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  ‘For an ambush?’ said John of Atholl, nodding in contemplation.

  ‘Yes. By the main body of our army, that will be lying in wait.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ said Christopher Seton, ‘but if the English outnumber us two to one how can we be sure of victory?’

  ‘The majority of their horses appear to be paddocked outside the walls. In the raid we will target the animals as well as the foot soldiers, limiting the number of cavalry that can pursue us. I believe we can create better odds with the initial attack.’

  ‘Who will lead the raid, my lord?’ James Douglas wanted to know, his blue eyes glinting in the flame-light.

  ‘Sir Neil and Sir Gilbert.’ Robert glanced at the two men, who nodded. ‘But they will need strong riders with them, Master James.’ As the young man gave a keen smile, Robert noticed James Stewart staring at him. Disapproval at the role assigned to his nephew and godson was plain in the high steward’s face.

  ‘One armoured knight is worth ten foot soldiers, my lord. You can be sure Valence has several hundred heavy cavalry under his command. They will still outmatch us considerably.’

  Robert studied their expressions, seeing approval in some, but uncertainty in others now the high steward had expressed his doubts. ‘Valence drew me to him with the blood of Perth’s people. I will do the same with the blood of his men. We will have the high ground, the cover of the woods and surprise on our side. We have the advantage.’

  ‘Valence drew you knowing full well you would not surrender yourself willingly.’ Alexander Seton’s eyes were on Robert as he stepped from the shadows. ‘Those being hanged in Perth are casualties of a war that has seen too much Scots’ blood spilled for any of us to falter now through pity. Do you not think he will have made plans of his own? I say again what I have said since we left Galloway: I believe you are walking into a trap.’

  Robert’s jaw tightened. It was a long time since the lord, who had fought in his company the longest of any here, had trusted his judgement. ‘Valence lured me because he didn’t want to waste weeks searching for me. Sir Neil is right – he is an arrogant son of a bitch. I expect he thinks I will come, we will fight and he will beat me.’ He kept his tone confident despite the unease that crept into his mind at Alexander’s warning.

  Even when they were brothers-in-arms, bound by the same oaths, Aymer de Valence had hated him. Robert thought of Llanfaes: the town burning and streams of blood in the icy streets as he and Aymer went at one another in that hovel, fuelled by bitter rivalry, their blades still slick with Welsh blood. He recalled the violent joy he’d felt slamming his mailed fist into the knight’s mouth; the crunch and give of the bastard’s teeth. When he first broke his oaths to King Edward to fight for Scotland, Aymer’s hatred of him had been vindicated. Years later, when he returned to Edward’s peace, kneeling before the king in Westminster Hall to beg his forgiveness, Aymer continued to believe him a traitor. His obsession with proving it eventually lost him all respect in the royal court. The irony was he had been the only one who was right.

  An image flashed in Robert’s mind: William Wallace being taken down from the gallows while still alive to be opened on the executioner’s table, his naked, ruined body finally beheaded and dismembered in accordance with Edward’s orders for the gratification of the mob. Robert knew Aymer didn’t want to deliver him to King Edward simply for the sake of justice. The earl hoped to witness first-hand his suffering, degradation and death.

  ‘This is a great risk,’ Alexander continued into Robert’s silence. ‘Whatever men we lose in a raid or a battle will mean fewer in our lines when we face the full strength of England. We lost ten thousand on the field at Falkirk,’ he reminded them all. ‘We have less than a tenth of that number now. King Edward’s cavalry will cut through us like we are corn.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do, Alexander?’ demanded Edward Bruce. ‘Lay down our arms and give ourselves up?’

  Robert raised his hand as Neil Campbell and Gilbert de la Hay began speaking. ‘It is true. I cannot face King Edward’s army on the field of battle. Not yet. But what I can do,’ he finished, locking eyes with Alexander, ‘by liberating Perth, is inspire more loyal men to join me.’

  Silence followed.

  ‘Agreed,’ said John of Atholl, breaking the tension.

  When the earl’s accord was added to by most of the others, Robert drained his goblet and tossed the dregs into the fire. ‘Get some sleep, all of you. We make our preparations at dawn.’

  As he headed for his tent, James Stewart followed, calling his name.

  Robert turned with a rough exhalation. ‘I am tired, James. Let us speak in the morning.’

  ‘Your campaign in Galloway failed to vanquish those of your countrymen still against you, my lord. The whereabouts of MacDouall and the Disinherited remains unknown. But we do know the Black Comyn is raising his kinsmen in Argyll against you. The English are not the only threat you face.’

  ‘I cannot change what happened in Dumfries, however much you will it.’ Robert kept his voice low as the men began to disperse, heading for their own campfires. He saw Christopher Seton try to catch Alexander’s arm, but the older man shrugged off his cousin’s attempt to talk and moved off alone.

  ‘But you can make reparation,’ insisted James. ‘The Comyns may not forgive your crime, but their family has always responded to the lure of power. Grant the Black Comyn a position of authority in your court and he may relent.’

  Robert caught something imploring in the steward’s brown eyes, creased at the corners with age and worry. He felt a pang of regret for the dissolution of their friendship, but banished it forcefully, weary of trying to appease his detractors – he had enough of them outside this circle. ‘My grandfather once tried to reason with the Comyns and they left him to rot in a cell in Lewes. There is no reparation.’

  ‘More than anything, your grandfather wanted you to break that cycle of hatred,’ the high steward called after him.

  ‘You’re wrong, James,’ said Robert, turning as he reached his tent. ‘What my grandfather wanted, more than anything, was for me to be king.’

  Ignoring the troubled glances from Nes and his servants, Robert pushed into the tent. Fionn followed him in, flopping down on the blankets. Light danced around the interior as the flame of a candle guttered in the disturbed air. Robert shrugged off his gold cloak, the red lion crumpling in on itself as it fell to the floor. He unbuckled his belt and removed his broadsword. The high steward had presented him with the blade on the night of his enthronement. It was a beautiful weapon: forty inches of steel with an eight-inch grip made of horn and a tear-drop pommel of gold, a fine replacement for his grandfather’s old sword, broken at Dumfries. Robert tossed it on to the blankets and sat, pulling off his coif of mail and the padded arming cap beneath. His scalp, dampened by sweat, prickled as the air dried his skin.

  Lying back, his muscles stretched and sore, he listened to the sounds of the army settling down across the ridge. He closed his eyes, craving sleep, but was unable to stop James’s words repeating in his mind.

  More than anything, your grandfather wanted you to break that cycle of hatred.

  It was three months, almost to the day, since he’d been crowned on the Moot Hill and there, at the ancient place of enthronement, heard the names of Scotland’s kings read aloud and his own – Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Lord of Annandale – added to their number. Three months. John Comyn’s body would be rotted under the soil. Worms might still be sucking on the remnants of his flesh, his organs liquid, bones bared to the earth. Robert imagined the poisons seeping up from his remains to infect the ground above, fragments of him collected by the soles of men and carried far and wide.

  His mind replayed the moment the deed had been done: his dirk rising as Comyn came at him, the brief resistance of flesh, before it yielded to a firm shove of the dagger, steel grazing bone as it slid between ribs. Blood flowed hot over his hand and spattered on the tiled floor of the Greyfria
rs Church. Comyn staggered back, grasping the high altar, the hilt of the dirk protruding obscenely from his side. It was Christopher Seton who had ended the man’s life with a desperate thrust of his sword, but Robert knew that first strike had been a mortal one.

  As he opened his eyes the images in his mind vanished like smoke on the wind. Candlelight flooded his vision and the world returned to the solid present. He looked over at the pack Nes had stowed safely in the tent. The leather had sagged and he could see the outline of the box inside. He thought of the moment it had jolted from his fingers to crack on the jewelled floor of Westminster Abbey, the moment he had seen, through the split in its side, that its black lacquered interior contained no ancient prophecy; empty of anything except its own reflection. He thought of the man who tried to kill him in Ireland, his corpse laid out in the cellar of Dunluce Castle, and James Stewart’s shock when he recognised King Alexander’s squire, the last man to see the king alive, all the disparate threads of a tapestry joining to make a dark, disturbing scene.

  Robert’s hand moved up to his throat, his finger trailing over the leather thong on which was bound the fragment of the crossbow bolt that had been pulled from his shoulder. James, more than anyone, should know he could not falter now, despite what had happened in Dumfries. There was a time when he would have done whatever the high steward commanded, but he was no longer a youth marching to the drums of his elders.

  He was king.

  A moth tilted at the candle, then fluttered away, burned by the heat. Its shadow played huge across the canvas, black wings beating the air. Gradually, Robert’s breaths evened out and his limbs, still stiffly encased in layers of mail and padding, yielded to the heaviness that weighed on them.

  He was almost asleep when the night was filled with screaming.

  Chapter 3

  Methven Wood, Scotland, 1306 AD

  Robert wrenched his broadsword from its jewelled scabbard. The cries outside had been joined by the clash of swords, tearing undergrowth and the shrill screams of horses: a dense wave of sound that seemed to crash in at him from everywhere at once. Fionn had gone, barking frantically. Robert plunged after him, out into the night.

  It was midsummer and the sky wasn’t fully dark. By the pale twilight that filtered through the canopy, punctuated by the bright flare of campfires, Robert saw men running. Many were shouting, their voices high with panic and fear. Others, who had been asleep on the mossy ground, were staggering up. Robert’s servants were already on their feet, Nes with them, staring through the trees to the east.

  ‘Attack!’ came a harsh cry.

  A surge of blood fired Robert’s limbs. Diving back into the tent, he grabbed his leather pack. Emerging, he shouted at Nes. The knight jerked round and caught the pack as Robert tossed it at him.

  ‘Saddle Hunter,’ Robert shouted to one of his grooms, who hastened to obey, as Edward Bruce and Neil Campbell burst into the clearing.

  ‘English!’ Edward yelled, seeing his brother. ‘Valence’s forces!’

  Before Robert could respond, the rapid throb of hooves filled the air and six horsemen plunged into their midst, shields painted with the white and blue stripes of Pembroke.

  Edward threw himself back as one swung a sword at him. Neil Campbell reacted quickly, dropping and hacking his blade, two-handed, into the front legs of one of the horses. The animal pitched forward, its leg buckling beneath it. There was a heavy crunch as it ploughed into the forest floor, hurling its rider over the high pommel of the saddle. Neil swooped as the knight crashed to the ground. Crushing his boot into the man’s throat, he shoved his sword, wet with horse blood, through the eye-slit in the helm. Blood burst from the visor. The knight’s body convulsed as Neil wrenched the blade out of his brain.

  Robert caught all this as a series of brief images, broken by the legs and trappers of the horses as the rest of the knights galloped on through. One horse vaulted the campfire, its hoof clipping a burning log and causing the fire to burst apart in a billow of sparks. Closer, just in front of him, his servants were falling back from the swords of the enemy. There was a flash as a blade reflected the firelight. Robert felt something hot spray across his cheek. Patrick spun towards him, hands rising to his face, which had been split diagonally. The white of bone and teeth gleamed briefly in the bloody furrow that separated his lips, nose and right eye, before the servant collapsed.

  ‘Sire!’ His groom was pulling Hunter through the undergrowth. The warhorse was rearing, teeth bared.

  Grabbing hold of the reins, Robert hollered for his brother and Neil to mount up. He hauled himself into the saddle, and shortened the reins in one hand, the other still gripping his broadsword. Hunter wheeled and stamped beneath him. Where, for Christ’s sake, were the scouts? Alexander Seton’s voice echoed in his mind, filling him with icy truth. I say again – I believe you are walking into a trap. Dear God, he had ordered his men to make camp and they had dutifully spread out across the hillside. He had made them lambs in a field. Now, the wolves had come.

  Nes reappeared at his side, mounted on a palfrey, the leather bag over his shoulder. He was carrying a helm and a shield, the chevron of Carrick a bold red arrow on the curved white surface. ‘Here, my lord!’

  As Robert forced his hand through the iron grips, securing the shield against his arm, John and David of Atholl and Malcolm of Lennox came riding into the clearing at the head of several score men, Niall Bruce, Simon Fraser and the Setons among them. Not all were fully prepared for battle, a distinct lack of helms among their number, but they were armed and determination was livid in their faces. ‘With me!’ Robert roared, snapping down his visor and urging Hunter into a charge.

  As his men rode around him, their battle cries a fierce clamour, Robert glimpsed a grey shape streaking through the undergrowth. Fionn. A twig shattered on his helm, pulling his attention forward. A larger branch loomed in the narrow slit of his vision and he cuffed it away with his shield. There was a smell of smoke in the air and a ruddy haze of fire somewhere ahead. Suddenly, men appeared out of the gloom, dozens of them, running towards him. Robert raised his sword, then realised they were his own soldiers, most of them commoners clutching spears, confused and leaderless. As they scattered before the oncoming horses, Robert caught faces filled with fear.

  John of Atholl bellowed at them over the thunder of the charge – switching from French into Scots. ‘Fight in the name of your king! On the English dogs! On them!’

  David rode beside him, lips peeled back as he echoed his father’s cry.

  Many of the peasants heeded the command. Panic changing to purpose, they hefted their spears and made after their king, sprinting in the wake of the cavalry.

  Ahead, through the trees, a fire was spreading – some device of the enemy, or a campfire burning out of control. It had been a dry June and the flames leapt through the brushwood, smoke curling thickly. Silhouetted by the blaze, men and horses made a grotesque shadow-play of rearing heads, thrusting swords and arching bodies. Agonised shrieks juddered through their mass.

  Valence’s knights had fallen hard upon the infantry on the edges of the camp. Those who survived the first moments of the attack had gathered together and were fighting furiously, but peasants in woollen cloaks were no match for armoured knights, who had trapped them in a killing ground, ringed by slicing blades. Other knights were already breaking off to penetrate deeper into the woods, cutting down Scots as they went. As Robert and his men plunged towards the chaos, one such band came riding out of the flame-lit dusk.

  At the sight of them, Robert rose in the stirrups, his sword swinging up in his hand. ‘For Scotland!’ he roared, locking on an English knight, whose horse reared in alarm. Lowering his great head, Hunter barrelled into the animal, the momentum adding lethal force to his bulk. Robert felt the wind of one of the horse’s hooves before it connected with the side of his helm. It was a glancing blow, but forceful enough to knock the helm clean from his head, just as the animal was lifted up and thrown back. S
winging his sword in a savage downward cut, Robert felt the concussive impact as the blade crashed into the falling knight’s back, but he didn’t see what damage was done as he was swept into the battle, flooded with that familiar vertiginous thrill, caught somewhere between terror and excitement.

  It was a tight ground, hemmed in by trees and the spreading fire. Without the encasement of his helm, Robert had a wide view of the battle. He glimpsed a few dozen mounted Scots on the other side of a press of English knights. James Stewart was there, alongside James Douglas and Gilbert de la Hay. Before Robert could break his way through to them, a sword slashed at his face. He ducked and raised his shield, the crack of the blade biting into the wood harsh in his ears. Shoving the sword away, he punched his own weapon into his attacker’s side. The tip tore the rings of the English knight’s mail and drove the padding beneath into his flesh. Robert twisted the blade in the wound, before wrenching it free. The knight doubled over. As his horse pitched forward, he was tossed down among the pummelling hooves where scores of dead already clogged the ground.

  Robert felt something thump into his back, but the impact was lessened as Hunter buckled, his hoof skidding in something slippery. The horse lurched upright in the press of men and animals. Robert went to strike at another knight, but found himself carried deeper into the fray by a sudden shift in the tide of the battle. Many of the Scottish peasants, bloodied and exhausted, were falling back, allowing the cavalry to surge forward. Some remained, most of them Highlanders with their long, lethal axes. One thick-necked man, close to Robert, roared as he chopped his blood-slicked weapon into the head of an English knight’s horse. Wrenching it free as the animal collapsed, the Scot brought the axe swinging solidly into the knight’s chest with a splintering of bones.