The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (44 page)

Percy sat staring across the fire at Bruce, nodding slowly. “So you have never met the girl?”

“Never met her, never seen her. She exists, that’s all I know. Clearly, though, my father seeks to make the old man’s dream a reality, if he has gone to the trouble to bring her to England.”

“Aye, and to involve the goodwill of the King in the matter. That bespeaks long consideration.”

Bruce sighed, thinking wistfully about the other long-considered matter of the woman who would not, after all, be sharing his bed that night. “Aye, it does … ” He glanced to where Thomas Beg stood waiting. “I should be away, then, for I can see by my man’s stance that he is impatient to be on the road.”

“How long will it take you to get home?”

“Not long. We have about eight miles to ride … Two hours in the dark? But I had better change into my armour. May I use your tent?”

“Of course,” Percy said with easy grace. “It should be ready by now.”

“Mine certainly is,” Bigod intervened. “And it’s closer. I’ll have your horse brought up from where you left it.”

“My thanks. I will.” He beckoned to Thomas Beg to join him, and they made their way to Bigod’s tent, leading Tam’s mount and the armour-laden packhorse.

“What did you do with the women?” Bruce asked as soon as they were inside the tent.

“Sent them on to Writtle. They’ll hae been there afore it got dark. They werena happy, but they could see for theirsels what had happened. Lord Bruce’s courier arrived no’ long after me. It’s Sir James Jardine, an’ ye ken what he’s like.”

Bruce nodded, his mouth twisting wryly. He recalled the grim, unsmiling Annandale laird clearly. Jardine had been one of the Noble Robert’s most loyal vassals, and he had evidently transferred his loyalty to the old man’s son when the younger Bruce assumed the lordship, but his personality was less than sparkling. Bruce could not recall ever having seen the man smile and could not imagine him finding humour in anything.

“He wasna pleased to find you no’ there when he reached Writtle,” Tam continued. “And that didna improve when ye werena in camp, either, by the time he got there. He’d had a hard time findin’ the place, an’ he made no secret o’ what he was aboot, either, so the whole camp heard him and kenned what was afoot, and it wis plain there wis naethin’ else for us to do but pack everything up and leave. The ladies wis disappointed, but they went wi’out a fuss. Jardine went back to Writtle wi’ them and I told him I’d hae you there, too, as soon as I could collect ye. Oh, an’ the lady sent ye this.” He reached into his scrip and pulled out a folded sheet of fine vellum, shaved to the point of semi-transparency and sealed with a blob of plain wax. Bruce took it and carried it to the nearest light, where he flicked the seal open and scanned the short note.

It seems we are not meant to enjoy each other. A courier brings word that your wife-to-be will arrive tomorrow. I wish you both well. Someday, perhaps, we may meet again and begin again.

No names, no signature. He sniffed, aware of a small feeling of regret, and that it was overshadowed by a small, growing excitement over what the morrow might bring. Tam was watching him, and he held the letter up to the flame of the lamp, holding it there until it caught, then watching it burn, twisting the parchment until the written portion had been completely consumed. He held it until he was in danger of burning himself, then dropped the last, still-burning fragment and ground it under his foot.

“Right,” he said. “Help me get dressed.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

NATURAL WRATH

B
ruce and Wee Thomas arrived home in the darkness before midnight, when the moon was still high in the sky among a sparse scattering of clouds. They had expected to find the lights all out and the household fast asleep, but instead they saw the place lit up from a mile away, its square tower still visible against the green-tinged lightness of the western sky, and the sight of the unusual brightness glowing through the night from such a distance reminded Bruce that the place was astir with guests and visitors who would have set the place in turmoil, since no one had expected anyone to return from the festive hunting trip for at least another two days. He turned in his saddle to look at Thomas Beg and found the big man watching him, clearly waiting for him to say something. And so, being Bruce, he said nothing. But Tam was not to be put off.

“They’re up late,” he said, his voice hovering somewhere between disapproval and pleasure.

Bruce shrugged. “Not really surprising, if you think on it. You said the women would arrive back here before nightfall, and the sun set less than three hours ago. And they would have been tied to the pace of the lame jennet. We’ve made more than twice the speed they would, but even so, they’ll barely have had time to eat, for Allie would be scandalized to send them to bed with naught but a cold, scant supper. So they might still be at table.”

“A bit late for that,” Tam said, and then his voice brightened. “But that means hot food for us, too.”

Bruce grinned. “Aye, it might, provided someone said we’d be coming after them. Somebody as kind and considerate of others as Sir James Jardine … ”

Even in the moonlight he could see Thomas Beg frown as he thought of that, and then the big man kicked his horse into a canter, the words “Better get there while it’s still hot, then” drifting back over his shoulder.

The household was not quite at table when they arrived; the female guests were being shown to their accommodations by Bruce’s harried staff, and the outer yard was bustling with activity as servants loaded the bulk of the ladies’ baggage onto carts and wagons in preparation for an early departure in the morning. Bruce had seen the Lady Gwendolyn de Ferrers as soon as he stepped into the house. She had been going upstairs and turned to him, and he was glad to see that the swift smile she sent him was open and free of resentment. He would have been unsurprised had she withered him with a scathing sneer, and he was grateful for her forbearance.

“My lady,” he called as she began to turn away, surprising himself since he had had no thought until that moment of approaching her. She stopped, as did her companions, and then she moved slightly closer, to the low wall edging the stairs, looking down at him with one hand laid on the decorative stone hand rail that topped the coping stones. Only then, as she looked down at him with that same gentle smile, did he realize how ill prepared he was for this encounter. He had removed his helmet on dismounting and now carried it upside down in the crook of his arm, its bowl stuffed with his riding gauntlets; he had also pulled off the mailed coif, flinging it carelessly across one cloaked shoulder as he scrubbed at his matted scalp with his free hand. Now, looking up at the lushly beautiful young woman above him, he imagined he could see himself through her eyes, awkward and clumsy, unwashed and unkempt and reeking pungently of sweat—his own and his horse’s— and the ingrained stink of oily, leather-lined chain mail and rancid gambeson. The thought made him flush with embarrassment.

“Madame, I must ask you and your companions to forgive me for my neglect of you and for the disappointment I have caused you all—”

He stopped as she raised a hand to silence him.

“My lord Bruce,” she said, her voice low pitched yet carrying clearly to all who listened, “you have no reason to apologize to anyone. Our lives are all dictated by conditions and circumstances that we can seldom control. Yours is clearly no exception. The Earl of Pembroke summoned you, and you had no choice but to obey. Tonight Sir James has told us of your betrothal years since, and of how tomorrow you will set eyes for the first time upon the lady who is to be your wife. We all are glad for you, Earl Robert, and wish you well. And—” She grinned a sudden, wicked grin and turned to eye her companions, inviting them to join in her banter, “we will all be gone again from here long before she comes, lest she should think she has competitors to fear. And now, sir, may God be with you this night and we will leave you to your duties, in the hope of meeting you again someday, with your lady wife.” She smiled again and raised a hand in farewell, then glided up the stairs, already deep in conversation with one of the other women.

Bruce stood blinking at their backs, nonplussed by the thought of the scowling Annandale knight speaking to them at all, but then he shook his head as though to clear it and made his way into the main hall. He was confident that his path would cross hers again someday and next time, he was determined, they would enjoy settling the business that lay unfinished between them.

His musings were cut off by the sight of Sir James Jardine, still seated at one of the large tables in the hall and gazing at Bruce as he entered. There was no one else of consequence around—several men and women from the household staff were clearing away the debris of the meal, now that the other guests had departed, but none of them was anywhere close to where Sir James sat alone holding a drinking mug, his wooden platter pushed out into the centre of the table for collection. Bruce caught the eye of one of the servants as he crossed the room and pointed to the knight’s abandoned platter,
indicating with a flick of his hand that it should be cleared away. He reached the table and waited silently while the servant removed the platter, then nodded courteously to his guest.

“Sir James. You’ll forgive me, I trust, for not being here to greet you when you arrived. Had I known you were coming … ”

The Lochmaben knight nodded in acknowledgment, his face expressionless. But then he surprised Bruce by standing up and extending his hand.

“It’s of no import now, Earl Robert,” he said. “Though I’ll admit I was vexed at first when you werena here. But ye’re here now, so there’s nae harm done. It’s just that my bones are getting old and I’d been in the saddle ower long. My hip’s causing me grief these days.” He waved a hand at the tabletop. “Will ye sit wi’ me? The ale here’s better than the usual.”

Bruce was hard put to disguise his astonishment at the man’s affability, but he merely called to one of the servants to bring him a jug of ale and a tankard, and sat down. The Annandale knight had been one of Lord Robert’s oldest, most experienced, and closest retainers. Jardine, Bruce knew, had been prepared to give up all he owned and accompany his master when Lord Robert retired to England, and he had had to be ordered to remain behind in Annandale to look after Lord Robert’s interests. Middle-aged by the time Bruce first saw him, Jardine had impressed him as a sullen, glowering gargoyle; a sturdy, stocky, grim-faced, grizzle-haired veteran who had earned his place, the boy learned later, by dedication, example, and hard work. From their first meeting, young Bruce had considered him to be utterly without humour, truculent and surly, but even then, disliking the man intensely, he had never entertained the slightest doubt about the fellow’s loyalty and dedication to Lord Robert. Jardine extended his intolerance to everyone else equally, and Bruce knew that the man’s peers suffered his behaviour without rancour and accepted him, even amiably, in spite of it.

“What happened to your hip, that it pains you?” he asked.

The other man grimaced. “A horse. Kicked me three an’ twenty year ago. Laid me up for a month, and there were times I thought it
had crippled me for good. But it’s near as bad now, frae time to time, as it was then. Six hours in the saddle these days and it starts to gowp, and once it starts it winna go away until I get back on two legs.” He cleared his throat as the servant returned with Bruce’s flagon and a fresh jug of beer, and when they were alone again he refilled his own mug.

“So ye ken your father will be here i’ the mornin’.”

“Aye. Tam told me. And he brings my betrothed.”

Something, perhaps the hint of the beginning of a smile, improbable as that seemed, flickered in the other man’s face before being eclipsed by his normal scowl. “Aye,” Jardine said quietly. “The lassie frae Mar. D’ye recall her?”

“How could I? I’ve never seen her. Frankly, I never thought to hear of her again—had forgotten all about her, in fact.”

One grizzled eyebrow twitched upward. “Why would you think never to hear o’ her again? The two o’ ye were betrothed soon after she was born. Lord Robert, may God rest his soul, would never stand forsworn on a thing like that, even in death.”

Bruce noticed that Jardine still spoke of the old man as Lord Robert and that when he spoke of the son, Bruce’s own father, he referred to him as “Annandale,” his current title. To Bruce himself, of course, he spoke of “your father,” and the earl found himself smiling inwardly at the difficulties in nomenclature caused by having an unbroken succession of seven Robert Bruces in the same family.

“I had no thought of forswearing anything, Sir James. I was speaking purely of the political reality in Scotland nowadays when Bruce is not a name regarded with fondness. I have no intention of returning there while Balliol rules, now that he has dispossessed us of our lands, and it had never crossed my mind that I might return there to be wed. The risk of being imprisoned made it inconceivable.”

The other man squinted at him slightly, then nodded tightly. “Aye, to be sure. That’s why her father brought her here to England. It’s the match that is important, Earl Robert, no’ the placement o’ it.
Ye’ll be as tightly wed here in England as ye’d be in Scotland, and your bairns will still be Bruce, wi’ claims to Mar, Annandale, and Carrick, forbye Scotland itsel’.”

“My bairns … Jesu!” Bruce could not imagine having children, and he turned his head aside, his eyes darting nervously around the darkened hall. The servants had all gone now, and most of the candles were out, the air heavy with the distinctive smell of smouldering wicks. On his side, set into the west wall, the great fireplace still pulsed with light from the last oaken logs, and flames cast leaping shadows on the ceiling high above his head. He imagined the shadows capered like faceless infants, reaching out to him and demanding his attention. He looked back at Jardine.

“My bairns,” he said again, grimacing wryly to the other man. “Sir James, I will confess to you that yon notion brings frightening thoughts. I mean, who
is
this woman? What is she like? What does she
look
like?” He raised a hand to forestall any answer. “I know that’s not supposed to be important, but she is to be my
wife
and I know
nothing
about her! She might be a hunchback, or cross-eyed, or hairy-chinned and plagued with warts and wens! Most of the married men I know had the opportunity at least to set eyes in advance upon the woman to whom they were to be attached for life. This … this
advent
tomorrow might undo my entire life—” He stopped suddenly, aware that he was raving. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been thinking such thoughts since first I heard of this today and I fear my terrors ran away with me there.”