The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce Page 2

  “Take him away, the wee cannibal,” the countess said, adjusting her bodice to cover her breast. “He’s finished, anyway, so he’ll sleep all afternoon, and I have to start getting ready. Mother of God, what a morning. Make sure you break his wind, or he’ll howl like a wolf. And send Allie in when ye leave. I’ll need her to help me, for Earl Robert should have been here by now and I hae no wish to greet him looking as though I’ve spent the night in the byre wi’ the kine. The King himself will be here come tomorrow and our Nicol should be bringing young Robert and Angus Mohr this afternoon, and God knows there’s much to be done ere any of them arrives, so hurry you up, and be sure the rest o’ the bairns are fed and clean.”

  The nursemaid bobbed her head and hurried away, clutching the baby tenderly in her arms, and her mistress stood up with both hands on her hips and flexed her spine, back and forth. She was pregnant again, and though it had not yet begun to show, she was starting to feel it, aware of the familiar changes in her body. This child would be her eighth, God willing, and there were times when she was tempted to wonder, slightly ruefully, if there had ever been a time in her adult life when she had not been heavy with child. She would never complain about that, though, for Marjorie of Carrick believed, with all her being, that she had been put on God’s earth to mother a large and happy brood in a time when many women despaired of ever birthing and rearing a single child successfully. In that, she believed herself blessed. She had spent too long a time, earlier in her life, fearing that she might never mother a child. Now, thinking about that, she lowered herself into a firmly upholstered chair by the big stone fireplace and looked around the comfortably furnished family room on the second floor of the castle keep, making a mental list of all that needed to be done to make the place clean, presentable, and welcoming for her husband’s return. A discarded garment caught her eye, and she bent and scooped it up, a tiny knitted woollen cap, still retaining a trace of warmth from the baby’s head. She sat staring down at it, kneading it with her fingers and smiling to herself, wondering about the ways of God and the futility of trying to discover what He had in store.

  As the sole heir to Carrick, her widowed father’s only child, Marjorie had been married, at the age of eleven, to a man fifteen years her senior, and had then been abandoned before she reached the age of puberty, when her headstrong husband rode off with Prince Edward of England to join the Christian armies bound for the Holy Land in the ill-fated Ninth Crusade. He had died at a place called Acre, killed in some pointless skirmish against the Mameluke Sultan Baibars—a name still incomprehensible to Marjorie— leaving her both virgin and widow at the age of fourteen.

  Devastated by the news of her husband’s death, she had come close to despair over her situation, isolated and alone as she was, miles from anywhere in her father’s remote seaside fastness of Turnberry with little prospect of ever meeting anyone else who might take her to wife. Her father the earl was a fine man, but he seldom ventured far from home, and Turnberry, with its ancient and massive sod-built walls and austere, almost inaccessible location, received few visitors of any kind, and almost none were marriageable, eligible males.

  Marjorie’s very real fear of a manless, childless future began to seem justified over the three years that followed, for her mother’s only remaining sister, a thin-lipped and humourless man-hater called Matilda, had been a nun since girlhood, and she took it upon herself to ensure that the young widow would find solace in becoming a bride of Christ.

  Thanks be to God, Earl Niall disagreed with his good-sister. He had no sons, but he took great pride in his boisterous, hard-working, and irrepressible daughter, who was, he liked to claim, his natural heir and the equal of any man around her, blessed with strength of mind and body and the determination that was needed to look after her lands and her people and to make her way in the world. And all of that, he would add fondly, in spite of the undeserved misfortune thrust upon her by the tragic loss of her husband while she was yet scarcely old enough to understand what had befallen her.

  Earl Niall died soon after Marjorie’s sixteenth birthday, of a lingering putrefaction from the tusk of a wild boar that had savaged him in a hunting accident, but thanks to his friendship with King Alexander, he had made sure, long before his death, that the succession passed to his beloved daughter in her own right as Countess of Carrick, with the blessing and support of the King himself. Marjorie was as nobly born as the man she soon married, the sixth Robert Bruce, and perhaps even more so, for her nobility stemmed from the royal blood of the ancient Gaelic kings, while his was entrenched in the Norman French heritage that gave him his mother tongue.

  The door opened at Marjorie’s back and Allie, her housekeeper, bustled in, muttering to herself as she always did and carrying the big wooden-handled woven bag that went everywhere with her. She and her husband, Murdo MacMurdo of Stranraer, who acted as factor, were the joint force that kept the entire world of Turnberry Castle functioning smoothly. The pair had done the same for the countess’s father, supervising the myriad details of the earl’s household affairs and the castle estate.

  “Earl Robert’s late,” Allie announced, before her mistress could turn around. “But the way things are goin’ this day, that’s a blessin’. Kirsty was right—that young sheep boy Hector broke his leg fallin’ off that cart when the axle went frae underneath it, but the break wis clean and Brother Callum put splints on it, so the boy will no’ be runnin’ much for the nex—” Her eyes widened at the sight of her mistress’s face. “What’s the matter wi’ you? Is somethin’ wrong, lassie?”

  Marjorie blinked in surprise, for she had not been aware of anything being wrong. “There’s nothing the matter,” she responded with what she imagined to be an impatient frown. “I was just thinking about all that’s to be done before the earl comes home and I drifted into a bit o’ a daydream. I didna hear ye come in and ye startled me, that’s all.”

  Allie sniffed loudly and her expression softened. “Aye, well you’re right enough about a’ that’s to be done. The last thing we needed here this mornin’ was a bad accident. But the boy’s well enough, as I said, and we hae an extra lamb that we hadna counted on to feed the visitors tomorrow. The daft beast fell out o’ the cart when it tipped, an’ then juked back under the wheel just far enough to get itsel’ killed when the whole thing smashed down. Broke its neck and Cook has it now, cleaning it for the spit. Forbye that, Murdo’s had three men workin’ all mornin’, choppin’ logs and cartin’ dried peat, so there’s nae shortage o’ fuel, an’ the larder’s well stocked wi’ meat, baith beef and deer, forbye fowl and game, grouse an’ ducks an’ geese and hare. There’s a crew o’ men out fishin’ in the bay and anither nettin’ trout in the river. The bakery ovens are a’ well fired and we’ll hae enough bread to feed the multitude. Murdo’s ale kegs are full an’ ready to be tapped, but we hinna seen hide nor hair o’ that useless gowk o’ a wine merchant frae Ayr. He was supposed to be here last week and he’ll probably come by next month, but in the meantime, gin the King o’ Scots wants wine when he’s here, he’ll either hae to bring his own or whistle for it and mak do wi’ Brewster’s ale like the rest o’ us. Jessie said ye wanted me, to help ye. Wi’ what?”

  “Wi’ the whole campaign, Allie, for a campaign it is. We’re to entertain MacDonald o’ Islay and the King himsel’ at the same time, and Earl Robert’s no’ here yet, so come wi’ me an’ help me get changed, and then we’ll set about seein’ how things are workin’. It sounds like Murdo’s well aware o’ what needs to be done on his side, so that will make it easier for us to see to what’s to do on ours. Here, help me fold these covers.”

  Between them they gathered up the brightly coloured woollen blankets that were scattered over the chairs and couches—the nights were cold inside the stone-walled castle tower, even in the height of summer—and set about folding them and setting them on top of the long table against one wall.

  “How many o’ them will there be, d’ye ken?” the housekeeper asked. />
  Marjorie shrugged as she set the last of the folded blankets down. “As many as come,” she said. “Nicol will bring Angus Mohr, and Angus will no doubt have a flock o’ his peacock chieftains in tow, anxious to set eyes on the King o’ Scots, though they’d never let on. An’ the King, of course, will bring who he brings, though I’m no’ expectin’ that many. A few o’ the elder earls, I’m thinkin’, probably MacDuff and Lennox an’ Mar. They seem to be his closest cronies, and there might be a bishop or two, since he’ll need witnesses for whatever he means to propose to Angus Mohr. And of course they’ll a’ hae others in their trains. We might hae as many as thirty.”

  “Mother o’ God! I thought a score at the outside, but thirty?”

  “Aye, and mayhap more. I’ve no way o’ tellin’ until they arrive. There could be another half score, for all I know.”

  “But where will we put them a’?”

  “Come, and I’ll tell you.”

  The countess led the way through a heavy doorway that was padded with felt to keep out drafts, into her private dressing chamber, which had no ceiling and so was open to the daylight that streamed in through the high, narrow windows overhead on the east and west walls of the castle tower.

  “Now, let’s see,” she said and quickly began sorting through the hanging garments in the heavily carved wooden wardrobe that dominated the room. There was hardly a profusion of clothes there, and most of them were gowns of vibrant colours, but a highly unusual collection of accessories was tucked into boxed shelving beside the wardrobe: silken scarves and woollen wraps and leather belts and jewelled accoutrements of all colours, shapes, and sizes, for Marjorie of Carrick intuitively understood the feminine art of making less appear like more through the simple means of ornamenting her basic clothing.

  “What were we talking about? Oh aye, where to put the camp followers, as Earl Robert calls them. We’ll put them where they’ve always been put.” Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the hanging gowns and assessed the options available to her. “This isna the first time Carrick has played host to the King o’ Scots, and we’ve never had any trouble in the past, so there’s nae use in frettin’ about it.” She picked out a few choices and passed them to Allie before starting to remove the gown she was wearing.

  “The King’s chamber is ready for him, I’ve seen to that already, and Angus Mohr will have the other big guest room. Apart from that, I couldna care less.” She picked out a long, narrow ribbon of pale yellow with a pendant attached and held it against one of the two gowns she had chosen. Satisfied that her eye had been true, she handed it, too, to Allie and turned back to her undressing. “The earls and bishops will sleep in the great hall, where there’s room to spare for them a’, and the rest, the followers and the hangers-on, can sleep outside on the grass. They’re used to that, and it’s high summer.

  “I remember the time my cousin Janet was married here—I was just a bairn. We had so many people here we couldna keep them a’ inside the gates and they ended up building what seemed to be a whole new town o’ tents along the riverbank. An’ they were a’ here for a week and more. So folk can go, and will go, where they need to go. It’s no’ my job to be hostess to all o’ them, especially when I invited none o’ them. This is a house. It’s a big house, I’ll grant ye, but it’s no’ a hostelry.” She undid the last of the buttons holding her gown and let the garment fall around her ankles. She stepped out of it, wearing only a simple, knee-length shift, and turned to face the wall beside the wardrobe, where she had had Murdo hang a long, framed and polished mirror made from a single flawlessly smooth sheet of brass that Earl Robert had bought for her years earlier, in York, on one of his visits to England. It was her pride and joy and the single concession in all of her household to her womanly vanity.

  She stood silently for a few moments, looking at her reflection, still amazed, after all those years, at the fidelity of the mirror, and gazing critically at the changes that those years—and seven healthy, breast-fed children—had wrought on her body. She was still well shaped, she knew, and still attractive to the man she loved. Her waist, despite a decade of bearing children, was still remarkable, and she worked every day to keep her belly taut between pregnancies, short though those intervals had been. There were stretch marks, inevitably, on her abdomen beneath the shift, but they were few, considering the realities of life, and the paunch her pregnancies had caused was smaller than it might have been, barely noticeable beneath her clothing. Her thighs, legs, and buttocks were strong and well formed and, like her arms, devoid of fat or sagging flesh, because she walked for miles almost every day, visiting her tenants, and worked as hard as any of her people in the upkeep of the castle estates. Since girlhood, she had never shied away from physical labour, be it bringing in the harvest from the fields outside the castle walls or turning her hand to cleaning out the stables and the byres.

  She raised one hand and poked her fingers into her hair, testing it for cleanliness and deciding she would have to find time to wash it before the men arrived. Marjorie of Carrick was proud of her hair and of the fact that it had been the subject of more than a few songs and tributes from visiting bards over the years. Her eyes were startling, too, a gift from her mother’s side, wide and arresting beneath arching brows, and more green than blue, with lustrous whites that often appeared to be a pale, pale shade of blue against the natural darkness of her skin. Sighing, she gathered up one of the gowns she had selected, shrugging into it quickly and shimmying as she pulled it into place.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I intend to look my best if we’re to entertain both King and lord. In that, at least, I hae some control.”

  Allie busied herself picking up and folding the discarded gown before turning back to her mistress, ready to help her dress again, but Marjorie’s dismissal of her concerns had not put her mind at rest. “My God, though, the expense o’ it,” she breathed, almost silently, as she pulled the back of Marjorie’s gown into place. “What was Earl Robert thinkin’, to invite the King to come here to do somethin’ that ought to be done by rights in Dunfermline?”

  “The expense o’ it?” Marjorie twisted to face her, smiling and frowning at the same time as she tugged at the waist of her gown. “Here, see if ye can pull out those creases, smooth them down. I’m getting big again and I’ll soon no’ be able to squeeze into this thing at all, for a while, at least.”

  Allie eyed her mistress’s waistline and pursed her lips. “Ye dae no’ bad. Good enough to keep yer man nudgin’ at ye.”

  “Aye. That’s why I’m expectin’ again. But the expense o’ it, ye were sayin’, havin’ the King come here instead o’ bidin’ where he belongs?” She smiled. “It’s no’ that great an expense, Allie, when ye consider what Earl Robert will gain by it. The cost wouldna beggar the House o’ Carrick, and ye can be sure it winna make a dint in the coffers o’ the House o’ Bruce. Besides, the cost is no’ important. It’s the King’s dignity that’s at hazard here. Angus Mohr would never set foot in Dunfermline town, it being Alexander’s seat. It’s a matter o’ pride, as such foolish things always are wi’ men. Angus calls himsel’ the Lord o’ Islay, but in his own mind I hae no doubt that when he says ‘Lord’ he thinks ‘King.’ And so for him to go to Dunfermline, he would be lowering himself to meet the King o’ Scots, at least in his own eyes. Alexander understands that full well, I’m sure, but for whatever reason, he has made up his mind that he must meet face to face wi’ Angus Mohr, and must therefore meet him elsewhere than in Dunfermline. Earl Robert knows that, too, and he knows that Turnberry is the perfect place to ease the minds o’ both men. Neither one o’ them can doubt his welcome here, and each o’ them trusts Robert or myself—I should say and myself— Earl Robert because he has proved himself time and again to the King, and me because I’ve known both men, lord and King, since I was a bairn.” She stopped to cock her head, listening, and held up her hand. “Who’s there?”

  The door opened a crack and one of the women from the nearby castle town
of Turnberry stuck her head timidly into the room, managing, for all her timidity, to scan her eyes from side to side, seeing and noting everything there was to be seen in the countess’s brightly lit dressing chamber. Every woman in the castle town, and most of their men as well, had been conscripted into service for the coming royal visit, and the main building, which was normally tended by a small crew of caretakers, was overrun by more temporary servitors than Marjorie could ever remember seeing at one time.

  “Well?” she asked the woman. “It’s Bella, isn’t it? What do you need me for?”

  The woman bobbed her head. “Forgi’e me, mileddy, but one o’ Earl Robert’s men just arrived in the kitchens wi’ word for ye.”

  “D’ye ken the man?”

  “Aye, lady, it’s the big laddie who aey rides wi’ the earl, him wi’ the missin’ ear.”

  Marjorie had an instant vision of the youth they called Wee Thomas because of his great size. He was not the cleverest of her husband’s followers, but he numbered high among the most loyal— and fearless. A giant at fourteen, to be sure, but still a mere child in years, he had earned the earl’s undying esteem and gratitude by the selfless ferocity with which he had attacked three men who had sprung from hiding and attacked Earl Robert, having evidently been dispatched to kill him, though by whom no one knew to this day. Armed with only a rusty old dirk, the boy had cut down one of them and wounded another before any of them knew he was among them, and his attack had given Earl Robert the brief time he needed to gather his wits, unsheathe his own weapon, and deal with the remaining attacker. By that time, though, the boy would have been dead had the hard-swung sword stroke that glanced off his skull and severed most of his left ear hit its target, the crown of his head.

  She became aware that the woman was still poised in the doorway. “My thanks, Bella. Is he still at the kitchens?” The woman nodded. “Good. Tell him to stay where he is and eat something. I’ll be there directly, as soon as I’m done here.”