Noble Traitor Read online

  Noble Traitor

  A Historical Novel of Scotland

  J R Tomlin

  Albannach Publishing

  Contents

  Map of Scotland

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Glossary

  Historical Characters

  Historical Notes

  Map of Scotland

  Chapter 1

  February 11, 1306 Inverkip Castle, Scotland

  Please note that that there is a glossary at the end of the novel which you can reach by using the Table of Contents.

  * * *

  The clang of steel rang when their swords met.

  “That’s it,” Thomas Randolph said. “Now roll your blade up to hit mine with the flat. Use plenty of force.”

  But then William de Gordon broke off and lifted his visor. “Look at that, Thomas. Is my father sending the bairns for training now?”

  Thomas turned. A page stood next to the quintain, his hands tucked in his armpits from the cold. He scuffed his feet in the light covering of snow on the ground and said to no one in particular, “Lord Gordon… he told me I was to… to tell Squire Thomas to come to him.”

  “Where is he?” Thomas pushed sweaty strands of straw-colored hair out of his eyes.

  “He’s in the hall. There’s someone with him, a man who just came with some men-at-arms.”

  Two other squires stopped whacking with their swords at the pell to listen.

  “Run back and tell him I am on my way.” Thomas shrugged at William and walked to the armory and hung up his sword. He shivered in the cold as he stripped off his battered mail and sweat-soaked linen gambeson, wondering why Lord Gordon had sent for him. Perhaps he needed an errand run or a message carried. Like any squire, Lord Gordon set Thomas to a variety of tasks, and carrying messages was one he relished as a break in the castle's routine. It didn’t happen often, and most days after the morning’s practice with sword and lance, he spent the rest of the day cleaning and oiling armor, sharpening swords and axes, and serving at the table.

  He donned his blue wool tunic and chausses and pulled on his surcoat embroidered with Lord Gordon’s boar’s head armorial. He hurried through drifting snow flurries in the cobbled bailey yard of Inverkip Castle and sniffed the scent of coming snow before he bound up the stairs and through a short passage into the hall.

  A peat fire burned high in the old-fashioned central hearth, sending up earthy smelling tendrils of smoke. The hart's-horn chandelier was blazing with tallow candles. Four men-at-arms in steel-studded brigandine, strangers, sat at one of the long trestle tables.

  Standing on the dais before the high table was Sir Adam Lord Gordon, tall and upright, in his late thirties. He wore a fine wool tunic belted low around his hips with a long dirk hanging in the front. With him was another man who turned, threw his arms wide with a smile, and exclaimed, “Thomas!”

  Thomas laughed at the sight of Alexander de Bruce, tall, auburn-haired, and his uncle though they were both in their twenty-first year. “What are you doing here?” He sprang onto the dais and clapped his uncle on the shoulder. “I thought you were still studying at Cambridge.”

  “Nae, I am Dean of Glasgow now. But I am here because Robert wants to meet with the whole family. I need you to come away with me.”

  “Come where?”

  “To Lochmaben Castle.”

  “I can spare you for a sennight,” Lord Gordon said. “And the earl has the right to ask for you to come to him.”

  “But…” Thomas’s mind raced, and he paused, looking in askance at Lord Gordon. “Why does he need me there?” The five de Bruce brothers were his uncles on his mother’s side. He’d visited them as a lad at their mother’s Turnberry Castle, and they’d been raucous and fun, the de Bruce sisters as wild as their brothers. Later, he’d been too busy serving the Lord of Gordon as a squire and learning the business of being a knight to visit, and the Bruces had been busy fighting the English until only a few years ago.

  Alex paused a little too long, and now, Gordon was giving him a look with narrowed eyes. He shrugged. “King Edward is angry with Robert again. I think Robert wants us all to attend court in London to sweeten his mood, but he didnae tell me what he was planning.”

  “I assumed the Bruce must be out of favor when I heard that the King made him name a governor for Kildrummy Castle. It seems the King nae longer trusts him.” Lord Gordon scrunched his forehead. “I shall need to consider whether it is wise for Thomas to be involved in the earl’s political maneuverings though.”

  Giving a sweet-natured smile, Alex said, “Oh, aye. Robert will speak to you about it if that is what he has in mind. I cannae speak for him.”

  Thomas chewed his lip, remembering that cozening smile from Alex talking his way out of trouble with his mother. But Lord Gordon seemed satisfied and said, “He’s always welcome at Inverkip. And all your other brothers.”

  Alex grasped Thomas’s shoulder and gave a friendly squeeze. “Go. Gather your things.”

  “You want to leave now?”

  Lord Gordon said, “You must sup with us and spend the night. Leave on the morrow.”

  Alex spread his hands. “I would that I could, but I also have business in Glasgow that will take most of the morrow before we depart for Lochmaben. If we make good time, we can reach the burgh tonight.”

  Lord Gordon raised his brows. “After having traveled here so far today, it will be a weary ride.”

  “We will rest at the Bishop’s Castle. Bishop Wishart expects us.”

  “William and I were working in the practice yard just now,” Thomas told Lord Gordon in no hurry to leave. “You can hardly tell that his arm was injured, My Lord.” William had been a squire to one of the Comyns until they sent him home after he broke his arm.

  “Aye, I’ve seen that,” Gordon said. “And he will miss you whilst you are gone.”

  Thomas turned to go. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  Gordon smiled. “Good lad. God go with you.”

  Thomas took the stairs at the rear of the dais up to the top story of the keep where the squires shared a long chamber. He took his spare chausses and tunic from a peg to stuff into a bag. Kneeling at the small kist at the foot of his bed, he opened it and took out his sword and belt. His hand paused over his father’s gold spurs, wrapped in a linen cloth. He pulled back the cloth and ran a finger over the surface. One day as a knight, he would honor his father’s memory by wearing his spurs. Soon, he hoped. He closed the kist and stood.

  He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, rubbing his lips with his fingertips. The more he thought on it, the more it convinced him that Alex was lying. Whatever it was, Thomas was sure it was something more serious than merely a trip to London.

  As they left behind the high, snow-dusted mound on which rose Inverkip Castle, Thomas tried to ask why Lord Robert needed his presence. Alex shook his head, glanced back at his following men-at-arms, and said that this was no place to discuss it. Thomas gave an impatient huff but held his peace.

  The cold wind from the south-west whipped their hair and cloaks. The last hour of the ride was beneath stars scattered like diamonds across a black silk sky, but at last they clattered across the bridge of the Clyde. A few words and an exchange of coins allowed them through Briggate into Glasgow.

  Curfew had not yet rung, and merchants crowded the cobbled street as they closed their shops. Laborers made their way into taverns where an ale pole hung beside the doorways. Alex led them as they wended their way past the bustle onto the breadth High Street.

  They passed the massive tolbooth, and Thomas remembered having gone there with his father. Well ahead of them, Saint Mungo’s Cathedral was a towering black shape that cut off the stars. “Bishop Wishart will have a chamber for us for the night at the castle,” Alex said.

  Before they reached the cathedral, they turned to climb the castle mound earthworks. A guard opened the gate for them to ride through the pele wall into a small bailey reeking of horse shit. Dozens of horses were tied, and munching piles of hay crowded the bailey, too many for the stable. “He may not have room for us,” Thomas observed as he dismounted. “A large force has preceded us.”

  “Something has happened. Robert was meeting with John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch.” Alex clicked his tongue against his teeth. “We’d better see what the to-do is.”

  Thomas followed on Alexander’s heels as he hurried up the stairs to the doorway on the second story with their men-at-arms close behind into the great hall. Men-at-arms in the wearing the Bruce colors filled every space on the long benches, bent over bowls of steaming pottage, all talking in low voices that fill the air with a hum. On the dais, Nigel de Bruce and another knight, a gruff looking man with a bald head and shaggy graying beard, had their
heads close together as they talked.

  “Find yourself places at the table and eat,” Alex said to his men. He strode up the narrow aisle between the long tables and onto the dais. “What has happened?”

  Nigel turned and ran his striking blue gaze over Thomas. After a moment, he motioned them closer. “John Comyn is dead.”

  Thomas jerked his head back. “How?”

  His mouth twisted into a snarl, the bald knight said, “Comyn, the damned traitor, tried to throttle the Bruce again. The earl drew his dirk and stabbed him.”

  “Again?” Thomas asked.

  “Aye. The Comyn tried to strangle him once before when they were both Guardians of the Realm. If Bishop de Lamberton hadnae separated them, the earl would have killed him then.”

  Thomas realized his mouth was open and closed it with a snap. “But…” He blinked. “I’m sorry, sir. I dinnae ken your name.”

  “Kirkpatrick. Roger Kirkpatrick of Cill Osbairn.”

  “Why would the Comyn attack the earl? You cannae mean it.”

  “I mean precisely that, lad. The Bruce discovered that the Comyn had betrayed us to King Edward, revealed our plans to raise the standard for Scotland after the old tyrant dies. They met to talk at Greyfriars Kirk, and the earl taxed him with his treachery. Then it happened, as I said. They came out of the kirk. The Bruce said he thought the Comyn was dead. I said I would mak sikkar. And I did.” The man’s deep-set eyes blazed with fury.

  Alex scrubbed his hand over his forehead and down his face. “This is too soon. We were to wait for the old King to die.”

  Nigel de Bruce frowned his handsome features grave. “Even if King Edward were dead, England has other war leaders as good, mayhap better. And the new King might be as good as his father for all we ken of him. They still would outnumber us ten to one. But events have left us no choice. We must act now.”

  “Act?” The word came out in a squeak, and Thomas blushed.

  Nigel gave him a quelling look. “Bishop Wishart has already heard Robert’s confession and granted him absolution for the sacrilege of killing in a kirk. We will gather our forces and crown him at Scone. Robert will be King of Scots and hell mend England's King Edward.”

  The door at the rear of the dais opened, and Robert de Bruce strode in. His grim look softened into a smile when he saw Thomas. “Thomas, I am glad you are here.” He looked at his brother. “And you too. I need you both.”

  Thomas could not help his smile at his uncle’s warm greeting. Robert de Bruce was a big man in every sense. He had a big face, blond hair well combed, a crooked nose, and a square chin. Half a head taller than Thomas’s medium height and bulky with muscle, he moved and spoke with such purpose that it drew Thomas to him.

  Alex snorted. “Aye, I suppose that you do. Could you nae rein in that temper of yours?”

  The smile drained from the earl’s face. “If I could undo it, I would. But what was I to do when he laid hands on me? After betraying me to the English? It was too late anyroad. I stopped the messenger to Edward from delivering the bond between Comyn and me, but Comyn had already told him of it and of my bond with Bishop de Lamberton. And it confirmed what was in the letters that Wallace carried when he was captured. We were out of time.”

  “What did you do then?” Thomas asked.

  “We seized Dumfries Castle before they could learn of Comyn’s death. And I sent word to Bishop de Lamberton in Berwick to tell him to meet us at Scone. He will put the crown on my head. Then we prepare for a fight for our lives.”

  Almost without a sound, Bishop Wishart came into the room, a man in his sixties, short and spare, in an uncreased black velvet cassock, quiet shoes, and an aura of gentle, self-possessed determination. A servant in the bishop's livery followed behind him. “Put it there.” The bishop pointed to the high table. Wishart lifted the lid. “I hid it for this day.” He lifted out a circlet of gold and solemnly placed it on the table. A mantle of vivid crimson lined with miniver followed. Last he removed a yellow banner with the royal lion rampant of Scotland.

  The earl’s hand was shaking as he reached out and touched the coronet. “It was King Alexander’s?”

  “Not the crown of state. There was no saving that from the greed of King Edward, but this is the crown the King wore over his helm. I saw it on his head many times. And here, the mantle he wore for his coronation.”

  Thomas could only stare, eyes wide. The crown and mantle of Scotland’s last true King and his banner...

  Robert de Bruce laid his hands flat on the table on each side of the crown. He bowed his head and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he straightened, he shook his body like a hound shaking off water. “We have no time to waste. The first thing on the morrow messages must go out by our fastest riders to the Earls of Atholl, Menteith, and Lennox. I’ll myself write a letter to Bishop de Moray. Nigel, I want you to leave at first light with your men to take Loch Doon. And I shall lead my men to Ayr Castle. If we can reach them before the news does, they will fall into our hands like an apple ripe from a tree. Then we shall sweep through Carrick, and I’ll raise my men on our way to Scone.”

  “What about Lord Gordon?” Thomas asked.

  The Bruce shook his head. “He is too loyal to the English for now, lad.”

  “But I’m his squire…” His mind raced. “I told him I would be back as soon as I could. It is my duty to return.”

  “I plan on knighting you at after I am crowned, Thomas. Then you will no longer be his squire.” He stood, looking at Thomas intently. He slapped a parchment down on the table marked with the Bruce’s own seal and that of the Bishop of Saint Andrew’s. “This I seized from one of Comyn’s own men. He was sending it to Edward betraying me. That for all my lands and titles, he would give up his claim to the crown and back me against the invaders. It was my death warrant and Lamberton’s. He meant to see us dead.

  “So we fought and I killed him. In a church. A deadly sin. There is no turning back. But I still have a purpose. The one I have always had. That Scotland shall have her king. We must have our own king, a Scottish king, that the English would deny us. And there is no longer any other but me. You understand?”

  Bishop Wishart looked up from gazing at the treasure he had kept hidden for ten long years. He turned to Thomas, and his gentle face took on stern lines. “It is our duty. This fight is as much a crusade fighting the cruel English invaders as if you were fighting the Saracen in the Holy Land. And remember that a crusader has all his sins forgiven. Including yours for leaving your lord.”

  “I will fight for Scotland. Of course, I will.” Thomas’s heart raced. “But I owe Lord Gordon some loyalty. I should go to him and tell him I’ll fight for you.”

  The Bruce patted Thomas’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad, and I need you to stay with me. Go find the bishop’s armorer. No doubt there is armor in the stores. Tell him you are to have the best that he can find for you.”

  As the royal vestments were once more being put away, Nigel de Bruce shouted for messengers to give them their orders.

  Thomas watched like a branch swept up in a flood.

  Chapter 2

  Robert de Bruce had left most of their force camping an hour’s ride behind, and only twenty-five men at arms rode in the earl’s tail. Thomas rode behind him with Alex, Seton, and Kirkpatrick, tired, and his mind spinning with thoughts. He wondered if he might have a chance to get drunk tonight.

  Overlooking the road that ran alongside the River Ayr atop a castle mound rose Ayr Castle, a square stone keep surrounded by a high curtain wall with round towers flanking the closed gate. There beneath a leaden sky flew the Saint George’s Cross banner of England. A man-at-arm walked along the parapet.