The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (72 page)

She shook her head wanly, leaning into him. “I don’t know, my love,” she said in a fragile, whispery voice. “I don’t feel sick … just
odd
.”

“Christ Jesus.
Allie!
”

They put her to bed and sent for the physician, but nine nights later, in the early-morning hours of the fourth of December, while her exhausted husband slept upright in a chair by her bedside with her hand in his, Isabella Bruce, Countess of Carrick, died in her sleep.

There was no pain, or none that he could recall later. When he awoke and found her small hand cold and stiff in his own, Robert Bruce simply receded, like his father before him, into a limbo where nothing could reach him or touch him. He knew, because he was told when he asked long afterwards, that he attended the burial and threw earth onto the oaken coffin they had made for her, but he had no memory of being there or of doing anything else thereafter. For a full six weeks, encompassing Christmas and the unobserved New Year festivities, it was as though he had simply ceased to exist. The Earl of Carrick was there in body, but his mind and all his consciousness were elsewhere. He ate and drank and functioned physically, he knew, because by the end of that six weeks, when he began to return to the world, he was still alive though he had lost a frightening amount of weight. But all else was blank. He had no recollection of anything other than that moment of awakening to find himself clutching that small, cold hand.

Then, one morning in mid-January, he awoke to find his brother Nigel shaking his arm and calling him by name. He was irritated at first, then mystified when Nigel leapt into the air, grinning and shouting, and ran from the room, leaving him to go back to sleep.

That was the beginning of what Alec, his youngest brother, called the Emergence. All four of his brothers were there in Writtle, and had been there throughout almost the entire course of his withdrawal, and he supposed that in a way he must have known that. From that day on, he began to mend, emerging more and more each day from the protective shell within which he had been hiding. It was not a speedy process, and some days were better than others, but by the middle of February he was well enough to converse normally on almost any topic, the sole exception being the matter of Isabella, and to question what had been going on in the world during his “absence.” His father had been here, he learned, and had brought the four boys with him, having obtained a leave of absence for Nigel from his squiring duties. Lord Robert had stayed in Writtle for an entire week before his duties called him north again, and throughout that time he had tried unsuccessfully to engage Bruce’s attention.

King Edward had issued a general amnesty late in the year, having obtained the pledges of the Scots earls to participate in his French campaign, and the remaining captives had been allowed to return to their homes without grave penalty, though there had been no question of the Comyns keeping their control of Bruce lands. Yet Edward had sent no word of sympathy over Bruce’s loss. Nigel pointed out that in all likelihood the King had failed to hear of Bruce’s bereavement; he was busy even for a monarch, travelling all over England, amassing the army for his French campaign and deeply involved in the logistical details of transporting, maintaining, and supplying an invading army over vast distances involving sea travel.

Bruce listened without interest. He knew beyond question now that he had put all his faith and hopes for the future in God’s hands the previous year, and those hands had proved to be either powerless or uncaring. That trust had evidently been misplaced, and in consequence, his belief in God’s very existence had died … And if a man were sufficient of a fool to believe in a just and merciful God, how much greater a fool must he be to put faith in the constancy of kings? And so he simply closed his mind to Edward Plantagenet’s indifference, refusing even to think about the man’s supposedly high regard and affection for the blameless young woman.

Those who dared mention her death at all around him spoke in hushed tones of “childbed fever” and its associated maladies, but Bruce knew that was nonsense. She had been weeks clear of the childbed when she began to fail, and for the first two of those weeks at least she had been as beautiful and delightful as ever, her burgeoning health a cause of rejoicing. He refused to think at all about her malnourished daughter and the failure of her milk, or to consider any possibility that those might have been connected to, or had influence upon, her eventual death, and he refused, resolutely, to consider the possibility that she might have died of the same causes that had taken his mother from him years before.

He did not often have time, however, to ruminate upon such things, for his brothers conspired to shake him out of his brooding.
He had just emerged from a steaming bath one day and was towelling himself when the door opened and Nigel and Edward stepped inside, stopping one on either side of the open door to lean back against the wall and look at him.

“Shut that damn door. It’s cold enough in here without adding a February gale.”

They glanced at each other instead. “What do you think?”

Edward cocked his head, squinting at Bruce. “Not good,” he drawled. “Good morning, brother Rob. Did you hear what King Edward said to John Warrenne as they were leaving Scotland last year, with the war neatly finished and the Scottish question settled?”

Bruce merely stared back at him, straight-faced, and Edward continued undaunted. “This is true, I swear it. Warrenne himself repeated it to others. They had just crossed the border at Berwick when the King drew rein and looked back into Scotland. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s done. A man does good business when he rids himself of a turd.’” He stepped a pace closer and grasped Bruce’s upper arm, squeezing it between his fingers before raising the unresisting limb for Nigel’s inspection. “This arm has the consistency of shit. Nigel, do you agree?”

“It seems to have that feel to it. I agree.”

“And therefore?”

“A man would do good business to rid himself of it.”

“Exactly what I think … ” He dropped his hand to Bruce’s forearm and gripped it, turning it until he could look down at the open palm. “The muscle’s almost gone,” he said. “Your hands have lost their calluses. The whites of your eyes are yellow. You, my dear brother, are a mess.” He nodded towards the still-steaming tub. “Not as great a mess as you were earlier, but you need toughening up. Nigel and I have decided to undertake your retraining and get you back into fighting condition, and you are going to be bruised with many colours until you start to hold your own with us again. So put on clothes and cladding and come outside to the yard. We’ll be waiting for you. Am I right, Nigel?”

“You are right, Edward.”

“Good. That pleases me. I enjoy being right.” He winked at Bruce. “You have the quarter-hour. After that, we come and carry you out.”

The Earl of Carrick was dancing despite being swathed in heavy practice armour, hopping lightly and lithely from foot to foot, his shield solidly firm beneath his chin and the long, lethal beauty of his blade moving constantly as he faced his two younger brothers, neither of whom looked as blithe or as comfortably confident as he. Nigel’s padding was mud stained, from landing on his arse when he had failed to anticipate his elder’s next move, and Edward, the slightest of the three young men, was breathing heavily through his open mouth, having barely survived taking a fatal stab in an extended exchange with the earl while Nigel was sprawled in the mud.

“Somebody’s coming,” Nigel said, lowering his sword, and Bruce turned to look. One of the gate guards was running towards them.

“Strangers, my lord, coming from London. They just emerged from the woods, a mile and a half away. A mounted troop and three knights’ colours.” Bruce nodded, and the guard turned and ran back to his post.

“Three knights? I wonder who they are, riding with a mounted troop … ” He shrugged. “They probably will not be coming here. Headed for Colchester would be my guess. But we’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, brethren, thank you for the diversion. I am really glad you decided to retrain me, and I am more than pleased with your success. I have not had a bruise in weeks. Have you two?”

He turned away, smiling. Even his smile had changed since Izzy’s death; it was quieter somehow, less brilliant and far less frequent. But his eyebrows rose in surprise as he saw the guard running back towards them, shouting, “My lord, there’s more of them, bearing the King’s standard!”

“Christ God! Get back and sound the alarm, man! Turn out the guard! And send someone to the kitchens to find Allie and have her
light cooking fires. Damnation, man, away with you! Run!” He turned to his brothers, both of whom stood open mouthed. “You two, away with you and change your clothes, quick as you can. And tell Tom and Alec to be ready.” He glanced down at himself, then started stripping off his bulky coverings. “Ah well,” he muttered, “even a King must expect surprises if he calls on people unannounced, but can we feed half a royal army?”

The next half-hour went by in a turmoil of last-moment preparations, and the royal escort, rank after rank after rank of them, rode up and deployed themselves in the field beyond the road, facing the gates of Writtle House. Bruce estimated their number at somewhere close to a hundred and fifty men, with more solid blocks, perhaps as many men again, still approaching in the distance. As he was watching, a group of riders in brightly coloured surcoats and carrying lances with bright pennants turned and surged towards the gates, and among them Bruce saw the golden glint of the coronet surmounting Edward’s helmet. He strode forward quickly and waited as the royal party approached, and Edward’s voice boomed out even before they came to a halt.

“My lord of Carrick, be at peace. We have not come to beggar you or ruin your fields or eat all your provisions.”

Bruce dropped to one knee, his head lowered, so that he heard rather than saw the courser’s hooves approach and stop and its rider swing himself down from the saddle like a man thirty years his junior.

“Up, man, and greet me as a friend! Since when has Bruce had to kneel in the dirt for me?”

He rose, reflecting cynically to himself that all men sooner or later knelt in the dirt before Edward Plantagenet, and found himself face to face with England’s King, who stared at him with narrowed, appraising eyes, a frown bisecting his brows. Then Edward reached out and grasped him by the shoulders, pulling him into an embrace.

“I’m on my way to Colchester,” he said quietly, hugging Bruce to his chest. “I’ve been in the north and in Wales and returned to Westminster four days ago. And only then did I hear the word of
your loss, my friend. Three months and more too late. You must have thought me cruel indeed to send no word of comfort or condolence.”

He pushed himself back, but kept his hands on Bruce’s shoulders as he continued in the same, quiet voice. “We will not stay to tax your hospitality, but I could not pass by without stopping to spend an hour with you privily. Will you invite me into your house?”

“Most certainly, my liege.”

“No, not your liege today, Robert. I am here as your friend, albeit belatedly.”

He swung to face the tall, helmeted knight closest to him. The man was a stranger and Bruce had never seen his livery before.

“I shall remain here with my friend of Carrick for an hour or so, Despencer. We have much to talk about. Take you the others and wait for me by the crossroads.” He raised a hand quickly to stop another knight before he could dismount. “No, Brough, I need no guarding here in the house of Robert Bruce of Carrick. Go with the others. I will join you when I am ready.”

Bruce saw the armoured knights exchanging glances and almost smiled because he could sense their confusion, faced with an unprecedented situation. The King went nowhere unaccompanied, ever. None dared challenge Edward, though, which went without saying. There was but one man in all England who would defy the royal wishes at a time like this.

“My lord of Norfolk is not with you, sire?”

Edward raised one eyebrow and stared at him. “No, he is not. What made you ask?”

Now Bruce did smile slightly, for he knew Edward understood precisely what had made him ask. He shrugged one shoulder. “I was remembering the time you came to Carrick, to Turnberry. That was long ago, but my lord of Norfolk would not have left you alone then and I doubt he would now, were he here. I trust he is well?”

“Oh, he’s well enough. Hale and hearty and as stubborn as ever. But now he threatens to leave me alone indeed. Let us go inside. Who are these young men?”

Bruce had forgotten that his four brothers stood behind him and now he turned to see them all gazing raptly at the King of whom they had heard so much throughout their lives. “My brothers, sire,” he said. “May I present them to Your Majesty?”

Edward greeted them graciously, speaking to each of them in turn and putting them at ease before dismissing them easily. Then he took Bruce by the arm and steered him towards the house. “The eldest one,” he said, when the boys were out of earshot. “He’s almost as big as you. Is he still a squire?”

“Finished training, my liege, but not yet knighted. He dreams of riding with you.”

“Does he, by God? Then let’s encourage him. I can use all the loyalty I can find.” He spun on his heel and shouted at the retreating brothers. “Nigel! Nigel Bruce, come here.”

Nigel approached quickly, his face alight with eagerness. “Your brother tells me you are awaiting knighthood and would ride with me. Is he correct?”

Poor Nigel was incapable of speech, but he nodded rapidly, his eyes like a puppy’s.

“Well, then,” the King said, pointing. “You see that fellow over there, in the black armour with the silver crest? That’s Sir Lionel Despencer, the commander of my guard. Tell him I said he is to take you with us. You’ll stand vigil in Colchester while we are there and I’ll knight you myself the following day. After that, we’ll find you a place where your abilities will serve you well. You’re a Bruce, so you must have abilities. Run, now. There’s not much time.”