The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (53 page)

Eventually his uncle pushed his empty platter away and poured himself a fresh glass of milk, while Thomas Beg was folding a slice of buttered bread in half over the last piece of fried pork.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t spoil your appetites,” Bruce said. “Nicol, if I didn’t know you better, I’d have thought you’d grown political since last I saw you.”

Nicol dipped his head to one side. “Aye, and you’d be right,” he said mildly. “I’ve never bothered with politics in the past, but the thoughts I’ve been having recently are troublesome.”

Bruce frowned. “What thoughts?”

His uncle sucked at something lodged in his teeth. “This whole affair in Wales … The
rebellion
you mentioned. It’s done now, and Edward’s got what he wanted, for the time being.”

“For the time being? You think he wants more from Wales?”

“I
know
he wants more from Wales. He wants Welsh gold and Welsh taxes for his treasury and Welsh bowmen for his wars in France. That’s why he’s building so many castles there, fortifying his position. But that’s not what concerns me.”

“You amaze me, Uncle,” Bruce said slowly. “Since when have you paid heed of what goes on in Wales? Or of where Edward builds castles?”

“Since that same Edward garrisoned the royal castles in Scotland! Can you not see it, boy?”

“See what?” It had been years since Nicol MacDuncan had called him boy, and again Bruce was surprised at his vehemence.

Nicol slouched back in his chair, and Bruce raised an eyebrow towards Tam, who merely made a face, then stood up.

“You two hae things to talk about that I don’t want to hear, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Bruce had not expected that. “No, stay and talk with us.”

“Nah,” Tam said, shaking his big head. “Ye’ll be talking politics and I hae no need to hear it. In fact, I hae no
desire
to hear it. I’ll no’ be far away, gin ye hae need o’ me for anythin’. But I’ll take my leave now, gin ye’ll permit me.”

Bruce sat staring at the door after Thomas Beg had left. “Well,” he muttered. “That was plain enough. Thomas Beg likes politics no more than you do. But why would he not stay and listen? He might have learnt something.”

“I think he might have learned long since when to mind his own affairs and leave others to theirs,” his uncle said.

Nicol sat for several moments longer, nibbling at the inside of his cheek, then drew a deep breath and began to speak. “There are men in Scotland, powerful men with much to lose, who fear that Edward’s rebellion in Wales was merely an earnest of what he plans for us.”

“For us? For us Bruces, you mean? No, you’re not a Bruce. For Scotland, then? That is ridiculous. Edward would—”

“Be quiet, Robert, and listen to me. And recall what your own grandsire said four years ago, at the start of the Norham proceedings.”

Bruce opened his mouth to reply just as strongly, but something in his uncle’s eyes stopped him before he could summon enough outrage. He sat back, gripping the arms of his chair. “Remind me,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Edward made himself lord paramount of Scotland. You recall that?” Nicol’s voice was now calm and controlled. “He
made
himself lord paramount, uncaring of the will of the Scots people, and no man dared deny him. And all the Guardians resigned on the day that took effect, and were reappointed immediately by Edward, acting
as
lord paramount. Your grandfather thought the whole thing was iniquitous, that Edward was doing things for hidden reasons of his own and that it was sheer folly to present him with the royal castles as bases for English garrisons within our country. But it was all passed off and smoothed over as being for the good and welfare
of the Scots realm, since the castles would be returned as soon as a new king was chosen. You’ll remember that, too, no doubt.”

“Aye, I do. But they were not returned, were they?”

“Not yet, and that’s a sore point with King John, though there appears to be nothing he can do about it short of declaring outright war on England, which is unthinkable. But Lord Robert, God rest his soul, also said with absolute belief on one occasion that Edward of England was a different man altogether from the young prince with whom he had gone to war so long ago.”

Bruce sat up straight. “Have you been talking to Wishart? I was there when Gransser said that once, as was my father, and the only other person there at the time was the Bishop of Glasgow.”

“That’s not important. What is—”

“I disagree. It
is
important, Nicol. It’s very important. Because it tells me Wishart of Glasgow is one of those powerful men you spoke of earlier—‘powerful men with much to lose.’ And if you are communing with the likes of Wishart then you must also be speaking with the High Steward and his friends among the magnates, all of whom are Bruce adherents.” He stopped, his brow furrowing, and then said, almost to himself, “Unless it was my father himself who told you. Is my father involved in this?”

“No.” Nicol’s denial was emphatic.

“Why not? He should be. It concerns him.”

“It does not concern him. The Lord of Annandale renounced his Scots concerns twice: when he elected to come here to England and when he swore fealty to Edward, offending and abjuring King John.”

“I did the same thing, Nicol, at the same time and for the same reasons. So why are you telling me about this and not my father?”

Nicol looked uncomfortable for a moment, then flexed his entire upper body with a great sigh. “Because it has been … decided that your father holds no answers for Scotland in this case.”

“Decided.” Bruce’s voice was now ominously quiet. “By whom? These same powerful men with so much to lose? Scotland is a quagmire, from what I hear, and King John does naught but pour water
into the mud, confounding everyone and adding to the mess. You’ll recall, I have no doubt, that my grandfather Lord Robert prophesied that such would be the case. He knew Balliol was not the man Scotland needed as its king. And now the magnates see the truth of that for themselves. But he also prophesied that Balliol would not endure, and that is why he passed his rights and claims to Scotland’s Crown on to his son, properly and legally. Who dares dispute that?”

Nicol answered, equally quietly, “No one disputes it, Robert. The question being raised is one of temperament … of suitability. Some people feel—believe—that Lord Annandale would fare little better than our present King were he, too, forced to deal with Edward of England’s demands and arrogance. He is too close to Edward, they believe, too beholden to him.”

“Some people! Who are these nameless, faceless someones? Those who think they might do better than a Bruce, given a chance to make their own ambitions a reality? That is outrageous perfidy. My father is a fine, upstanding man, trained to his duty, and he has never been found wanting in the execution of it.”

“True, and I can attest to that myself. Your father and I have always liked each other. He did well by my niece and he mourned her deeply, and for that I will always admire him. He is a fine man, Robert, as you say, and a decent one. But
his
father, your grandsire the Competitor, was a
great
man, and that’s a very different thing.” He sighed again. “And it is greatness, men are saying, that our realm has need of at this time.”

“And so these people—you among them, Nicol—have decided that my father is unfit to rule? Tell me,” he said, making no attempt to hide his hurt, “how did you come to be in Durham with my father at this time, as he was preparing to leave?”

“I was not. I came south with the Earl of Mar. When he heard that Domhnall was coming south to England, Wishart sent me to join him, bearing a message.”

“A message to my father, bidding him stand down?” The grin that accompanied the words was bitter, more rictus than smile. “I find it difficult to imagine what words would be required to couch
such an order and make it appear like a request. What did it say, and how did my father react?”

“The message was not for your father. It was for Domhnall of Mar, to be relayed to you at the proper time.”

“To me … ” He remembered the old earl saying that they had much to talk about, and his own dismissal of the comment as mere sickbed pleasantry. He frowned again. “And my father knows nothing of this?”

Nicol MacDuncan shook his head.

“God’s holy teeth, Nicol, how could you do this to me, giving me information that my father does not have, and on something that concerns him directly? D’you expect me to put up with that? You expect me not to tell him what you’ve said?”

The older man raised his hands, palms outward. “I expect nothing, Nephew, one way or the other. I am merely the bearer of tidings. Whether those be ill or not depends upon the viewpoint of their interpreter.”

“No! That’s a false argument and you know it, Nicol MacDuncan. What you have said puts an end to my father’s expectation of ever becoming King of Scots.”

“He has no such expectation and has made that plain, Robert. And you give credence to that, merely by remaining here in England. Scotland
has
a king. The question of whether he be a good king or no is immaterial. He is the King’s grace and we are all his subjects, sworn to stand behind him until death. There can be no other king while King John lives.”

“What about this council of Guardians? My father knows about that. From Wishart himself.”

“Aye, I know he does. That was a necessary step. The forming of the council, I mean. Twelve good men and true, dedicated to assisting King John in the administration of the realm.”

“By holding his hand and pointing him wherever they want him to face.” He tossed his head impatiently. “Four earls, four barons, and four bishops, two of each from north of Forth and two from
south. All very equitable and politic, and all designed for the protec-

tion of the King. Tell me, is my father in danger?”

“Danger? Good heavens, what kind of danger?”

“Danger of death. Is he perceived as a threat? Are there people up there who fear that he might plot to seize the throne?”

Nicol sat open-mouthed, and then brought his hands together as though in prayer. “I’ll answer that by telling you exactly how your father is perceived ‘up there,’ as you call it. Robert Bruce the Sixth, Lord of Annandale, is judged to be like many another great man’s son—a weak reflection of his father’s puissance. Your father is regarded by most as what he is, a Scots magnate who has chosen to absent himself. He is seen as being too close to England’s King in sentiment, and England’s King is proving himself to be no friend to Scotland. On the other hand, though, in answer to your question, his life is in no danger. He lacks the following now to make himself a threat to Scotland and its King. At most, were he to make any attempt, he might raise the remnants of his folk in Annandale, although their loyalty at this stage still clings to the memory of his father. Beyond that, he’d find no sympathy for the cause he would be proclaiming. It would cause civil war, and Scotland has enough grief to face without the threat of that. Your father is seen, at best, as a toothless lion, posing no danger to King John or the realm … and thus his life is safe.”

Bruce sat silent, keenly conscious that he could not refute a word of what his uncle had said. He became aware of his uncle’s steady gaze and raised his eyes to meet it. “A toothless lion … That’s a harsh judgment, Uncle, whether it be true or not. And it sets me clearly in my place, too, does it not?” He smiled again, though only one side of his face twisted to show it.

“No, Nephew, it does not.
You
could be a threat.”

The younger man’s mouth fell open. He shook his head, then looked about him helplessly. His hands fastened on the arms of his chair and he began to push himself to his feet, but his weakened legs would not support him and he subsided, scowling in angry frustration. “Help me up, if you will. I need to stand.”

Moments later he was clinging stubbornly to the high back of his chair and forcing his quivering legs to bear his weight against the stabbing pain in his bruised hip. He ground his teeth as he waited for Nicol to sit down again and then he counted slowly to ten, inhaling deeply with each count and giving himself time to exhale fully before beginning again. On the tenth count he leaned his weight into the chair back and moved his feet farther apart, feeling them respond more naturally than they had moments before.

“So be it, then,” he said. “I could become a threat.” He paused. “Do you truly believe that? And if you do, would you object to telling me
how
I might do so?”

His uncle shrugged. “Why would you need to ask me that? You have already given me the answer.”

Bruce inclined his head, slowly. “But I have no slightest idea of what it was … Can you explain it to me?”

“I can, but you should know the opinion was not mine. It came from Bishop Wishart. All I did was hear your confirmation of what he said.”

“And what did I confirm?”

“That you are mentally prepared—and even anxious—to take up your sword in support of Edward Plantagenet.” He nodded towards the great sword hanging from its peg. “You were fretting over how your friends had drawn ahead of you, fighting in Wales and winning glory while you have yet to swing your blade in earnest.”

“That’s true, I was. But how does that construe to make me a threat to Scotland?”

“Oh, Robert! In God’s name, listen to yourself!
Edward Plantagenet
is the threat to Scotland. And those young friends you think so highly of are the weapons he will bring against us—the younger sons of England’s great families, all of them hungry to win lands and glory for themselves in Edward’s wars. When he calls you to serve him, you will be one with them, part of them, and part of the threat he brings against us. Can you doubt he will make prominent use of you, if only as a figurehead? A Scots earl, a
senior
Scots earl with an ancient title—a Bruce, no less—fighting in England’s
vanguard. That holds the seeds of dissension and defeat for everyone to see.”

“Everyone except me, it seems. It would never happen. The King would never set me against my own like that.”