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  Robert thought of Affraig’s questions, back in the gloom of her hut.

  Can you reclaim what is ours? Take back our kingdom?

  He felt his answer begin to rise.

  Chapter 22

  The West Coast, Scotland, 1307 AD

  They sailed on the spring tide, the twenty birlinns making short work of the fast-flowing channel between the Outer and Inner Isles. The long ships were slung low to the water, which surged around their prows as the oars carved white circles through the blue. Rising and falling in perfect time, all along the sides of the vessels, they looked like wings, propelling these beasts through the deep.

  The ships were crowded with men, clad in an assortment of mail hauberks, quilted gambesons and leather aketons, boiled and steeped in oil to stiffen them. Some were barelegged, others clad in hose, but all had iron basinets and double-headed axes, the hafts of which were six feet long. They were the galloglass, West Highland mercenaries, shipped and sold by the MacRuaries to Irish chieftains for the war against Ulster and the settlers. Recruited for their stature and moulded, through ruthless training, from lean farmhands and fishermen’s sons into lofty, muscular men, they formed a fearsome company. Almost five hundred in number, they had all been bred to fight the English.

  On the second morning, heading south to Islay under sail, the fleet was escorted briefly by a school of dolphins, the young bulls leaping before them. Even the hard-bitten veterans among the crew smiled at the spectacle, declaring it to be a blessing. Robert watched them from the largest galley, a vessel of thirty-four oars with a crimson sail, captained by Lachlan himself. He was accompanied by Angus, Edward and Malcolm, along with Nes and the other knights who had survived the MacDougalls’ attack. There was one notable absence, in the form of David of Atholl. Two days before they were due to leave Barra, the young man and his band of knights had disappeared. Questioning Kerald, Robert discovered that David had bartered his way on board one of the supply ships returning to the mainland. The man hadn’t been able to look at him since learning of the execution of his father and Robert guessed grief had turned to blame. He took the news with little emotion. Let deserters fall by the wayside, he wanted only the ready and willing on this campaign.

  Robert and his men wore new armour and clothing: coats of polished mail, helms and woollen cloaks for the lords, gambesons for their men. Robert’s surcoat had been cleaned and mended by Brigid, watched closely by her daughter, Elena. Scotland’s red lion now had a scar running the length of its snarling face. When Christiana handed out the garments and weapons, Robert had wondered how much of the gear had been stolen by her brothers, recalling tales of Lachlan and Ruarie plundering their way across Lewis and Skye. If, before, such stories had given him pause, they now gave him heart. He would need that brute audacity in the coming days. He just prayed the MacRuaries would not switch in the wind at the first sign of trouble. Proof they would not came the day after they reached Islay.

  The sight of the MacRuarie fleet entering the harbour at Dunyvaig, in the shadow of Angus MacDonald’s cliff-top castle, must have appeared as an invasion to the people of Islay, for beacons had been lit on the castle walls and a host of men were there to meet them on the beach, ranks bristling with spears. Seeing their lord jumping down from Lachlan’s galley, safely returned to them after two months at sea, their alarm had turned to joy and there, in the harbour, Robert found the remainder of his promised galleys and three hundred men, come from across MacDonald’s lands at the call to war. This past year, after death, capture and desertion had whittled his army down to scarcely more than two hundred, he now had almost the same size force he had commanded at Methven Wood.

  After re-supplying, the thirty-five galleys set out, negotiating the wild waters around the Mull of Kintyre before heading up towards the southern tip of Arran in sight of the Carrick coast. Here, the dome of Ailsa Craig filled Robert’s vision like a marker, counting down the miles to home. It was off Carrick that they encountered their first enemy patrol – four English galleys. At the sight of the great fleet bearing down on them, they had come sharply about, but the heavy, cumbersome vessels were no match for the sleek birlinns. One managed to escape, making for the coast of Galloway, but the other three were grappled and boarded. Lachlan’s mercenaries proved not only their loyalty, but their reputation for savagery. After making a bloody slaughter of the crew they had slung the dead and dying into the waves, a feast for fish and gulls, before stripping the vessels of anything valuable and sinking them. That afternoon, as the setting sun gilded the tip of Holy Island, the fleet arrived on the shores of Arran. Here they were met by a patrol headed by Gilbert de la Hay, who greeted Robert with a fierce embrace, and led him to where the rest of his men were camped.

  The reunion with Neil Campbell, James Douglas and the others, raised Robert’s spirits in a way he hadn’t thought possible. The company, hidden in their remote coastal camp, hadn’t heard any word of events on the mainland and it was with heavy hearts that they listened to Robert’s account of the fates of his family and friends. James Douglas, his voice resolute, informed the king he had sent a message to Bute and avowed, if his uncle was alive, he would answer the call to arms. Neil privately told Robert that James, who’d led several night patrols along the coast and had discovered Henry Percy was in command of Turnberry Castle, had proven himself a keen and capable leader.

  In honour of this, Robert placed the young man in command of the first company to cross from Arran. If the garrison at Turnberry was judged ripe for attack, James was to light a beacon as a signal for the rest of fleet to follow. He had left the next night, leaving Robert and his men to settle down to wait, watching the Carrick coastline for a point of fire.

  Near Turnberry Castle, Scotland, 1307 AD

  His eyes on the castle, James cursed beneath his breath. He heard Alan creep up alongside him in the tangled darkness of the woods.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Alan, breathing hard after the climb from the beach.

  ‘See for yourself.’ Moving aside, James pointed through the branches of wych-elm and ash towards the next headland, which jutted into the sea across a small bay.

  Alan, one of Gilbert de la Hay’s squires who had come across with him from Arran, stared at the castle that rose from the promontory. Torches on Turnberry’s battlements blazed against the midnight sky, an orange halo of fire. There were more lights down in the courtyard, the glow of them wavering up the walls. Alan shook his head in question, unsure of the reason for James’s frustration.

  ‘The banners,’ James explained. ‘The gold one with the blue lion – those are Henry Percy’s arms.’ He moved his finger along the battlements to where another standard snapped in the breeze. It hadn’t been there on his last scout along the coast. The banner was striped blue and white. James couldn’t see the red birds at this distance, but he knew they were there. ‘Pembroke,’ he murmured to Alan. ‘Aymer de Valence is in residence.’

  There was a crackle of twigs behind them. James turned to see the other two men who had climbed up the cliffs with him emerging from the undergrowth. Relaxing, he let Alan convey the bad news as he scanned the bluffs beyond the castle gates. The village of Turnberry had stood there until Prince Edward burned it to ash. Now, there was a large encampment in its place, scattered with campfires, which highlighted scores of tents and wagons. James had glimpsed the camp from the sea, but it appeared much bigger now. No doubt augmented, he thought grimly, by Valence’s men.

  James’s gaze flicked back to the battlements, lingering on the banners. How he wanted to see another beside them, one whose colours were burned into his mind: a blue and gold chequered ground cut in half by a wide red band, the arms of Robert Clifford, the man who had been granted the lands of his father.

  Lord William Douglas, governor of Berwick and the first nobleman to join Wallace’s insurrection, had been a tower of a man, whom James had loved and revered. Captured at the fall of Berwick, he had died in chains in the Tower of London. James, sent
by his mother to live with an uncle in Paris, had returned to Scotland three years ago in the company of William Lamberton, who took him in as his ward with a pledge to help him regain his lands. Toughened by his uncle’s training in France, determined to avenge his father’s death, James had joined the rebellion with a fire in his heart. But now the Bishop of St Andrews was languishing in one of King Edward’s dungeons and, with his uncle still missing, he felt as though all the hopes of his family had settled, heavy, on his shoulders.

  Forcing his gaze from the battlements, James nodded to his companions. ‘Come. We must tell the others.’

  ‘Do we light the beacon?’ asked Brice, one of Neil Campbell’s men from Argyll.

  ‘No. We need to know how large the garrison is. Percy’s company we could have overcome, but Valence is the king’s lieutenant. He commands a formidable force.’

  ‘The king has almost one thousand, Master James,’ Brice reminded him.

  ‘Valence had more than that under his banner at Methven, many of them horsed, and that force was increased by the men of Galloway. Who knows how many he has here.’ James felt a tug of impatience as he spoke. Caution was not a familiar counsellor and he was as keen as the others to move to action, but he wanted to get this right. Victory here was crucial to the campaign. Added to that, Robert had given him the opportunity to prove himself. If he helped the king win the war, his lands would be returned to him. Maybe then the restless ghost of his father – carried within him these past years – could finally find peace. ‘We’ll return at daybreak. Try to get a closer look.’

  James led the way back through the undergrowth, blackthorn and briars scratching at his hands and snagging his clothes in the darkness. Emerging on the cliff edge, he and his men picked their route down carefully. It was a clear night and the new moon washed the crags with its insipid light, revealing the animal tracks that criss-crossed down to the shore, heart-clenchingly narrow in places. The rocks were freezing beneath the men’s hands, mottled with lichen and rosettes of saxifrage, already brittle with frost.

  The tide was out, the beach strewn with black ropes of kelp. Once on the gleaming expanse of sand, the four moved quickly. At the far end, behind a tumble of rocks where James and his men had hidden their boat that morning, was a cave. As they approached, a voice called sharply from the shadows.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s us, Fergus.’

  At James’s voice a man appeared from behind the rocks, the blade of his sword glinting in the moonlight. ‘You’d better come. We could have trouble.’

  Instantly alert, James climbed over the stones. ‘What is it?’

  ‘See for yourself,’ answered Fergus, leading the way up the shingle towards the narrow entrance of the cave.

  James entered, his nose filling with the stink of seaweed and dankness. Fergus and his three companions had lit a small fire, the glow of which pulsed on the slimy walls. A band of serpentine in the granite glistened like snakeskin. As James followed Fergus in, the men parted to reveal a figure on his knees before the fire. The man’s hands were bound. James picked out the glimmer of mail and the bulk of a gambeson beneath his filthy tunic. His face was horribly bruised and there was a jagged cut, crusted shut with dried blood, along his neck. His hair, thick and matted at the front, was so caked with mud James could barely tell the colour, although he caught a glint of red in the firelight.

  ‘We caught him spying on us when we went to gather wood for the beacon,’ Fergus said. ‘He tried to run.’

  When the man saw James, his injured face lit up. He began speaking in a rapid stream. James caught enough of the words to know it was Gaelic, although he didn’t understand much. He stared at the man, thinking he looked incredibly familiar. Squinting past the mud and the bruises, he knew him. ‘Cormac!’ He turned on Fergus. ‘Christ, man, it’s the king’s brother you’ve been beating!’

  Fergus’s eyes widened at the man’s identity, but he raised a hand to proclaim his innocence. ‘We didn’t touch him, Master James! I swear he was like this when we found him.’

  James crossed to the Irishman and untied his hands. Cormac rubbed at his wrists, his eyes on Fergus. Picking up one of the water skins, James handed it to him. The spark of life in Cormac’s face at seeing James had already vanished, replaced by exhaustion, but he took the skin gratefully and gulped at it.

  ‘Brice,’ said James, turning to his comrade. ‘Ask him what he’s doing here.’

  The Argyllsman stepped forward and repeated the question in Gaelic. Cormac listened, looking between James and Brice. After a moment he began speaking.

  ‘He has come from Galloway,’ said Brice. ‘He was with his father, Lord Donough of Glenarm, and King Robert’s brothers.’

  A ripple of excitement spread through the others at the mention of the company that was due to join them from Galloway, but James said nothing. The Irishman’s injuries, his wretched appearance: all told a story of anguish. Cormac’s voice broke on his father’s name.

  ‘Some food, Fergus,’ James said quickly. ‘And a blanket.’

  Fergus ducked out of the cave, heading to the boat where their supplies were stowed.

  ‘What happened in Galloway?’ James asked, not taking his gaze off Cormac as Brice asked the question.

  Cormac lowered the skin, then spoke quietly. Brice’s face fell.

  ‘Brice?’ pressed James, when the man didn’t speak.

  ‘He says they were ambushed on the shores of Loch Ryan by men of Galloway, allies of the Comyn family. Many were killed. Lord Donough was executed by Dungal MacDouall.’ Brice looked at James. ‘Thomas and Alexander Bruce were taken prisoner.’

  ‘The Irish?’ asked Alan, his voice hoarse with shock.

  Brice shook his head.

  The sound of footsteps dashing on shingle interrupted them. Fergus entered the cave, food and blanket forgotten. ‘Come! Quickly!’

  Drawing his sword, James followed him outside.

  Fergus led him at a run past the boat to where the cliffs tumbled down on to the rock-strewn sand. Waves murmured across the beach, the tide creeping in. ‘There!’ Fergus clutched James’s shoulder and pointed north, in the opposite direction to Turnberry. A mile or two distant, up on the bluffs, a fire was burning. ‘An English patrol?’

  James didn’t answer, his eyes on the flames leaping high in the night. ‘The beacon! Dear God, they’ll think it’s the beacon!’

  Chapter 23

  Turnberry Castle, Scotland, 1307 AD

  The black cliffs loomed before them, great towers of rock veiled by mist. Seabirds cried in the heights, their ghostly forms occasionally visible, wheeling in the murk. During the crossing from Arran the sky had gradually lightened from pitch to inky-grey, but even though it was now past dawn the world was still shrouded in gloom.

  Ahead, the rush of waves was louder. Robert gripped the mast, feeling the swell thrust the galley towards the beach. He smelled seaweed above the metal tang of mail and the warmer odours of sweat and breath. Men crowded around him, their eyes on the approaching shore. The galloglass gripped the long hafts of their double-headed axes, breaths pluming in the damp air. Pearls of mist clung to matted hair and beards. Each had a foot up on the vessel’s side, ready to vault into the shallows at their captain’s command. Through the shifting vapours, Robert caught glimpses of the six other birlinns that accompanied them and saw row upon row of galloglass, similarly poised.

  Since leaving Barra his fears over their loyalty had vanished. When ordered, these men moved as one, without question or compunction. He had only witnessed a similar level of discipline in William Wallace’s camp in the Forest, when the rebel leader was training his schiltroms of spearmen. In his experience, common soldiery were hard to organise and knights and squires followed the lead of their own lords. There was something single-minded about the galloglass. It made him think of a hive.

  Glancing round, he sought out Lachlan, who was staring ahead, eyes narrowed in concentration. Catching his gaz
e, the captain cocked his head in question. Robert nodded an affirmation that they were still on course. This broken line of land was as familiar to him as his own skin. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew Turnberry Castle rose sheer from the rocky foundations of its promontory, just to the right of their position. He offered up another thanks to God for the freezing fog that had curled around them as they neared the coast, shielding them from enemy eyes, although the same mists had caused their guiding beacon to wink out of sight several hours earlier. He prayed it was as impenetrable on the other side of the bay where the greater part of his fleet, commanded by Angus MacDonald and Ruarie MacRuarie, was due to land. Certainly, there had been no sound of alarm from the castle as yet.

  All at once, the veil parted and the walls of Turnberry Castle appeared high above them, crowned by an amber haze of torchlight. Robert’s heart sang at the sight. After all these desperate months on the run, his back to his enemies, he was coming home to face them head-on. He thought of the dragon shield he had tossed from those battlements, lying somewhere beneath the surf, its red paint long since peeled away, wood rotted, iron rusted. He slid his gloved hand from the gold tear-drop pommel of his sword down to the hilt, tightening his fingers around the worn, leather-bound grip. As he did so, he caught the eye of his brother, pressed in close at his side. He saw the fierceness in Edward’s face, the passion in his eyes as the breaking waves propelled the galley on to the shingle.

  Robert went over with the first few men, the water rushing up to his thighs. The current was strong, threatening to pull him back, the weight of his mail dragging him down. He fought against it, propelling himself into the shallows. With Edward and Nes close behind him, followed by Malcolm of Lennox and the rest of his men, Robert led the galloglass to where a well-worn path wound up to the bluffs beyond the castle walls.