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  Leaving her men to unload barrels of meat, sacks of grain and the few exhausted-looking refugees from the other galleys, Christiana strode up the seaweed- and debris-strewn shore to meet the men.

  One at the head bowed. ‘Welcome, my lady.’

  ‘Thank you, Kerald.’ Christiana glanced over the man’s shoulder to the path he had come down by. ‘Did the storm do much damage?’

  ‘Nothing that cannot be mended.’ Kerald nodded to Robert and the others. ‘More come seeking sanctuary?’

  Christiana’s gaze fell on Robert. ‘No, Kerald, he is our king.’

  As the eyes of the company of men turned on him, Robert saw surprise, suspicion and hostility, but certainly nothing akin to respect or awe. He realised he looked scarcely like a king; standing there without weapon or armour, in soiled clothes and with Christiana’s cloak still draped about his shoulders. Pride flashed through his grief and he came forward to meet them, shrugging off the cloak to reveal the red lion on his torn surcoat. His men came with him, Edward gripping his sword, Angus bristling at the frosty reception. After a pause, Kerald gave a slight nod.

  Christiana broke the taut silence. ‘Come, my lords,’ she said, leading the way up the beach towards the dunes. ‘My village isn’t far.’

  Robert fell into step beside her, his men close behind him, followed by Kerald and the others, their torches spilling light across a sandy track that wound through the machair. A monolithic shadow loomed up. Robert thought it was a giant figure, until the flames revealed a weathered standing stone.

  ‘A Viking’s grave,’ Christiana said at his side.

  Glancing at her he saw for the first time how tall she was; almost face to face with him. He realised, too, that he was still holding her cloak and her hands, hitching up her skirts, were tinged blue with cold. ‘My lady,’ he said, passing her the garment.

  She smiled and swung it round her shoulders, sighing gratefully as the warmth of the wool enveloped her.

  Ahead a few stunted trees appeared, tracking the course of a burn that trickled down from a narrow glen in the shelter of the great hill. There was wood-smoke on the wind. Following the line of the burn, they came to a settlement, dominated by low stone houses interspersed with smaller dwellings, most of which were of timber with turf roofs. Several fire pits cast the buildings in a ruddy light.

  There were scores of people here, sitting around the fires eating, or busy with errands: young women hauling buckets of water from the burn, children feeding goats in a paddock, men laying the last few sheaves of broom, weighted down with stone-strung nets, over gaps in roofs damaged by the storm. Many of them called a welcome to Christiana as she entered the settlement. Others appeared in doorways, peering curiously at the king and his companions. Surprised by the crowd, Robert thought of the refugees Christiana had been ferrying here from the mainland. He wondered at her generosity in feeding and sheltering so many strangers, given this rocky island in the middle of the Northern Ocean was clearly anything but a land of riches.

  ‘Christiana.’

  At the harsh voice, Robert saw a tall, wiry man emerge from one of the larger stone buildings. He wore a sky-blue cloak and was pale-skinned with long black hair. As he advanced, scanning the company, Robert realised the man had the same green eyes as Christiana, only his were darker and less welcoming. His expression was hard, his unsmiling mouth twisted by a scar. He was followed by several strapping men, a few of whom clutched goblets and bowls, evidently caught in the middle of a meal. One was short and stocky, his bald head criss-crossed with scars and an empty socket where one of his eyes should have been.

  ‘Brothers,’ greeted Christiana, her tone sharp.

  The tall man’s gaze fell on Robert, fixing on his surcoat. There was a flicker of surprise, then a glint of triumph, but before Robert could speak, Angus MacDonald pushed his way past, drawing his sword.

  ‘Lachlan! I should strike you down where you stand!’

  The men with Lachlan MacRuarie moved protectively in front of their captain. One tossed aside his goblet and drew a dirk from his belt. A couple of the watching women shooed children into the safety of their houses. The realisation that the man before him was the one he’d come here seeking made little impact on Robert. The war he had been so determined to resume now felt like a distant dream, surreal and intangible. He knew Lord Donough’s galleys would be on their way to Galloway and that Neil Campbell and Gilbert de la Hay would have reached Arran, but he couldn’t imagine having the strength to lead men into battle. All his power had been leached from him by Christiana’s words.

  Angus kept his sword trained on Lachlan, his blue eyes alight with fury. ‘I lost three men last night! Their blood is on your hands.’

  Lachlan pushed through the protective circle of his men to face the Lord of Islay. ‘You know as well as me the perils of the sea. I do not rule her appetite.’

  ‘It wasn’t the storm, God damn you, it was the MacDougalls!’

  Lachlan took this in with little reaction. ‘Then you understand full well why I have raised my fee. My scouts tell me the western shores, from Galloway to Argyll, are crawling with ships. All looking for you, my lord.’ His eyes flicked to Robert. ‘To aid you has become a hazardous business. One for which a man must be properly compensated.’

  Edward Bruce joined Angus, hand around the hilt of his sword.

  ‘My lords,’ said Christiana, moving in front of them, ‘the hour grows late and you and your men need food and sleep.’

  Angus, finding he now had his blade levelled at a woman, lowered it reluctantly.

  ‘Our council can wait until tomorrow,’ Christiana continued, ‘along with any reparations.’ She gave her half-brother a look that caused him to yield his ground, though not without a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘Please sit,’ she invited, gesturing Angus and the rest of Robert’s company towards one of the fires. ‘I’ll have food brought. Kerald, have lodgings readied.’ Her eyes came to rest on Robert. ‘It won’t be much fit for a king, my lord, but it is all I can offer. My lord?’

  Robert didn’t answer. Out of the growing crowd, come from their homes at the rumour the king had landed on their shores, stepped a woman, holding the hand of a girl. The woman had a gaunt face and dark hair that drifted in the breeze. He moved towards her, disbelieving, half expecting her to vanish, but she remained a solid presence, lit by the flames of a fire, the girl frowning up at her, revealing that one side of her face was ravaged by burns.

  ‘Brigid?’

  The woman inclined her head. ‘My lord king.’

  ‘Why are you here? How?’

  ‘A story for another time, my lord.’ A smile caught somewhere between gratitude and sadness played about Brigid’s lips. ‘I prayed you might come, before the end.’

  She held out her free hand. Ignoring Christiana’s questioning call and the astonished stares of his men, Robert took it. Feeling the strength in her grip a memory was awoken of the day when, as a boy, he had trailed her through the heather into the woods beyond Turnberry to that house in the shadow of the oak. As Brigid led him towards one of the timber huts, he knew who he would find inside.

  Stranraer, Scotland, 1307 AD

  In the darkness, the eighteen galleys glided through the mouth of the loch like a phalanx of black swans. The vessels were packed with men, come from the glens of Antrim at the summons of their lord. Almost seven hundred in total, their faces were cast in the spectral glow of thousands of stars, the light of which glimmered on the silvery mesh of mail coifs and the domes of basinets.

  The hiss and drag of waves on the shingle became more persistent, the waters agitated as the galleys neared the sweep of beach. As the largest, a vessel of twenty-six oars, ground ashore, Cormac gripped the mast to steady himself. He winced at the grating sound as the other boats entered the shallows. Looking towards the loch’s southern shore he could just make out the buildings of Stranraer.

  ‘The wind is in our favour, son. They’ll not hear us.’

 
Cormac looked round at the gruff voice to see his father standing beside him. The lord’s face was in darkness, but Cormac caught the shimmer of his eyes.

  Turning, Lord Donough signalled to his men. There were muffled thuds as the oars were stowed, followed by the splashing of feet as the men began jumping over the sides, gripping spears, swords and axes as they made their way up the beach. Cormac went to follow, but his father caught his arm.

  ‘I think the dean might need waking.’ Lord Donough nodded to the stern.

  Cormac realised Alexander Bruce hadn’t moved from his position despite the action going on around him. The dean’s head was lowered, the bald dome of his tonsure catching the starlight. Cormac made his way down the length of the vessel, negotiating the sacks and barrels stowed between the benches. ‘We’re here,’ he murmured, placing a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. When the man didn’t move, Cormac went to try again, then stopped, hearing the whispered words. Alexander, he realised, was praying. ‘Have no fear, brother,’ he reassured the man quietly. ‘Stranraer is little more than a village. There is no need to pray for our souls. Not tonight at least.’

  Alexander raised his head. ‘I am praying for theirs.’

  Cormac stared at him, piqued. ‘The men of Stranraer are among those who sailed from these shores to raid the north of Ireland. Over the years my people have suffered greatly at their hands. None here is innocent. Save your prayers for those who deserve them.’

  ‘The women and children here, who will suffer for the crimes committed by husbands and fathers, are they not worthy of mercy?’ Alexander stood, pulling up the hood of his brown robes. ‘Our capacity for it is what raises us above the beasts, Cormac.’

  Cormac’s jaw tightened. He had closed his mind to any such compunction on the crossing and refused to have it opened again. Stranraer was the key to Galloway. Taking it would unlock the door to their invasion, as well as keeping open their escape route to Ireland. Drawing his dirk from his belt, he thrust it at Alexander. ‘Mercy can wait until we’ve won back your brother’s kingdom.’

  ‘Alex?’

  At the voice, Cormac saw Thomas Bruce had appeared at the galley’s side, wading through the shallows.

  Thomas’s face was taut beneath the rim of his helmet as he looked from his brother to Cormac. ‘Let’s go,’ he urged.

  Alexander stared at the blade in Cormac’s outstretched hand. After a moment, he took it.

  Grasping his axe, Cormac jumped over the side and strode through the water up the beach to where his father was waiting at the head of the gathering army. A few men who had hastened to relieve themselves on landing rejoined them quickly. Cormac felt a twinge in his bladder, but ignored it, knowing it wasn’t need, but apprehension. He reached up to adjust his helm, feeling the tug on his scalp as his matted hair shifted inside the iron shell. Some said the cúlán could repel a sword-blow, but he wasn’t going to take the chance.

  Leaving two dozen men to secure the galleys, Lord Donough led the company along the shore towards the sleeping settlement. To the east, the land flattened into darkness. The raw wind carried the pungent stink of marshes. Ahead, beyond the cluster of buildings, hills rose black against the sky. It was almost dawn, but daylight would be a long time coming. Moving quickly, feet muffled by the sand, they neared the buildings on the outskirts of the settlement, most of which were barns and storehouses. There were fishing boats outside several, nets trailing over the sides. Wicker baskets for snaring crabs and lobsters were scattered about the place. The air was tainted with the acrid odour of decaying fish.

  A wide street led into a cluster of houses beyond the barns, the spaces between which were filled with more boats, bakehouses and frozen midden heaps. The men stared about them as they made their way down the street, eyes darting across darkened doorways, alley mouths and shuttered windows. No firelight glowed in any of the houses. The only sounds came from the men themselves: the unavoidable tramping of footsteps, clinks of weapons against armour and the muted hiss of breath.

  Directed by gestures from Donough, Thomas Bruce and the other leaders, the company spread out. They knew what to do, having been given their instructions on the crossing from Antrim. Nodding to his father, Cormac peeled away with three of his men. Reaching the door of a dwelling, he pressed himself up against the wood, keeping his eyes on his father, who remained by a well in the centre of the street, one hand raised. Alexander Bruce was at his side, the dirk held loosely in his grip. Donough let his hand fall. At the signal, the company began breaking their way into the houses, kicking down doors and hacking through shutters. The harsh sounds shocked away the night’s silence, swelling to engulf the town as those who had ventured down alleys and into gardens were spurred to action by the war cries of their comrades.

  Cormac shouldered his way through the door, bursting into the chamber beyond. He raised his axe, ready to strike at whoever might come rushing out of the shadows. His men fanned out around him. There was a scrape and a curse as one of them crashed into a table. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, Cormac saw cups and bowls on the table, along with a platter of salted herring and half a loaf of rye bread. The smell of fish was strong. In a hearth, a frail glow came from the ashes of a dying fire. Cormac strode to the wicker screen that divided the chamber. He pulled it roughly aside to reveal a low bed with a cradle beside it. Both were empty. There was a small window beyond, the shutters open into darkness, through which came the stench of the marshes.

  Cormac turned away, aggravated, his energy for the fight dampened by the absence of an enemy. Pushing past his comrades to the door, he realised he wasn’t the only one. Sounds of crashing and banging continued as more houses were broken into, but many men were emerging into the streets, weapons clean of blood and faces filled with confusion. Cormac saw Thomas Bruce turning in a circle, eyes sweeping the streets, his broadsword hefted expectantly. Cormac began to make his way to his father, standing by the well, a frown knotting his brow. ‘They must have seen us coming.’

  Suddenly, one of the men with Donough collapsed with a cry, clutching at his arm. Cormac halted, seeing the arrow stuck fast in the man’s shoulder. As other barbs stabbed out of the darkness, thumping into doors or clattering off walls, he threw himself down, yelling a warning. Screams sounded as more men were hit. Lord Donough pulled Alexander down behind the stone rim of the well. An arrow lanced past, missing them by inches. Beneath his palms, Cormac felt a tremble in the earth. Hoof-beats. As an arrow skidded along the ground beside him he picked himself up and lunged for the house he’d just left. One of his men emerged from the doorway, alerted by the cries. He took an arrow in the face and twisted back. Cormac threw himself over the body of his comrade into the shelter of the interior.

  The hoof-beats were unmistakable now, a mad thudding that beat on the air. Harsh shouts were joined by the clash of weapons. Risking a glance around the door, Cormac saw scores of riders surging through the streets. Some of the horsemen carried torches, the flames of which turned night to amber day. The white lion of Galloway was daubed on blue shields. He saw their swords carving red slashes through the heads and backs of his scattering countrymen. Others held their ground and tried to fight, but separated from their comrades they stood little chance against the horsemen. The arrows ceased to fly, but foot soldiers, all marked with the white lion, came charging in the wake of the riders. Seeing his father trapped against the well, cut off from his men, Cormac gripped his axe haft in his sweat-soaked palm. With a roar, he pitched himself into the tide of men.

  Chapter 21

  Barra, Scotland, 1307 AD

  Robert leaned his head against the wall, the timber damp beneath his skull. Under the door a crack of light was turning the threads of straw that covered the ground to gold. It was dawn, he realised. His eyes ached from lack of sleep and his throat was raw from talking. He looked over at Affraig, who stared back at him in silence.

  It was hours since Brigid had left him standing in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, nose f
illing with the earthy smell of herbs and sour odours of sweat and urine. It had taken a moment to distinguish the old woman from the pile of blankets she was swaddled in. Even in the dark, after ten years, he had recognised her. Affraig’s hair, once a grey knotted curtain, was virtually gone, bald patches showing scalp between the wisps of white. Her face, which he remembered as strong-boned, even handsome, had folded in on itself, the skin sagging around her mouth and drooping under her chin.

  Seeing him in the doorway, she had struggled to sit, eyes gleaming in the red glow of a brazier. Her lips had parted and her breath held the whisper of his name. He had knelt beside her and there in the darkness, out of sight of the hostile eyes of the Islesmen, away from the anguish in Edward’s face and the blame in David of Atholl’s, the frozen numbness inside him had cracked and out of the fissure his grief came pouring.

  Words had followed, at first a faltering trickle, then a flood. He told her of his struggles these past ten years: the months in Ireland searching for the Staff of Malachy, his escape from Ulster’s prison and the moment, in that abandoned town, when a stranger strode out of the shadows and aimed a crossbow at his heart. He recalled how James Stewart had stood with him over his attacker’s body in Dunluce Castle and recognised him as Adam, one of King Alexander’s squires, the last man to see the king alive that storm-tossed night on the road to Kinghorn. He spoke of his dawning suspicion that King Edward may have ordered Alexander’s murder to gain control of Scotland, and how, after surrendering to the king, he had tried to find evidence of this, his doubts kept alive by an ancient prophecy that rightly predicted Alexander’s death. He spoke of his triumph, seeing that black box split open on the floor of Westminster Abbey to reveal the lie – the proof contained in that empty vessel.