Insurrection: Renegade [02] (10 page)

Robert’s mind filled with an image of his childhood home – Turnberry Castle – perched on the cliffs of the Carrick coastline, over the ravening sea. Following in its wake came memories of his grandfather and father, his mother, sisters and brothers. Doubt crested its head, conjured by the harsh truth of Ulster’s words. But then, one image came to him, clearer than the rest: a green circlet in a web of twigs, swinging from the boughs of an oak. He remembered well the night it had been created by Affraig’s withered hands, the same hands that had brought him into this world. There, in her house of herbs and bones, his aim to be king had been made manifest, his destiny woven into a crown of heather and broom.

He had not given all for nothing. He had given up everything he had for everything he could be: his lands for a kingdom, his family for a people. His riches for a crown. ‘Yes, it was worth it. Those things mean nothing if Scotland isn’t free.’

Ulster laughed grimly. ‘Wallace is not so absent after all. You have become the brigand’s voice!’

‘I am not the only one. James Stewart, your own brother-in-law, now leads the rebellion. There are many more voices than Wallace’s and mine raised in protest over King Edward’s attempts to dominate our realm.’

Ulster’s eyes narrowed at the mention of James Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland and husband to his sister, Egidia de Burgh. He turned to the captain. ‘Esgar, I need something sweet to take away this bitterness. I presume you have the staff?’

Esgar glanced at Robert, his face tightening. ‘No, my lord.’

As the knight explained what had happened on the banks of the lough, Ulster’s face clouded with displeasure.

‘I wanted to escort the prisoners to you myself,’ Esgar finished. ‘But I sent twenty of my men after Bruce’s company. They will find them. We have garrisons all the way from here to Antrim, which is almost certainly where they will head. My men have been instructed to send word as soon as they have the relic, or any information that will lead to its seizure.’

‘Where will your men take the staff?’ Ulster demanded of Robert. ‘Lord Donough’s hall?’ When Robert didn’t answer the earl added, ‘I can burn it again. And worse.’

‘And my father will build it again,’ spat Cormac, his voice blistering with hatred.

Ulster ignored the Irishman’s outburst, having eyes only for Robert. ‘You will have plenty of time to reconsider your stance before I send you to King Edward.’ As Robert continued to meet his stare, Ulster’s brow creased. A flicker of something almost fatherly – a cross between consternation and concern – appeared in his face. ‘Tell me where your men are taking the Staff of Malachy and in recognition of my longstanding friendship with your family, I will contemplate not delivering you to Edward. The staff is a prize I cannot give up. You, I could perhaps make an allowance for.’ When there was no response, the hint of concern vanished, Ulster’s grim façade closing firmly over it. ‘Esgar, you and your company will leave for Antrim at first light. I imagine his men will either attempt to hide the staff, or else get it to Scotland. If the latter, they will have to procure a vessel. Track them. Question every member of Donough’s family and every monk in Bangor Abbey until you discover its location.’

Esgar bowed. ‘I will not fail you again, my lord.’

‘Get this traitor out of my sight.’

Robert felt hands grip his arms. ‘I have seen how Ireland suffers under Edward’s yoke,’ he shouted, as Ulster walked away. ‘He is bleeding your lands dry!’

Ulster faltered in his stride, but didn’t look back.

As the knights marched Robert and Cormac across the courtyard towards one of the corner towers, they passed an adolescent girl dressed in a white gown. There was an older woman with her – perhaps a governess. She tightened her hold on the girl’s shoulders as the men came past. The girl followed Robert and the other prisoners with worried eyes, until they were ushered through the tower door and into the darkness beyond.

The Lateran Palace, Rome, 1301 AD

‘Read it again.’

The command was strident. Pope Boniface didn’t turn as he spoke, but continued to stare out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. Spread before him, Rome was a red jewel in the dusk. The glass in the windows of palazzos reflected the sunset, the crumbling walls of the ancient amphitheatres stained bloody by its light.

The papal messenger, wearied from weeks of travel, cleared his throat and read again the message from King Edward, discomforted by the defiant words issuing from his own mouth, directed at God’s representative on earth.

‘
Therefore
,’ he finished, ‘
since I am rightful overlord of Scotland as confirmed and witnessed by the Scots eight years ago at Norham, I shall exercise fully my right to defend the realm from all disturbers of my peace. With respect to your holiness, I cannot abide by your request to cease hostilities against Scotland when rebels continue to make war upon my garrisons and strongholds in defiance of my sovereign right.
’

‘Does he think himself above the word of the Church?’ Boniface turned from the window, his great frame, robed in exquisite Venetian silk, silhouetted by the sinking sun. The white hair around his tonsure was tinged by its hue. ‘For two years I have worked to reconcile him with his cousin. The ink is barely dry on England’s treaty with France and I am repaid for my efforts with this brazen insolence?’

The messenger lowered his gaze at the pope’s wrath. ‘Archbishop Winchelsea endeavoured to make the king see reason, your holiness, but to no avail. King Edward was determined Scotland be vanquished and the rebels crushed. When we left his camp at Caerlaverock, he and his army were already preparing to advance west.’

‘Would he remain so defiant, I wonder, if threatened with excommunication?’ Boniface exhaled. ‘Unfortunately, that is not something I can consider. The kings of England and France are the only men in Christendom in whom my hopes for a new crusade to wrest the Holy Land from the Saracens remain alive.’ He turned to the chamber’s third occupant, who stood half in shadow, beyond the sun’s dimming light. ‘It is regrettable my endeavour to intervene on behalf of your realm has not had the outcome either of us was hoping for. I know you have made many sacrifices to come here and King Philippe has spoken highly of you and your cause, but I am not certain what course of action can now be taken.’

William Wallace remained silent at the pope’s verdict. A giant of a man at almost seven feet, his hands, clenched in fists at his sides, were as big as spades. His neck was thick, his torso and shoulders slabbed with muscle. He wore a well-fitted surcoat and blue mantle trimmed with silver thread, but the stately garments couldn’t disguise his barbarous look, enhanced by his colossal size and by the scars that sketched their violence across his pale skin; the story of a war in one man’s flesh. He looked utterly out of place in the opulent chamber of the Lateran Palace, every surface of which was glimmering gold or glossy marble, yet he maintained a stoic dignity, his sharp blue eyes revealing a fierce intensity of thought.

‘There is still one course left to us, your holiness.’ Wallace’s voice was rough, but measured.

Boniface’s eyes narrowed knowingly. ‘A dangerous course, Sir William.’ He shook his head. ‘So soon after I have brought England and France to a truce? I cannot risk shattering that peace. If Edward abandons the treaty and he and Philippe return to war they will not be persuaded to take the Cross and turn their swords eastwards. Jerusalem will never be reclaimed while Christendom’s rulers fight among themselves.’

‘Does Edward’s war against the Scots not prevent him from crusading? Christians are dying in Scotland, your holiness, while the infidel build mosques in the Holy City.’

A pained expression crossed the pope’s face. ‘I secured King John’s release from the Tower through the treaty as King Philippe requested. Is it not enough that he is free of Edward’s authority? I can assure you he is comfortable in my custody.’

‘Not when my kingdom remains fettered by Edward’s bonds and ravaged by his army.’ Wallace stepped closer to the pope, his eyes reflecting the last of the sun’s light, which painted his scarred face red. ‘I believe this is the only way he will stop hostilities against my country. With King Philippe’s aid, Edward’s hand can be forced without a war. He has too much to lose by abandoning the treaty at this late stage – his son’s marriage, Gascony – and too little to gain by a fight. He lost the support of his barons over his war in France. His treasury was all but emptied by it. He cannot afford another such conflict.’ The strength in Wallace’s voice didn’t falter. ‘Release John Balliol from papal custody, your holiness, and we will all get what we want. You will have peace in Christendom and my kingdom will have its rightful king upon the throne.’

PART 2

1301 AD

Therefore shall the revenge of the Thunderer show itself, for every field shall disappoint the husbandman. Mortality shall snatch away the people, and make a desolation over all countries.

The History of the Kings of Britain,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

Chapter 8

Ballymote, Ireland, 1301 AD

The first few days in the prison tower slipped quickly by for Robert, the danger of his situation quickening the moments, every footfall on the stairs or snap of the door bolt a potential threat. But, by the end of the first week, during which he and Cormac had mostly been left alone by their captors, the space between sunrise and sunset began to stretch and lengthen. As the days merged into weeks and the walls of the locked chamber closed in, time slowed to a maddening crawl and if it were not for the fact he could see the buds unfurling on the oak trees that surrounded Ballymote Castle and the barley growing taller in the distant fields, Robert would have said it had stopped altogether.

In these static moments, where each day seemed a week and each week a lifetime, his frustration at the incarceration and lack of information on the fate of his brothers swelled, tumour-like, until it overshadowed all else. The fact that his cell was more of a palace than a prison was cold comfort. Richly appointed with two feather beds, silk rugs on the floor and hangings on the walls, a table and stools where he and Cormac ate their meals, a basin to wash in, even a few books, the chamber was no less than Robert was accustomed to. But for all its luxury it was as confining as any dungeon and while spring ripened into summer and all his plans stagnated in his mind, the opulence only served to remind him of where he should be. And where he was not.

Robert’s thoughts turned often to John Balliol in this time. The man Edward had chosen to sit upon Scotland’s throne, instead of Robert’s grandfather, was now wasting away in his own stately cell, himself a victim of the king’s ambition to rule Britain; an ambition reinforced by the words of prophecy and by the will of the loyal young men Edward surrounded himself with. It began to seem to Robert, locked up and forgotten, over a hundred miles from his kingdom and allies, impossible – laughable almost – that he could break such resolve. Many of the king’s men believed they were saving Britain by their actions. It made their struggle for control of Scotland less of a war, more a crusade. How could one man hope to fight that?

There were only two things he cleaved to in these moments of doubt. One was the faith that his brothers would get the staff safely to Scotland, where James Stewart could use it to bargain with the king. The other was the hope that there was truth in the power of Affraig’s craft. But all the while Ulster’s promise that he would be transferred into Edward’s custody, a traitor, dangled above him like a sword on a thread.

The earl had visited Robert several times in the early days of his incarceration, offering freedom if he revealed where his brothers were taking the staff, then warning him of the consequences if he didn’t. These visits had grown fewer and further between as summer bloomed. It soon became clear Ulster had more pressing things to occupy his time, a fact Robert gleaned through the endless hours spent sitting at the window, observing the coming and going of the earl’s men, noting the increase in the armed companies and their movements to and from the castle. Sometimes these companies came back diminished, with some of their number wounded.

Keen for information, Robert cultivated a relationship with one of the servants who brought their meals, a loquacious man named Stephen. It was through Stephen’s loose tongue that he heard rumour of the threat growing along Connacht’s borders from Irish chieftains who, after years of rivalry, were putting aside old animosities to band together against the English settlers. Rumour was later followed by agitated talk of one of Ulster’s frontier castles being overrun, its garrison massacred. Ballymote was on the alert, all its attention focused outwards.