Kingdom Page 25

  He knew from reports that Turnberry had been razed, but it was still a shock as he came up over the edge of the cliffs to see a mass of tents disappearing in the gloom, where once the small, but bustling settlement had stood. The sight added fuel to the fire inside him. He let the fury take him over, singing its song of violence inside him as he charged towards the English camp, broadsword drawn, a cry tearing from his throat.

  It was still early, but a fair few men in the camp were awake, cooks preparing morning meals, grooms tending to horses and clearing piles of dung, servants stoking fires. A few knights and squires had risen to use the latrines and dress for the day, shrugging gambesons over sleep-crumpled shirts and hose, cupping palms and blowing warmth into hands stiff with cold. The first thing these men heard was the muffled pounding of many feet on the springy turf. Some started round, others froze, as a roar shattered the hush and out of the mist came a horde of men.

  Leaping the guy ropes of a tent, Robert hacked his sword into the neck of a stocky, half-dressed Englishman, who was bellowing a warning. His shout cut off abruptly, blood spewing from his mouth. Wrenching his sword free, Robert shoved the man aside, sending him lurching into a tent, which buckled inward. Another figure loomed up. Robert glimpsed an iron pot clutched in a white-knuckled hand and a mouth stretched in fear. The cook reacted at the last moment, swinging the pot at him. Robert ducked the blow and ran him through. He felt the resistance of skin and tightened muscles, before the blade slid on through the tenderness of organs and bowels. The cook sagged over him, convulsing. Twisting his sword free, Robert charged towards the next target.

  The blind fury of battle possessed him, compelling him to strike at anyone who stood before him. He would cleanse this ground of his enemy; wash it clean with their blood. At his side was Edward, storm-eyed, the blade of his sword already slick with gore. His brother looked more alive than he had in months, slashing and carving his way through the scattering men. The roses on Malcolm of Lennox’s surcoat were like splashes of blood in the blaze of the campfire, the war cry of his family on his lips. With them was Lachlan MacRuarie, leading his galloglass into the heart of the camp. The captain fought like a fiend, swinging his mighty, double-bladed axe into backs, scalps and chests as if he were chopping firewood.

  Cries of panic tore through the camp. Knights, shocked from sleep, scrambled from tents, snatching up swords. Others grabbed shovels and stakes; anything that could be used as a weapon. Grooms and servants quailed in the face of the galloglass. These weren’t Scottish knights or peasants, who dressed and looked much like their own kind. These barelegged, barefooted giants brandishing axes as big as themselves seemed another race entirely. Many of the younger men were turning and fleeing at the sight of them, but the veterans switched quickly from shock to defence, roaring at infantry to seize arms.

  Within moments the tide of Scots was slowed, a growing wall of English knights and squires rushing in to halt their advance. Many wore surcoats, emblazoned with the blue lion of Henry Percy. Most hadn’t had time to put on mail, but their gambesons offered some protection. Robert glimpsed one galloglass take an iron-embossed buckler in the face. As the man rocked back, choking on his own teeth, the English knight who delivered the jaw-shattering blow crouched and thrust his sword up under the man’s tunic, between his bare legs. Another mercenary, struggling to free his axe from a young man’s scalp, had his head pulled back by an English squire and his throat slit. A tent collapsed into a campfire as two grappling men staggered into it. The material smouldered, then flickered into bright life. Smoke rose into the mist.

  Robert, caught up in the press, realised there were many more English here than anticipated. He had expected, based on his scouts’ estimates of enemy numbers, to overrun the camp and destroy it before the castle garrison could come to their aid. He felt a wave of unease. Where were Angus MacDonald and the rest of his company? Scores of galloglass had stormed deep into the camp, urged on by Lachlan’s battle cry. His forces were spread out, hemmed in by tents and wagons, latrines and campfires – vulnerable. As a sword smacked against his helm, Robert’s attention was snatched forward.

  The fight quickly became tight and vicious, men wrestling one another to the ground, stabbing dirks into eyes and throats. Robert, his sword cuffed wide by one of Percy’s knights, slammed his head into the man’s snarling face. The front of his helm connected solidly with the man’s nose. As the knight pitched back, Robert caught sight of two huge figures striding out of the fog, hacking a bloody path through the back of the line of men in front of him. One was Angus MacDonald, the other, Gilbert de la Hay. He realised he could hear horns blowing. The rest of his army had arrived. Feeling a surge of life through his limbs, he pressed forward, Percy’s knights trapped in a killing ground between the two forces of Scots, come together in the centre of the English camp.

  ‘My lord!’ Gilbert fought through the seething crowd to get to Robert. ‘My lord king!’

  Behind the Lord of Erroll, Robert saw James Douglas, Neil Campbell and others struggling towards him. They all looked agitated. He realised there was another figure with James, a young man with a mud-caked thatch of hair, clutching an axe and holding his side as if injured, his face a mask of pain. So unexpected was the sight of him that it took Robert a moment to recognise his foster-brother, Cormac. Dimly, through the chaos, he heard Gilbert shouting.

  ‘Valence is here! Our men didn’t set that beacon!’

  At that moment, the gates of Turnberry Castle groaned open. Out of the courtyard scores of knights came riding, the sound of their destriers’ hooves filling the air. The mists were lifting and the first pale shades of morning shed light across the camp. Robert now saw, among the colours of Henry Percy, the blue and white stripes of Pembroke on dozens of surcoats, trappers and shields. One knight at the head, mounted on a muscular black warhorse, wore a great helm, crested with a spray of goose feathers dyed blue. At the sight of Aymer de Valence, a maelstrom of emotions swept through Robert, shock followed by hatred and livid anger. His eyes on his enemy, he didn’t see one of Percy’s knights, left for dead at his feet, curl his fingers around his fallen sword and heave himself upright.

  Nes lunged, swiping aside the knight’s blow with his own blade before thrusting it into the man’s throat.

  Robert staggered back as the knight jerked on the length of steel. He met Nes’s gaze, but there was no time for gratitude. Valence and his knights were coming for them.

  In their wake, more men were pouring from the castle’s gates, pulling on helms and grabbing spears. Some mounted horses, hastily saddled by squires. Archers were lining up on the walls. For all the fearlessness of the galloglass, Robert knew at once that they would be no match for Valence’s cavalry. Caught up in the maze of tents, unable to form protective lines, those who had ventured far into the camp were the first to go down, knocked flying by the armoured horses or ripped apart by the blades of the knights. A few English horses went down, caught by axe swings, but more rode on over them. The voice of James Stewart sounded in Robert’s mind, warning him that one armoured knight was worth ten foot soldiers. He thought of the trap Valence had set for him at Methven Wood and the ambush in the wilds of Lorn by John MacDougall and the Black Comyn. He couldn’t risk another catastrophic defeat. These men were all he had left.

  ‘Back to the boats!’

  At Robert’s command, Gilbert de la Hay and Angus MacDonald, forewarned by James Douglas, spared no haste in withdrawing, moving back the way they had come with the men of Islay and Ruarie MacRuarie’s galloglass, fending off attacks from the English, who had rallied at the appearance of Valence and Percy.

  Edward grasped Robert’s arm. ‘What are you doing? This is our chance! Let’s end the bastard!’

  Robert wrenched himself free. ‘We’ve no choice, damn it!’

  Shouting to the rest of his company, he headed for the cliffs, retracing his steps through the bloody trail of destruction he and his men had left. Malcolm of Lennox went with him,
taking up the cry, as did Nes. More and more of his men followed suit, pouring through the labyrinth of tents. Robert snatched a buckler from the debris-strewn ground, holding it aloft against the arrows stabbing down from the archers on Turnberry’s walls. A galloglass running just ahead of him took one in the face. Vaulting the fallen man, Robert saw Lachlan away to his left, grappling with one of Percy’s men. The haft of his axe had clashed in mid-air to form a cross with the Englishman’s sword. As the man spat in his face, Lachlan didn’t flinch, but with his free hand tugged his dirk from its sheath and rammed it into his eye, twisting the blade savagely. The captain’s back was to Valence’s cavalry, riding straight for him.

  Robert hollered at him, but Lachlan, caught up in the chaos, didn’t hear. Letting the blinded man fall, he turned on another, who rushed at him. Robert pitched himself towards Lachlan, who despatched his attacker with a swing of his axe that caved in the Englishman’s head. As Robert grasped Lachlan’s shoulder the man turned on him, raising his dirk. Recognition flooded his wild green eyes and he just managed to check the blow.

  ‘To the boats!’ Robert shouted, thrusting the captain towards the cliffs. ‘Go!’

  Lachlan, seeing the cavalry storming towards them, came to his senses. With a curse, he began to run, calling his men to follow.

  ‘Bruce!’

  The roar of his name ripped through the air behind him. Robert glanced over his shoulder to see Aymer de Valence bearing down on him. His visor was raised and Robert saw the earl’s hard face light up in triumph as he turned. At the sight of him – the arrogance in that grin, the cruelty in those black eyes – a dam broke in Robert. Rage swept through him, washing away sense and fear. This man, who destroyed his army at Methven Wood and forced him into exile, had captured Niall, his beloved brother, and John of Atholl, who had been as a father to him. He had seized his wife, his sisters and his daughter, and delivered them all into King Edward’s merciless hands.

  At once, Robert was charging forward. There was a bellowing in his ears that he dimly realised was coming from his own mouth. Aymer’s destrier crashed between two pavilions, ripping one free from its stakes and dragging half of it behind it. As Robert ran headlong towards him, he saw a flash of fear in Valence’s eyes. The earl jerked on the reins, but the horse, agitated by the tangle of ropes and canvas around its hooves, didn’t respond. Dropping the buckler, Robert grasped the hilt of his sword in both hands and brought it swinging round over his head. Dropping into a crouch, he let the momentum of the strike carry on through to connect with the animal’s front leg as it plunged down in front of him. The blade carved flesh and bone, severing the beast’s limb.

  The great destrier gave a piercing scream. It plummeted in a rush of mail and a billow of blue and white silk. Aymer was hurled from the saddle. He rolled with the impact, his armour absorbing some, though by no means all, of the fall. His helm was knocked off, leaving just a coif of mail over his arming cap. He staggered to his feet, shaking his head dazedly and spitting blood. Turning, he managed to draw his sword, just as Robert launched himself at him. Their blades met with a clash, slivers of metal sparking from them. Life returned to Aymer’s eyes at the vicious strike. He snarled in Robert’s face, lips pulling back to reveal the gleam of silver, smeared with blood.

  Robert seeing that wire, remembering his fist shattering Valence’s teeth in Llanfaes, felt new strength flood him, swelling his desire to finish now what he had started all those years ago. He pushed against the man’s blade, forcing it down, hissing through his teeth with the effort. When Valence, unable to resist, was pulled to one side, Robert released a hand from his sword hilt and elbowed him in the face. The earl’s head snapped back. Reeling away, he wrenched his sword out from under Robert’s, metal screeching against metal. Though blood was gushing from his nose and his eyes were full of water, he came straight in again. Robert lurched from the strike, then retaliated. He was aware, from the clang of swords and din of hooves, that fighting was continuing around him, but the realisation was faint, all his attention fixed on Valence.

  Their swords smashed together, sprang apart, arced and met again, each man blocking the death strike the other aimed at him. Robert had forgotten what a ferocious fighter Valence was. Every blow jarred through his arms until his muscles were burning and sweat was pouring down his face. The thick cloak Christiana had given him was dragging at his shoulders, slowing him down. He’d not slept during the crossing from Arran, nor had he eaten a proper meal since leaving Barra. He’d lost weight during the months on the run and his strength was depleted. Aymer, on the other hand, was fresh and fit. Robert had rage on his side, but he knew this would burn out quickly. Battering away another strike, he spun out of Aymer’s reach, circling around a campfire to catch his breath. Tearing off the brooch on his cloak, he let the heavy garment fall. At once, his limbs felt lighter.

  Aymer swiped blood from his face, pacing round to face him. ‘Your little brother pissed himself when they led him to the gallows. I watched the whelp dance on the rope for an age, but he was still alive when they put his neck on the block for the axe.’

  Robert gripped his sword, feeling his hands begin to shake. ‘As you will be when I scalp you.’

  Aymer grinned. ‘It ends today, Bruce – your pathetic reign, your pitiful life. Your family will die in their prisons. Your last supporters will be strung up alongside the rotting corpses of their friends and your lands will be divided among us. In a few years no one will even remember you existed.’

  ‘Arrogance has made a fool of you,’ murmured Robert, moving to keep the campfire between them. ‘You couldn’t vanquish me in Llanfaes. You couldn’t catch me in Westminster. Even at Methven Wood you failed to take me.’

  ‘Will you fight us all?’ asked Valence, his eyes flicking over Robert’s shoulder.

  Robert risked a glance behind him. He saw several squires had come to Valence’s aid, clad in the Pembroke colours. They carried spears and falchions and were advancing on him.

  ‘He’s mine!’ Valence called to them.

  Robert realised, with a sick rising fear, that he was now alone. Lachlan had gone, as had the rest of his men, swept away in the tumultuous retreat. He glimpsed a few galloglass among the tents and wagons, still fighting hard with the English, but most had retreated, pursued by Henry Percy’s knights.

  Aymer’s smile widened. Suddenly, the earl lunged. Robert kicked at the campfire. As glowing embers burst up around him, Valence threw up an arm to shield his face, allowing Robert to barrel past, knocking him roughly aside as he went. Aymer hit the ground hard, his sword slipping from his grip.

  Robert wove through the tents, Valence’s shouts lifting behind him. His whole back twitching with the expectation of a sword strike, he raced past two men locked together, hands around one another’s throats. Skidding in a pool of blood, he pushed on, hurdling over sacks of grain that had spilled from a wagon. Hooves were drumming up behind him. Any moment, they would catch him.

  ‘Robert!’

  At his name, he twisted round, lifting his sword to defend himself. A rider was bearing down on him. He saw a thatch of dirty red hair and wide eyes in a bruised face.

  As he brought the horse to a stamping halt, Cormac thrust out his hand. Seeing Valence’s squires running towards him, Robert grasped it. He dug his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up. One of the squires threw himself forward, slashing at the animal’s hind leg. The horse squealed, but Cormac jabbed it hard with his heels, compelling it on. Robert gripped the pommel, only half in the saddle, as the horse careened through the camp and out across the mist-wreathed fields.

  Aymer cursed bitterly as he saw his enemy being borne away. He ordered his men to follow, then shouted at his squire to bring him a fresh horse, his mighty destrier now bleeding out in a tangle of ropes and canvas.

  Wiping sweat from his eyes, Aymer caught sight of Robert’s cloak lying crumpled on the ground by the scattered remains of the campfire. He crossed to it and snatched up the g
arment. ‘And bring me the hound!’ he roared at his retreating squire.

  Aymer looked across the fields, his eyes on the horse, galloping towards the woods. His fingers curled around the cloak. ‘We’ll have ourselves some sport.’

  They fled through the woods, splashing through mud and wading across narrow burns. They had left the horse some miles back, the animal’s injured leg finally buckling under their weight. A tree root snagged Cormac’s foot, sending him flying. He lay there panting, sprawled on the mossy ground.

  Robert raced back and grabbed his foster-brother’s arm. ‘Come on!’

  Cormac raised his head. ‘No!’ he gasped. ‘I can’t!’

  In the gloom, Robert saw Cormac’s face was white beneath the faded bruises and fresh blood, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks. Again, the question of what his foster-brother was doing here spiked in through his own exhaustion, but as he heard the distant barking of a hound all such thoughts left him. ‘We have to keep moving!’

  The Irishman managed to struggle to his knees, but agony flashed across his face as he tried to stand. He clutched Robert’s wrist. ‘You need to listen. You need to know what happened in Galloway.’

  ‘It can wait!’ Robert tried to heave him up.

  Cormac’s eyes were desperate. ‘The bastard killed my father, Robert. Took his head.’

  Robert stopped pulling at him.

  Cormac stared up at the king, anguish etched in his face. ‘Dungal MacDouall was waiting for us at Loch Ryan. They must have seen our fleet crossing from Antrim. My lord, he captured your brothers. Thomas and Alexander have been taken.’

  ‘The men of Antrim? The ships?’