Kingdom Page 39

  Lamberton stood on the dais to Robert’s left. To his right was James Stewart. Over the past months, while he led the campaign in Argyll, the high steward had been making preparations for the new government. Already, under his guidance, royal officials had been appointed and, slowly, the administration of the realm was coming back to life. Since Robert wrested Aberdeen from the English, trade had started to flourish with the Low Countries, the North Sea routes opened once more. Even more crucially, King Philippe of France – recalling the alliance the two countries had made at the start of the war – had recently recognised him as king.

  There was a strange atmosphere in the hall, men struggling with a mixture of emotions. For many this was a moment of long-awaited celebration, but for others it was a time of mourning, their thoughts on those who weren’t here to witness the fulfilment of thirteen years of struggle. For some, the assembly was the conclusion of their defeat, among them Earl William of Ross, the Earl of Sutherland and John of Menteith, all of whom had raised arms against Robert, but who had since surrendered.

  A few men, Neil Campbell and Edward Bruce the most vocal, had been vehemently opposed to clemency for these barons – Ross had seized Robert’s women at Tain and Menteith was responsible for the capture of William Wallace – but the king was adamant that any who now submitted would be accepted into his peace. Forgiveness, he told his men, would be the balm that healed the wounds of this war. But although his campaigns in Buchan and Argyll had seen the last real resistance against him crumble – the great houses of the Comyns and the MacDougalls falling after centuries in power – not all his foes were willing to accept his mercy. The Black Comyn had reputedly died in exile in England, but David, now the Earl of Atholl, Ingram de Umfraville and the earls of Angus and Dunbar remained at large, as did John MacDougall of Argyll, who, with his father, had fled his castle on Loch Awe.

  Despite this, the parliament was an occasion for triumph, a day that Robert, in the dark months following the disasters in Methven Wood and Lorn, had not expected to see. The Wheel of Fortune had raised him up and now it was time to thank those who had helped him reach these heights.

  One by one they came to him, those rewarded with lands and titles kneeling to perform the act of homage, clasping their hands and placing them between Robert’s as they swore their undying loyalty. Some had been with him from the beginning: men like James Stewart, Nes and the knights of Carrick and Annandale. Others, many of whom fought for Wallace in the first days of the insurrection, had joined him along the way, pledging their swords and their hearts to him: Cormac of Antrim, Earl Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell of Argyll, Gilbert de la Hay of Errol, Lord Angus MacDonald of Islay, Captain Lachlan MacRuarie, James Douglas, Thomas Randolph.

  When the vows of homage and fealty were done, Robert was recognised – before all present and in the name of the community of the realm of Scotland – as the rightful king and true heir of Alexander III. By this declaration, John Balliol’s reign was thus erased. On the smooth skin of the parchment it was as if the last seventeen years had never been. Under the skin of the land, countless bones told a different story.

  After the parliament drew to a close, the men dispersing to prepare for the evening’s feast, Robert walked the cathedral’s cloisters with James Stewart.

  ‘Still no word from Richard de Burgh?’ the high steward asked him.

  Robert shook his head. He had sent a message to the Earl of Ulster months ago, informing his father-in-law that he had secured Elizabeth’s protection and appealing for him not to take up arms against him, should he be called upon to do so by the English. ‘Could his silence be a good sign? It isn’t a no, after all?’

  When James didn’t answer, Robert realised the steward had fallen back, unable to match his stride. He waited for him to catch up, noting again how old the man was looking. The high steward, once formidably tall, was rather stooped these days, his hair more grey than black. He repeated himself when James reached him.

  ‘My brother-in-law will always do what is in his best interests. If it doesn’t benefit him to join an English campaign against you he may well seek to avoid it. Edward Longshanks had to forgive Ulster his debts in order to encourage him to fight and the new king certainly doesn’t have the kind of influence his father had.’

  Robert nodded.

  James tugged his mantle tighter as the wind whistled through the cloisters, carrying the bite of the sea. ‘I couldn’t help but notice today that things still seem troubled between you and your brother. It has been almost eight months, my lord.’

  Robert felt a spike of anger at the man’s measured tone. ‘Edward openly defied me – in front of my men!’

  ‘I am not saying Edward was right, doing what he did to MacDouall. He knows he wasn’t. His wrath got the better of him. It can happen to us all.’

  Robert wondered if James was alluding to that night in the church of the Greyfriars. ‘It isn’t just that,’ he said tersely. ‘I granted him the lordship of Galloway in the hope he would be satisfied with a command of his own, but it isn’t enough for him. My brother wants me to break the truce with King Edward – lead a full-scale assault against the English with the aid of the Welsh and Irish. I know he has been going behind my back, seeking support for such a move.’

  James said nothing.

  Robert halted, staring at him. ‘You agree?’

  ‘The truce with King Edward is only temporary, on both your parts. Sooner or later it will have to be broken. You cannot allow the English to maintain their hold on the castles and towns they have in their possession. Edinburgh, Stirling, Perth, Dundee, Bothwell, Ayr, Jedburgh, Berwick, Dumfries, Caerlaverock, Lochmaben, Roxburgh.’ The steward counted them off on his fingers. ‘Through these, Scotland remains tied to the territories of the English crown and while Philippe of France may have recognised your legitimacy, King Edward most certainly has not. While he lays claim to any part of Scotland our kingdom will never be free. All this you know, my lord,’ he finished quietly.

  Robert let out a rough laugh. ‘This – coming from you? The most cautious man in my kingdom?’

  James averted his gaze. After a moment, he went and sat heavily on the low wall between the ribbed arches. ‘You are right. I have been cautious.’ The steward stared out over the square of windswept grass in the centre of the cloisters. ‘I was cautious when your grandfather came, asking me to support his claim to the throne. I did so, but in secrecy, refusing to raise arms in his defence even though I believed he would make a finer king than John Balliol ever would, in thrall as he was to the Comyns. After pledging myself to your grandfather’s cause, I simply walked away when Balliol was chosen.’ He half closed his eyes. ‘I still remember that day on the Moot Hill, the royal sceptre in my hands and Balliol’s self-satisfied smile as I handed it to him.’ He shook his head. ‘When the war broke out, I supported the uprising of Wallace, my vassal, but again in secret, too scared of damaging my own position – too cautious – to come out openly for him.’ He glanced at Robert. ‘It was Bishop Wishart who finally persuaded me to step out from the shadows.’ He smiled slightly at the memory. ‘I never believed Wallace’s peasant army could win. Not until Stirling.’ The steward’s smile faded. ‘I followed him then, all the way to that godforsaken field at Falkirk, where I abandoned him. I fled that battle a coward, left my own brother and ten thousand men to die.’

  Robert crossed to him. The steward’s brown eyes were watery. He couldn’t tell if it was from the wind. ‘You would have been killed if you had stayed. All of you.’

  ‘Would we?’ James frowned up at him. ‘Or would we have turned the tide? I set you on the path to the throne, Robert, ever pushing at you, but when I saw that chance slipping away, I forced you to England to beg King Edward’s forgiveness. I sent you alone, into the fire, without aid or succour. I even stopped you seeking the truth of King Alexander’s death. I was so obsessed with seeing you – my protégé – on the throne that I lost all sight of justice. It blinded me, too, to J
ohn Comyn’s ambitions. I never should have persuaded you to make that pact with him. I should have known he would betray you. You once said Comyn’s blood was on my hands as much as yours. If I hadn’t convinced you to ally with him you wouldn’t have gone to the Greyfriars that night and then, perhaps, none of this would have—’

  ‘No,’ Robert cut across him. He sat on the wall beside the high steward, forcing the older man to look at him. ‘That sin is on me.’

  ‘I helped to put you on the throne, but I didn’t let you seize the power. I hid behind you, as I have always done – pulling the strings, watching from afar. It is no good excuse, but I grew to manhood in a court for the most part at peace with all but itself. My weapons were words, seals on parchments, spies in shadows, secret alliances.’ The steward met his gaze. ‘But you became a man in a kingdom riven by war. The sword has always been your weapon. I should have let you use it more.’

  ‘It hasn’t always served me well. After my coronation, all I could think of was forcing the English out of our lands, but then I went to Methven Wood.’ Robert’s voice became a murmur. ‘I lost so much that day, James.’

  The high steward turned towards him, his expression intent. ‘You cannot let fear of loss rule you. Not like it has ruled me.’

  ‘They have my child. My wife. My sisters. You yourself warned me of the danger of them being hurt while in English custody – used against me.’

  ‘And you told me Humphrey de Bohun was concerned to keep the sins of King Edward secret? For now, you each have something dear to the other.’ James tilted his head, making Robert look at him. ‘But, in the end, a stalemate will achieve nothing. One of you has to make a move. The absence of your wife and daughter is yet another impediment to the security of the realm. Without Marjorie and Elizabeth you have no heirs.’

  Robert turned his hand over, the gold of his wedding band gleaming in the dull light. He thought of Christiana MacRuarie, the woman who would share his bed tonight, as she had many times this past year. She had awoken in him a passion he had never known before, but although she had given him what he needed as a man, she couldn’t give him what he required as king. He closed his eyes, remembering himself sitting hunched and hopeless in that hut on Barra, Affraig’s words rasping in the darkness.

  Your people have lost homes and livelihoods, sons and daughters. Do you know how they feel? Then you can stand with them – for them. Be their voice.

  It wasn’t just his own life, or his own family he had to protect. The declaration made in the parliament, confirming him as Scotland’s rightful king, had reminded him of the oath taken on the Moot Hill three years ago, almost to the day, when the weight of this crown was cold and new. He had pledged, as guardian of the land, to defend their kingdom and, as shepherd, to defend his people. He had a duty to protect them all.

  Robert stood. ‘I think, after Longshanks’s death, I fooled myself into believing that as long as I could quell my opponents in Scotland it would all be over.’ He let out a humourless laugh. ‘But the war is really just beginning, isn’t it?’ His laughter faded. ‘How do I win my kingdom’s freedom, James?’

  The high steward got to his feet with a wince, using an arch to support himself. ‘By throwing the cautions of an old man to the wind, my lord.’ His brown eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. ‘One castle at a time.’

  PART 6

  1312–1314 AD

  O glorious youths, who now will stand by my side in arms, and with me repel the chieftains coming to harm me and the hosts rushing in upon me?

  The Life of Merlin, Geoffrey of Monmouth

  Chapter 39

  At the English royal court a storm was brewing. Clouds of a bitter conflict gathered, the atmosphere charged and volatile. Many could now feel it coming, but the first rumbles had begun four years ago, in the year of Edward’s coronation.

  After months watching the king bestow extravagant gifts upon Piers Gaveston, squandering money the realm could ill afford on sumptuous feasts and tournaments, the barons, led by the strident voice of Thomas of Lancaster, had finally risen in anger. With the full-throated support of the indomitable Archbishop of Canterbury and the threat of revoking their pledges of fealty, made in Westminster Abbey, the earls had forced their king to send his favourite back into exile. Edward, setting his seal to the writ, was wounded, resentful, but privately adamant the banishment would not last long. Appointing Piers as his lieutenant in Ireland and despatching him to Dublin to aid the Earl of Ulster in restoring English control, he at once set about currying favour with his opponents at court.

  Flattery, bribery, promises of land and titles: Edward employed them all. Younger men such as his nephew, Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, were easy to win over. Humphrey de Bohun, ever the diplomat, eventually relented for the sake of peace. Others followed, not wanting to be at odds with their king – still so new to the throne – until, at last, Edward had the support he needed. Only twelve months after he had sealed the hateful writ, Piers was back at his side. But the king’s victory was not absolute, for dissent lingered on in the shadows of his court, and the gaze of Lancaster remained fixed upon him.

  Through these troubled days, with the war paused, but the air over Britain heavy with tension, England’s enemy in the north was not idle. Using the truce to his advantage, Robert Bruce had busied himself re-establishing trade with the Low Countries. As the silver poured in, he opened up the sea routes to Ireland to buy grain and meat, weapons and armour for his growing war-band. Often in these months, MacRuarie and MacDonald galleys could be spied, riding the waves of the race. With Ulster preoccupied battling the Irish on his western borders, Edward turned to an old foe of Bruce’s for help. John MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, had fled into England with his father following Bruce’s invasion of his lands. Craving vengeance for the loss of his lordship, he was only too willing to offer his service to Edward, who made him captain of a fleet patrolling the waters between Dublin and Galloway in an attempt to disrupt Bruce’s supply routes. But the MacDonalds and MacRuaries were masters of the sea and did not fall easily into enemy nets.

  Meanwhile, Robert, breaking the terms of the truce, captured and razed several minor castles held by English garrisons, before launching, in a move feared by many, a series of raids across the border into Cumberland, Northumberland and Durham. Unlike the campaigns of William Wallace, these raids did not result in bloody slaughter, but rather in crippling blackmail. Landlords were offered the choice to pay up, or else see their crops destroyed, their livestock taken and their houses burned. Most submitted.

  As reports flooded in from the beleaguered northern counties, cries to arms sounded at court, most vociferously from Aymer de Valence. Calls from the English nobility for the king to resume the war were joined in parliament by those of Scottish nobles, who, refusing to yield to Bruce, had sought refuge in England, among them David of Atholl, Ingram de Umfraville and the earls of Angus and Dunbar. With all these voices growing louder and more insistent, Edward was at last compelled to lead an army into Scotland. His campaign proved futile, Bruce and his men retreating beyond the Forth, leaving a land scorched and empty in their wake, no food to be found to supply men or horses.

  The failed mission had done little except remind Edward of all he hated about this war. He had grown to manhood witness to this endless conflict and his father’s obsession, which in the end consumed him. For Edward it had ended when he laid his father’s body in that black marble tomb. Determined not to be dragged back into it, he now fixed on other means by which to deal with the Scots. Ignoring protests from his men, he sent messengers into Scotland with his own offer of tribute if Bruce ceased his raids and stopped his attacks on English-held castles. The offer was accepted and, once more, an uneasy peace was laid, like a thin sheet of ice, between the two nations. But no such peace could be formed in Edward’s own court, where tempers ran hot and high.

  The barons, led by Valence and others, fumed against the king for using money raised to fund a
campaign to bribe their enemy. Scotland was growing stronger, while England was sinking deeper into poverty. Some in the Round Table believed the Last Prophecy was coming to pass – England slipping into ruin with the division of the relics. Others focused on the temporal, accusing the king of wasting his inheritance on luxuries, while letting the lands his father had fought and bled to win slip through his fingers. They told him he had let himself be guided by evil counsel and that, in fear for the future of England itself, they must insist he rid himself of the poison that had tainted his reign. They would neither bear arms for him nor honour their commitments, unless he agreed to a host of reforms cited in ordinances drawn up by a council of bishops, lords and earls. It was clear who the main target of these edicts was.

  Once again, Edward found himself at the mercy of his own men, forced to send his lover away. And, once again, he determined this hateful act would not be long-lived, despite the growing darkness of the storm that even he could not now fail to see on the horizon.

  Langley Manor, England, 1312 AD

  Edward paced the bedchamber. He had been waiting all day and, still, there was no sign of him. Earlier, as the last light was leached by the January dusk, the drapes had been drawn by his page, but Edward had since gone to peer through them so often that finally he had pulled them back, affording himself a wide view over the manor’s inner courtyard. The leaded windows were stippled with snow. There had been a fresh fall that afternoon, shrouding the rooftops, muffling the world in white.