Rivals for the Crown (26 page)

"Impossible," she said.

"Good. This will hold ye until I come back."

He kissed her again. And again. And still again.

In the morning he was gone. A month passed with no word from him. Then another, and another. By the spring she was convinced he would not return. By the summer she told herself to forget him, and she tried, and tried. But she failed. And still no word from him.

PART II

...If a lion in pride and fierceness, he is a panther in fickleness and inconstancy, changing his word and promise, cloaking himself by pleasant speech...

The treachery and falsehood by which he is advanced he calls prudence... and whatever he says is lawful.

THE SONG OF LEWES EDITED AND TRANSLATED BY C.A. KINGSFORD, 1890

ELEVEN

JUNE 2 1291 NORHAM-ON-TWEED

w e're in England, lads," Gannon said as their horses stepped on the south shore of the River Tweed. "Keep yer hand near yer sword and yer wits as sharp."

Rory nodded at his father, then at Kieran, who was beside him, and glanced around. Just behind him, his uncles Liam and Davey were doing the same. As were most of the scores of Scots crossing the river, arriving wary and watchful, distrustful of this gathering that King Edward had called. Highlanders in their summer saffron shirts and kilts mixed with
bejewelled
nobles from the Borders and Lothian, and men who, though Scottish in blood, wore the garb of mighty English landowners, for that is what they were. Above them, on a rocky bluff, lay Norham Castle, its square Great Tower
grey
and forbidding against the blue summer sky. And within its walls, Edward of England waited.

"I dinna like this conclave being held in England," Davey said, glancing at the scores of Scots who, like them, had been summoned.

"Nor I," Gannon said. "But remind yerself that this castle was captured twice by our own King David. If we need to, we'd do it again."

Liam grunted but was silent. He didn't need to say what they were all thinking: that Scotland had had a king then.

"Makes ye wonder what Edward's about," Davey said, with a pointed look at the encampments of Edward's archers and crossbowmen they passed.

"What choice did we have?" Gannon growled. "Edward's summoned all the Guardians and Competitors and all clan chiefs. Every nobleman in Scotland is here or on his way."

"Exactly," Davey said.

There were few smiles among the men who now paraded up the road to Norham Castle, and little conversation—only the jingle of bridles and halters, and the dull clunk of mailed gloves against
armour
ed breastplates. Weapons were kept within reach and voices muted. There was not a woman to be seen.

Even the birds flying high above seemed to feel the tension, silently dipping down as though to choose a meal from among the men who lumbered up the hill. A raven screeched through the sky,

drawing glances upward and causing the hair on Rory's neck to stand. A raven, an omen of ill at the start of a journey. Not an auspicious beginning.

They crossed the moat, their horses' hooves sounding like thunder on the wooden planks of the bridge, and rode through the gate, into the Outer Ward, where throngs of Scots waited for admittance. Walking only from here on, they were told, and handed the reins of their horses to young men with English accents who would not meet their eyes.

The Outer Ward was lined with knights on horseback, their bright banners flapping above them in the breeze and the cheerful sun overhead. Rory wondered, fleetingly, if Henry was among the knights, but he thrust the thought from his mind. The atmosphere seemed more
appropriate
for a tournament than for this travesty of a gathering. There should be chanting, dirges, monks in mourning, keening women, rather than this silent collection of Highlanders and Lowlanders, grim-faced and anxious, filing past complacent English knights flying their banners.

Gannon and Davey exchanged glances with Liam; Rory and Kieran did the same as they followed the others through the stone arches to the Inner Ward, filing one at a time into the Great Tower and up the stairs to the Great Hall. It was cooler within walls, the damp of the stones mitigated by the crowds of men who stood silently in the chamber. The walls were lined with Edward's armed soldiers, their pikes reaching well above the heads of the Scots, their bright jackets a reminder that this was not a meeting of allies. The reminder was not needed, for one look at the end of the hall let

Rory know what was to come. A raised dais stretched from one side of the hall to the other, wide enough to accommodate a score of men. And in the middle of the dais, a throne, a golden canopied chair, with purple hangings, ornate, as though to symbolize Edward's power and wealth. And above it, the banner of England.

The room was crowded now with new arrivals pushing through the door. The hall was relatively quiet, with only the sounds of shuffling feet and men talking quietly as they made room for others.

"MacGannon."

The voice was barely a whisper, from somewhere behind Rory. He turned, as did his father and Kieran, hearing it again, this time from a different direction, in a different voice.

"MacGannon."

Rory met Kieran's gaze, then Liam's, knowing that they both were remembering a dead horse in a stall at Stirling Castle. His father put a hand on Rory's shoulder and looked across the men gathered behind them, his gaze sharp. Liam and Kieran moved to stand behind Rory. Gannon stayed on his left, and Davey on his right. Rory looked straight ahead, but he could feel the gaze of someone behind him, and the hair on his neck rose again. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, realizing that his father had done the same.

"Bastards," Davey whispered, his lips drawn back in a sneer. "And more up there. Look who's arrived. Bastards, every one of them."

Rory followed his uncle's gaze to the dais, where six men had arrived, halting to stand in a row facing the crowd. The Guardians of Scotland, the men who had pledged to keep Scotland safe for the Maiden. A misnomer, Rory thought, for all they guarded were their own interests. And sadly enough, Black Comyn among them.

"Look who else has come," Rory said, as the eldest Robert Bruce appeared on the other side of the dais, his hands folded together before him like a priest, his expression patronizing.

And there, coming to stand next to him now, seven of his fellow Competitors, those who would be king of Scotland, wealthy men, well-dressed and impeccably groomed, who sought out familiar faces in the crowd or looked above the heads of the men who watched them.

"Sell their souls for a crown, the lot of them," Gannon said.

Liam nodded. "Or their mothers'."

Still they waited. Rory controlled his own impatience by noting the restiveness of the men around him. His father had learned years ago to school his expression to reveal nothing, but Rory knew that his father was angry by his stance, the rigid way he held his shoulders. He almost smiled, recognizing that his own stance was

the same as his father's. And probably his anger matched Gannon's as well.

Several men filed out onto the dais now.

"Roger Brabazon," Liam said, pointing at one. "One of Edward's justiciars."

Brabazon held up his hands for silence, then raised his voice. "Edward, King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine."

The hall fell quiet. Then, with a blare of horns from above, Edward arrived.

Longshanks once again, Rory thought. Still tall, his back ramrod straight, his limbs long, his manner assured. Edward moved like a warrior, his dark eyebrows drawn together as he gazed across the Scots, his lips forming a quiet smile, as though he was pleased by the scene. His clothing was simple, a long dark tunic and breeches, the simple golden circlet crown on his head the only sign of his rank. Edward waited until the horns were silenced, then sat on the throne, his movements spare and sinuous. A man who was accustomed to command. And obedience.

Edward looked to his left, where the Guardians stood, then to his right, at the Competitors. And smiled slightly. He nodded at Brabazon, who held up a scroll and began to read in a sonorous voice.

"Last winter, King Edward authorized a search of all the records of all the monasteries and abbeys in his kingdom, looking for any entries that mentioned the relations between England and Scotland. He found many, one most significant, and will now share his findings with the Scots, so that they might understand as well."

Rory listened, mystified at first, at Brabazon's words. "In ancient times,
Diocletian
, the King of Syria, had thirty-three daughters by his queen.
Diocletian
arranged a mass marriage for his daughters, but on the night after the marriages, the daughters killed their new husbands and fled across the sea to the island of Albion. They stayed in Albion, mating with demons, and mothering a generation of giants, who ruled the island until Brutus, the descendant of Aeneas of Troy, arrived on Albion. Brutus killed all the giants and renamed the island Britain. After his death, his three sons inherited the island and divided it into the kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Wales. Humber, the king of Hungary, invaded Britain, and killed the son of Brutus who had ruled Scotland. His brother, the king of England, killed Humber and thus became king of both England and Scotland. His successors were kings of both England and Scotland. Which gave Edward Plantagenet the same right. Edward," Brabazon intoned, "is the rightful Lord Paramount of Scotland."

The room erupted with roars of protest.

"Shite!" Gannon shouted. "It's all shite!"

Davey, who leaned to listen to the man next to him, turned to them with a wild look. "He says Edward's serious about this. He's

sent the same argument to the Pope, asking for his support in taking the crown of Scotland."

Rory stared in disbelief. How could Edward think anyone would swallow this as a legitimate argument?

Brabazon held up his hands, but the Scots still protested. Edward watched with a stony expression, looking from Brabazon to the men who opposed him. His face slowly flushing. At last he leapt to his feet.

"You have heard the story which explains our rights! From the earliest times of this land the king of England has had the right to rule Scotland," Edward roared. "By Holy Edward, whose crown I wear, I will vindicate my just rights, or perish in the attempt!"

"Then perish, Edward!" a Scot called out.

Pandemonium broke out as men shouted at each other and at Edward. The Guardians and Competitors exchanged wary glances. The men who lined the wall shifted their weapons, and scores of Edward's soldiers rushed into the room, weapons at the ready.

"We have never heard this outlandish tale before," one Scot shouted.

"You have not studied the records as we have," Edward said.

There was a movement at the side of the dais that drew Rory's attention. There, almost in the corner, in shadow, stood John

Balliol. There could be only one reason for that, and Rory's heart sank at the realization of what it meant.

"It is my intention," Edward said firmly, "to rule Scotland until such time as Scotland has its own king." He let the rumble of comments fade. "To further that aim, we will convene hearings, with a court of men chosen to weigh the evidence, and hear the arguments of all the Competitors. At the end of those hearings, the succession of Scotland's throne will be announced. Until then, I am Lord Paramount of Scotland, and as such, demand your fealty. In addition, I demand the surrender of all the royal castles of Scotland into my control. Two months after Scotland's king is chosen, I will return those castles to the new Scottish king."

Edward paused again, then continued, louder now, to be heard over the murmurs of the Scots. "And now listen, men of Scotland, as your leaders acknowledge me as their Lord Superior." Edward took a deep breath, visibly controlling his emotion, then nodded to his men, once again calm.

The Guardians came as a group, kneeling before Edward, each one resigning his authority in tones that varied from wavering to proud. When it was done, when all had relinquished their Guardianship of Scotland, Edward asked each to swear an oath of loyalty to him. And each did. Rory watched, his contempt for them growing, as the Guardians knelt before Edward and swore their fealty. Rory looked at his father, who had tears in his eyes. Their gazes met, then fell away.

Brabazon came forward then, announcing, "The most serene prince, the Lord Edward, by God's grace illustrious King of England and Wales, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, and Lord Protector of Scotland, appoints each of you as Guardian of Scotland, subject to his rule."

Like puppets, Rory thought, the Guardians stood in line to sign that they acknowledged Edward of England as the sovereign lord of their land. And then the nine Competitors, along with the younger Robert Bruce, who somehow had appeared on the dais, came forward to kneel before Edward, one by one swearing their oaths of loyalty to him as Lord Superior of Scotland, then signing as well. Rory felt the bitter taste of bile in his throat.

When it was done, Edward shook back his hair and smiled slightly, as though careful not to let his triumph show. He raised his voice. "Hear this, men of Scotland! You have seen your leaders swear their fealty to me. As will the king we choose at the end of the hearings. As will every Scot swear his loyalty to me, by July twenty-seventh. I mean to calm your land. I will do it with your help or without. If you value your lives, your homes, and peace, you will do this without violence. And if you oppose.. .it will still happen."