saddle, the sodden woollen cloak Nes had found to replace his royal mantle lost at Methven dragging at his shoulders.
The castle’s steward hurried from the hall. ‘Sir John!’ He made his way over to the Earl of Atholl, who had dismounted beside Robert. ‘My lord king.’ His gaze darted across the crowd of men filing into the courtyard, some of whom were sinking to the steps of the great hall, helms and shields clattering down beside them.
In the steward’s shocked and silent stare, Robert saw his defeat. It was burned into the remnants of his army like a brand, his failure laid bare in their depleted numbers and haggard faces. The wheel turns. Always it turns. The words, his grandfather’s, echoed from some distant time. In his mind’s eye, Robert saw himself bound to a great grinding wheel on its downward spiral towards earth. It turns for all of us.
‘Clear the hall,’ John ordered his steward. ‘Bring wine, warm water, blankets. And wake my physician.’
As the steward moved to obey, more men hastened from the main buildings to help. A horse collapsed as its rider dismounted. Servants took litters from those who had carried wounded comrades.
Robert, turning to follow John, heard David murmur to his father.
‘Did you see their faces? The townsfolk? Did you see the way they looked at us, Father? As if it was us who failed them?’
‘Let it be, son.’
Nes emerged from the crowd, catching his attention. Robert noticed the knight was gripping the leather pack that contained the box. Looking at it, Robert felt a strange detachment. The thing he had risked his life to steal suddenly didn’t seem so important.
Rain dripped steadily from Nes’s nose. ‘It’s Hunter, sire. He’s in mortal pain.’
Robert followed his gaze to where two grooms were leading his warhorse towards the stables. The destrier was limping between them, his head hanging low. Two nights ago, coming down out of the hills, Hunter had fallen. Nes had cared for him the best he could, but the horse was in agony, the bone of his fractured foreleg having punctured the skin. Robert knew he should have put the animal out of his misery, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Hunter’s life felt bound up in his own fate, as if to destroy the horse that had carried him safely through so many battlegrounds would somehow seal this defeat.
‘Do what you can for him.’ Turning, Robert strode in through the doors of the great hall, where John and the others had sought shelter. A low hum of voices filled the chamber, punctuated by the screech of trestle legs on the stone floor as servants pushed the tables aside to make space. The wounded were set down by the fireplaces, which servants were hurriedly stacking with fresh logs.
Robert sat heavily on one of the benches that had been left in the centre of the hall. People milled around him, those from the castle quick with purpose, the newcomers slow and dazed. Feeling something brush against his leg, he saw Fionn. The hound was panting, his grey coat slick with mud and rain. Looking closer, Robert realised there were clots of blood around his muzzle, dried and crusted. Taking the hound by the collar, he began swiping them off.
‘Sir.’
Robert glanced up to see a young lad holding out a glazed clay goblet, which was chipped at the base. Straightening to accept the drink, Robert’s cloak parted, revealing the red lion on his surcoat.
The boy’s mouth opened. ‘My lord king!’ He snatched the goblet away. ‘Begging your pardon, sire, I’ll fetch a more suitable cup.’
‘This will do,’ said Robert, taking the chipped goblet before the lad could protest. ‘The wine comes out the same.’ He drained the drink, some trickling through the stubble that shadowed his chin. The wine was rich and warming; a salve for his spirit. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Col, sire.’
‘Col?’ Robert smiled at the name’s simplicity.
‘It was my father’s name, sire.’
Robert passed
The castle’s steward hurried from the hall. ‘Sir John!’ He made his way over to the Earl of Atholl, who had dismounted beside Robert. ‘My lord king.’ His gaze darted across the crowd of men filing into the courtyard, some of whom were sinking to the steps of the great hall, helms and shields clattering down beside them.
In the steward’s shocked and silent stare, Robert saw his defeat. It was burned into the remnants of his army like a brand, his failure laid bare in their depleted numbers and haggard faces. The wheel turns. Always it turns. The words, his grandfather’s, echoed from some distant time. In his mind’s eye, Robert saw himself bound to a great grinding wheel on its downward spiral towards earth. It turns for all of us.
‘Clear the hall,’ John ordered his steward. ‘Bring wine, warm water, blankets. And wake my physician.’
As the steward moved to obey, more men hastened from the main buildings to help. A horse collapsed as its rider dismounted. Servants took litters from those who had carried wounded comrades.
Robert, turning to follow John, heard David murmur to his father.
‘Did you see their faces? The townsfolk? Did you see the way they looked at us, Father? As if it was us who failed them?’
‘Let it be, son.’
Nes emerged from the crowd, catching his attention. Robert noticed the knight was gripping the leather pack that contained the box. Looking at it, Robert felt a strange detachment. The thing he had risked his life to steal suddenly didn’t seem so important.
Rain dripped steadily from Nes’s nose. ‘It’s Hunter, sire. He’s in mortal pain.’
Robert followed his gaze to where two grooms were leading his warhorse towards the stables. The destrier was limping between them, his head hanging low. Two nights ago, coming down out of the hills, Hunter had fallen. Nes had cared for him the best he could, but the horse was in agony, the bone of his fractured foreleg having punctured the skin. Robert knew he should have put the animal out of his misery, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Hunter’s life felt bound up in his own fate, as if to destroy the horse that had carried him safely through so many battlegrounds would somehow seal this defeat.
‘Do what you can for him.’ Turning, Robert strode in through the doors of the great hall, where John and the others had sought shelter. A low hum of voices filled the chamber, punctuated by the screech of trestle legs on the stone floor as servants pushed the tables aside to make space. The wounded were set down by the fireplaces, which servants were hurriedly stacking with fresh logs.
Robert sat heavily on one of the benches that had been left in the centre of the hall. People milled around him, those from the castle quick with purpose, the newcomers slow and dazed. Feeling something brush against his leg, he saw Fionn. The hound was panting, his grey coat slick with mud and rain. Looking closer, Robert realised there were clots of blood around his muzzle, dried and crusted. Taking the hound by the collar, he began swiping them off.
‘Sir.’
Robert glanced up to see a young lad holding out a glazed clay goblet, which was chipped at the base. Straightening to accept the drink, Robert’s cloak parted, revealing the red lion on his surcoat.
The boy’s mouth opened. ‘My lord king!’ He snatched the goblet away. ‘Begging your pardon, sire, I’ll fetch a more suitable cup.’
‘This will do,’ said Robert, taking the chipped goblet before the lad could protest. ‘The wine comes out the same.’ He drained the drink, some trickling through the stubble that shadowed his chin. The wine was rich and warming; a salve for his spirit. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Col, sire.’
‘Col?’ Robert smiled at the name’s simplicity.
‘It was my father’s name, sire.’
Robert passed
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