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  A cry made them both turn. As Margaret Randolph collapsed Robert reached to grasp her, but she sank to the floor, her cry stretching into a wail. The Countess of Atholl moved to hold her.

  ‘My poor sister,’ murmured Christian. She hugged Donald closer. ‘Thomas was barely out of boyhood.’ Her eyes switched back to Christopher. ‘Do not make promises you don’t know you can keep. They feel like lies.’

  The strength of her tone took him aback. She was a quiet woman for the most part, gentle in manner and speech, but he was starting to learn that when roused there was a forcefulness in her that would come unexpected and sudden – thunder from a blue sky. His love for her had come quickly, bubbling up like laughter, but his deepening respect had turned it into something solid, immutable. ‘Then I’ll swear I would die protecting you both.’

  Christian exhaled, her face softening. ‘Don’t say that either.’ She hefted Donald higher on her hip so she could take Christopher’s hand. ‘Gartnait was a good man.’ She looked down on the tousled head of the child that had come from that marriage. ‘But I never truly loved him. Not as I know it now.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘You can say you’ll always come back to me, no matter what. That, you can swear.’

  Christopher wondered about the logic of making another promise that might be a lie, but judging by the look on her face she wanted him to make this one. ‘You have my word.’ At her smile he felt a question, playing at his lips these past few months, begin to emerge.‘Christian, I . . .’ He faltered. ‘What I mean to say is, I need your brother’s permission, but if such an agreement was forthcoming, would you consider—’ His attention was caught by Alexander, who pushed past him, heading for the doors. Christopher frowned, seeing the embittered look his cousin shot Robert before disappearing in the press of men. He turned back to Christian, whose face was alight with expectation. He could see it in her eyes, shining now, the worry gone: she knew what he had been going to ask. He could tell, too, what her answer would be. A grin threatened to spread across his face, but he forced back his joy. ‘Give me leave for just a moment, my love.’

  Tearing himself from her, Christopher pushed his way through the crowd, which was already stirring with new purpose, commanders relaying the king’s plan to their companies, servants hastening to gather supplies. Christopher paused in the hall’s doorway. The courtyard was crammed with men and horses, many hunched under the eaves of outbuildings, sheltering from the rain. Torches threw fractured shadows up the walls of the bailey. Christopher caught a glimpse of Alexander, headed in the direction of the stables. His cousin’s hood was pulled up, a pack on his shoulder. Quickly, he descended the steps into the yard, churned to a thick soup of mud.

  Alexander had been quiet for days now, but not in the same way as their companions. His had been an angry, restless silence. Christopher had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts after the battle to question his cousin’s cold reserve. He knew Alexander harboured resentment towards Robert, for making decisions he hadn’t agreed with and ignoring his counsel, but tonight his bitterness seemed different. He thought of his cousin’s words earlier and the look on his face. We have lost. It is over.

  Dodging kitchen boys hurrying to the great hall with armfuls of blankets and buckets of water, Christopher made his way to the stables. His boots slipped in the mire and rain trickled down inside the collar of his cloak. When he reached the stable block, he found himself in a chaos of grooms and horses, over which a stable-master was yelling to make himself heard. An agitated charger reared up, almost hauling the young boy gripping the reins off the ground. Christopher turned in a circle, scanning the courtyard, but saw no sign of Alexander.

  Chapter 6

  Near Turnberry, Scotland, 1306 AD

  Brigid paused halfway up the slope to catch her breath. Sitting back on her heels, she let her bag tumble from her shoulder and untied the skin from her belt. The watered wine tasted sour, but served to quench her thirst. It had been a hot climb in the late afternoon sun, the air alive with insects that swarmed in the gorse and heather. Her long hair was lank with sweat. She pushed it out of her eyes and surveyed the land that dropped away before her, pleased with how far she had travelled. The loch she had trudged alongside early that morning was now a distant shimmer.

  She had worried she might become lost, having chosen the route that would bring her home by way of remote drovers’ tracks through Carrick’s southern uplands, but she had walked these hills as a child, hunting for coneys and adders, blackthorn and dog’s mercury for her aunt’s work. These lands hadn’t changed. She doubted they had since the wild people raised their stone circles and chanted their prayers to the ancient gods. It was strange to be back in this timeless region after the last months spent in towns that were altering by the day. Man could change a landscape in just one season, by sword and by fire.

  Feeling dangerously lulled by the sun’s warmth, she forced herself on, legs throbbing as she tackled the last of the slope, the coarse grass scratching her feet through the holes that had opened in her shoes. The bag bumped against her back. Though still heavy with coins it was lighter than it had been, her supplies having dwindled to a hunk of rye bread and some salted herring. Her shabby dress hung loose on her body and her face, glimpsed that morning as she’d splashed in the loch, was gaunt. It didn’t matter. She was almost home. Elena would be helping to prepare the evening meal, or fetching logs for the fire. The thought of her daughter drove her forward.

  It was almost four months since King Robert’s coronation at Scone, after which time Brigid had spent several weeks in Perth, selling the healing powders and charms Affraig had sent her with. Her aunt’s craft had been suffering ever since the English raid on Turnberry five years ago, which devastated the community. With three mouths to feed and the last of their chickens having perished in the winter, the opportunity presented by the coronation had been too good to miss. Finally in May, when rumours reached Perth that the English had crossed the border and were headed their way, Brigid had set out for home.

  The road felt different on the return journey. There was a sense of dissatisfaction in the settlements she passed through, stopping a few days to sell the last of Affraig’s wares. People were angry, some saying King Robert had damned them by spilling blood on hallowed ground, or condemning him for overthrowing John Balliol, who, despite his exile in France, was still Scotland’s rightful king. Others blamed the Comyns for their warmongering. Neighbours disagreed, men brawled quickly after too much ale and people wanted hexes not love spells. It felt as though the kingdom were fracturing, splitting across new battle lines. There were murmurs of a great muster against Robert taking place in Argyll. The further west she travelled the more armed companies Brigid began to see, until finally she made the decision to leave the road. She knew, all too well, the violence men were capable of.

  Scrambling up on to the summit, Brigid was rewarded with a vast panorama. The view was dominated by the sea, a dazzling sheet of copper in the evening sun, ruptured in the foreground by the rocky dome of Ailsa Craig and in the distance by Arran’s mountains. Shielding her eyes, Brigid scanned the land. The line of hills marched north for a few miles, before dropping away. In the distance, a solitary knoll reared over soft green woodland. Somewhere in the dusky shadows between the mound and the woods was Affraig’s house. She need only head down and follow the skirts of the hills, and she would be home. As she took her first steps, Brigid caught sight of the hulking silhouette of Turnberry Castle on the coast beyond the woods. Her eyes told her something was wrong, halting her in her tracks even before her brain translated what she was seeing. Turnberry Castle was there, rising from its sea-bitten promontory of rock, but the village beside it was gone.

  The bag slipped from her shoulder as her eyes fell on the blackened area where a small, but thriving settlement once stood. Though the distance made her vision blur, she thought she could see twisted stumps of buildings. It might have been the evening haze, but she fancied smoke still rose from the
ruins. She looked south, seeing more scorched areas of earth, remains of farmsteads and crop-fields. Then, to the north, some miles beyond Turnberry, she saw the cause. On the bluffs that looked out over the curve of coastline towards Ayr was a great encampment. Campfires glittered among the expanse of tents.

  Snatching up her bag, Brigid careened down the hillside, her trembling legs threatening to pitch her headlong down the slope. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breaths came in bursts and the hill never seemed to end. Once on the flat she went quicker, jumping burns and plunging through wider streams, gasping at the frigid waters that swirled around her thighs. The sun was slipping into the sea, throwing the land into blue gloom. Now and then she thought she smelled smoke tainting the breeze. All she could think of was Elena.

  When the English razed Ayr, killing her husband and son, Brigid had saved her daughter from the fire that ravaged their home, but not without consequence. Eight-year-old Elena still bore the scars of her ordeal, outside and in. Her daughter would have smelled the village burning. She would have been terrified. Brigid cursed herself for leaving her so long with just a frail old woman for protection. Faint hope reminded her that Affraig’s remote dwelling had always been safe from English raids, hidden by the woods, but as she neared it she saw that hope was in vain.

  She cried out, running full tilt towards the blackened patch of earth, out of which thrust a few scorched timbers. Her feet crunched over charred remains of belongings, which turned to ash beneath her shoes. Even the mighty oak that loomed over the dwelling hadn’t been spared. The branches that faced the house were blistered, the leaves shrivelled. She stood there, dragging in bitter lungfuls of smoky air. Here and there among the ruins cauldrons and pots were scattered about, the metal tarnished. She saw a leather-bound book, one of her aunt’s prized possessions, half eaten by fire. Turning in a circle, she searched the woods, desperate for any sign of life. She wanted to scream her daughter’s name, but had neither the breath, nor the heart.

  Something moved. Brigid twisted round, focusing on a spot through the trees. In the shadows, she picked out a stooped figure. Her hope lifted, but as the figure limped towards her, she realised it wasn’t her aunt, but a man leaning on a stick. Fear threaded cold fingers through her gut at the sight of the stranger. Searching the wasted ground at her feet, Brigid snatched up a half-charred piece of timber. He didn’t look much of a threat, but the memory of the tents she had glimpsed in the north was still vivid. As the man came closer, she saw he was old, perhaps even older than Affraig. His face was skeletal, his skin like worn leather.

  ‘Who are you?’ she challenged, speaking Gaelic for the first time in months.

  The old man stopped on the edge of the blackened circle, his eyes on the piece of timber she brandished. ‘You’ll find nothing of use,’ he told her in the same tongue, his voice like grit rasping in his throat. ‘I’ve looked.’

  ‘What happened here?’

  ‘Same as what happened in Turnberry and all about. The English.’ The man ventured a little closer.

  Brigid held her ground, her fingers clenched white around the makeshift weapon.

  ‘Five nights ago they came. Young knights they were, under King Edward’s son, and thirsty for blood one and all. Women and children weren’t spared the sword.’ His eyes clouded, the wrinkles in his brow deepening. ‘No mercy. They took the castle and burned the rest.’

  Brigid shuddered, thinking of her daughter.

  ‘We fled into the woods, but the English followed us.’

  Brigid realised how they must have found her aunt’s house. Anger clenched its fist in her chest. The bastards had probably stumbled upon it and burned it for sport. Don’t let her have been in there.

  ‘They hunted us as if we were vermin,’ said the man, ‘sending their dogs after us.’

  ‘How did you escape?’ Brigid wanted to know, still not trusting him.

  ‘I hid, like others. Up a tree for two full nights I was.’

  ‘There are more of you?’ Brigid felt a surge of anticipation.

  ‘Not now. The others left three days ago. Went into the hills, towards Ayr.’

  ‘Do you know the woman who lived here? Affraig?’

  ‘The witch? I knew of her. Never met her.’ The old man’s mouth puckered and he made the sign of the cross. ‘Never wanted to.’

  ‘She is old,’ Brigid said impatiently, ‘very old. She would have had a child with her – a young girl with scars on her face.’

  The old man’s eyes lit up in recognition. ‘Yes, I saw them, before I hid. But not since. Perhaps the English found them?’ He lifted his shoulders in apology. ‘Perhaps they went with the others?’

  ‘Towards Ayr?’ Brigid looked north. It was past midsummer but the nights were still long and this far west it would barely get dark. If she travelled through the night maybe she could catch up to them. Three days wasn’t much of a head-start.

  ‘Some folk talked of going into the mountains, where the English and their horses can’t follow.’

  Brigid’s eyes were already roving over the ruins, searching for anything of use. Catching sight of a familiar forked stick lying beneath the oak she tossed aside the timber and picked it up, keeping a wary eye on the old man. The bottom half of the stick was charred, but the top, which tapered into two prongs, was solid. She stamped it on the ground, testing its strength. It would offer good support for walking and make a decent weapon. Affraig had used it to hang her spells in the oak. Brigid stared into the branches. There were a few cradles of twigs that were still whole, but most had been damaged by fire, the scraps of parchment, sprays of herbs and pouches of bone that hung in the centre of the woven webs burned to tatters. How many destinies had been destroyed? How many prayers would now go unanswered? Her eyes went to the place where Robert’s web had hung. The crown of heather and broom wasn’t there. She scanned the base of the tree, but couldn’t see it. Had it fallen in her absence – its promise fulfilled? She remembered Robert’s question, the day of his coronation. My destiny. Did it ever fall? And his dry, disbelieving laugh when she answered him.

  ‘The English were going north too,’ warned the old man, watching her.

  Brigid hefted her bag and gripped the stick. She turned to go, then paused and looked back. ‘Why didn’t you leave with the others?’

  The old man gave a croak of laughter. ‘With my legs?’ His laugh subsided. ‘I’ll stay and die in my own lands. God willing, the English will choke on the stench of my corpse.’

  With another rough laugh he turned back towards the woods, leaving her alone in the gathering shadows.

  Perth, Scotland, 1306 AD

  ‘Ask around. Find out who holds the authority here.’

  The two knights nodded and kicked their horses into a trot. Alexander watched them part at the market cross, each taking a different street.

  ‘Sir?’

  He looked round to see his squire standing there expectantly. ‘Water the horses, Tom.’

  As Tom led the weary animals over to a trough in the market gardens, Alexander crossed to the stalls. Traders’ wares were shadowed from the sun by cloth sheets, beneath which were rows of oatcakes and golden loaves fresh from the bakehouse, the smell causing his stomach to groan. A heavy chop-chop came from a flesher hacking meat off the carcass of a lamb, while women stood waiting, baskets on their arms. Past a girl selling curds and milk, two fishwives were busy gutting salmon. One paused to toss the slop of guts from her bucket on the ground behind her, making several mangy dogs lunge out of nowhere and begin lapping up the waste.

  At first glance it was a normal day in the royal burgh, but beneath the hustle and bustle Alexander sensed how subdued the place was. The market didn’t echo with the usual brisk shouts of traders, women gossiping, men haggling over prices. The crowds seemed nervous, glancing at the stone houses of the burgesses that ringed the square, outside which groups of armed men loitered, sunlight sparking off the pommels of their swords. The gardens were scarred with t
he ruts of wagon wheels, the ground littered with the detritus of a mass of men. But the most obvious sign of Perth’s occupation were the nooses still dangling over a row of empty stalls, twisting slowly in the air. The men hanged there had since been taken down. Only a posy of flowers remained, lying in the dust beneath one of the knotted ropes, wilting in the heat. The townsfolk gave them a wide berth.

  Alexander paused at the baker’s stall. While he was fishing in his purse for a coin, a pimple-faced youth pushed past him and asked the baker for two loaves. Grabbing the youth by the scruff of his tunic, Alexander pulled him back. ‘Wait your turn.’

  The youth looked Alexander up and down, his expression changing from startled to indignant. ‘Get your hand off me!’

  In the pimpled youth’s contemptuous gaze, Alexander saw himself: face streaked with dirt and a beard grown full around his jaw, hair greasy with sweat, his cloak frayed and his boots scuffed bare. He looked, he knew, little better than a beggar. Feeling a surge of anger, he pulled aside his cloak, revealing his broadsword to the sneering youth.

  The lad backed away, eyes on the blade, his bread forgotten. Alexander watched him turn and flee before he let his cloak fall back in place. Once, he had been lord of a rich estate, his hall filled with servants, his stables crowded with horses, meat and wine to grace his table and minstrels to entertain him. Now, violence was his only authority – his retinue reduced to the paltry sum of two knights and a squire, the only men who had left Aberdeen with him. Everything else had been taken from him by his decision to follow Robert Bruce.

  After the baker had served him in silence, Alexander took the loaf and leaned against an empty stall. Passers-by shot him suspicious glances and went out of their way to avoid the unsavoury stranger. Tearing off a few pieces of bread, Alexander chewed without pleasure, his appetite gone. While he was standing there, he noticed a man ride up to one of the stone halls. He watched him dismount and disappear inside. Moments later, several others emerged and crossed to the market gardens, from which they began to haul a wagon, drawing it up outside the hall. Alexander handed the bread to Tom when the lad joined him with the horses. He kept his eyes on the wagon as armed men moved around it, issuing orders to grooms, who harnessed four horses to the front.