Authors: Robyn Young
The earl nodded. ‘Yes, although the marriage gave your father little in the way of control over the throne of Scotland. His grip on the realm remained tenuous at best.’
‘My father never knew how to turn a situation to his advantage,’ responded Edward. ‘What of Balliol and Bruce? What would each be like as a king, do you believe?’
‘Well, as the man is wedded to my daughter, I know Sir John better than I do the Bruce.’ Warenne shifted his broad shoulders. ‘Balliol is a malleable man, I would say. Not a natural leader. More comfortable receiving orders than giving them. The Bruce on the other hand is shrewd and strong-willed, although he has always been a loyal ally of yours and the lands he holds in England make him as subject to you as he ever was to Alexander.’
The lines that marked Edward’s brow deepened. ‘I believed, when Alexander spoke of the possibility of marriage between our houses that I had found a way of accomplishing my aim without any need for great expenditure, or loss of men. You know how the wars in Wales crippled me. I cannot afford such a costly military campaign. Not now, when the barons are festering over my long absence.’ Edward turned to Warenne. ‘But neither will I let what I have worked so hard to achieve be in vain. My father may have been blind to the opportunity presented by the Scots’ appeal for intervention. I am not. As soon as my wife’s body has been laid to rest I will go north, finish what I started six years ago. I believe the prophecy can yet be fulfilled without war.’
Affraig pulled her cloak tight around her as she stepped into the late December evening. The wind bit into her skin and dragged tears from her eyes. The sky was ashen and the hill stood brown and bleak. Just a few leaves clung to the bare limbs of the oak and the ground around it was strewn with twigs and a papery carpet of russet. Affraig saw that two more destinies had fallen in the night, tossed from the branches by the gale that had danced like the devil through the valley to beat its fists against her walls. She would bring them in later, burn the twigs and the rope that bound them, then bury the objects, delivering them to the earth.
Crouching, Affraig set down the pestle and mortar she was carrying and ran her fingers across the ground. It was as hard as stone. Taking the pestle in both hands, she drove it into the earth, working the black soil loose. The effort warmed her body as she laboured, pausing to push her hair from her eyes. A dank smell filled the air as, slowly, the earth about her feet was broken into clods. Setting the pestle in the mortar, she drew a pouch from her belt. Already she could see a fat worm pushing its way out of one of the clods, seeking and blind. She grasped it, drawing its pink length out of the mud. It twisted in her pinching fingers as she stowed it in the pouch. Her hands turned the clods, searching for more. In this way, she collected seven earthworms. Holding the pouch closed, she picked up her pestle and rose.
The dogs looked up expectantly as she entered the house. Ignoring them, she went to her work area, where she set down the mortar and sack. The woman would be here soon. Shaking a handful of musty-smelling barley into the mortar, Affraig drew out the earthworms, one by one, and laid them on top of the grains. The worms squirmed against one another, their corded bodies glistening in the glow of a single candle. Affraig laid her palm over the top of the bowl, leaving enough room to wedge the pestle between the splay of her thumb and forefinger, then plunged the rounded end of the stone instrument into the mortar. It slipped and slid for a few moments, until the bodies burst and she found purchase, grinding the pestle in brisk movements. She closed her eyes and murmured a series of words before taking out the pestle and banging it on the side of the mortar. Inside was a raw, slippery mess, thickened by the barley. She wondered about sprinkling some dried lavender heads into it, but decided against it. The woman wasn’t paying her enough for that.
Affraig was cleaning out the mortar when the dogs leapt up and began to bark. She hissed at them as she crossed the cluttered chamber and they quietened at once. Opening the door, she saw two women making their way down the hillside, their woollen cloaks tossed by the wind. She heard a peal of laughter come from the larger of the two. The sound nettled Affraig. There was a time when people came to her in reverent silence, their eyes filled with fear and awe. Now, the women laughed and teased one another as they filed to her door for their love spells and charms. In some senses, she doubted they even truly believed, despite the coins they gave her. It was something they did just in case, a spare chance if God didn’t hear their prayers. They had forgotten the ancient days when warrior women called curses from the sky like lightning against their enemies; the days when Druids walked the land of Britain and all would cast down their eyes, forbidden to look upon the holy men. The old magic was fading. It had been for a long time.
The two women stepped into the house, close together, eyeing the dogs. Affraig went to the counter and picked up a linen pouch, tied with twine, into which she had spooned the mixture of worms and barley. She crossed to the larger woman. ‘It is done.’
‘What must I do?’ asked the woman, taking the pouch eagerly in her stubby fingers.
‘Put it into his food on the next night when the moon is full. You must make certain that he eats it all. When he has, he will be induced to love.’
The woman licked her lips as she stared at the pouch. ‘And he’ll ask me to marry him?’
‘He will yearn for you, that much I can say.’
‘How will you get it into his meal?’ questioned the other woman, over her companion’s plump shoulder.
‘I’ll make sure I’m in the kitchen before supper is served in the guardroom.’
‘You’d better make sure he doesn’t get the wrong portion,’ sniggered the companion. ‘You could end up being wooed by that old goat Yothre!’
The woman glared at her friend, then looked anxiously back at Affraig. ‘What if he doesn’t eat it by the next full moon?’
‘Then it will not work. The spell will decay.’
The large woman frowned at her companion. ‘He’s in Annandale serving Sir Robert. Will he be back in time?’
‘They’re due any day now, so Lady Marjorie said.’
‘The Earl of Carrick is in Annandale?’ Affraig cut across them.
‘Yes,’ responded the plump woman, her eyes brightening, eager for gossip. ‘Haven’t you heard? Now poor Maid Margaret is dead a great council is to be held. Lady Marjorie says the King of England will come north in the spring to help choose our new king. Earl Robert will soon return to Turnberry to prepare his claim.’
‘His claim?’ Affraig’s voice was taut. ‘It is not the earl’s right, but the right of his father, the Lord of Annandale, to take the throne of our kingdom.’
The large woman looked unconvinced. ‘The lord is as ancient as these hills. He’ll not wear the crown for long. The earl will succeed him.’ She gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘And his knights will benefit greatly by his elevation.’
‘And so will you, if you marry one of them,’ murmured her companion, pinching her arm and making her giggle.
The large woman held out her free hand to Affraig. ‘Here’s your payment.’
Affraig felt the hot pennies drop into her palm. Resisting an urge to throw them into the woman’s pasty face, she clamped her cold fingers over the sticky metal and went to the door. She opened it without a word, her face grim.
The two women bustled past, out into the cutting wind. Affraig watched them head up the hill, the plump woman holding the pouch aloft and singing words in a girlish voice, while the other cackled. Affraig’s eyes moved to the oak tree that towered above her, its branches like antlers against the white sky. Her gaze travelled up to the weathered web that hung from one of the higher boughs, the slender noose swinging inside. In her mind she saw herself weaving it while she chanted words against Malachy’s wrathful curse. She remembered the lord’s hand settling on her shoulder, the hiss of the fire, his breath on her neck and, outside, stars falling like fiery rain. Her gaze moved west towards Turnberry. Her memory clouded with thoughts of the earl, but as she thought of his son her mind cleared. The stars had been falling too on the night he was born. She remembered seeing Mars, full and red, a bloody eye winking in the black.
18
The River Tweed curved a broad course through meadows and crop fields. The southern banks marked the end of the kingdom of England while across the wind-ruffled water, on the northern bank, the kingdom of Scotland began.
At a large, lazy loop in the river on the English side was the small settlement of Norham. The town, slumbering in the treacle-thick heat of a midsummer afternoon, was dominated by a stone castle, one of the chief strongholds of Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham. The sheer whitewashed walls, reflected in the river’s glassy surface, were gashed with arrow slits, all facing the reed-fringed northern bank. Hanging from the tallest turret was a scarlet banner, adorned with three golden lions.
Inside the castle’s hall, a host of men was gathered. Beams criss-crossed the vertiginous space above their heads and the painted walls were bedecked with tapestries. On one half of the hall the hangings displayed scenes of salvation. The other side was dominated by judgement. At the end of the chamber a stained-glass window showed the archangel Michael weighing the souls of men, his grim face made up of hundreds of shards of ruby-red glass. Below the window, in the centre of a dais, was a throne. Seated upon it was the King of England. Around Edward stood his chief officials, the Earl of Surrey and Bishop Bek among them. They were joined on the platform by thirteen men.
Robert, standing beside his brother in the crowd of Scottish magnates, watched with the rest of the assembly as, one by one, the thirteen crossed the dais to kneel before the king. The hall was eerily silent. This was supposed to have been a momentous occasion and, indeed, it was, but just not in any way the Scots had envisaged. Robert noted that the only men in the gathering who appeared satisfied with this ceremony were the English. As well they might, for their king was now overlord of Scotland.
Only last month the Scots had been awaiting Edward’s arrival with keen expectance. True, there had been wariness among some and the Bishop of Glasgow in particular had voiced his concerns over foreign intervention, but for the most part the atmosphere had been charged with hope. After five turbulent years, the matter of who would succeed Alexander would at last be determined. The guardians and the realm had remained divided between Balliol and the Bruce, despite fraught councils at Scone, and so King Edward was coming to act as arbiter between the two.
Late in April, the magnates began to gather at the royal burgh of Berwick on the north bank of the Tweed to await the king. But when Edward finally arrived he came not with the visage of a brother or friend, but with the face of a would-be conqueror, escorted by an army of lawyers and advisers, shadowed on the coast by a fleet of warships and on land by six hundred crossbowmen and five hundred knights. Here, in Norham Castle, Edward had told them he would indeed choose their king, but first they must recognise him as their overlord. He said he brought evidence, in the form of extensive documents wielded by his clerks, that proved his ancient right to this position. The guardians led by Bishop Wishart protested vigorously against the demand, but the king remained coldly defiant through the heated councils that ensued, and all the while his army kept an ominous presence on the banks of the Tweed.
In the end, despite their protests, the Scottish magnates were forced to yield, desperate for a conclusion that would end the uncertainty within the kingdom. The constables handed over control of the royal castles and the guardians were compelled to resign their authority, whereupon Edward reappointed them with the addition of an English official. There was, however, one condition to these terms which the guardians had refused to concede on. The condition was that Scotland’s future independence be secured by Edward’s agreement that he would act as overlord only until a new king was appointed. Within two months of the inauguration, he was to return control of the royal castles, resign his authority to the King of Scotland and, thereafter, would demand nothing more. Edward agreed, setting his seal to the arrangement, before announcing to the silent magnates that he was a fair man and that this would be a fair hearing, which meant all potential claimants should be allowed to make a case for the throne.
Robert looked on as a flamboyantly dressed man, who had arrived in Berwick with a large entourage the week before, crossed the dais to kneel before the English king.
Bishop Bek’s voice boomed again through Norham’s hall. ‘Will you, Sir Florence, Count of Holland, accept the judgement of the illustrious King Edward of England, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland, conqueror of Wales and overlord of Scotland? And do you agree, before all present, that he has the legal right to try your case for the throne of this kingdom?’
The colourful count bent low before the throne and, as the nine men before him had, answered in the affirmative. There were only three men waiting now on the left-hand side of the dais.
Next, it was John Comyn’s turn to walk the platform to the throne. When the Lord of Badenoch knelt, Robert noticed he did not incline his head as much as the others. Indeed, the lord’s rigid body hardly seemed to bend at all. Robert felt a nudge and glanced at his brother. Edward nodded along the row of men beside them, past their father, to where a pale youth with lank black hair was standing. It was John Comyn’s eldest son and heir, who shared the lord’s name. Robert had seen him several times since the assembly at Birgham the year before, although they had never spoken. The youth’s gaze was transfixed by his father’s kneeling form and a flush mottled his wan cheeks. His expression was one of pride.