by Jack Whyte
Her thoughts were cut short when she reached her chambers and found her three women waiting for her, anxious to begin transforming her into a regal hostess. She looked wryly at them. “We have little time to transform me,” she said, “so I expect miracles from you. Let’s be about it.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, looking radiantly confident and not at all matronly, Marjorie of Carrick took advantage of a momentary lull in the buzz of conversation to cast her eyes over the brilliant assembly in the main hall of Castle Turnberry. Everyone present was engaged with someone else, and the hum of conversation was sustained and pleasant. Even the taciturn Angus Mohr was deep in conversation with Robert Wishart, who had been Bishop of Glasgow for the past twelve years. Marjorie allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief, at ease, though still apprehensive, for the first time since the English King’s party had arrived at her gates.
They had approached the castle in formal order, a walking thunder of heavy hooves amplified by jingling, clinking metal and creaking saddlery and augmented by the rumble and squeaks of heavy baggage wagons, and no one had said a word until the sparkling, brightly coloured but dusty and weather-worn front ranks had reached where she stood waiting for them. As he drew near, her husband patently ignored the new pavilions on his threshold, failing to acknowledge them with as much as a glance, as though such princely accommodations were commonplace at Turnberry. His countess had watched as the earl dismounted along with the two Kings and stepped forward, smiling, his hand outstretched to bring her forward and reacquaint her with the monarchs, both of whom she knew from former occasions, and with Richard de Burgh the Earl of Ulster, whom she had never met. She had known King Alexander all her life, but she had also accompanied him to London, years before, with Earl Robert and a hundred other Scots lords, to attend the English King’s coronation in Westminster.
As the royal guests and the senior members of their entourage greeted their hostess, all smiles and cordiality, the churchmen behind them climbed down from their carriages and came forward in their turn to do the same. Someone at the rear then shouted orders to the baggage train and escorts to break formation and disperse, and Murdo and his team of ushers moved among them to guide the various contingents towards the areas set up for them.
Angus Mohr MacDonald had stood slightly behind and to the left of Marjorie throughout these proceedings, side by side with her uncle Nicol, and though the Islesman had nodded graciously and acknowledged the newcomers wordlessly one by one as they were presented to him, his obvious lack of warmth and his inscrutable expression had been enough to unsettle her. And so as soon as she had finished her formal welcoming greetings and before any awkwardness had a chance to develop, the countess had invited all the principals into the great hall, where food and drink awaited them.
Now the food had been satisfyingly depleted and most of the men had consumed at least one drink from the supplies of home-brewed ale, honeyed mead from England, and wines imported from France, and Marjorie found it easy to smile at Earl Robert as he detached himself from the group surrounding the two Kings and made his way towards her.
“Ye’ve done well, lass,” he said, slipping an arm about her shoulders. “Later on ye can tell me where you found those damned tents.”
“You left me little choice but to improvise, Husband. Do you approve?” Her speech had changed from the broad, localized Scots she used in speaking to the local folk of Carrick to the more formal, smooth-flowing, English-enriched variant that she used with her husband. Earl Robert, aristocratic and English-born, and raised in Scotland’s far southeast, spoke Gaelic reluctantly and with great difficulty, and Marjorie had always deferred to his preference for the anglicized Lowland tongue.
“Approve? I was thunderstruck, but I could hardly show my surprise in front of everyone. They are wondrous, my love. And four of them!”
“I thought them big enough to serve as venues for your talks. Supposing, that is, that they all came here to talk…”
“Oh, they’ll talk, my love, you may depend on that. Kings and bishops do little else.”
“Is it cold in here? Should I light the fires?”
“God no, lass. It’s high summer out there. Tonight will be time enough, when the sun goes down.”
She nodded towards a small group of men in the corner beyond the Kings. “I’ve never seen so many bishops in one place at the same time. I know Bishop Wishart, but who are the others? Oh, I know, I met them when they arrived—but I met too many people at once, so their names are all gone and I can’t recall which is which.”
The earl grinned. “The skinny one in the red cap is Fraser of St. Andrews. He’s younger than he looks and I don’t know him well but the King thinks highly of him. The tall man talking to him is not a bishop at all, but he is one of the most powerful churchmen in the realm. That is Master Nicholas Balmyle and he’s the Official—that’s his title—of the Archdeaconry of Lothian, the Sub-Diocese of St. Andrews. That makes him nominally subordinate to Bishop Fraser, but from what I’ve heard, I would not wager on his subservience—to Fraser or to any other prelate. He’s not what I expected. Far more friendly and approachable than I would have thought.”
“Hmm. He doesn’t look awe-inspiring. What’s so special about him?”
“His mind, my love. They say he’s more mind than man. I wouldn’t know, but the man is impressive enough for me. The other two with them are abbots—Arbroath on the right and Dunfermline in the brown and blue robes.”
“Jesu!” Marjorie hissed, astonishing her husband by tugging sharply at his sleeve. “Come with me, quick!”
She had watched Bishop Wishart nod, smile, and back away respectfully from Angus Mohr before turning to join Fraser of St. Andrews and the other clerics in the corner, but then she had seen Edward of England watching Wishart, too, and as the bishop crossed the room, the English King left the group around him and King Alexander to cross to where Angus Mohr was talking quietly with Marjorie’s uncle Nicol. Marjorie reached them, her bemused husband in tow, just as the two men came face to face and Edward, smiling slightly, said, “Angus Mohr MacDonald, let us talk, you and I.”
Angus Mohr had drawn himself up to his full height as he saw the Englishman approach, and he answered in Gaelic. “I am Angus Mohr, and you are Edward, King of England … I can see why they call you the Longshanks.”
Edward blinked, clearly not having expected the rolling Gaelic response, but before he could open his mouth Marjorie laid a hand gently on his forearm. “My lord Edward,” she said pleasantly, “I doubt you speak the Gaelic tongue—would be surprised indeed if you did—and I know for a fact that my lord of Islay here has not a word of English or French, so may I offer my services as interpreter between you?”
The slight smile on Edward’s face widened. “You may do that, Countess, and I will be even more in your debt than I am already,” he said. He glanced at her husband and winked conspiratorially as he continued. “Few things are more frustrating than for two men to be unable to converse easily together. What did my lord of Islay say?”
Still smiling but filled with stirrings of apprehension, Marjorie glanced from one man to the other. “Angus Mohr acknowledged your recognition of him.”
“Aye, and what else did he say? I’ll warrant there was more.” The King’s smile was one of genuine amusement.
Marjorie felt a tinge of colour rising to her cheeks. “He said he can see why they call you Longshanks.”
Edward laughed and turned his smile on Angus Mohr. “Tell him I can make no secret of it and that he himself is no dwarf. There are few men at whom I can look levelly, eye to eye. And express my pleasure at meeting him, if you will, for I have heard much about him these past few days.”
Marjorie translated, then listened to the flood of Gaelic that poured out of Angus Mohr in response before she turned back to Edward. “That was well said, and the two of you well met, he says. He, too, has heard much of you and your exploits, in the Holy Land in your youth and in
Wales these past few years. The name of Edward Plantagenet is well respected everywhere, he says. Perhaps not always loved, if one thinks of Wales, but respected even there.”
“Hah!” Marjorie stiffened as the English King punched a clenched fist gently into Angus Mohr’s shoulder, but his eyes were alight with good humour. “Good man!” he said. “I admire a man who speaks his mind—always have.” He turned again to Marjorie. “Tell him, if you will, that I suspect we could be friends, we two, upon sufficient acquaintance and were we able to converse, and though his time will be much taken up by my royal brother Alexander tomorrow, I hope I might have the pleasure of talking to him at more length in the days ahead.” Without waiting for Marjorie to translate his words, he inclined his head graciously to the Islesman and returned to join King Alexander.
Angus Mohr’s face had remained expressionless as Edward administered the gentle punch, but Marjorie was acutely aware of Edward’s unwitting breach of protocol. No one, ever, was permitted to lay hands upon the Lord of Islay. The Islesman, however, had plainly chosen to accept the gaffe, clearly aware that the Plantagenet had committed his sin unknowingly. Now he looked at her, one eyebrow slightly elevated, awaiting her translation. When he had heard it he gazed speculatively at Edward, who now stood with his back to them, conversing with his brother-in-law.
“I think I might enjoy talking to the man,” he admitted, “though until this moment I would never have believed it. So be it if we can find a man we can both trust to translate for us. My thanks to you, Countess, for interceding here, and for your timing. Earl Robert, I am told you are learning our tongue.”
“Poorly, I fear, Lord Angus,” the earl said haltingly in Gaelic. “I came too late to the study of it. But I work at it, since it is my lady wife’s tongue, and my children speak it fluently, being born into it here in the west, but I fear I will never be aught else than a plodding stammerer.”
Angus Mohr smiled lopsidedly. “You do passing well, for an Englishman. Better than your English King.”
Once again Marjorie felt herself go tense in the face of Angus Mohr’s disconcerting bluntness, and awaited her husband’s response.
“My King is Alexander Canmore, my lord, the man you have come here to meet. Edward of England may claim to be my feudal liege, in that my family holds great estates in England by his pleasure, but not to be my royal one. I am a Scot by birth, as is my father, and Alexander is the King of Scots.”
The earl spoke evenly, evincing no displeasure, but Robert Bruce was not noted for either his patience or his tolerance, and his wife knew how angrily he would normally have reacted to such provocation, mild though it was. But Angus Mohr was not yet finished speaking his mind, and she saw his eyebrow quirk up before he mused, “By your own admission, though, you hold two loyalties, and one of them is to your family and its estates in England. We can but hope that nothing untoward should ever force you to choose between the two. Someone once said—and I can’t remember who it was—that no man can serve two masters.” He held up a hand before Bruce could respond. “I am not criticizing you, Lord Bruce. We all have tasks to perform and expectations we must meet in the eyes of others.”
The earl’s response was as temperate as before. “And what might change, to affect those loyalties, my lord? The two Kings could not be closer in friendship, allied as they are by love and marriage and mutual esteem. Nothing is like to change that.”
“Agreed,” said Angus Mohr, nodding slowly and scratching his chin with one fingertip. “Nothing is likely to change that. And yet things change and are altered constantly. That is the way of life, the bishops like to tell us. Let us both hope, then, that you are never forced to consider otherwise.”
“Lord Robert! A word with you, if you please.” The voice was Alexander’s, calling from across the room.
“You’ll pardon me, my lord, but I am summoned.” The earl dipped his head to Marjorie. “My dear, permit me.”
On the point of turning back to Angus Mohr, she saw Murdo standing by the doorway, trying to catch her eye. She hesitated, but Angus Mohr had followed her glance and seen Murdo, too.
“That’s your factor, is it not?”
“It is. Murdo. I expect he’ll be wanting to talk to me about supper.”
“Then go you and talk to him, Countess, and have no concerns about me. I will not cause you grief, here in your own house. Nicol here will share another cup of mead with me and we’ll be fine, the two of us. Away you go.”
She threaded her way among the groups of guests to where Murdo stood waiting. She was scanning the factor’s eyes and stance as she drew near him, looking for signs that he was troubled, and she felt her heart lighten when he caught sight of her and smiled.
“Is all well, Murdo?”
“Aye, Countess, it is. The boys came home more than an hour ago and I sent them to eat in the kitchens, for I jaloused ye wouldna want them in here wi’ a’ the grand folk. They were tired out and wearin’ half the dust an’ dirt o’ Carrick on them. Allie will see them to their beds. But she sent me to ask what time ye’ll be wantin’ to sit down to sup, for she wouldna want the food to be less than perfectly hot. D’ye know?”
“No, I don’t. What hour is it now? I confess I’ve lost track o’ the time.”
“Late afternoon … about fower, I’d guess. I hinna checked. But on any ordinary day we’d serve supper about two hours frae now.”
“Aye, that sounds right.” Marjorie checked over her shoulder, and her guests seemed content to be as they were for a while. “We’ll gie it another hour or so here, to let the serving folk get the rest o’ the tents ready for the lords, and then we’ll send them to their tents for an hour longer while the hall is made ready for supper. Two hours will be about right, then, so ye can tell Allie to be ready when she would on any other day. Away ye go now, and thank ye for seein’ to the boys.”
* * *
Every table was filled at dinner in the hall that night, and the food was tasty and plentiful, and welcomed by everyone. The only unexpected event of the evening came at the end of the meal, when the platters had been pushed away and the assembly had settled down to drink at length and to enjoy the remaining entertainment. A sudden stir at the entrance marked the arrival of the sergeant of the guard, followed by a pair of guards shepherding a dishevelled, travel-stained, and tired-looking courier between them. They marched directly to the head table, where the sergeant announced to King Alexander that the man between them had ridden up to the gates a short time earlier carrying dispatches that he had refused to surrender for proper delivery. He had dispatches for King Edward, he said, and his duty would not be complete until he had placed them directly into the hands of the King himself.
King Alexander nodded to the English King, and Edward returned the gesture and extended his hand to the courier, beckoning him to come forward and deliver his packet. The man shrugged free of the guards’ hands and stepped towards the table, opening the thick bag slung across his shoulders and pulling out a bulky, wax-coated packet, which he placed on Edward’s outstretched hand. It was sealed with a wax stamp and marked in its lower left corner with a large red dot. Edward hefted it gently.
“I thank you,” he said. “How long have you been on the road?”
The courier straightened his shoulders and thumped his right fist against his breast in a salute. “Eight days, Majesty.”
The King raised an eyebrow, aware of the attentive silence in the hall. Even the ancient bard from Arran had fallen silent in the middle of his singing, his fingers stilled upon the strings of his harp. “Eight days?” he asked. “And why so long?”
“I missed your royal presence by ten hours in Dunfermline, where I went first, thinking you to be in residence. It was late, growing dark, and I was persuaded by your commander there to spend the night and set out again come morning. Since then, I have ridden two more days to find you here.”
“Good man, then, and again, my thanks.” He raised the packet he still held. “Does his l
ordship of Bath and Wells require a response to this?”
“I know not, Majesty.”
“Hmm. Well, you had best bide a while, until I discover that for myself.” He looked then at the sergeant of the guard. “See that this man is treated well, Sergeant. He has earned his bread and board.” The sergeant, stiff as a spear shaft, saluted, and Edward spoke again to the courier. “The sergeant will find you food and a place to sleep. Present yourself to his lordship the Earl of Norfolk on the morrow and inform him that I have awarded you two silver shillings for your services. He will pay you, and then I would have you await my further orders.”
He nodded in dismissal, and the man rejoined the guards, who saluted the royal party and then wheeled and marched away, the courier between them, and every eye in the hall followed them as they went. King Alexander clapped his hands in the silence and told everyone to continue as before.
As the bard began to sing and play again and the buzz of voices resumed, Edward sat musing, hefting the packet in one hand again as he stared at it. It was apparently dense with contents, wrapped in a thickly woven envelope of coarse wool that had been dipped several times into melted wax for waterproofing and security and then sealed with the insignia of the sender. Edward had barely glanced at the seal, for the wide, red dot beneath the final coat of wax told him from whom it came. He was more interested in guessing how much of the weight in his hand was coarse woollen wrappings and wax, and how much was written content.
“Affairs of state?” The question came quietly from Alexander, expressing what Edward knew everyone was wondering.
“Aye, brother.” His response was equally quiet. “I fear so. And weighty, it seems.” He tossed the packet to the Scots King. “From Burnell. The red dot is a sign that the matters contained are urgent. We have a pact between us, Robert and I, that he will never waste my time with anything less.” Alexander tossed the packet back, and Edward turned it so that the people sitting closest on his left, his host and hostess, could see the dot. He had no need to say more, for everyone listening was already nodding sagely. Robert Burnell, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, was Edward’s Lord Chancellor of England and one of his closest friends and advisers.
