The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (45 page)

Sir James nodded, his expression unreadable. “I canna blame you,” he murmured. “From where you sit, I might hae thought the same things mysel’.” He sniffed. “But then, I’ve seen the lass, and I can tell ye there’s nothin’ o’ the like for ye to fret about. Warts and wens and humphy backs, I mean. There’s none o’ that.”

“You’ve
seen
her? When?”

“Yestreen, afore I rode out to come here. And twice ere that. Once when she was but a bairn, when I went north wi’ Lord Robert for him to arrange the match. And then again when she came down to Annandale wi’ her father, about five years ago.”

“And is she—” Bruce hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Is she wholesome?”

“Wholesome? What does that mean? She’s bonnie enough. A wee on the thin side for my taste, but bonnie ne’er the less. Ye’ll see for yoursel’, come midday.” He lifted his flagon and drank deeply, emptying the pot before setting it down and then leaning back to belch comfortably. “Good ale,” he said. “And gin the cot ye offer me is half as good, I’ll sleep sound. God knows I’m ready for it.”

“Of course, you must be. You’ve had a long day. Did Murdo show you your quarters?”

“Aye, he did. I’ve a room to mysel’, in the back o’ the house.” “Good. The Wee Room, we call it. I sometimes repair to it when I have guests whose need of the main bedchambers I deem greater than my own. Where will my father spend this night, do you know?”

“He’s wi’ an old friend o’ his, Sir Roger Fitz Allen.

“They knew each other in Edinburgh when they were about your age. Sir Roger has a place on the main road north, about thirty mile frae here. They’ll be up an’ on the road afore dawn, if this weather holds, so that should bring them here about midday.”

“Aye, it should. Let’s hope this weather lasts, then, at least until tomorrow. Though it’s June, which means you’d be a fool to bet on it. Before you go, though, tell me this, if you would. How do you find life in Annandale nowadays, with a Comyn overlord?”

Jardine sniffed, half grimacing. “We thole it. I canna say I enjoy payin’ your father’s rightfu’ rents to Buchan, but that aside, it could be worse. He’s seldom there, and when he is he keeps clear o’ us most o’ the time. He put in his ain factor when he took hold o’ the place, as ye’d expect, a man called Hector Comyn—as ye’d expect again. And I have to say he’s a good man at what he does. He’s no Alan Bellow, but he minds his business and mainly leaves the rest o’ us to our lives. And those are much the same as ever. The kine need keepin’ and the lands need tendin’ and the folk hae the same problems they’ve aey had. Where is Alan Bellow, by the way? I hinna seen him since I got here. Is he still wi’ you?”

Bruce smiled. “He is, but he’s in London at the moment. Something to do with a wine merchant there. It’s one part of his duties that I never even ask about. He keeps us well supplied with good wine, which is really all I require of him these days, and I leave him to it, since he knows far more than I do about what’s involved.”

“He’s a good man. Dour, but solid.”

Bruce had to school his face to hide his amusement at the thought of Jardine calling anyone else dour. “What’s happening in Scotland these days?” He saw the quirk of Jardine’s eyebrow and added, “We don’t hear much down here in the south, unless it be in Westminster, and I haven’t been there in more than a year. The folk here are more interested in what’s happening in France than anything that happens in the north.”

“It’s much the same in Annandale,” Jardine growled. “Folk have enough to fret ower wi’out fashin’ about what’s happenin’ in foreign parts … like Glasgow an’ Linlithgow. But from what we hear it’s like a wasp’s byke anywhere close to where Balliol might be— angry at the best o’ times, wi’ wise men takin’ pains to walk well clear o’ it. The King’s no’ helpin’, either. Winna make up his mind an’ keep it set frae one day to the next. He blaws hot and cold, like a wind out o’ a snowstorm gustin’ o’er a fire. The magnates—some o’ them, anyway, the ones who arena’ Comyns—are champin’ at the bit. They feel they canna rely on him for anythin’. He’s too … ” He paused, frowning.

“Inconsistent?” Bruce suggested.

The other jerked his head in agreement. “Aye, that’s a good word … gin it means what I think it means.”

“It means unreliable. Changing all the time, from one moment to the next.”

“Aye, then. That’s him. As I said, hot one minute, cold the next. Anyway, some o’ them think he’s too
inconsistent
in his dealings wi’ England—though no’ so much wi’ England as wi’ its King. Yon’s a hard man and he has men around him who are just as hard as him. Folk like that Bek fellow—the Prince-Bishop he calls himsel’. Christ, he’s mair like a king himsel’ than any bishop I’ve ever seen.”
He paused, then added, “Mind you, now that I’ve said that, I have to say the magnates themsel’s are divided. Most o’ them are Comyns— that goes without sayin’, but even so they’re split up amang themsel’s. The main men, Buchan an’ Badenoch, are fine wi’ things the way they are. They like Balliol just the way he is, because it suits their purposes—Bek an’ Buchan are close friends and Buchan doesna’ want to upset England. But there’s others, Comyns o’ the lesser houses, who hae doubts, and some o’ them hae thrown in wi’ the non-Comyn magnates and want the King to show some backbone. An’ the upshot is that the whole country is seethin’ and bubblin’ like a cauldron o’ boilin’ oats.”

“Hmm. What about the bishops, Wishart and the others?”

“They’re wi’ the magnates like the Stewart, tryin’ to make the King take a stand and stick by it. Ye ken Wishart an’ what he’s like. His concern is Scotland, the realm, ahead o’ all else. He sees his sole duty bein’ his flock—the folk first, and the nobles, the King among them, comin’ after that. Him and Fraser is the two ringleaders.”

“Fraser? St. Andrews’ Fraser? He’s a Comyn.”

Jardine shrugged. “He’s one o’ them, but he’s a churchman first, a bishop afore all else, and he doesna believe that Prince-Bishop Antony Bek, or England’s King himsel’ for that matter, has the right to appoint English clergy to Scots livings. He’s been jumpin’ up an’ down in holy outrage ever since the Pope in Rome tried to foist
that
on Scotland.

“Ach, but I steer clear of it a’. I’m just a knight an’ no’ a magnate, thank God. Forbye, it’s like any other game—dice or any o’ them.” He raised one eyebrow as he saw Bruce’s incomprehension. “Ye canna lose if ye dinna play, lad. Ye canna win, either, mind you, but by no’ playin’, ye juke the chance o’ bein’ accused o’ cheatin’. I play no games. I keep my head down, mind my ain affairs, and look after my folk.”

Bruce could only purse his lips and nod, unable to dispute the man’s logic.

The Annandale knight was looking at him speculatively, scratching one finger idly at his cheek, his fingertip lost in the thick,
greying hair that covered it. “Lord Robert was right, though,” Jardine added quietly. “As right as ever he was, and I never knew him to be wrong. Years ago, afore the English got brung in wi’ their courts an’ auditors, when there was need to take strong steps to secure the realm after King Alexander was killed an’ afore the Maid was named to the throne, he said to me many a time that John Balliol would be a feckless king. ‘The worst thing that could happen to this land o’ ours,’ was how he put it.

“Mind you, nobody imagined then that England would come into it at all. Lord Robert simply didna trust the man Balliol to do what needed to be done, gin he ever became King o’ Scots. He swore even then, nigh on ten year ago, that Scotland needed a strong, guidin’ hand, a Scots hand wi’ a tight Scots fist. Balliol, he said, was an Englishman by choice who’d scarce set foot here afore his mother died an’ left him the lordship o’ Gallowa’. Lord Robert didna trust him to be man enough to wear the crown.”

The craggy face broke into a grudging smile. “And he was right. By the crucified lord Jesus, he was right.” He sat silent awhile, then heaved a heavy sigh and stood up, brushing crumbs from his shirt beneath the open sides of his leather jerkin. “I’m in need o’ sleep now,” he said, nodding to his host. “Stay you where you are, though. I’ll find my own way back.” He hesitated, glancing around the empty hall. “They never brought ye aught to eat.”

“They were told not to. There’s food set aside for me in the kitchens. I told Tam that I’d join him there later.”

“Aye, well, then I’ll bid ye a good night and a sound sleep, and I’ll see you in the mornin’. Tell me, though, d’ye ever think about the things Lord Robert used to tell ye?”

Bruce almost smiled. “All the time, Sir James,” he answered quietly. “And I remember all of it.”

“Good … aye, that’s good. He was a wise man, God rest him. I never heard him talkin’ nonsense in a’ the years I spent wi’ him. And that was nigh fifty.” He nodded again. “Keep mindin’ them then, and pay close heed to what they tell ye. God alone knows what’s to come to pass in Scotland, but I dinna think John Balliol will hae a long
reign. Keep yoursel’ ready to come back. Ye’re a Bruce, and Scotland will need a Bruce again someday.”

Again a flickering smile tweaked at Bruce’s cheek. “Then Scotland will have my father.”

“No, I think not.” There was a flat finality in the utterance. “Your father lacks his father’s … What’s the word? His strength? His foresight? Neither one of those is right. He lacks Lord Robert’s sense o’
purpose
. Scotland will need a sure hand to guide it, stronger than his. Keep that in mind in time to come, and a good night to ye.”

He stepped back on one heel, bowed, though not deeply, then turned and marched stiffly away, leaving Robert Bruce blinking after him and wondering if he had just been accepted by an unlikely ally or patronized in some obscure fashion.

Having discovered that he had no appetite for the food that had been set aside for him, Bruce told Thomas Beg about his unexpected conversation with Sir James and apologized for having kept him waiting pointlessly. He then sent him off to bed and sought his own, feeling ready to fall asleep quickly and soundly. But he found it impossible to relax and find oblivion.

It began innocuously enough with the realization, soon after he had climbed into his bed, that Gwendolyn de Ferrers was within a few paces of him, two doors away along the narrow corridor that connected the sleeping chambers on this second level of his house, and with that he found himself imagining her sleeping face and unbound hair and wondering if she truly would be asleep. It was easy, from that point, to imagine her awake as he was, thinking about him and how close he was, and his pulse quickened as he saw himself rising and going to her, warning her to be quiet with a finger on his lips, then leading her back here. He remembered the soft yield of her thigh beneath his fingers as he kissed her, leaning into the litter that morning. But he quickly smothered the sensations that aroused. The lady was not alone in that nearby room, he told himself, and even could he enter it stealthily—for at least one of the serving women would be sleeping on the floor inside the door—he
would have little chance of picking Gwendolyn out among the other sleeping forms, let alone spiriting her out of the chamber in secrecy.

Annoyed with himself for indulging in such futile fantasy, he grunted and turned on his side, pulling the bedclothes up around his chin only to realize that a new phantasm had entered his thoughts: a faceless woman, wimpled and gowned in shapeless garments that cloaked her utterly, masking any hint of shape or colour and transforming her into a grey wraith, a spirit-being that stood beyond his bed, watching him with unseen eyes that made him want to squirm and hide himself. A part of him knew that what he was feeling was fear—not of the dream wraith but of the unknown threat that it had brought to hover over him. He felt no guilt, though, despite the whispers of the Church-shaped soul within him that muttered inchoately of sinful intent and covetousness. Would he have pursued Gwendolyn de Ferrers so avidly had he known his intended bride was coming to England? He knew he would have, and blithely—he would merely have taken pains to arrange the timing of things more fortuitously. He was an earl of Scotland and a favourite of the King, Edward Plantagenet, and he was young and healthy and tall and strong. He was also well educated and superbly dressed, with a deep and melodious voice and an easy air of confidence and good humour that made him generally pleasing and attractive in the eyes of women. He knew all of that to be true because he had been told it often enough by a very large number of women, young and otherwise, none of whom he had ever doubted was available for the asking. And ask he had, many times, cheerfully ignoring his confessor’s exhortations on the pitfalls of concupiscence and lechery, the moral quagmires of adultery and the perils of promiscuity. He was one and twenty years of age and his life was one of privilege, wealth, and boundless freedom with no responsibility.

That, he realized with a flickering of dread, was what was frightening him.

The imminent arrival of the unknown young woman who was to be his wife—this unseen chit of a Scots girl,
a wee on the thin side
, as Jardine had described her, was a threat to his entire way of life—a
life he had no slightest desire to change. He heard his heart thundering in his ears and he came close to choking in surprise as he found he had been holding his breath. He exhaled with an explosive whoosh and gulped again as he felt nausea surging upward from his belly. His head reeled and cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he hurriedly forced himself up and out of bed to kneel on the floor, flailing one arm beneath the bed to find the chamber pot and barely managing to bring it into place before he vomited.

He huddled miserably over the clay pot and retched dryly long after there was nothing left in him to expel. Eventually the spasms passed and some degree of calm returned to him, though his whole body quaked still like a man with the ague. Raising himself cautiously on extended arms, he spat a few more times to clear his mouth of sourness, then pushed the chamber pot cautiously back beneath the bed and allowed himself to topple sideways to the floor, where he lay curled like an infant, uncoiling only slowly as his body gradually accepted that the agony had ended.