The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (38 page)

Rob shifted in his seat. “So what must we do?”

“We? You mean Bruce?” The old man grimaced. “We’ll do what’s right, for that’s a’ we can do, in honour. We’ll keep to ourselves for the welfare o’ our house, and we’ll mind our own affairs and let the rest get on wi’ what they must. I hae no need now to abandon what I hold in England, and I bent my head in renewed fealty to Edward, on behalf o’ all o’ us Bruces. And so I’ll go to England, as will you and yours, to watch and wait and see what happens.”

“And if it comes to war?” The question was hushed.

“Then so be it. It will be a disaster. I hope it willna come to that, but if it does, it will no’ be o’ my makin’, nor yours, nor your father’s.”

“And if Scotland has need o’ us?”

The old man smiled, his expression almost pitying, and responded quietly in words Rob Bruce would remember for the rest of his life.

“
What
Scotland, Grandson? Have you no’ heard a word I’ve said? There’s no Scotland today, other than the land itself. No’ since Alexander died. There’s an
England
, a puissant kingdom united under a hard and able leader, but there’s no
Scotland
in the sense you mean. What we hae here now is a collection o’ mixed bloods and peoples, an’ most o’ them at one another’s throats—Gaels in the north and west and Isles, Norwegians in the far north and east, and others scattered everywhere north o’ the Forth—and our so-called leaders, the barons o’ the realm, are the descendants o’ Norman Frenchmen who canna make up their minds where they belong. They’re the ones who’ll be the ruin o’ this realm if things go as I fear they must—the ones who’ll let Edward ride roughshod over them because they canna bear to think o’ losin’ their estates in England. They might ca’ themselves Scots and strut about like Scots nobles, but their affairs in England are their main concern, and until they see
things differently, Scotland will just be a place, an idea … just an old, done notion.”

A pocket of resin exploded in one of the logs, making them both jump, and Lord Robert yawned and stretched his arms above his head, blinking owlishly. “It must be late,” he said. “What hour o’ night is it, I wonder?”

“Very late,” Rob responded, eyeing him solicitously. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, no’ unless you want to.”

His grandson grinned. “You sent me to bed at suppertime and I slept for hours, so I’m wide awake now. And you asked me to remind you about what my father needs to do for the family.”

“Aye, I did … I was talking about marriages. Your sister Isabel is to marry Eric, the King o’ Norway. The talk has been goin’ back an’ forth for years between your father and the Norwegians. But it’s a fine match and a good thing.”

It was the first Rob had heard of such a thing, but he found himself surprisingly unsurprised. King Eric of Norway had been married before, to another Scotswoman, Margaret Canmore, the sister of King Alexander, and their daughter had been the ill-fated Maid of Norway. And for the past few years, on his visits from England, Rob had heard mention from others about visiting Norwegians in his parents’ household. He had been curious at times, but never greatly enough to ask questions. Isabel would make a fine queen, he thought, and smiled at the thought of having a queen for a sister.

“But what about the boys and the youngest girls, Mary and Margaret and wee Mattie?” he asked then. “Who’ll be left to see to them, once Isabel’s gone?”

The old lord smiled. “The same folk that would be left to see to them anyway. They’ll move to England wi’ your father. Better, though, that you should ask about yoursel’.”

Rob tensed. “What is there to ask?”

“About your future wife.”

His frown grew deeper. “Is there one? I knew nothing of it.”

“Oh, aye, and you’ll like her. I’ve met the lass and I havena a doubt in my mind. She’s bright an’ smart an’ she’s no’ ugly—a quick wit, a sunny nature, an’ a laugh that could set the world laughin’. Forbye, she’s o’ a good family, well connected.”

Rob was having difficulty breathing. “Connected to whom?”

“To us. She’s sister to your good-brother Gartnait of Mar. Her name’s Isabella.”

“I see. How old is she? And when was this decided?”

“Oh, no’ that long ago. Her father, old Domhnall, has been one o’ my staunchest supporters for year, an’ like me, he canna see much good comin’ out o’ our new King. He believes our house has a destiny and wants to align himsel’ wi’ us more strongly than before. So this marriage was his idea.” He glanced shrewdly at his grandson then and held up a hand. “Before you say another word, lad, think o’ this. You’re eighteen now, wi’ an earldom to run, and so you need a wife. This lass will be a good one for you.” His face broke into a wide grin that lit his eyes from inside. “D’you think I’d saddle you wi’ a hirplin’ auld crow or an eyesore wi’ hairy warts? You’re my grandson, and the bairns you breed wi’ her will be my great- grandsons, so I want them to be comely, just like me.”

“But—” The Earl of Carrick sucked in a deep breath, looked about the room almost wildly, then sighed. “When will I meet this wonder?” he asked.

“No’ for a while yet,” Lord Robert said. “She’s but fourteen, so she’ll no’ be ready for another wheen o’ years. By the time you turn one and twenty, you’ll thank me.”

Rob’s mind flashed back to London and the unknown young women who had ambushed him and held him down so delightfully, and he felt a swelling ache in his chest at the thought of never again experiencing such a thrill. He had had other sexual adventures since that day, but they had all been fumbling, hasty, and largely guiltfilled episodes of opportunities seized on the spur of the moment. None of them had been truly memorable or fulfilling or even really pleasant, and none of them had ever come close to matching the visceral excitement and pleasurable wickedness of that first,
unexpected escapade. And now, faced with the prospect of an unknown wife, even three years in the future, it seemed to him that the chance of repeating that encounter was lost forever. Marriage would put an end to such things, he feared, feeling sorry for himself, but then he became aware of his grandfather again, sitting across from him and gazing at him in curiosity.

“Three years, then,” he said. “And what will I do in the meantime?”

“Probably more than I’ll want to hear about. But you’ll be at Edward’s court in London until then. Does that trouble you, three years in England?”

“No, sir, it does not. Not if you’re there, and the rest of my family.” Rob smiled. “My friends will be there too, much of the time—Norfolk and Surrey, Hereford and the others. I’ll be well content there, I believe.”

“Aye, I hope so. But mainly you’ll be out o’ Scotland and away from all the nonsense that’s to come. Mind you keep on the right side o’ Edward, though. He’s an ill man to cross. As long as you’re in favour, he’ll keep you entertained and well provided for, but get you on his bad side and you’ll rue it. An’ now get you to bed, though I jalouse you’ll hae enough in your head now to keep you awake for the rest o’ the night.”

His grandson nodded, and stood up to take his leave.

The old man stood, too, and pulled him close into his embrace.He held him tightly for a moment, and then released him and stepped back, watching in silence as the new Earl of Carrick, his noble house’s future, walked out into the stillness of the sleeping household.

Ten days later, on November nineteenth, the court of auditors at Norham found in favour of John Balliol, Lord of Galloway, and declared him Scotland’s rightful King.

Less than two weeks after that, on the thirtieth day of November in the year of our Lord 1292, Scotland’s new King was crowned upon the ancient Stone of Destiny at the royal palace of Scone, near Perth, proclaiming himself John, King of Scotland.

Book Four

The English Lordling

1295–1297

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE POLITICS OF LOVE

J
ennets, they were called, and for no reason he could discern, Robert Bruce found himself smiling as he looked at the four twinned beasts he was approaching, each pair supporting a litter

delicately slung between them, front to rear. Designed expressly for the transportation of women, the litters were barely wider than the sturdy animals that bore them, and both were draped in shrouding curtains of the light and delicate Arabian fabric known as muslin. The term
jennet
came from a gentle, placid breed of horse native to northern Spain and widely famed for their gentle, rolling gait. But northern Spain was half a world away and these jennets were Scots, female donkeys bred and trained to be tranquil, dependable beasts of burden like their Spanish namesakes, and brought to England from Scotland several years earlier by his grandfather Lord Robert, for the convenience of his lady wife.

The ostler in charge of the closer of the two litters had paused with raised eyebrows as the brightly clothed young knight approached, and now Bruce swung his leg over the cantle of his saddle and slid effortlessly to the ground. Dropping his reins as he landed and leaving his horse ground-tethered, he strode forward, sending the ostler away with a wave before he raised the flap of the curtains between him and the litter’s occupants.

As he did so, a heady waft of exotic perfume swept over him and he heard one of the two young women inside the narrow litter giggle. He ignored her, his eyes going automatically to the other occupant, a beautiful, imperious, and self-sufficient young woman who gazed coolly at him with lambent, green-flecked eyes.

“Sir Robert,” she said, in a quiet, husky voice. “Is something amiss? Why have we stopped?”

Bruce stuck his head in through the hanging curtains and sniffed the perfumed air pleasurably and obviously. “No, my lady,” he said easily. “Nothing is wrong. I but found myself desirous of the scent of you. And so I stopped our progress to refresh myself. I hope I have not inconvenienced you.”

The young woman raised a languid eyebrow and shrugged delicately. “How could you?” she drawled, then glanced at her companion. “Estelle, your ears.”

The other woman covered her ears with both hands and closed her eyes, twisting her head ostentatiously towards the far corner of the tiny space they occupied. Her mistress looked back at their visitor and, without raising her voice beyond a murmur, continued, “And have you scent enough to satisfy you now, sir?”

“No, my lady.” His response was barely more than an expressed breath, even quieter than hers as he bent to speak directly into her ear. “Not all the Muses and their gifts combined could sate the need I have for the scent of you … that subtle, exquisite scent so long remembered.”

Gwendolyn de Ferrers merely smiled and dipped her head very slightly, even as she felt her cheeks flush and her heartbeat increase. It was only recently that she had again encountered the young squire with whom she had once so shamelessly toyed. Since that far-off encounter, though, she had been joined in wedlock to Sir James de Ferrers, a wealthy knight more than twice her age, and the nameless but comely young squire had become a knight and a belted earl. Now a close and highly privileged favourite of King Edward, the dashing twenty-one-year-old dandy had a well-deserved reputation for gambling profligately, winning and losing with equal unconcern in the knowledge, according to the whisperers who disparaged him, that his losses would be covered by the King’s privy purse and his winnings would be used for his own pleasure. And the pleasures he pursued fed the rumour makers constantly, ranging as they did from his love of outlandish and outrageously expensive clothing in all the
newest fashions, colours, and fabrics that the royal tailors could provide, to his propensity for seducing every woman with whom he came into contact. No woman, it was said, was safe from his blandishments, and very few of those he chose resisted him for long.

Meeting him again unexpectedly after so long, she had been excited to realize that he remembered her. Of this he had left her in no doubt, having looked her directly in the eye and told her that he would know her anywhere, even were he blindfolded and pinioned on his back. She had felt the blood rush to her face, and yet the feeling that had swept over her had nothing to do with shame or confusion. It was far more like triumphant exultation, and she felt her heart take a great leap of pleasure.

Now, gazing at his face so close to hers, aware of the breadth of his shoulders and the richness of the long, open-fronted wine-red tunic that he wore over a rose-coloured shirt of fine cambric and matching hose, she became aware of the smell of him, a clean odour of light perspiration mixed with a mild scent that she could not identify. She forced herself to remain outwardly impassive and kept her voice as low as his. “Are you then incapable of being sated, sir?”

“With you, milady? Aye, I fear I could be.” His head tilted towards her in the close confines of the litter and his lips brushed against her cheek. She hesitated only half a heartbeat and then moved towards him, returning his kiss, oblivious to her servant Estelle as she felt his hand settle firmly on her upper thigh and knead the soft flesh gently.

Bruce’s eyes were closed and he could hear his own heartbeat drumming in his ears as he explored the soft wonders of her mouth and the soft flesh beneath his fingers, but she stiffened suddenly and pushed him away with an urgency that snapped his eyes open and brought him back to where he was. The seductive veil of lust fell away quickly as he realized that the pounding heartbeats in his head had been replaced by the thudding of approaching hoofbeats, and he muttered a quiet curse as he straightened quickly and took a half step back from the litter, turning to see who was coming so fast. For a guilty moment he half expected to see the lady’s outraged husband
galloping towards him, though he knew even as it came to him that the thought was ludicrous. It was his own man, Thomas Beg—Wee Thomas—from Turnberry, and Bruce saw at a glance that he was bringing ill tidings.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, turning quickly back and speaking through the closed curtains. “I must speak with this man.”

He stepped out to where Thomas Beg could see him in the bright, mid-morning light and raised an arm, and the big man swung his mount towards him and brought it to a sliding halt within arm’s reach of where Bruce stood. He dropped his reins on his horse’s neck and swung quickly down.