The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce Page 8

  He took a step backward, eyeing his royal guest. “What about you? Is all well?”

  “Aye, it is,” Edward answered. “But why should you suspect otherwise?”

  “Why? Because I saw you take your chancellor’s dispatch from the hands of his messenger and I know you spent hours walking and thinking about it, fretting over it. Your man Norfolk told me that you left before dawn this morning and when you returned earlier this afternoon you were caked with dust and sweat. A long walk alone in the hot summer sun bespoke grave concern, but I was happy to see you looked well content when you came back.”

  “I was and I am. I found a solution and I am happy with it.”

  “And am I permitted to ask what it concerned and what you determined?”

  The English King grinned. “You are. Burnell directed my attention to a matter beyond my realm and yours, in Sicily. There’s a threat of war looming there, he says—a war that might threaten us in England if left unchecked. That disturbs him, and he is a man not easily disturbed. In consequence it concerned me even more. I have troubles enough of my own without being forced into more at the whim of others overseas whose affairs hold no interest for me.”

  “And so a resolution came to you?”

  “Aye, with God’s help. I will write to the Pope immediately and offer my services as a mediator, to negotiate a peace that will be acceptable to everyone. It should work. I’m uninvolved in the dispute, and those who are involved all know I have no interest in what’s being fought over. Add to that the consideration that the Pope will be eager, I believe, to throw the full authority of the Church behind me, since he has more to lose in this affair than any of the principals.” He chuckled. “My regal brothers in Christendom are all wise and noble men, and who but a fool would seek to wage a ruinous war when an honourable settlement can be arranged without disgrace?”

  Alexander grinned. “Who, indeed? And we all know there are no fools among the Kings in Christendom. I’ll wish you well then, brother.”

  It was later that same afternoon when Rob Bruce and his new friend returned to Turnberry after a long day of explorations and adventure. They had taken a boat that morning and rowed northward along the coast to one of Rob’s favourite spots, where a high cliff plunged down to a narrow strip of beach that was reachable only when the tide was ebbing. The entire face of the cliff was riddled with caves, the interior so honeycombed that once inside at beach level, an enterprising boy could make his way up to the very top by climbing from cave to cave without ever going outside. It was dangerous, because the tide below went out and came back quickly, leaving only a narrow space of time for entering and getting out again, and as the returning waves swept back, the lower levels were flooded with lethally swirling water.

  They had had almost two full hours in the caves that day because this was the season of what the fishermen called neap tides—the lowest that could occur—and they had beached their boat high and dry a hundred paces from where the cliff began, then made their way along its base to the entrance to the first cave. Rob could not remember ever having spent such a long time in there, and they had explored the caves extensively, though they found nothing of value. Merely being there, in peril from the incoming tide, had been adventure enough to satisfy them both, and they had judged their escape finely, scuttling like crabs along the base of the cliff until they reached the safety of the shelving bank beyond, with spuming breakers threatening to sweep the legs from under them over the last few scrambling yards.

  “We’ve got caves on Islay,” Angus Og said in a hushed voice when they were safely at the top of the sandy slope beside the upsweeping cliff. “But we’ve nothing like that. Our caves are just caves, and the biggest you ever get is three linked together. But this place … I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “There is nothing like it,” Rob answered, his voice equally quiet. “Nicol says it’s the kind of stone that makes so many caves possible. It’s soft and hard together, if you can imagine that, and the waves have just scoured out the soft bits and left the hard bits standing. Nicol says someday the whole thing’s just going to collapse, rotted from the inside out. I think I believe him, too. I just hope I’m not in there when it happens!”

  Angus Og was wide-eyed imagining it, and soon he began to giggle, flapping his arms as if to knock away the tumbling roofs and walls. His antics quickly had Rob laughing, too, and in moments both boys were rolling around and sobbing hysterically, hugging their sore ribs.

  They fished from the boat for the remainder of the day, and before they knew it their midday meal was a long-forgotten thing and they were hungry again and still five miles at least from home.

  Murdo the factor saw them as they reached the main gates and called them over to him. He asked them where they had been and then sent them back to haul the boat up beyond the tide line and to empty it and secure it properly. When he was satisfied that they had left everything in order, he dispatched them indoors by a side entrance to report to his wife. Rob went obediently, Angus Og tailing along behind him in silence, and Allie examined them both for cuts and dirt stains, then sent them off to the kitchens to be fed, warning them to behave themselves and to stay well away from the busy cooks and from the main body of the house, where the earl and countess were entertaining their royal guests.

  Rob had noticed that his friend had very little to say around grown men and women, even when they were as warm and friendly as Murdo and Allie and the other members of the countess’s household, and though he had been tempted to say something about it, he had wisely decided to keep silent. He sensed somehow that Angus Og’s upbringing among his forbidding father’s Islesmen had taught the boy to be wary of all adults. Rob had only ever felt that way himself on his infrequent visits to his paternal grandfather, Lord Robert Bruce of Annandale, but while he was there he felt that way all the time. The old man frightened Rob, even though he knew there was no reason for his fear, so he was prepared to accord the same tacit understanding to his quiet friend Angus.

  Freed again from the constraints of having to behave acceptably, the boys charged around the corner of the main house and raced directly for the kitchens, Rob in front and Angus Og hard on his heels. They were approaching the outer doors to the main house when they looked up and almost skidded to a halt, their eyes growing wide as they saw that they had almost hurtled full tilt into Someone Important.

  There were in fact two men before them. One of them, an armoured knight with a frowning face, had thrown out an arm as if to fend them off, and he snarled at them now, ordering them to get back. The other man, though, who looked older and was a full head taller than his companion, laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Let it be, my lord of Norfolk,” he said. “Wait for me inside.”

  The other looked at him askance, then shrugged and stepped through the open doorway, leaving the two boys gaping openly at the magnificence of the rich, white, heavily embroidered tunic that the man now facing them was wearing. Rob was squinting at the coat of arms on the broad chest, deciphering the elements of the red, gold, and blue escutcheon and racking his brains for what he had been told by his tutor about the premier coats of arms.

  “That’s the royal coat of arms,” Rob said in English to the tall man. “Are you the King of England?

  “I am,” Edward Plantagenet said evenly. “And who are you?”

  Rob felt himself flush, but he returned the monarch’s gaze steadily and spoke with confidence. “I am Robert Bruce, my lord,” he said. “Seventh of that name. This is my mother’s castle and they call me Rob.” He turned slightly, indicating his companion with a wave. “And this is my friend Angus, from Islay. His father is Angus Mohr.”

  “Ah, the new-named Lord of the Isles.” Edward nodded at the frowning boy. “I have met your father. Do you understand the honour accorded him today by King Alexander?”

  The young Gael gazed back at him, but there was not the slightest hint of awe in his look, and Edward pursed his lips in the begi
nnings of disapproval, but before he could say anything Rob spoke again.

  “Angus does not speak English, sir King.” He flicked a glance at his friend and added, “That’s why he looks so … unfriendly. He doesn’t know who you are and didn’t understand a word you said to him.”

  “But he does know about the honour extended to his father today, does he not?”

  “Aye, sir, he does. Murdo the factor told us about it just now.”

  “And is he proud of it?”

  The response came after a very slight hesitation. “I cannot answer that, my lord King. He and his father are … not close.”

  “I see.”

  Rob’s gaze did not flicker as he watched the English King meet Angus Og’s eye squarely, then nod graciously to the lad and turn directly back to Rob. “He does look … unfriendly. But now I understand why. How old are you, Robert Bruce?”

  Rob blinked. “I’m ten. I was ten yesterday. Halfway to being a man, my uncle Nicol says.”

  “More than halfway,” the English King replied. “Much more, I think, from the look of you.” He glanced again at Angus Og, who was still gazing stolidly at him. “A pity that your friend does not speak English. He should learn it someday.”

  Rob shrugged. “He might, someday,” he said, unconscious of any impertinence, and then he frowned. “Sir, I don’t know what to call you.”

  “Most people address me as sire.”

  Rob nodded slowly. “Aye, but they’re English and I am Scots. I would call King Alexander Your Grace if I met him, but not sire. We don’t call anyone sire in Scotland.”

  The English King cocked his head. “Does that mean you never have met the King?”

  Rob shook his head. “No, not yet. I was supposed to, on my birthday, when he arrived. But he was too busy.”

  “Call me my lord, then, and I will see to it that you do meet him. Have you ever been to England?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Your father has great lands there. Does he never visit them?”

  “No, my lord. Not much, anyway. They are my gransser’s lands—Lord Robert’s.”

  “Ah, Lord Robert’s. Of course. Well, one of these days your father the earl will come again to England—he attended my coronation, you know, with your lady mother—and I will tell him that when he does, he must bring you to visit me in Westminster. Would you like to see London?”

  Rob nodded solemnly. “Aye, my lord, I would.”

  “Then so you shall. But now I must go and join your parents. Where are you two going?”

  “To the kitchens, my lord.” Rob hesitated then, frowning again. “Can I ask you something else?”

  For a moment he thought the English King was going to smile, but he maintained a straight face and merely nodded. “You may.”

  “Why are you called King Edward the First? There were three other kings of England before you.”

  The King’s eyebrow shot up. “There were. That is true. I am wondering how you knew that.”

  “My tutor, Father Ninian, told me.”

  “I see. And did he tell you their names, these three former kings?”

  “Aye, sir, he did. Edwards three—the Elder, the Martyr, and the Confessor.”

  “All of them named, but none of them numbered. Did you ask why?”

  “I did, my lord, but Father Ninian didn’t know.”

  “It is very simple, young Bruce. The custom of numbering kings is a French one—a Norman one, in fact. I am the first king called Edward to rule in England since the days of my great ancestor the Conqueror William. Therefore I am Edward the First. The others you named were Anglo-Saxon Kings, the elden Kings of England, and hence they had no numbers to their names. Do you understand now?”

  Rob nodded, and the King of England waved a hand. “Excellent,” he said. “Go then, and sup well. We will speak again. Farewell.” He nodded kindly, including both boys in the gesture, and made his way inside the heavy doors, leaving them staring after him.

  “That was Edward Longshanks, the King of England,” Rob said quietly in Gaelic, his voice tinged with awe. “Did you see the height of him?”

  “Aye,” Angus Og said equally quietly. “What was he saying to you?”

  “He invited me to come and visit him in England, at his palace of Westminster in London.”

  Angus Og blinked in surprise. “Will you go?”

  “Of course I’ll go—if my da will take me. D’ye think me daft enough to say no? My da says London is bigger than Dunfermline and Perth together.”

  “He might keep you there,” Angus said, his expression dubious. “My da says there are too many Scots folk who go down there and never come back.”

  “That’s not true,” Rob said. “Who would want to stay down there anyway, among Englishmen? I’d surely come back if I went. But I want to see Westminster. Mam says there’s a church there that’s bigger than any other church in England or Scotland. Westminster Abbey, they call it.”

  “I’m starved.”

  “Me too. Race you to the kitchens.”

  Supper was long past, and by the rules of the Bruce household, Rob should have been safely abed hours earlier, but on those magnificent late July days in the year 1284, thanks to the gathering of so many distinguished guests and their retinues, there was nothing of the normal in effect within Turnberry Castle, and Rob and Angus Og had taken advantage of the general confusion to slip out of doors again almost as soon as they were sent to bed. No one saw them leave and none paid them any attention as they walked through the encampments for the lesser visitors. They wandered among the long rows of tents, listening to all there was to hear, and Rob was amazed by the range and variety of dialects and languages being spoken. Some of the conversations were incomprehensible to him, but all of them, save for the Gaelic of the Islesmen, were gibberish to Angus Og. Awash in the sea of foreign-sounding tongues, the two drifted without purpose, driven by their curiosity and gazing avidly at the heavy, gleaming armour and polished weapons of the soldiers and men-at-arms around their fires, none of whom were even aware of the gawking boys.

  In one spot between two separate encampments for horse and foot soldiers, men were gaming, pitting their skills against one another in contests ranging from wrestling to throwing horseshoes at iron spikes set in the ground, and the open spaces between the major contests were busy with smaller games involving dice, tossed coins, and bone tokens. The air was filled with raucous voices shouting and laughing, exchanging gibes and friendly insults and imprecations, and all too often, as bets changed hands, with jeers and bitter cursing that awed Rob with their range and fluency.

  It finally grew too dark for the horseshoe games to continue, and as the boys left the ordered lines of tents with their roaring fires, it was approaching the tenth hour of the night. In the west, silhouetted against the lingering light in the summer sky, the distant mountains of Arran were sculpted in black. Encouraged by the invisibility the coming darkness would afford, the boys were making their way towards the seashore, attracted by the distant, melancholy sound of bagpipes. They were off the common path, skirting a cluster of stunted, wind-bent hawthorn trees on a grassy knoll, when Rob, leading the way, found himself suddenly close to a fair-sized knot of men—all Gaels, wearing shawls and plumed bonnets—who appeared to be quarrelling among themselves, their raised voices muffled by the distant breaking of the waves on the beach at their backs. He reached out a hand to stay Angus Og, but before he could alert the other boy he felt a heavy hand clamp onto his shoulder.

  Rob twisted in the grip to look back. “Uncle Nicol!” he gasped in Gaelic, his knees threatening to give way. “I thought you were my da.”

  “Aye, I can see that. You’re as whey-faced as a caught thief. What are you up to?” Nicol MacDuncan had turned his nephew to face him and now stood with his arms folded over his chest. “You two should be abed long since. If anyone notices you’re missing, the earl will plant his boot firmly in your arse, my lad, as ought I.”

  Rob opene
d his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything he heard an angry curse and the sound of a heavy blow behind him, followed immediately by the rasping slither of a blade being drawn. He spun around, and what he saw was branded into his mind: two snarling men faced each other, one of them brandishing a long, bared dirk while the other tugged to clear a sword from the scabbard behind his shoulder.

  The dirk-wielder leapt forward, the thrust of his entire body behind the stabbing lunge, then seemed to stop in mid-leap as his blade hit the solid bulk of the swordsman’s breast. The stricken man gasped at the suddenness of it and his upper body hunched violently, his shoulders seeming to curve down and around the weapon that had pierced him. He stayed there, motionless, for several heartbeats, poised as if held up on the dirk’s hard blade. Then, his teeth bared savagely, eyes glaring in rage that swiftly changed to disbelief, he turned slowly, stiffly, sideways to face Rob, as though to show him the thing that was lodged in his chest. He teetered grotesquely and his face changed, going slack and empty as the high, extended fingers of his yet upraised hand released his unused sword. Unable to look away, Rob watched the weapon fall, its heavy hilt and guard sending it tumbling, spinning within its own length to strike the ground point first between the two men and lodge there, swaying.

  The murderer seemed appalled by what he had done, for he made no effort to pull his dirk free, merely releasing his grip on it as his victim turned away from him with the lethal blade protruding from his chest. The wounded man’s arm came down slowly, feebly, fumbling at the dirk’s hilt as though to grasp it and pull it free, but he had no strength in him by then. He made a gurgling sound in his throat and toppled forward, rigid as a tree, to hit the ground face down, driving the long blade home hard enough to punch clean through him.