The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce Page 3

  Not long after, Thomas Beg lurched to his feet, flushing, as he always did, when his employer, whom he believed to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, entered the kitchen and came gliding towards him at the plain wooden table where he sat. He had been ravenous, devouring a meal of savoury game stew piled atop a thick slab of fresh-baked bread and loving every bite of it, but the moment he saw the countess he lost all awareness of what he had been doing a moment earlier.

  “Thomas,” she said, smiling in recognition and ignoring his reddening face as she approached him. “I’m told ye have word for me from Earl Robert.”

  The boy dipped his head, speechless.

  “Speak up, then. What d’ye have to tell me? Or is it somethin’ ye canna say here?”

  The giant boy flushed even deeper and stammered out, “The Earl winna be comin’ this day. But he’ll be here soon, wi’ the King. He wanted ye to ken, so he sent me on ahead, wi’ a letter for ye.”

  “A letter? Ye have a letter for me?”

  Thomas reached deep into his shirt and pulled out a leather wallet. Marjorie took it from him and flipped it open, seeing the parchment folded inside, but then she closed it again, resisting the urge to snatch the letter out and read it right there in front of everyone. Instead, she merely inclined her head to the boy. “My thanks for this,” she said. “Am I to answer it, do ye know?” Thomas shook his head and half shrugged, and she bit down on the urge to snap at him, knowing that being impatient with him would only make matters worse. “What are you to do now, Thomas?” she asked then, keeping her voice gentle. “Are ye to stay here, or does Earl Robert expect ye back? Where was he when you left him?”

  Thomas Beg shook his head, his eyes wide with something approaching panic, a condition that Marjorie had remarked upon whenever she had spoken to him directly, but he managed to answer her question. “He’s in Dunfermline, mileddy, wi’ the King, but he sent me on in front o’ him, to bring you that.”

  Marjorie sucked in her breath. “Aye, I see. Well, let me read it. Sit ye down eat.”

  She walked away and seated herself on a sturdy chair at a smaller table that held a thick, burning candle, and opened the letter, schooling her face to betray nothing as she read, aware that she was being watched. The letter was written in Latin, and not in her husband’s bold, spiky hand, so she knew it had been written by a monk or a priest at the abbey in Dunfermline. Its brevity, though, marked it clearly as having been dictated by Robert himself, and she read it slowly and carefully, one hand over her mouth to mask it from curious eyes as she formed the Latin words.

  My love, this in haste, knowing you need to be aware of how matters have changed—not in substance but in scope. England is here in Dunfermline—Edward himself, accompanied by Queen Eleanor and their train. His friend Richard of Ulster accompanies him with his wife Margaret, who is big with child and close to her term. The occasion is a Royal progress to mark the end of Edward’s Welsh war with a visit to his cousin Scotland, before he undertakes a new campaign in Gascony.

  Upon hearing that we are bound for Turnberry to meet with Angus Mohr MacDonald, he decided to accompany our King, to Witness the business being done and to do Honour to our house, citing that he has not set eyes upon you in person since our attendance at his Coronation in London six years ago. So he will accompany Alexander, bringing de Burgh of Ulster with him. Queen Eleanor and her ladies will stay here in Dunfermline with Queen Margaret, the Countess of Ulster being in no condition to travel at this time, within a month of birthing as she is. Even with both Kings present, the royal party will be small enough, but significant none the less, with de Burgh and a few others attending the monarchs, plus a royal English escort of ten men-at-arms. Closer to three score I fear than to the score and a half we had thought.

  Knowing you will be aware that I have no choice in this matter, I can but send you advance warning in the knowledge that you will take the steps required to prepare yourself for our advent, my Love, accomplished worker of miracles that you are. I will delay our arrival for as long as may be by arranging a hunting party to divert our guests on the way, and to provide much-needed venison for our larders. B.

  Worker of miracles, indeed. Marjorie scanned the letter again, noting the different flourish of the final “B” that proclaimed Bruce himself had signed the missive, and grudgingly admiring, not for the first time, the way in which her scholarly husband could capture words to explain himself clearly and briefly. Her thoughts quickly returned, though, to the hard kernel of the message. Sixty people, descending on her within the day. She folded the letter back into its original creases, giving herself time to think and to clear her face of all expression before looking at anyone else. Young Thomas had sat down again, but he was still staring at her, cow-eyed, and the other four people in the kitchen were pretending not to be watching her.

  “So, Thomas, when did you leave Dunfermline?”

  “Yesterday morn—” The lad cleared his throat noisily before continuing. “Lord Robert telt me to ride like the wind and no’ to stop atween there an’ here.”

  “And how far behind you will the others be?”

  “They wis to leave this mornin’, and to stop this night in Stirlin’.

  Then Lord Robert said they wad stop again, the next night, at Kilmarnock, and come on down here the day after that.”

  “You’re sure o’ that? They’ll no’ be here tomorrow?”

  “No, no’ tomorrow. Earl Robert said it wad tak them three days … I think the Kings want to hunt deer on the way.”

  “Thanks be to God for that, then. We’ll need every minute o’ time between now and then.” She moved quickly to the door, then turned at the threshold. “My thanks, Thomas,” she said. “Earl Robert will be pleased wi’ how ye’ve done. Run now and find Murdo for me and send him to me directly. Directly, mind—I need him this minute. I’ll be upstairs, tell him. Away wi’ ye now.” She went out, her head filled with arrangements that would have to be seen to at once, and made her way straight to the family quarters.

  The first problem was one of protocol, and Marjorie of Carrick was realistic enough, and feminine enough, to see the inherent irony, but she was far from amused by it. Edward of England’s unexpected advent meant that she would have four proud and powerful men beneath her roof for several nights, but only two suitable bedchambers in which to accommodate them. Two of the four, Alexander and Edward, would naturally claim precedence based upon their regal titles, but what, she wondered, was she to do with the other two? De Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, was the most powerful man in Ireland, and they would all be worse than foolish if they expected Angus Mohr MacDonald of Islay to be abashed by that distinction. Within his own domain of the western mainland and the hundreds of islands that made up the Isles, Angus Mohr was every inch the monarch, as powerful in his own territories as the other three were in theirs, and no one there doubted—or flouted—his authority. Moreover, Angus was the one whom King Alexander had specifically invited to attend this gathering, so he was, in fact, the guest of honour and entitled to the finest accommodations available. Marjorie had no idea how she would work out that problem, but she refused to be overwhelmed by it.

  Murdo arrived within moments, and she immediately waved him to a seat at the large table where she and Earl Robert both worked in the administration of their daily affairs. With no more reaction than a mildly raised eyebrow, the factor lowered himself into the chair and waited. He had known his mistress since she was a child learning to walk and speak, and had witnessed every form of tantrum, mood change, and caprice and every fit of pique she had added to her woman’s arsenal along the way, so that now, as Countess of Carrick, she had long since lost any capability of surprising him.

  Marjorie launched directly into bringing him up to date on all that had changed since they had last spoken, early that morning. Murdo listened solemnly, making no attempt to interrupt her until she eventually fell silent. Then, when he was sure she had no more to say, he nodded judiciously an
d cleared his throat.

  “Aye,” he growled. “The Blessed Mother o’ God had the same problem—three kings chappin’ at her door and a’ she had was a bed o’ straw in a stable. But that bed was for her and the Bairn, and naebody kens to this day where the wise men slept while they wis there.”

  Marjorie opened her mouth to snap at him, thinking he was being flippant, but she stopped short as he held up an open hand. “I’m no’ bein’ foolish, lassie. I’m just tellin’ ye what came into my head as ye were talkin’.” He lapsed into silence, staring down at the tabletop, and now it was Marjorie who sat waiting for him. Murdo was the only man she knew who would dream of calling her “lassie,” as though she were still a child. But in his eyes, Marjorie knew, she was but a child, countess or no, and she knew he meant no disrespect. The old man never spoke to her that way in front of anyone else.

  “It’s remindin’ me o’ the time Earl Niall had the fower bishops here,” he continued. “The same kind o’ thing, that was. Fower bishops to your fower kings. Fower lords o’ the Church then, fower lords o’ Creation now. D’ye recall what he did?”

  “Murdo, I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I’m talkin’ about the time the earl—” He stopped, and his eyes narrowed. “Aye,” he murmured. “Aye, mayhap ye werena born yet, now I think o’ it. It was a while ago an’ I was young then, mysel’ … What happened was that fower bishops cam to Turnberry. Fower important bishops, a’ at the same time. There was Richard Inverkeithing o’ Dunkeld, Clement o’ Dunblane, Bondington o’ Glasgow, an’ auld Gamelin o’ St. Andrews … God, they’ve a’ been dead these twenty year an’ more. But that’s neither here nor there. What I’m sayin’ is, the fower o’ them turned up here, uninvited, all o’ them on their separate ways to a gatherin’ in the north o’ England and each one o’ them expecting to be treated according to his rank. Truth was, though, that they were a’ equal, even though each o’ them thought he was more important than the other three. Fower bishops … ”

  “And? In God’s name, Murdo, what does this hae to do wi’ anything?”

  “Rein in your horse, lassie, an’ listen. Each o’ these men sent a priest wi’ a message, to tell Earl Niall he would be comin’ within the week, and as it turned out, the fower messengers a’ turned up here on the same day, hours apart. So the earl knew he couldna board the fower o’ them—he had no more room than ye hae now, an’ yet he would hae to treat them a’ the same. For a day or two after that, frettin’ about what to do, he wasna fit to live wi’, until your mother, God rest her soul, came up wi’ the solution.”

  “My mother?”

  The old man nodded. “She told him the story o’ the three wise men. They were kings in their own lands, to be sure, but they were men first and foremost, and they were wise—wise enough to ken that lookin’ after them wasna somethin’ that the Mother o’ God should have to fret about. Forbye, they had come a long way, to see the Christ Child, so they had brought their own tents. An’ if the wise men set an example, your mother said, and found their own lodgin’s, how could these bishops complain about havin’ to do the same thing? An’ she was right, of course, but what she said reminded Earl Niall o’ somethin’, and he saw what to do.

  “His father had been a great sailor when he was young, wi’ two fine galleys o’ his own. But when his father died and Nicol became Earl o’ Carrick himsel’, he quit the sea. He traded the biggest galley for a prime herd o’ sheep and then years later, when he was an old man, he lost the other one, destroyed at anchor right here, in a great winter storm. What Earl Niall recalled was that his father, who was a frugal man, had set his sailmaker to turning the big galley sails— there were six o’ them, huge—into fower great tents—pavilions, they called them—to sell to knights bound for a crusade. That crusade never happened, and the tents wis still in Turnberry, safe stored in the big stone bothy down by the pier.”

  “You mean the oar bothy?”

  “Aye. And so Earl Niall had them set up, on the lea outside the walls. One for each bishop. And nary a one complained.”

  “Hmm. But how does that help me?”

  Murdo grinned. “Same as it helped your da. They’re still there. I looked at them the month afore last, to see if they were worth keeping or if I should burn them. They were in fine shape, better than I had expected, poles and ropes and a’. And they’re big. I doubt even Edward o’ England will hae any bigger.”

  Marjorie stared at him. “And we could use them for this?”

  “Aye, ye can, lassie—one for each o’ them. We’ll set them up on the lea, same as before, as the corners o’ a square, a hundred paces apart. That way, they’ll all be equal and they’ll a’ hae plenty o’ room to stretch their legs.”

  “My God, Murdo McMurdo, ye’ve saved my life. How long would it take to set them up?”

  The old man shrugged. “If I set the men to work on it this afternoon, the tents should be up by this time tomorrow.”

  “Pavilions, Murdo. We’ll ca’ them pavilions. I like that word. It’s French and it sounds grander than tents.”

  “Aye, if ye like. The bishops can hae the two extra rooms and the earls and high-ups can a’ stay close to their various kings. And we’ll set up space for the sodgers and men-at-arms down by the river. Can I go now an’ get started?”

  “You can, and God bless you. You’re an angel sent from Heaven.”

  “No, lassie, I’m a factor who’s good at his job, that’s a’.” He stood up. “Right, then, I’ll be away.”

  His mistress was suddenly radiant. “Young Rob will be thrilled. He’ll no’ soon forget the day he turned ten, surrounded by kings and barons and earls. Run, then, and do what ye must, for God knows I’ve a wheen o’ things to do myself.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE BOY

  Less than fifteen miles southeast of Turnberry, just as the Countess of Carrick dismissed her factor, a horse and its rider stopped on a steep path up the side of a hill. The rider’s eyes followed the deep marks where another horse’s hooves had dug into the hillside as it fought its way up the high, sloping bank. He hesitated only slightly, then yanked hard at the reins, pulling his mount towards the close to sheer incline. The animal’s ears flicked at the insistence of the reins, then it turned obediently and launched itself at the steep slope, hooves digging firmly into the crumbling earth of the shale bank as it fought its way towards the crest. Its rider bent forward and murmured encouragement, his feet firmly braced in the stirrups, enjoying the thrust of the beast’s powerful haunches as it bounded upward, four and then five mighty surges before it gained the top of the incline and stamped its feet triumphantly on the heather-clad summit.

  “Good beast!” the boy on its back cried in Gaelic, clapping his hand on its neck appreciatively. The animal arched its neck and snorted, stamping its feet again as its rider turned to grin at the man who had been waiting for him on the hilltop.

  The man dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “It took you long enough. I thought for a minute there I was going to have to come looking for you.” The liquid, rippling Gaelic rolled off his tongue, its lilt perfectly capturing the raillery implied in the comment.

  “I’m here, am I not?”

  “Aye, you are. And you did well, that last wee bit. You could have taken the easy way.”

  “Why would I do that? You didn’t,” the boy answered. “I saw where you came up.”

  “Aye … ” His companion’s voice faded away, and he sat straight-backed, his narrowed eyes moving constantly as he scanned the bleak landscape of the moor that stretched around them on all sides. “But then I’m a man grown. You’re just a wee boy.”

  “I am not.” There was just the slightest tinge of protest in the boy’s voice. “I’ll be ten tomorrow. That’s more than halfway to being a man grown.”

  The beginnings of a smile flickered at the edges of the other’s mouth. “Right enough, I suppose. But you still have a way to go along that path.
Still, you show promise. Faint, mind you, faint, but there none the less.”

  “Where are we going, anyway, Uncle Nicol?”

  The man turned in his saddle, his smile widening until it made his eyes crinkle. “Well now, I was hoping you could tell me that, seeing that you’re nearly a man and all. Where do you think we’re going?”

  The boy sat straighter, his face turning thoughtful. He twisted to one side and then the other, looking back the way he had come and then gazing at the hills of the western horizon. “To the coast, I know,” he said, almost to himself. Then, in a louder, more confident tone, “We left Dalmellington at daybreak and we’ve been riding ever since. That’s more than four hours, so we’ve come nigh on twenty miles, heading west the whole way. Maybole’s to the north, so we must have passed that already and … ” He hesitated. “And we’re heading southwest now, so we can’t be going to Turnberry. We’re going to Girvan.”

  “There,” his uncle grunted. “I knew you would tell me. And you’re nearly right. We’re going close to Girvan, to the north of it, to a place I know.”

  “What for?” No answer was forthcoming, so the boy persisted. “Uncle Nicol? Why are we going to this place that you know?”

  “To meet a man, a friend of mine, though in truth he was a friend of my brother, your grandfather, God rest his soul.” Nicol’s grin had vanished, his face now wearing his normal expression of calm thoughtfulness, and even the tone of his voice changed, as the tenor of his Gaelic words became more reverent. “His name is MacDonald, Angus Mohr MacDonald, and he calls himself the Lord of Islay.”

  “Is he old, then?”

  “Old enough, I suppose, but don’t ever let him think you think that. He’s far from being a doddering old fool. His lineage stretches back forever and he wields great power in the west, especially since Haakon, the King o’ Norway, quit the Western Isles after the sea fight at Largs thirty years ago and withdrew to Orkney. There have been great changes in the Isles ever since then, with the Scots from the mainland takin’ over more and more from the few Norsemen still there. Old Somerled, who ruled Skye a hundred and more years ago, was Norse, and one of his line married John, chief of Clan Donald, who called himself the first Lord of Islay and was Angus Mohr’s father. And now Angus rules there.” Nicol smiled, his voice changing again. “And as far as I know, he has never met a Bruce in all his life. Nor any other Englishman, for that matter. It will be interesting to see how he reacts to you.”