The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (19 page)

Rob turned with his father to look more closely at the approaching men and felt a swift rash of gooseflesh on his nape as he saw that Nicol was right. The riders had an undeniably martial look about them, and the banners they bore were the chivalric pennons of the House of Bruce, pennons normally unseen in times of peace. The man at their head was Sir James Jardine, one of the old lord’s staunchest followers, and he wasted no time in pleasantries beyond a stern nod of recognition.

“You are expected, Earl Robert, but your faither has grave need of you. You are to come with me at once.”

“What’s wrong, Sir James?”

“It’s no’ my place to say, Earl Robert. The Bruce will tell ye that himsel’. Best no’ keep him waitin’. Come awa.” He rowelled his horse brutally and wrenched it around to face the fortress in the distance, and the beast took off with a whinny of outrage, leaving the rest of them with no choice but to follow at the gallop.

The level of activity in and around the fortress increased alarmingly as they approached, with parties of mounted riders suddenly erupting from the main gates like angry bees and swarming down the sloping roadway to the plain, where they dispersed rapidly, one grim-faced group of ten passing the Bruces with hardly a glance as they rode on up the hill and along the road towards Berwick.

They followed Sir James through open gates into the main courtyard to find it seething like a nest of ants, people scurrying in all directions and an air of tension and excitement everywhere. Earl Robert paid no attention to any of it, but swung down from his
horse, dropped the reins to the ground, and strode towards the tower doors that hung open on their huge hinges. Rob followed close on his heels, aware that Nicol MacDuncan had not dismounted and was staying behind with the others of their party.

The vast hall beyond the doors was only slightly less crowded than the yard outside, but in the sparse light that penetrated the gloom from the open doors and the few tiny windows above them, Rob saw that the half score of heavy black oak tables that normally filled the room had been dragged aside to clear the central space, evidently to accommodate the mass of men he suspected had been in here only a short time earlier. One man, his grandfather’s factor, Alan Bellow, stood alone by the far wall, glowering down at a scroll he held open in his hands. He raised his head to them and nodded curtly. Earl Robert nodded back, but he did not stop moving forward.

“Where is my father?”

“I’m in here!” Lord Robert’s voice came from the room he referred to as his den, as though it were the lair of some wild beast. Rob had always thought the name appropriate. It was a dark, deep, and surprisingly spacious cubicle under the broad stairs that soared up to the floors above. Permanently lit with racks of thick, stubby candles mounted in sloping iron holders, its rear wall, a sweep of solid stone, was hung with the cured pelts of animals, mainly bears, wolves, and wildcats. One great hanging rack of tanned and worked deer hides served to divide the den into two parts, the nethermost of which held a chimneyed brazier. This room, Rob knew, was where his grandfather spent most of his time, tending to the affairs of his lands and their swarming folk at all hours of the day and night.

The old man had not raised his head as he shouted, but stood looking down at his work table, his body bent forward as he tapped the point of his dagger on a parchment that lay there, its corners weighted by four fist-sized smoothly polished stones. Rob recognized the pose and the dagger, for the latter was never far from Lord Robert’s hand and he invariably used it as a pointer whenever he was deep in thought.

The earl stopped in the doorway, as though reluctant to disturb his father. The old man glanced up at him and beckoned him inside, and he stepped through the open doorway. Rob hesitated, unsure whether he should follow or wait, and his grandfather’s eyebrows rose as he caught sight of him.

“Robert? Is that you? You’ve grown.”

“Good day to you, my lord.”

His father half turned and waved him away.

“No,” Lord Robert growled. “Let him stay. He’s a Bruce, and if he’s not grown now he will be after this. Close that door and listen, both of you. Sit down, Robert.”

Rob moved quickly to close the heavy door at his back as his father seated himself.

“What’s amiss, Father?” the earl said. “Where is everyone going? We must have passed thirty riders on the way up.”

“More than that. They went out by both gates, front and back, to raise my host, and I’ll need you up and away to Turnberry, too, as soon as may be, to turn out your own men.”

“To turn out—? In God’s name, Father, what has happened?”

“God’s work, though some might gauge it otherwise. The Queen is dead … The lass from Norway. I had the word but hours ago, direct from Dunfermline, two horses killed in the bringing of it.”

“But … But—” The news was so staggering that neither of the younger Bruces could accommodate it. “But the treaty … Birgham … It’s but newly signed … ”

“Aye, and all of it a waste of time. Man’s plan, God’s decree. Now we have to move, and quickly.”

“Are you sure, Father?”

“Sure of what? The tidings? Or the need for haste?” There was an impatient edge to the old man’s voice.

“The Queen’s death.”

“As sure as I can be. The word arrived in Dunfermline mere days ago, and by sheer chance the Stewart was there. As soon as he heard of it, he sent the tidings on to me, bidding me look to myself.”

The Earl of Carrick braced himself. “And what
was
the word?”

“Unclear, but a sudden sickness at sea, in foul weather between here and Norway. They put in at Orkney and the child died there. Nothing anyone could do to save her. They sent word to Dunfermline, to the council, and then turned back to take the body home to the wee lass’s father for burial.”

“And now you are doing what, precisely?”

The elder Bruce’s face was stony, his fierce eyes focused upon his son’s. “Looking to my interests—and yours, and his,” he said, lifting his chin towards Rob. “And thanking God I was here when the word arrived.”

“What difference would it have made had you not been?”

Annandale glared at his son in astonishment. “You ask me that? What
difference
? In Christ’s name, boy, are you besotted? You see what’s at stake, surely?”

“No, Father, not as clearly as you evidently do. What
is
at stake?”

“The
realm
, in holy Jesu’s name! The Queen is
dead.
Are you addled, boy? See you not what this means?” His eyes flicked to Rob. “Do
you
see it?”

Rob nodded. “Aye, sir. There’s no other heir in direct line. The closest is yourself and … Lord Balliol.”

“Exactly! The House of Bruce stands next in line for the throne, and Balliol comes second. But Balliol has the Comyns at his back to enforce his claim, thousands of them, and all drooling at the mouth at the thought of having the kingdom fast in their claws. We have but ourselves and a few loyal supporters—James the Stewart and the Earls of Fife, Lennox, and Mar, but that will be to our advantage, gin we move hard and fast. The Balliols will no’ have heard the news yet, and once they do, they’ll dither and debate. John Balliol was ever loath to make decisions. If his mother Devorguilla was still alive, things would be different, but as it stands the Lord of Galloway will seek guidance from others, and that will give us a few days.”

“A few days to do what, sir?”

The question earned Rob’s father a look of fleering scorn. “To be decisive, sir! To
move
. To stake our lawful claim to what is ours by right of blood and birth.” Again the pale blue eyes beneath the bushy
eyebrows returned to his grandson. “There is a council called at Scone—has been for months—to convene eight days from now, a gathering of the Guardians of the realm, meant to arrange the coronation and the wedding after it. We need to be there early, and in strength, for our own protection. The place will be awash with Comyns, from Buchan and Badenoch and the whole northeast. They’ll move to consolidate themselves as they foregather, and so we have to beat them to the mark. If we fail, if we are lax or tardy, they’ll steal the throne from under our noses and leave us begging for scraps despite the strength and rightness of our claim.”

Rob understood exactly what his grandfather meant and he felt his insides clench with excitement, so he could not quite believe his ears when his father continued to demur.

“Do you not think it might be better to wait, Father? If you move too quickly, too strongly in the wake of this tragic news, you could convey the wrong impression.”

The old man straightened up and slid his dagger back into its sheath without looking, the movement perfected over decades of repetition. “Wait?” he asked, his voice ominously quiet. “You would have me
wait
? Balliol and the Comyns would laud you for those words. Wait for what, to lose everything? Look at me, man. I am seventy years old and I have the strongest claim to the kingship in this entire realm. If I wait, I lose my chance—and you lose your crown. Aye,
your
crown, I said, for it is yours by right. If I fail in this, you fail, and young Rob fails with both of us.

The earl studied the floor, and then looked up at his father. “What, then, would you have me do?”

“I told you. Ride for Turnberry and raise your men, then bring them to join me at Scone. I will take the Stirling road and will watch out for you. How many men can you raise?”

The earl shrugged. “Sixty, I would say, perhaps seventy within a day. The more days I had, the more men I could raise. When will you leave?”

“The day after tomorrow. I’ll be on the road by dawn.”

“Fine, then. If you can provide me with fresh horses, I can be in Turnberry by tomorrow forenoon and I’ll have the word spreading as far and as fast as may be. It’ll take the next day, at least, to assemble and supply everyone … How many men will you have?”

“Of my own, five hundred, give or take a score. The lairds of Annandale will come to me—Bruces and Johnstones; Jardines, Kirkpatricks, and Herrieses; Dinwiddies, Armstrongs, and Crosbies. At fifty men apiece, a piddling number, there’s four hundred already, forbye a round hundred of my own Lochmaben folk. But the Stewart will send his people out to join us, even if he canna come himself, and so will MacDuff of Fife and Domhnall of Mar, so we should number a good thousand, and mayhap half as many again, by the time we get to Scone. Suffice to do what needs to be done and to guarantee we’ll no’ be murdered in our cots.”

Rob had listened to the familiar Annandale names roll off his grandfather’s tongue, recognizing each one as it came, from family lore. These were the descendants of the men who had followed the very first Lord Bruce into Scotland, and they had settled here, never to leave the service of the Bruce family. Fiercely loyal with a feudal devotion seldom to be found beyond their dale of Annan these days, they were proud people and ferocious warriors in defending their own.

“So be it,” his father said. “I’d best be away, then, if we’re to catch up to you before you reach Stirling.”

Annandale crossed to open the door and lead them out, beckoning his waiting factor. “Fresh horses for Earl Robert,” he instructed, but then stayed the fellow with an upraised hand. “How many men will you take with you?” he asked his son.

“There are two and thirty of us.”

“Hmm. I doubt we have that many horses left. Do we, Alan?” The factor grimaced.

“We hae ten, I ken that. But I wouldna be willin’ to swear beyond that.”

“Well, that takes care of your escort. Take your nine best men and leave the others here.”

“I’ll take eight. Rob will need a horse, too.”

“No, Rob will stay here and travel wi’ me. It’s time he and I came to know each other. Away wi’ you now, quick as you can, and we’ll be watching for you by Stirling.”

The sun broke briefly from between massed banks of heavy, rainfilled clouds as Rob stood on the knoll that protected the fortress’s main gates and watched his father’s small force dwindle into the west. He thought about the name he had so recently overheard applied to his grandfather. The Noble Robert. He had always been aware of his grandfather’s nobility. Now he realized, it had been the nobility of birth and lineage that he had acknowledged, whereas the title he had heard used a mere hour before had been of another nature altogether. The knights of Annandale were dour, blunt men with scant regard for the pretensions of the world beyond their valleys, and courtesy of any kind meant little to them. Tempered by the harsh realities of life in their rough countryside, they had no time for the proprieties of courtly behaviour in faraway places, and titles meant nothing to them. They gauged a man by what he did and what he was, and they were scornful, to a man, of titles and honours that were conferred by kings and not earned by merit. And yet the manner in which he had heard them refer to his grandfather as the Noble Robert had been completely lacking in either irony or condescension. The title had been used respectfully. It had emerged with the ease of long and proper usage and with all the dignity of great regard. And it occurred to Rob that there must be a great deal more to his forbidding grandfather than he had ever suspected.

As his father’s party dwindled into the distance, they were replaced by newcomers arriving from widely differing directions, some alone, some in groups. He turned and looked back at the great bulk towering behind him, idly wondering whether he would see his grandfather again before they set out in two days’ time. Even as he turned again to look back down the hill, the first of the approaching riders had reached the road leading up to the summit, and he knew that Lord Robert would be far too involved with his own plans to have time to spare for an inconvenient grandson. Unsure whether he
ought to be relieved by that, he moved away in search of Nicol MacDuncan, hoping that his uncle would help him while away what promised to be a long and barren afternoon. He had seen no one even close to his own age since his arrival in Lochmaben, but even had the place been swarming with young people, he would have been too preoccupied with his own concerns to approach them. Nicol, he knew, would find plenty of things to occupy both of them for as long as was necessary.