Games of Otterburn 1388 (2 page)

Fitzhugh paused to figure the time. “Nigh two years, I reckon, Yer Majesty,” he said.

“Like to get married again… maybe,” returned King Robert glancing back out the window to the village below.

Fitzhugh was taken aback by the old man’s confession but held his reserved countenance for a moment then timidly asked, “Married?”

Robert sighed and mused on his erratic say. “Reckon I’d like the smell of a woman in my bed again… that might be it… might be,” he trailed off.

There was a silence hanging between the two men.

“Shall I…” started Fitzhugh.

“Nay!” interrupted Robert suddenly realizing his rambling mind had gone too far, “We’ll speak of this nay more.”

“Aye, Yer Majesty,” replied Fitzhugh appreciative of his liege’s intermission.

“Ye may go!” barked Robert trying to regain control of the room.

Fitzhugh paused in his exit, “Nigh forgot, Yer Majesty,”

Robert was making his way toward the smell of the hot bread. “What?”

“Yer son,” he said hoping the king would remember.

“What about my son?” asked Robert as he fell into the chair and drew himself close to the table of waiting food.
“And which son?”

“Carrick, Yer Majesty, Carrick is due here this day,” Fitzhugh said.

“What ye reckon that wee prig would be
a’wantin
’?” asked Robert as he pulled a pinch of bread from the loaf and began to eat.

“Message ne’er said what he wanted just that he was
a’comin
’ today,” reported the valet.

Robert continued to chew as he thought then said, “Do what ye must to receive him, naught more, ye ken?”

Aye, Yer Majesty… naught more,” came back Fitzhugh with a nod and a closing of the door.

It was along about mid-afternoon that James, King Robert’s tutor, had finished reading a classic tale of Greek poetry aloud and nodded off. Robert was staring at his long time confidant who was the first to suggest commissioning the poet Archdeacon John Barbour to create his epic poem about King Robert the Bruce to give creditability to the fledgling royal Stewart line. Certainly the Bruce lineage had played out with father then son David but there were in those days many more claimants sticking their ugly fingers into the pie of the Scottish monarchy that it made being king a messy business at best.

His dazed musings were interrupted by the appearance of Fitzhugh coming to the king’s chamber. The door was ajar so he merely announced his presence. “Yer Majesty?”

Robert turned to see through the opening.

“Fitzhugh?” said Robert. “What do ye want?”

“Carrick this way arrives,” announced the valet. “Be
comin
’ in the bailey gate ‘bout now.”

Robert who was dressed in the same clothing he had slept in nodded his approval. “Meet him in here, I will,” he added.

Fitzhugh glanced to the sleeping man.

“Let him sleep!” commanded the king.

The king’s guards threw wide the double gates to the castle’s bailey and fifty-one year old John the Stewart, Earl of Carrick and Guardian of the Kingdom sallied through with ten knights of his household entourage in tow. The craftspeople of the castle were lined to the task of welcoming the son of their liege to his home and cheered appropriately.

Fitzhugh bowed deeply as Carrick approached.

The king’s household staff bowed deeply, too.

John dismounted his great destrier and hobbled up the few steps to where Fitzhugh et al stood. His one leg was lame and stiff at the knee from a horse kick not long back.

“I presume my father is within,” said John abruptly.

“Indeed, Milord,”
groveled
Fitzhugh. “He awaits
ye
in the family quarters… I will escort
ye
up the steps.”

“I know my way,” said the Stewart pushing Fitzhugh aside and boldly walking into the vestibule of the familiar castle and up the two flights of stairs to the upper floor with the valet at his heels nervously nattering and inwardly worrying the king was going to punish him for letting the situation get beyond his hand.

At the top of the stairs John abruptly stopped and looked down at Fitzhugh.

“In his ‘quarters’, is he?”

Fitzhugh was wide eyes and swallowed hard. He paused to calculate the consequences of his possible answers then carefully lied, “The king sleeps.”

“And not to be disturbed, reckons me?” Stewart asked knowing the faithful servant was lying.

“Allow me to awaken my king, Milord… if ye would so please,” begged Fitzhugh looking for a way to get past the Stewart.

“Tell him I shan’t wait,” said John.

“I will tell him, Milord,” replied Fitzhugh, “please to
gi’e
him time to bathe the sleep from his eyes, Milord.”

John moved into the hall a bit to allow the valet to pass.

Fitzhugh squeezed through and went across the upper hall to the king’s room and knocked on the still ajar door.

“Come!” ordered the king as he could easily see his valet through the opening in the door from where he again stood by the open window.

Fitzhugh entered and bowed.

“Carrick here?” asked Robert abruptly.

“He is, Yer Majesty. Rude about his
comin
’, too, I might add,” he spouted quickly in a whisper hoping to not be blamed for the mishandling of John’s entrance. “Wants to see ye right away, he does… Right
!…
away!”

Robert grumped then asked, “Got him
coolin
’ his heels below?”

Fitzhugh panicked. “He is here… At the top of the stairs, he awaits, Yer Majesty!”

With that the wooden door creaked opened wide and John stood brashly betwixt its jambs. “Not asleep at all I see,” he said with a slight smile showing through his whiskers.

“Ye not wait to be announced these days… Guardian?” questioned Robert still at the barred window.

“Waited long enough, I did, father. No time for more,” was the reply.

“Mighty big hurry, I reckon,” said Robert.

Fitzhugh slipped past the two men and out.

John saw James the tutor drowsing comfortably in his chair, the book resting on his knees just beyond his gnarled fingertips.

“Reckon he’s the one yer man knew to be
sleepin
’,” he said sarcastically.

“I see yer army bivouacking yon along my burn,” said Robert peering out the window at the army of four hundred more or less knights, squires and followers pitching tents and building cook fires. “‘
Ppears
ye got plenty of time.”

“
Leavin
’ at first light,” said John as he hobbled deeper into the small room. “Stinks,” he commented.

“Slop pot in the corner, ‘tis,” replied Robert then adding, “Still crippled I see.”

John fell into the chair close to the table where the remains of Robert’s breakfast sat.

“
Eatin
’ regular?” remarked John.

“Come to inspect my
eatin
’ habits, have ye?” said Robert shuffling to his pallet against the wall and sat under the king’s shield… “Or is there
somethin
’ more to the upper part of yer mind ye want to tell me... son?”

John paused and cleared his throat.

Robert inwardly braced himself for bad news.

“I did not renew the treaty we had with the English,” said John at last.
“Too costly.”

Robert was silent for a while.

John waited for his father to give him a hint as to the next direction the talk would go.

Soon Robert soberly asked, “Ye
declarin
’ war on
England
, son?”

“Reckon,” remarked John. “Reckon that’s exactly what I’m
doin
’.”

James the tutor grunted and turned fitfully in his sleep but did not rouse to wake.

“
Ye’re
disturbin
’ the dead,” said Robert pointing to his sleeping friend but intending something far more meaningful.

“
Fife
is
agreein
’ with me. This hain’t
somethin
’ I’ve taken on by myself!” said John defensively.

“Aye,
ye’re
brother likes war but
ye’re
the Guardian. Ye should have better sense than to stir in war when it hain’t called for,” Robert advised.

“And what would ye have done, father? Ye who went to war at Neville’s Cross with Uncle David and ran off when the English showed up.” asked John moving aggressively to the edge of his chair.

“What do ye care what I think?” barked Robert ignoring John’s accusation regarding Neville’s Cross. “Ye who took open rebellion against
me
, yer own father, and have ripped
my
kingdom from
my
grasp.”

“We took it because…” John paused to gather his reasons.

“Don’t know the whys of it now, do ye
?…
My son,” interjected Robert spitefully.

John badly wanted to turn the conversation back onto the original reason he came and so announced, “
Fife
said we need to raid into northern
England
so as to get
London
to recognize
Scotland
as an independent nation… as it once was.”

“Ye back to
believin
’ the old tales about why the Bruce raided northern
England
?” asked Robert.

“Tales?” asked John.

“He raided because he got ransoms,” replied Robert. “He never got those damned English bastards in
London
to do
anything
they did not already want to do.”

“But they finally
ga’e
him peace and recognized him as king?” said John.

“One year ere his untimely death! One year he was at peace with the English,” growled the old king, “then they snatched it back like they were
playin
’ a
young’uns
 
game
.”

“I know that,”
lied
John.

“Then ye know the English are far more powerful than the Scotch. Ye should get on yer knees and beg for the return of that treaty ye shat on,” argued Robert with passion.

“We know what we’re
doin
’ father… We’ve had a talk with yer John Barbour in
Aberdeen
and he told us what
yer own grandfather
had done,” smirked John. “The Bruce
was
successful!”