The Honor Due a King (7 page)

“Selkirk or thereabouts. Wherever I’m needed. They’ll want retribution for this, Edward. You know.”

“You’ve months before the English will come north in full force again.” He grinned wickedly and slid his other hand through the straps of his targe. “For now, there are spoils for the taking.”

“I wager every man in town is armed.”

“Likely. If they’ve any sense, though, they’ll have sent their daughters elsewhere.” He glanced at me sideways. “And if
you’ve
any sense, Douglas, you’ll abandon thoughts of her. Aye, I know who’s caught your eye. I wasn’t in Melrose a day and it was as bloody obvious to me as the tail on a rat. And don’t think anyone else was blind to it. Robert is no more a saint than the rest of us, but you’re damned if you alter any of his plans and you, man, have stepped in the middle of one.”

“Plans?”

“Aye. Heard him talking to that nursling Walter Stewart the night before we left. Seems the bastard is to wed Marjorie before the year’s out. That would put a fat stretch of land in the royal holdings from Bute all the way to Lothian. Robert’s wise that way.”

I never knew if I should believe anything Edward Bruce said. But the news, whether true or not, left me momentarily numb. When we were gathered in anticipation of Bannockburn, I had heard Walter speak in passing of some agreement tendered between his father and Robert. But men say senseless things when they are staring at death. I thought nothing more of it than a lad’s wishful ramblings, for he had grown up with Marjorie on Bute and doubtless harbored some lingering affections for her.

But if,
if
it were true ... how long had Marjorie known of it?

As the weeks at Melrose had gone by, I found myself watching her, even as she passed at a distance on the other side of the courtyard, and wanting to be with her if it meant only standing next to her at Mass in a room full of people. The years had put a bloom on her and I was achingly aware of the curve where her neck met her shoulders and the easy smile that danced across her lips every time our eyes met.

None of it had gone unreturned. When we passed in the corridors, she had returned my glances, sometimes veering closer just to brush my elbow. At meals, her hand had lingered on mine when she passed me a cup of wine. One morning, I found her in the orchard, watching a pair of doves that were nestled wing to wing on the branch of an apple tree. We talked for hours that day. What began as a renewal of friendship had, in a very short time, blossomed into something more. Something undeniable. If Robert had not intervened ...

An infatuation. She worships you as a hero in her youthful innocence and you, good James, are intrigued by the change in her. Find yourself a wife more suitable than Robert’s daughter and fill your house up to the rafters with bairns
.
Forget her.

Somehow though, I could not convince myself I could do that.

Edward Bruce took a few steps back, grabbed at his mount’s saddle and leapt up. He leaned over and said lowly so that only I could hear, “Word of advice from one who knows of such matters: When it comes to women you can’t have, if you want to get under their skirts, wait until after they’re married. It’s that much more exciting and if anything ...” – he winked subtly – “
anything
unexpected comes of it, no one’s the wiser.”

God knows, Edward Bruce would never earn my confidence, but the man had peeled back a layer of my skin and left something of my soul exposed. I would go back to Edinburgh. I
had
to now.

Sim Leadhouse eased his pony close behind Edward and me. He cleared his throat and spat. “Day’s getting on.”

“It is, Sim.” Edward stared at me unnervingly.

Sword drawn, I climbed onto my saddle and gave the signal.

***

Edinburgh, 1315

W
hen Edward and I rode through the gates and into the courtyard at Holyrood Palace on the east end of Edinburgh, the whole place was abuzz. Barrels of ale and casks of wine were arriving from the port in carts to fill the cellar. Menservants, prodded along by a squawking seamstress, hoisted bolts of linen onto their shoulders. Highborn lords and ladies meandered, pausing to mingle with their equals and tipping their noses up at any churls who dared come too close.

We dismounted and I passed my reins to an eager stable groom.

Edward scraped mud from the heels of his boots on the cobbles and surveyed the goings-on. “I’d like to say this is all in celebration of our homecoming, but somehow I doubt so. God’s rotten teeth, this place is overflowing and smelling of armpits and manure. Is that ...?” Suddenly he ducked behind me, lowering his voice to a mumble. “Mother Mary, it
is
him. I should have veered off to Galloway when we passed by. Excuse me, but I need to disappear. I just saw someone who might still be a wee bit cross with me for a meaningless little dalliance I had with his sister.”

I looked about, but it was impossible to tell who among the crowd he was referring to. “When do you have time, Edward?”

“My good man, I
make
time for pleasures. And I recommend you do the same. Life is meant for living. Now, shouldn’t you go find her?”

We had not spoken any more of Marjorie since that morning several weeks ago outside Kirkwold. In fact, I had managed to ignore Edward quite well since then. He dashed behind a pair of sweating men, who were lugging slabs of salted meat on their backs, and disappeared just as he had promised.

I wove through the bustle of bodies and went up the steps into the hall. Being an unusually warm day for mid-February, the opportunity to air the hall of its sooty odor had been seized and the doors thrust wide. The floors had been scrubbed with copious buckets of vinegar water and the smell stung at my eyes. Already, they were bringing in fresh rushes and dried herbs to lay down.

“James!” Randolph called through the crowd, thrusting a hand above his head.

I made my way to him and we clasped hands heartily. There was something different about him ... Ah, his appearance. Gone were the sensible clothes and armored trappings of a soldier; they had been replaced by a statesman’s attire: a slate-colored tunic that hung to just above his ankles, its tight-fitting sleeves lined with buttons from wrist to elbow, and over it a dagged edge quintise of light blue.

I pointed to his tapering shoes. “Those look entirely impractical.”

“My wife,” he said, his lip curling ever so slightly, “has become quite enamored of court life and thinks I should look the part. The enthusiasm is not mutual, I assure you. This morning I tripped twice. Ah, but tell me, James. Did it go well? You’re unscathed, I hope.” He snapped his fingers at a passing cook and peeled off a list of items to be checked. Indignant, the cook gave answer that everything was in good order and strutted off.

“Sorry,” Randolph said, turning his attention back to me. “There is so much to do and people pouring in every minute, begging for lodgings. I recall, at no time, any of this ever being written among my duties. The queen attempted to oversee it all at first, but she hadn’t the stamina for it.”

“What’s this all for?”

“You haven’t heard? A betrothal. Walter Stewart and Marjorie Bruce, no less.” His smile brightened, while mine slipped away.

So it was true, what Edward said. I had wanted to believe it was only talk, that nothing would come of it. Or maybe that Edward was merely tormenting me for sport.

Randolph grasped my shoulder as if to steady me. “Are you all right, James? You look a bit down in the mouth.”

I rubbed at my back, feigning an ache. “Just in need of a bed, is all. I say you’ve too much energy.”

“Too many responsibilities, more like. I should learn to delegate. Perhaps you’d like to organize the menu? Then again, maybe not. You’d be content with watered ale, stale bannocks, and a pot of venison stew without so much as a pinch of pepper.” Randolph cuffed me on the side of the head hard enough to make my ears rings. “You’ll tell me about the campaign when you’re rested?”

“Aye, I will.”

“Good, I’d much rather hear how you sent the English running in fright than spend one more hour” – he waved a hand in the air – “overseeing
this
. Between the two of us, I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

I, however, could not say the same.

***

T
he feast celebrating the betrothal of Walter and Marjorie was a grand affair. In all my life, I had not seen the likes of it. Indeed, Scotland likely had not witnessed such extravagance since the times of King Alexander. It left one to wonder how much of a spectacle the wedding would be.

Trumpets blared as another course was laid upon the tables. Boyd conducted a
virelay
in mangled French. Tumblers stood upon each other’s shoulders and flipped themselves into the air to gasps of amazement, followed by rounds of applause.

The only time Robert and I had spoken since my return was at a meeting earlier that day, when I reported about the raid into northern England. Edward Bruce was there as well, but he was noticeably irritable and sporting a black eye. The whole time he said nothing, staring at Robert in an uncommon, brooding silence, with his feet tossed up on the table of the council chamber and his arms crossed tightly. After giving my report, I withdrew to lighter company, sharing my exploits with Randolph as promised.

As the guests ate themselves into a state of indigestion, the night wore bitterly on. When Robert raised his glass to the newly betrothed couple, I could not help but notice that Marjorie failed to smile or look at Walter when he snatched up her hand and kissed it.  She was dutiful, if not indifferent, while Walter was suffused with cheerfulness, dashing about the hall to receive compliments and congratulations.

Beside Robert, Elizabeth sat uninvolved, looking spent and frail, with barely a blush to her cheeks. Edward, imbued with the confidence found at the bottom of his cup, went from sullen to argumentative. Christina diplomatically buffered the exchanges that had begun to fly between Edward and Randolph, who unlike me, had never learned to shirk the younger Bruce’s malicious comments as simple arrogance.

“Oh, come,” Randolph began, as he flicked a ringed finger at the base of his goblet, “we would put ourselves in senseless peril by straying there and to what end? We’re threadbare in the middle as it is. We should tend to our own for now. Conquest is for the greedy.”

“But when you’re the object of that greed, nephew,” Edward Bruce said loudly, “you have to slam your aggressors at the back of the knees. Bring them down when and where they don’t expect it. In this case: Ireland. It’s been a base of English supply lines for far too bloody long. And once we have a foothold there ...” – he grinned to himself, nodding smugly – “it will be the beginning of the end to English rule
everywhere
.”

For a moment, Randolph was utterly speechless. He leveled an incredulous gaze squarely on Edward. “You’re mad.”

Edward pushed his chair back, his fists clenched before him. “Am I, then? Mad, you say, for thinking the Irish would have anything to do with us? Mad for thinking we could gain any future advantage from the venture? Is that what you say?” He slammed his fists on the table, rattling cups and bowls so that their contents splashed over their rims. “Is
that
what you say?!”

Christina, eyes closed, pressed herself against the back of her chair as her brother raged above her.

Serenely, Randolph held his uncle’s gaze. “I do.”

With a gloating smirk, Edward eased down into his chair. “Then perhaps you should share that sentiment with your king. The idea was his.”

Even though the musicians played on, the talk in the great hall of Holyrood had diminished to whispers. Edward snagged a passing servant and stole a flask of wine. After pouring his cup to overflowing, he did the same for his sister, who promptly departed from the table rubbing at a wine stain.

All eyes turned to Robert.

“We’ll speak of this tomorrow, Thomas ... Edward.” Robert held the flat of his palm upward to indicate to the musicians to change to a livelier tune. Then with the same hand he gestured for the tumblers to clear the floor. Robert gave Randolph a fleeting look that cautioned him to silence. “This is a joyful night, not to be sullied with prattle of politics or warfare.”

The soul-stirring drone of the pipes drifted on the air, notes rising, then undulating. The drummer thumped a languorous beat, the rhythm building to a brisk cadence. Robert rose from his seat and led Marjorie by the hand onto the floor. A peaked Elizabeth observed wistfully as more couples rushed forward to join in the ring dance. Soon, the fiddler’s bow danced over the strings to strike up a lively
rotundellus
. As Robert whirled his daughter about the floor, Marjorie glanced at me, her eyes swimming in sorrow.

I would rather have been jilted and seen her happy, than to think it even possible that she regretted this happening as much as I did.

***

N
igh on evening the next day, Randolph and I were walking slowly through one of the palace’s corridors. An hour ago in the great hall over cups of mulled wine, I had been sharing tales of my raids into northern England, but the talk had soon turned to Robert’s plans to send Edward on campaign to Ireland. Aware that we could too easily be overheard, we left the hall.

“Do you think,” I said, “that he is carrying this out merely to pacify Edward in some way?”

Hands clasped behind his back, Randolph paused beside a wavering torchlight and gazed at me sincerely in the half-darkness. “I’ve heard Edward say Scotland is not big enough for both him and Robert. And Robert would just as well prefer his contentious brother go elsewhere. We all would for that matter. But what is Robert to do with him? The plan is far-fetched, I agree. It gambles valuable resources and men that are needed here, particularly at our borders.”

Hearing footsteps around the corner, I lowered my voice. “Should this come to pass, where will it leave either of us?”

Randolph shook his head. “A hundred times I’d have given my life on Scottish soil, but I deign not to die in Ireland, God willing. Curse my loyal head, though, I’ll go where Robert sends me. But think not for a moment that I’ll go without protest.” He sighed and rubbed at bloodshot eyes. “Ah, I’m weary of thinking. Good even, James.”