin, coarse with stubble, guessing he must look the same.

For the past ten months, since he and John Comyn were made joint guardians, they had been engaged in a protracted war against the castles still held by the English, left to defend themselves when King Edward led his army over the border. Without siege engines, they had been unable to launch full-scale assaults and instead had focused on cutting the garrisons off from much needed supplies. The English at Stirling were rumoured to be on the brink of starvation. God willing, Roxburgh would face the same fate if they were successful today. A victory here would be welcome, for the castle was at a highly strategic point, close to the border, and formed the base from which Edward had launched his campaign the year before.

As Robert’s gaze drifted over his men, Christopher Seton caught his eye. Robert had dubbed the young man at the Christ Mass, a reward for his loyalty these past two years. The squire had initially seemed discomforted by the honour, which had puzzled Robert, but Christopher was gradually beginning to relax into his role as a knight. The others had settled into the arduous business of entrenched warfare in their own ways, some better than others. His brother and Alexander Seton seemed at home in the Forest, planning ambushes and raids, living from day to day. The same went for John of Atholl, whose young son David was serving him as a squire, although the earl clearly missed his wife, who remained in the Forest encampment with the women and children. Robert had left Marjorie there in Christian and Judith’s care. The wet nurse had changed since Katherine’s departure and truly relished taking care of his daughter. Of all of them, Gartnait seemed to find it harder to settle, partly because he disliked the covert form of warfare in which they were engaged – creeping around, he called it. Yet even he had to admit there was no alternative. After the defeat at Falkirk, a pitched battle was out of the question. They had neither the force, nor the single-minded leadership of  William Wallace, now abroad, fighting their cause with words in the courts of king and pope.

Robert’s attention moved to his brother, who was sitting with Neil Campbell. The two were very much alike – the same unruly temperament, edged with a sly sense of humour. Robert wasn’t surprised they had become close. He himself had been slow to trust Campbell, one of Wallace’s staunchest lieutenants, but he hadn’t failed to notice the man’s fearlessness and skill as a fighter, and in time had discovered they had more in common than he’d realised. Neil had come into Wallace’s company early in the rebellion, after the destruction of his family’s lands in Lochawe at the hands of the MacDougalls. In the west the war that had broken out two years ago continued unabated between the MacDougalls, allies of the Comyns and Balliol, and the MacDonald lords of Islay, still acting as agents for King Edward. The head of the MacDonalds had been killed recently and was succeeded by Angus Og – the man who had offered Robert his spoon all those years ago at the feast in Turnberry Castle. The fact that Neil had suffered the destruction of his lands and loss of his inheritance united him and Robert, still raw from the razing of Lochmaben, in exile. It was a thread that linked many of them.

King Edward had not returned to continue his destruction, although rumours of an imminent campaign were spreading. He had, however, been busy at a distance, offering parcels of forfeited land to his barons. The Earl of Lincoln had been given the domains of James Stewart, Clifford had the south-west castle of Caerlaverock and Percy was offered more of Balliol’s strongholds in Galloway. At present, though, and until the English could secure the kingdom, the barons could do little with their new lands, while they were menaced by the Scots.

Staring at his men, arrayed before him, Robert thought of the path he was leading them down. In Irvine, when he made his decision to go for the throne, he had known it would be a lengthy process, but he was starting to wonder just how long. There is a season to everything, James had told him, when Robert had asked the high steward when he thought he should announce his intention to the men of the realm. Have patience for the natural order of things. But the natural order of things seemed, to Robert, to involve more politics, more assaults on supply lines, more tension. More waiting.

The sun had moved round in the sky and was burning Fergus’s neck. His skin itched and perspiration dribbled down his back. He swiped at a hornet buzzing incessantly around his face. The large insect switched away out of reach. Light played on the pitted trunk of the oak, glistening on the shiny blue backs of beetles that scurried over the bark. Through the boughs beneath him he could see the heads of men and rumps of horses. He had a good view from where he was, the oak’s branches opening before him to the south and east, out over woods lush with summer. Here and there he caught glimpses of the track, which wound into the distance, where the land rose up. Behind him, if he craned his neck, he could see a patch of rose-pink stone in the midst of the foliage: the battlements of Roxburgh Castle.

Rubbing at his neck, Fergus squinted up. The blazing sunlight slanting through the higher branches hurt his eyes. It looked as though he would have just as good a view from up there, but it would be shadier among those leaves. The heat was making his head pound. After a moment, he eased himself up until he was standing on the branch he had been straddling for the past two hours. His legs throbbed as the blood rushed into them. A voice came to him.

‘Fergus? Has the signal come?’

‘No,’ he answered, looking down into the upturned face of one of Comyn’s men. ‘I need to move. I’m going higher.’ Fergus wrapped his hands around the branch above him and began to climb, all the while keeping his gaze on the wooded hump of land in the distance, where the steward’s men were stationed. A buzzing sound told him the hornet was back, but he ignored it, pulling himself up, one bough to the next. At a fork, he shifted round to the other side of the tree. The branches were narrower this high up, but sturdy enough to take his weight. Choosing one, where the leaves gave him a clear view to the east, but shaded him from the sun in the west, Fergus straddled it and inched his way along. There was a low humming coming from somewhere. More hornets. A couple hovered around him, their drone loud. He smacked one away with a curse. It veered off. Fergus followed it with narrowed eyes, ready to swat the little bastard if it returned. He paused, his eyes narrowing further. There were dozens of them circling a long, slender branch below him. Through the thicket of leaves, he could see a large, pale sac.

Fergus tensed as he saw the nest. More hornets were drifting towards him. One settled on his leg and he batted it away. It came back, hovering around his eyes, its angry buzz filling his ears. Fergus shook his head wildly and cursed. He couldn’t stay here. The devils would distract him from his watch. Wishing he hadn’t moved, he reached for the branch above and got to his feet, meaning to walk back to the fork in the trunk and climb down to his old spot. Curling his other hand over the bough to steady himself, he felt a sharp prick. He let go instinctively and, as his hand came away, he saw the squashed remains of a hornet clinging to his palm. At that moment, he felt another sting in the back of his neck. Fergus slapped at it with a grunt. As he did so, he lost his footing. Jerking forward he struck the slender branch below, hard. There was a crack and a flurry of leaves as the bough broke. Feeling it drop away from under him, he lunged. He grabbed a branch above and hung there gasping as the bough plunged through the trees, the low drone becoming a high-pitched whine. Fergus yelled a warning, but it was too late. As it struck the mossy ground, the sac split open and a cloud of hornets swarmed up. Seconds later, the first cries of men and horses rose on the quiet.

Away in the distance, three arrows sailed into the blue sky, one after the other, above the woodland that overlooked the road to Roxburgh.

On the other side of the track, deep in the green shade of the trees, a whistle sounded from the broad boughs of a wych elm. Robert rose at the sound, his drowsiness vanishing. A glance into the tree above and a wave from his man told him it was time. At his gesture, the company, spread out on the mossy ground, downed cups of beer and ceased conversations. Scrabbling to their feet, they headed to where their mounts were tethered. A couple paused to empty their bladders into the bushes, while the squires untied the reins of their mounts. Birds, lulled by the afternoon calm, flew chattering off through the trees at the sudden action in the camp.

Crossing to Hunter, Robert pulled on his helm over his mail coif and arming cap, the steel encasing his scalp tightly. In the distance, he could hear the squeals of horses from Comyn’s camp.

‘Can’t the churls even keep their mounts quiet?’ demanded Edward. Swinging up into his saddle, he wrenched his sword free.

‘The English will hear us a mile off,’ growled Alexander.

Digging his foot into the stirrup, Robert mounted beside them, his face set. Faintly, he could hear the rumble of cart wheels. He had travelled with a baggage train before and knew the din they made on a rough road. ‘They won’t hear much over the noise of their own carts,’ he told the others, shortening Hunter’s reins into one fist behind his shield and drawing his sword with the other. ‘God willing that should cover us until we’re almost upon them.’ He squeezed Hunter’s sides with his calves, nudging the warhorse forward. His men formed up around him in a line, spreading out through the trees. As John of Atholl caught his eye, the earl smiled grimly, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Together, breaths rushing through helms and ventails, they waited.

The rumbling was nearer now, joined by the hollow clop of many hooves. Robert could no longer hear the squeals of Comyn’s horses. Pushing all other thoughts aside, he focused his mind into a single point, like an archer aiming for a target. The knights and his brothers-in-law were alongside him, the squires and the crowd of foot soldiers behind, brandishing short swords and axes. Nes was looking nervous, but had his sword out, ready to follow Robert into hell if need be. Walter was close behind. The squire on watch, whose task it was to count the time between the point the signal was seen and when they had estimated the train would reach them, shinned down the tree and nodded.

Robert walked Hunter on, his men moving with him, breaking up as they entered the tangled undergrowth. Knights ducked under trailing branches, keeping their horses on short reins. Some of the mounts tossed their heads in agitation, sensing the tension in their masters, but the men kept them under tight control. Passing through the columns of oaks and elms, Robert eased Hunter into a trot, the others following suit. The din of carts and horses seemed to fill the woods. As the trees thinned the men struck at the sides of their chargers, urging them into a canter. Branches switched past, twigs snapping, bushes tearing. Sunlight flashed through the leaves. The horses’ eyes were wide and white, nostrils flared. Ahead, through the woods, the men could see the ponderous bulks of carts and bright swatches of surcoats.