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  ‘The king has a mission for you,’ said the guard. ‘Now, get up.’

  Lamberton rose with difficulty. The irons that bound him to the wall of his cell allowed him some room to move, but not much. His muscles had grown weak from lack of use. He watched, his heart quickening, as the guard stooped to unlock his manacles.

  As they led him, on trembling legs, down a foul-smelling passage, Lamberton glimpsed a figure, hunched in the shadows of a cell some distance from his. He knew who it was, even before the light from the lantern bled through the bars into the cell, briefly illuminating his old friend and mentor, the Bishop of Glasgow.

  Robert Wishart’s tonsure had grown out and his hair sprouted wild from his crown. His jaw was covered with a patchy beard and his skin was as wrinkled and yellow as old parchment. His eyes were open, staring in Lamberton’s direction, but his once blue pupils were filmed with cataracts. The old man had gone blind during his incarceration.

  ‘Brother!’

  Wishart let out a surprised croak at Lamberton’s call. ‘William? Is that you?’

  ‘It is me, old friend.’

  ‘Come on,’ the guard said roughly.

  Lamberton twisted his head towards Wishart’s cell as they marched him down the passage. ‘Keep faith, brother!’

  Chapter 37

  The Pass of Brander, Scotland, 1308 AD

  The boulder smashed into the side of the mountain, pulverising the bedrock in a cloud of dust. The men, riding fast and furious along the narrow ridge below, lifted their shields as loose rock and earth cascaded down on them. A large chunk of stone struck Robert’s shield, the impact knocking him off balance. As his boot slipped through his stirrup, he fell heavily against the pommel of his saddle, losing his grip on the shield, which tumbled away down the mountainside. His horse lurched, pitching him half from the seat, until he was hanging precariously out over the pass, his grip on the reins the only thing that saved him from plunging into the dark green waters of Loch Awe below.

  ‘My lord!’

  Robert barely heard the shout over the wind screaming through the visor of his helm. As he struggled to right himself, his horse galloping dangerously close to the edge, his mind flashed with a vision of King Alexander falling from the cliffs at Kinghorn. Then, someone rode up swiftly alongside him. He caught a glimpse of red hair as the rider bent forward, hand outstretched. With a lunge, Cormac caught hold of the bridle. Teeth clenched with the effort, he pulled the horse back on track, enabling Robert to haul himself upright and find his footing on the stirrup. The pass tapered ahead, curving out around an outcrop of rock. Cormac fell back, allowing the king to ride on.

  Robert’s heart thrummed in his chest as he manoeuvred the agitated horse around the tight turn, stones skittering out from under its hooves. The palfrey, seized from the Black Comyn’s stables, was used to the rolling, fertile plains of Buchan, not this land of craggy peaks and thundering winds, where the heads of the mountains were cloaked in cloud and lochs were vast mirrors of ever changing sky. Sweat poured down his face stinging his eyes, the slit of world before him little more than a blur of motion and colour.

  Another stone sailed up from one of the galleys, this time striking the ridge some feet below the pass. The crash of it echoed around the hillside. There were three ships on the water, where the expanse of Loch Awe narrowed to become a river flanked on one side by towering black cliffs and on the other by the hulking mass of Ben Cruachan, around the lower slopes of which the Pass of Brander wound. Each galley was mounted with a siege engine. Robert, risking a glance over the edge, caught sight of men rolling more stones across the decks. As the arms of the mangonels sprang up another two missiles were hurled towards the pass. They struck in rapid succession, but only succeeded in showering the riders with scree. This time, however, after the stones had bounced away down the hillside, the rumbling continued, growing louder.

  For a moment, Robert thought it was an echo, but looking up he saw the cause. Three huge boulders were crashing down from the heights of Ben Cruachan, heading straight for the ridge. With a jolt of shock, he realised the enemy was going to try to do to him what he had done to the English at Glen Trool. Roaring a warning, his shout ringing around his helm, Robert wrenched his horse to a halt, forcing those behind to pull their own steeds up short. Many of his men had seen the danger and were stopping, faces tilted up the mountain, trying to determine the boulders’ trajectory. A few rode on, oblivious.

  Robert watched, helpless, as the rocks struck the pass, sweeping six men – Lennox’s by their colours – out into the air. They screamed as they fell, their horses twisting and thrashing, to plunge into the dark loch. Robert’s jaw clenched as he heard the faint cheers from the decks of the galleys – another victory for John MacDougall. The Lord of Argyll, he knew, was on one of those ships. MacDougall had been waiting for him to attempt the pass, the route to his chief seat and the very heart of his lordship. Knowing Robert aimed at Dunstaffnage Castle, he had set his trap here, hoping to prevent him from reaching it.

  In the wake of the boulders, men appeared on the slopes above. Many were barelegged, clad in the short woollen tunics favoured by Highlanders. One, a giant even at this distance, leapt on to an outcrop of rock and lifted his axe to the sky. His savage cry was taken up by others, who began to charge down the steep hillside. There were hundreds of them.

  ‘Where the hell is Douglas?’

  Robert recognised the voice behind him as Gilbert de la Hay’s. He reached for his sword. Dear God, these men were going to force them off the mountain. There were too many. They would be overrun. More stones were flying up from the galleys, smashing into the ridge. One struck a knight from Carrick, killing him instantly. Another caved in the head of a horse. Mounts were panicking, rearing up.

  All at once, the sky behind the incoming Argyllsmen darkened, filling with arrows. Robert’s eyes followed the feathered barbs as they arced upwards, before stabbing down at the running men. Many struck – punching into spines, necks and buttocks. Men fell in mid-stride, some flying head over heels down the slope, cracking skulls on rocks, breaking bones. The giant on the outcrop arched suddenly, dropping his axe as he tumbled into space. The huge man hit the pass just in front of Robert, his neck snapping.

  After the storm of arrows came men, their own battle cries reverberating. Inside his helm, Robert grinned in triumphant relief as James Douglas swept down on the Argyllsmen from the high slopes of Ben Cruachan, leading a host of men from his uncle’s lordships. Turning in his saddle, Robert yelled an instruction at Nes, a few riders behind. The knight grabbed the hunting horn that hung from his baldric. Setting it to his lips, he blew three fast notes. Those further down the pass, hearing the signal, spurred their horses on.

  John MacDougall’s galleys let fly a desperate barrage of stones, but now the king’s men were out of range and the cumbersome ships couldn’t match the speed of the horses. The ridge descended, dropping close to the water as the river cut a course down to Loch Etive and, finally, the sea. In the far distance, a bridge appeared, spanning the rushing water. A few miles beyond lay the object of their race through the mountains – Dunstaffnage Castle.

  Dunstaffnage Castle, Argyll, 1308 AD

  Robert stood in the castle grounds, close to the chapel and its graveyard. The evening light burnished the towers and turned the windows of the many outbuildings to molten gold. Lavender and rosemary perfumed the air, coming from the kitchen gardens. Birds chattered in the treetops on the edge of the promontory, beyond which the mouth of Loch Etive opened into the Firth of Lorn. In the distance, across the water, the sun was starting to set behind the mountains of Mull. It was a tranquil scene, very much at odds with the one just hours before, when Dunstaffnage had fallen to his company.

  MacDougall’s scouts, seeing Robert’s men coming along the pass, had tried to burn the bridge in a desperate attempt to prevent them reaching the castle, but Robert’s forces, led by Edward Bruce and Neil Campbell, had swept across, scattering th
e smouldering piles of logs and straw, riding down the fleeing men. Most of MacDougall’s force had been with their lord on the loch or above the pass, leaving only a small garrison to defend the castle, which capitulated after a relentless two-day assault.

  Lines of men, women and children were being led out through the gatehouse, across the drawbridge. Robert’s soldiers escorted them, hauling anything of value to a pile of plunder in front of the chapel, where others sorted sacks of grain and barrels of meat from silverware and chests of money. Among them was James Douglas, who had joined them after leading the successful attack on the slopes of Ben Cruachan.

  Douglas was quickly making a name for himself, having recently won back his father’s lands in a daring assault on his castle, held by men in the pay of Robert Clifford. Thomas Randolph was with him, helping to separate the garrison, who were to be taken prisoner, from the women, children and servants. The two young men had become friends in recent months and Robert was pleased to see the influence James had over his nephew. Gone was the sullen youth who had fought for the English against him. Thomas was fast becoming a valuable member of his company.

  Movement on the battlements caught his eye. Looking up, Robert saw the Argyll standard being pulled down. The black galley of the MacDougall arms folded in on itself as it was dragged from its pole. He felt grim satisfaction at the sight. Not only was MacDougall one of the greatest obstacles to his reign, but the ambush in the wilds of Lorn had caused the splitting of his company, which had led, ultimately, to the loss of his family. At long last, justice was served.

  ‘Please! No!’

  At the cry, Robert saw an adolescent girl trying to break from the crowd. She was reaching towards a young man being corralled into a group with the rest of the garrison, but was prevented from going any further by one of Angus MacDonald’s men, who had hold of her arm.

  The girl’s face was taut with anguish. ‘Let me stay with him – I beg you! He is my husband!’

  The desperation in her voice was hard to hear. As Robert watched the soldier got tired of trying to pull her back and cuffed her across the face, sending her reeling. Her husband shouted in rage. Robert crossed quickly to the Islesman, who had raised his hand again, threatening to strike the girl as she cowered on the ground.

  ‘Get up, bitch!’ growled the soldier.

  Robert grabbed the man’s hand, twisting it until he cried out and buckled to his knees.

  The soldier’s face changed from anger to shock as he saw who had hold of him. ‘My lord! I . . .’ He trailed off in bewilderment, looking from Robert to the girl, who had scrabbled back and was staring wide-eyed at the king.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll see you hang. Do you understand me?’

  The crowd had fallen into a hush, those directing the prisoners stopping what they were doing to watch. Many of the men looked surprised.

  ‘I said, do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, my lord king,’ murmured the Islesman, flame-faced.

  The girl shrank back as Robert came towards her, but when he held out his hand to help her up she took it, glancing nervously at her husband, watching in stunned silence. Her cheek was red where she had been struck.

  ‘Your husband will not be harmed in my custody,’ Robert assured her. ‘You have my word. When John MacDougall surrenders to me his men will be allowed to go free.’

  Tears welled in her eyes. She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Robert addressed the rest of his troops. ‘These men and women are sons and daughters of Scotland. They are under my protection. All of them.’ His eyes raked them until he was satisfied to see many nodding in agreement.

  Turning away, Robert caught the gaze of his brother. Edward was frowning in question, but Robert carried on past him, heading to inspect the pile of plunder. Things between him and his brother had been strained, ever since his sickness in winter had seen Edward take command of the army.

  When Robert had returned to health, Edward seemed reluctant to relinquish that control – questioning his decisions, arguing against his strategies. Eventually, after the razing of Buchan, Robert had given his brother a mission of his own, in the hope this would temper his growing insubordination. While he marched on Aberdeen, intending to seize the port from the garrison left by Aymer de Valence, Edward was sent into Galloway to deal with the remainder of the Disinherited. He had returned a fortnight ago to join the attack on Argyll. Despite his failure to capture Dungal MacDouall, missing since Glen Trool, Edward had been victorious, bloodying the soil of Galloway with the slaughter of hundreds. The tales of his brutality had left a sour taste in Robert’s mouth. The harrying of Buchan had been necessary, as was the campaign here in Argyll, but while his brother seemed to revel in the death and destruction, he himself had found he could take no pleasure in it.

  The passing of King Edward, a year ago, had begun a change in Robert. For so long his war had been against the man; all his hatred, fear and rage directed at the ruthless king, who had taken so much from him. He had thought that to fight him he would have to become him, but now Edward was gone and the landscape of this conflict had changed, Robert realised he did not want to be the same. He knew all too well what it was to lose those he loved and had no desire to see that pain in others. The bitterness of this civil war in contrast to the devotion he had found among his followers had shown him that he didn’t want to be a tyrant, who ruled with an iron fist. He didn’t want to build his throne on the skulls of his enemies. He wanted his people to kneel before him of their own free will, out of honour and respect.

  Robert turned at the sound of approaching hooves to see Neil Campbell riding into the castle grounds at the head of a company. He had sent the knight to track down and capture John MacDougall and his old and ailing father, thought to have been on the galley with his son. Neil had been only too keen, eager to hunt down the men responsible for the death of his father and his exile from his lands. Now, seeing a number of Campbell’s men returning with prisoners on their mounts, hands tied to the pommels, Robert’s anticipation rose.

  Neil pulled his sweating horse to a halt and swung down from the saddle to greet the king. ‘My lord.’

  ‘MacDougall?’ asked Robert, glancing past him to the crowd of horsemen.

  ‘No, my lord,’ answered Neil, pulling off his helm. ‘He and his father fled to their castle on Loch Awe. I’ve left men on the banks to keep watch, but we’re going to need ships to reach them.’

  Robert was disappointed, but the news wasn’t hopeless. Angus MacDonald’s galleys had been following their progress down the coast and the lord was due to join them here any day now. They could use his ships to sail up from Loch Etive.

  ‘We did find a few men hiding in the hills,’ Neil went on.

  ‘We’ll hold them with the garrison, until the lords of Argyll have surrendered.’ As Robert gestured for his soldiers to come and take the prisoners, Neil spoke up quickly.

  ‘My lord, there is one who will be of great interest to you.’ The knight called to two of his men, who came forward, marching someone between them.

  Robert stopped dead at the sight of the prisoner. His cheeks were hollow from lack of food and his jaw was covered with a beard, but he was nonetheless immediately recognisable. It was Dungal MacDouall, former captain of the army of Galloway, leader of the Disinherited – the man responsible for the beheading of his foster-father and the capture of Thomas and Alexander. MacDouall’s clothes were torn, the white lion of Galloway lost under layers of dirt. The scarred bulb of his wrist stuck out from under his gambeson, the hand taken by Robert in the chaos of that burning village five years ago. He met Robert’s gaze, his eyes glacial, frozen with hatred.

  Edward Bruce had seen him too. He pushed through the throng, his face filling with triumph at the sight of the hated enemy, who had evaded him in Galloway. Cormac appeared on the edge of the crowd, his axe in his fist. The Irishman stood motionless for a moment, staring at MacDouall. Then, he rushed at him with a strangled y
ell. Robert shouted at James Douglas, who lunged and grabbed hold of him. With Thomas Randolph’s help he just managed to restrain the roaring Irishman.

  Robert went to his struggling foster-brother. ‘Enough!’ He planted a hand on Cormac’s heaving chest. ‘I’ll not give the devil another body. Not today. I have given him an army already.’

  ‘I watched that bastard kill my father!’

  ‘And he delivered my brothers to the gallows,’ said Robert, not taking his eyes off Cormac’s. ‘But I killed John Comyn, his master, and my father killed his. So tell me, where does it end?’

  Cormac let out a hoarse cry, but with the sound the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped, his axe falling from his fingers. James and Thomas kept hold of his arms.

  ‘We have won, Cormac,’ murmured Robert. ‘Now, the killing has to stop. Our kingdom must heal, or we’ll be left with nothing. MacDouall will be tried for his crimes. You have my word. But justice will be served in my court. Not here.’

  There were scattered shouts of alarm. Robert caught a rush of motion, but by the time he turned, Edward had launched himself at MacDouall. Robert roared at his brother, but it was too late. Edward took the captain’s head with two brutal strokes of his broadsword.

  Chapter 38

  St Andrews Cathedral, Scotland, 1309 AD

  In mid-March, when spring lambs were growing bolder in the meadows and the snows were receding up the slopes of the mountains, leaving a land fresh and green in their wake, Robert held his first parliament.

  The magnates and clergy of Scotland gathered in the chapter house of St Andrew’s Cathedral, filling the hall in front of the dais, upon which their king was raised on a throne. Behind him, strung from wall to wall, was the royal banner of Scotland, the red lion rampant on gold. The banner, hidden by Bishop Wishart before his capture, had been brought by William Lamberton, who arrived in the autumn with the offer of a truce from King Edward II. Robert, overjoyed to see the formidable bishop returned to his circle, agreed the treaty with England, after which Lamberton had busied himself endeavouring to get Robert’s excommunication, already dismissed by a council of the Scottish clergy, formally lifted by the pope.