The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (40 page)

“Hold you!” Percy stared at Bruce, his brows drawn into a deep furrow. “Your own King named you
forsworn
for coming to England? How can that be? You own lands here, as does he himself.”

“Aye, but there was more involved than meets the eye. There are two great houses in Scotland, dominating all others between them, and one of those is Bruce, so for Bruce to be absent from his crowning displeased the King greatly. And when we moved south to England, still without declaring fealty to him, he—or more likely his Comyn kinsmen—decreed that we had defected to England and forfeited our rights within his realm.”

“Why didn’t you take the oath and stay in Scotland?” Bigod sounded mildly perplexed.

“What, and forswear ourselves and our patrimony, John? Mouth allegiance to a man I know to be less able than my own grandsire, whose rightful crown he wears? The oath would have been insincere, and Bruce does not deal in lies. That was my grandsire’s watchword throughout his life, and no man doubted him. I intend to follow his example.”

“But Balliol
is
King there, declared so legally, at Norham. Do you dispute Edward’s judgment and the verdict of the auditors?”

Bruce grinned at him, shaking his head. “No, not the verdict— merely the tenor and good sense of it. But then I am a Bruce, and I believe my grandsire had the better claim, besides being the better man. That’s why we are here in England, John. We consider our fealty to Edward to be of greater import than our loyalty to Balliol and the Comyns. For make no mistake, the Comyns rule in all but name in Scotland nowadays, and John Balliol is closely bound to them by ties of blood and marriage.”

“But what of the realm, your loyalty to Scotland?” Bigod asked.

There was no trace of humour in Bruce’s reply. “What realm? England is a realm, John, in the true sense of the word. A realm needs a strong king—a powerful leader whom all men will gladly follow to the death in that realm’s cause if need arises. There is none such in Scotland today. The land is ruled by one dominant house nowadays and that house dictates to all the others. Some are content with that. Others not so. But as things stand there is no place in Scotland today for Bruce to live and prosper without bending the knee to Comyns everywhere. The sole alternative would be rebellion and civil war.”

Percy grunted, bored with the topic. “So what did Balliol do then, when you came south?”

“Exactly what I would have expected him to do. He gave the oversight and governance of my grandsire’s holdings in Annandale— though they were in truth my father’s by then—and of my own earldom of Carrick to a royal kinsman, the Comyn Earl of Buchan. He did not grant them outright ownership, but they hold them none the less, albeit in the King’s name.” He gave a half-smothered, ironic chuckle. “Comyns running Bruce estates … We Bruces have never loved the Comyn breed, nor they us.” He raised an eyebrow at Percy, then added, “You met one of them when he came to Westminster with Bek, you might recall, when we were there the last time. Came down with him from Scotland, that day he rode in with Robert Clifford in tow, what was it, six years ago? The heir to the Red
Comyn lordship of Badenoch. There are two branches of the Comyn family, the senior being the Red Comyns of Badenoch and the lesser the Black Comyns of Buchan.”

“I remember him,” John Bigod interjected. “Didn’t like him, either. An arrogant whoreson.”

“Aye, that’s a family trait, I’m told. Anyway, his people now hold our lands in Annandale and Ayr, and so we—my father and my family—lived in England, at my grandsire’s estate of Ireby in Cumberland, until the King dispatched me to Ireland and the court of Richard de Burgh. And there I spent the entire year, in the wilds of Ulster, while Comyns ruled my earldom and collected my rents. It is … isolated over there. The Welsh rebellion was stamped out before I ever heard about it, let alone was able to take part in it.”

“Don’t fret over that,” Percy said. “You were fortunate. Bigod and I were there, and it was no fit place for any man of honour. No glory to be had in Wales—nothing but filth and treachery, bloodshed and bitter hatred and the constant threat of pestilence. But while that sorry tale was being spun, the south here was almost wholly stripped of fighting men. And knowing that, malcontents everywhere believed themselves at liberty to live like their betters. There have always been outlaws in the forests—hard, broken men—but while we were away in Wales they grew bolder everywhere, even here, this close to London. Some of them became a public menace here in Essex, making free with the local people, looting, raping, and murdering.

“When we came home from Wales at the end of April, the entire countryside around London was in chaos. Townspeople hid behind their walls, not daring to go out for fear of being robbed and killed. Edward was furious—never seen him so angry—and sent out groups in all directions—us under de Valence of Pembroke here in Essex— to scour the land free of the vermin. We’ve been harrying their nests now for more than a month.” He waved a pointing thumb towards the distant oaks. “These were the last of them left organized. We caught up with them yesterday. Of course they knew we were
coming by then and most of them scattered into the deep woods. These few here were the diehards. And die hard they did.”

Bruce blinked, rattled by the mention of the Earl of Pembroke’s presence nearby. It was de Valence’s own granddaughter, the beautiful and willing Gwendolyn de Ferrers, who was lustfully awaiting Bruce’s return to camp that night, and he felt a chill run over him as he imagined the old earl’s vengeful fury should he ever suspect such a thing. He could not conceal his reaction or the involuntary frown of concern it brought, but he managed to disguise its origins by glowering at Percy and asking, skeptically, “And you did all this with forty men-at-arms and four knights?”

“And a score of archers. But no, we were more than that. Our group here is but the smallest of three. There’s a larger group under Pembroke himself—de Bohun’s among them, which might surprise you—conducting a sweep north of here, and a third force, larger again, commanded by Antoine La Pierre, one of Pembroke’s Frenchmen, is scouring our perimeters, mopping up the escapees …” He paused, almost squinting at Bruce. “Were you jesting? Do you really have women with you?” He laughed. “Of course you do. Why would I even bother to wonder?”

Bruce nodded absently, ignoring the jibe as he considered what he had been told. “Where are you going now?”

“To our rallying point, to meet up with Pembroke’s force. They should be coming in later today. Might even be there now, depending on what they encountered to the north. de Valence chose the spot himself, a hamlet on the main London road, with open land, fresh water, and good grazing nearby. It’s not far from here, about two miles north, along the riverbank. Why d’you ask?”

“Because I
do
have ladies here, and I should rejoin them—and no, Harry, I cannot take you with me. That would be … indelicate, shall we say. I have a camp set up for them on my lands and have promised them a day of hunting tomorrow. It came to me, though, that I should see my guests fed and comfortable—they are well chaperoned and guarded, for despite my own unarmoured state I’m not completely irresponsible. Then later, when I am satisfied that all
is well with them, I would like to join you by your campfire. Would that be acceptable?”

Bigod smiled wolfishly. “Aye, but far more so were you to bring the women with you.”

Percy smiled, too, but waved Bigod’s comment aside. “Into an armed camp, he means, to be frightened out of their wits by the sights and smells of half-wild men who have been campaigning for more than a month. But come yourself, by all means. We’ve an unweaned pig roasting on a spit—the unintentional gift of some farmer who failed to keep it carefully penned—so don’t eat before you come, and don’t waste any time. Your ladies will still be there when you get back, no?”

Bruce nodded, amused. “Yes, they will. They will await my coming. And so I’ll leave you to your departures. Two miles from here, you say? And I’ll find you if I stay close to the river?”

“Humphrey will be there by then,” Percy said, his teeth flashing in a savage grin. “So even if you can’t see our fires, you’ll hear de Bohun.” He stretched out his hand in farewell. “Until tonight, then.”

“Is that right? Ye’re goin’ back there this nicht, to their camp?”

Thomas Beg’s question brought Bruce out of the reverie in which he had been riding, and he looked around him, surprised to see that they were approaching the base of the low hill on which his people had set up their camp and would be there in a matter of minutes.

He nodded. “I am, for a while.”

“An’ whit aboot the lady?”

Bruce fought the urge to grin at the brusque impertinence of the question, which implicitly dismissed three of the four women they were riding to rejoin.

“What about her?” No point, he knew, in trying to dissemble.

The big man scowled. “She’ll no’ be happy gin ye up an’ awa, an’ her lookin’ tae spend the nicht wi’ ye.”

“She’ll wait,” he answered, still resisting the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. “She has no choice. Besides, I’ll be gone
but a few hours and the matter’s important. My need here is greater than her ladyship’s, I fear.”

“Aye. Tell
her
that. Better you nor me.”

Now Bruce did grin. “I will, Thomas, never fear. I wouldna ask you to do that.”

“No, an’ a good thing, too, for I’d hae nothin’ to do wi’ it.”

Bruce barked a laugh, marvelling again at the difference between Scots and Englishmen. None other among his people in Essex would ever dare to use such a tone to any of their so-called betters, let alone voice such questions and demand answers to them. The Scots, though, were vastly different in that respect—sternly intolerant of human foibles, without regard for rank or person. They might accord a nobleman the respect of a title, but only if they thought the man had earned it. They had no tolerance for bending the knee unwillingly or for paying lip service to a fool even if he was a titled fool. And they had no reluctance at all about cutting a fool’s pretensions down to size.

Wee Thomas had earned every scrap of the authoritative familiarity that permitted him to take issue on occasion with his employer’s behaviour. The giant man had been the younger Bruce’s shadow—bodyguard, trainer, escort and confidant—since the day the earl had committed the twelve-year-old boy to his care. Thomas Beg had been eighteen then, young for such a responsibility, but he had accepted it wholeheartedly, and since then the two had been apart only during Bruce’s two-year sojourn in Westminster, training for knighthood in the royal household.

He spoke again. “So yon was Percy.”

It was not a question, but Bruce treated it as though it had been. “It was. Sir Henry Percy, Baron of Alnwick and grandson of John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey. And with him another of the boyhood friends you’ve heard me talk about—Sir John de Bigod, no title, but firstborn nephew to the Earl of Norfolk. A third one, Humphrey de Bohun, heir to the earldom of Hereford, will join them tonight. He’s riding with de Valence of Pembroke, whom Edward
charged with stamping out the bandits they hanged today. Those fourteen were the last of them, Percy said.”

“Ye dinna like
him
, do ye?”

“Who? de Bohun or de Valence?”

“De Valence. I’ve heard ye say as much.”

“Hmm. I don’t know the man at all, other than by name and repute. He’s French and unfriendly and he’s never given me a single nod of recognition, but he’s well respected, if not well liked. He’s one of Edward’s oldest allies, too. Fought with him at Acre. It’s his son, Aymer, I don’t like, but he’s not here, or Percy would have said so.”

Thomas Beg harrumphed and pulled his horse to a halt, facing Bruce directly. “Right then,” he said, his jaw set pugnaciously. “Three good friends, no’ seen in a long time. But ye’ve a woman waitin’ for ye. What makes
them
mair important than her, this minute? I’ve never seen ye choose the company o’ a man ahead o’ a willin’ woman.”

“It’s about information, Tam,” Bruce said, nudging his horse into movement again, and the big man swung his mount again to ride by his side. “I need the latest word on what’s happening, here and in Scotland, and I’ll get more truth out of de Bohun and Percy and Bigod in an hour than I’d get from anyone else in England in a month. They won’t even know I’m pumping them. But I need to know what Edward has in mind these days regarding Balliol and his supporters. I haven’t been invited to Westminster since I came down from the north, and Edward barely spoke ten words to me at my grandfather’s funeral. I don’t know what I’ve done to displease him this time, apart from having been born in Scotland—and now that I think on it, that’s probably reason enough. He has troubles uncounted up there, I’m told. But then it never was hard to make Edward Plantagenet glower, so who can tell what’s displeasing him from day to day?”

He shrugged. “For all that, though, these men are the best friends I have. They’ve been fighting in Wales for the past year and more and they’re as much in favour with the King as I am out of it, it
seems. So that leaves me with two options that I can see: to dally for pleasure with a woman tonight, or to spend that same time on an opportunity to find out what’s really happening in the world. Sad that I can’t have both, but there it is. My friends will be gone come daybreak.”

“Fine. But now I think it wad be better for me just to ride in by mysel’ an’ tell the lassie ye’ve been detained by the Earl o’ Pembroke, on the King’s business. She’ll no’ be able to get vexed ower that. An’ forbye, if you turn back now ye’ll reach their camp damn near as soon as they do. Then later on I can go up there and tell ye ye’re needed here.” He saw the indecision in Bruce’s eyes and cocked his head. “It’s aey easy to come back and say ye’re sorry ye was detained, but ye might look like a fool was ye to ride a’ the way in there just to say ye had to go back again, when ye could hae stayed where ye wis i’ the first place and done what ye had to do.”

Bruce grimaced, unable to refute the simple, terse logic in that, but then he looked down at himself and shook his head. “I’m unarmed, Tam—dressed for womanizing.”