by Jack Whyte
Alexander shrugged. “So be it then, brother. Best make your farewells.”
Edward grunted, trying to imbue the sound with regret, for he had long since grown bored with the unintelligible Gaelic moanings of the old bard, and turned to his host and hostess. Before he could speak, though, Marjorie of Carrick smiled. “Clearly you must go, Your Grace. Such a shame, since I know full well how you must have been enjoying old Seumas’s saga.”
The King found it easy to grin back at her, a tacit acknowledgment of her barb’s accuracy. “I fear I must, Countess, much as it grieves me to deprive myself of your company this evening. Accept my gratitude for this wondrous meal and for your hospitality at large, if you would, for I have enjoyed it thoroughly and look forward to rejoining you tomorrow. In the meantime,” he leaned forward slightly to address the Earl of Carrick beside her, “my lord of Carrick, my thanks are no less due to you. And now, with your permission, I will leave you.”
He rose to his feet, tucking the waxed packet of dispatches beneath his arm, and waved in a broad, unmistakable gesture to the English lords who had been watching him and had risen as one to follow him. His meaning was unequivocal. They hesitated, then all but one resumed their seats, leaving only Roger de Bigod, the Earl of Norfolk, standing. As captain of the King’s Guard, it was Bigod’s duty to accompany Edward everywhere, and now he moved resolutely to join the King before Edward reached the hall door.
Edward frowned, but accepted that the man was merely doing his duty. “If you must come with me, then you must. I am but going to my tent, to read this. You may see me safely there and then return here. De Blais will attend me thereafter.”
“As you wish, sire.” Gervais de Blais was Edward’s personal attendant on this journey, a senior squire in the final preparations for knighthood, and Bigod knew Edward trusted him completely.
The King inclined his head. “I do wish it, my lord of Norfolk.” He paused on the threshold and turned back to scan the hall once more, then waved to Alexander, who was watching him from the head table, and strode out, clutching his packet.
* * *
Several hours later, once the high-born guests had returned to their pavilions and the household was asleep, the Countess of Carrick and her consort earl sat comfortably side by side in their candlelit bedchamber, holding hands loosely in front of the stone hearth as they enjoyed the warmth of a leaping fire and discussed the events of their day. It was a habit they had developed years earlier, communing with each other at the end of each day without having to fret about being disturbed, and they had both come to relish the quiet luxury of it, since it was frequently the only peaceful time they had together from one day to the next.
Content with the easy silence between them, Marjorie turned her head slightly to look at the man who had shared her life and her bed for the past ten years. He was unaware of her look, staring into the flames with a thoughtful scowl on his face, and as she gazed at his fire-lit profile she felt herself smiling at the changes in his appearance since they had first met. They were not greatly pronounced, but they were there to be seen in his greying, unkempt hair and close-trimmed beard, and in the fine lines deepening into wrinkles of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He was forty-one now, she thought, a mere three years younger than Alexander and four years younger than Edward of England, and though the years had been good to him, the changes she remarked would surely grow more visible in the years ahead. But the face she knew so well was a strong one, firm of chin beneath the short beard and dominated by a strong, narrow, straight-edged nose and a high, clean forehead above deep-set, piercing eyes.
He turned suddenly, alerted perhaps by her stillness. “What are you thinking, Wife?”
She shrugged slightly. “Oh, I was just looking at you … wondering if I will look as well as you do when I reach your age.”
Earl Robert grinned. “God, lass, that’s fourteen years away. We could all be dead by then. You are but seven and twenty. Enjoy that while you can, for it won’t last long. I would wager you can’t imagine being thirty, let alone forty, can you?”
She laughed and lapsed into Scots. “That’s true, and I hae to remind myself sometimes that I’m wed to an auld man, for thank God there’s that lusty part of you that hasna aged the slightest bit. Makes me wonder how many mair bairns ye’ll hae got on me by the time I’m forty.”
“A few more, I hope. But in ten years’ time you’ll be too old to have any more.”
She was on the point of telling him that she was quickened again, but she stopped, recognizing that there would be time enough ahead, once their royal guests had departed and he had time to enjoy such news. Instead, she tilted her head back and looked down her nose at him. “I’ll be too auld? By then you’ll be a dodderin’ five and fifty, Robert Bruce. Ye’ll be lucky if ye’re able to throw a leg across a horse, let alone a willin’ woman.” His mouth opened to protest, but she leaned across and stroked his cheek. “But that’s fourteen years i’ the future, dear yin, and by then I’ll no’ begrudge ye your rest. In the meantime, though, ye’re still hale and hearty.”
“Aye,” he growled, half laughing, then gazed at her, his look sharpening, “and ready for you, too, this minute.”
She pushed him away fondly, switching back to English. “Curb yourself, my love. We have the whole night ahead of us. And before we bed we have things to talk about. Were you pleased with how matters went today?”
“I was.”
“What about tonight’s supper?” They had had upward of thirty guests in the hall, including the Kings and their retainers, the Islesmen, and the various bishops, abbots, and priests, and the entertainment throughout had been non-stop, provided by a trio of harpists who accompanied the Kings and interspersed with bagpipe music, plus an old saga provided by the bard from Arran, brought in especially for the purpose.
“It could not have been better, lass. Even your Islesman behaved himself perfectly.”
“My Islesman? Why would you call him mine?”
“Because he is here, and so are you, my love—not the wife and mother but the countess, presiding as hostess, in all her tawny-haired glory, over the affairs of mere men. I doubt there’s a man alive who could resist being your slave, seeing you thus.”
Marjorie sat silent for a moment, digesting that, and then dipped her head. “That, my lord, was the perfect thing to say to ensure a pleasant … welcoming, before you go to sleep this night.”
“Excellent. Then let’s be about it, woman.” He reached out for her, but she caught his hand before he could grasp her breast. “In a minute, I promise. Just be patient with me. Did you speak to Murdo?”
“No, not yet. I will tomorrow.”
“Will you have time?”
“Why would I not?”
“I was thinking about the King. Will he not require your presence at his meeting with Angus Mohr?”
“I doubt it. The proceedings will all be in the Gaelic and you know how useless I am with that. No, he’ll have Gaelic-speaking witnesses enough for what he is about, without my being there. I’ll probably attend him for a while in the morning, to make sure they have everything they need, but I doubt I’ll be expected to stay, any more than Edward will.”
“What will they need that they might not have already? What’s to happen there, anyhow, between Alexander and Angus Mohr?”
“Talk … Little more than talk.”
“Talk aimed at what? Are you allowed to tell me, or is it a dark secret?”
“It’s no secret. At least it won’t be after tomorrow. In the meantime, though, few people know what Alexander intends.”
Marjorie straightened in her chair. “And what does he intend?”
“To honour Angus Mohr.”
“To honour him … The King of Scots seeks to honour Angus Mohr MacDonald? Honour him in what way and to what end?” She held up a hand. “Bear with me. I’m trying to answer my own question, but all that’s coming to me is another: why now? It seems to me our King might f
ind better things to do for the good of the realm than go out of his way to meet and honour a man he barely knows—and one, forbye, who shows little affection for him.”
“By the living God, Wife, you have a man’s head on your shoulders, for all your womanly shape and softness. You see right to the heart of things where most men would stop short. I think you are wrong in this particular case, though. I believe Alexander could find nothing better to do at this time than what he intends.” He hesitated, weighing his next words. “Why, you ask, and to what end? The answer is plain and simple. He does it for the good of the realm. Think about it, Marjorie. Angus Mohr MacDonald is a canny and powerful man, with soaring ambitions that could make him dangerous. He is absolute Lord of Islay, but his influence reaches far into the other Western Isles—into Jura and Mull to the north, and beyond that as far as Rhum and Eigg, and even east to mainland Argyll and Kintyre and the Isle of Bute. Indeed, almost to Arran itself, just across the firth in front of us. He is close to becoming a threat, growing more powerful with every year that passes, as his Islesmen spread his influence and the island folk accept him. And that is what Alexander seeks to check, here in Turnberry.”
For long moments the crackling of the fireplace was the only sound in the dark room as Marjorie thought about what her man had said. Finally she spoke. “So, how does he intend to check him?”
“By making an ally of him, rendering him beholden to the King’s grace.”
“And how will he do that? Angus is no fool. He’ll see to the heart of it.”
“I agree the man is no fool, nor will Alexander treat him as one. But as I said, Angus has ambitions. Tomorrow, the King of Scots will ennoble Angus Mohr.”
“What?” Marjorie snorted. “How will he do that? By knighting him?” The scorn with which she emphasized the word embodied the contempt with which the Gaels regarded the Norman French notion of knighthood.
“No, that would be folly. He intends to bestow upon Angus Mohr the title of Lord of the Isles, in perpetuity.”
The countess’s mouth fell open, and her eyes grew wide as she began to perceive the implications of what her husband had said. “Sweet Jesu,” she breathed eventually. “Sweet, sweet Jesu … That is either the most brilliant idea I have ever heard or the greatest, most tragic foolishness ever dreamed up by man. Alexander is playing with fire, juggling live coals…”
“Aye, but juggling brilliantly, based upon what needs to be done. Angus Mohr’s ambitions must be set at naught, and peacefully, before he gains sufficient influence to require stronger measures to restrain him. And what better way to do it than by pandering to his lusts? The man already sees himself as an island potentate.
“Alexander’s solution is pure diplomacy, inspired strategy, and magnificent politics all in one. The lordship of the Isles will set the seal on Angus Mohr’s pretensions. It will grant him the equivalent of an earldom in rank and possessions, but without the formal status of earl, and as Lord of the Isles he will be established as the dominant puissance, the presiding force, in the Western Isles. We do not believe he will be able to resist the lure, even though he sees the hook built into it: in accepting the lordship, he will be acknowledging Alexander’s right as King of Scots to grant it to him, and that will make him the King’s man in the eyes of all, Church and state, both in this realm and in England, with Edward himself as witness to it. And it will cost Angus nothing, save the time and effort of travelling to Dunfermline for formal investiture at some future date. But it will make him, beyond dispute, the King’s representative in the Isles of the west. And that in turn will set him and his Islesmen up as defenders of the King’s realm against any insurrection among the Macdowells of Galloway or any other. A powerful ally to have, think you not?”
“I am impressed,” Marjorie said eventually. “As a stratagem it appears to be both sound and sensible. I can find no fault in it. And it should work, providing Angus Mohr accepts. And I believe he will, for the reasons you say. But…” She frowned. “There’s already strife enough between MacDonald and the Macdougalls. How will Alexander of Lorn react to this?”
“That’s the beauty of the whole thing.” She heard the enthusiasm he had been at pains to conceal before. “He has no choice, cannot object. Alexander is already sheriff of Argyll and Lorn, in the King’s name, and therefore this development strengthens his position, too. When Angus Mohr accepts the lordship of the Isles, he will accept, publicly, the task that goes with it. He will be pledged to support the King’s interests in the west. And that in itself practically ordains alliance between him and Alexander. It will bring peace to the west for the first time in a hundred years.”
In the fire’s flickering light he saw his wife’s private doubt expressed in the faint pout of her mouth.
“Oh, it won’t happen overnight,” he continued smoothly. “No one expects that. Those two warhorses have been prancing around each other too long for either one of them to take to the notion of alliance easily. But it will happen, my love, over time. By this time next year it should be well in hand, and we believe—”
“We believe? Had you a hand in this?”
“A small one. There were others involved. But yes, I was part of it.”
Now Marjorie turned sideways to look over at him. “Well, Husband,” she said, “you were right. It is a brilliant solution to a problem few beyond these parts knew to exist. We can but hope Angus accepts the title, though he would have to be blind not to see how a refusal will hobble him. Aye, he would have to be blind … and foolish. A blind fool.” She sighed loudly and rose to her feet, stretching a hand out to the earl. “So be it, then. Take me to bed now, goodman, and show me how young you are.”
Later, when they lay contentedly intertwined before separating to sleep, the countess murmured, “I hope this all goes as well as you predict, my love. It will set the seal upon this week and this place of ours and change the lives of many folk, not only ours. I wonder what was in King Edward’s packet…” She waited for his reply, but Robert Bruce of Carrick had gone ahead of her and his only answer was a gentle snore. She smiled and gently eased her long legs free of her husband’s, then turned on her side and snuggled her buttocks against him, enjoying his habitual response as he grunted and fitted himself to the curve of her back. “It must have been of import,” she murmured to herself, “for I thought he might come back, but he never did…”
CHAPTER FOUR
MEETINGS
Late in the afternoon of the next day, Alexander Canmore, King of Scots, emerged with a smile on his lips from the great pavilion where he had spent long hours in council with his followers and guests. In the full light of mid-afternoon, he looked about him, breathing in the scents of the summer day, the sweet, salty tang of the seaweed on the nearby shore mingled with the familiar odours of fresh hay and warm dung from the horse lines on his right. He heard the swelling sound of voices at his back as the other men began to spill out from the pavilion, their day’s business concluded, and he draped an arm amicably over the shoulders of the Gaelic chief, Angus Mohr, who came up beside him. Both men stood talking quietly, their heads close together as the others filed by them without seeking to interrupt, and it was clear from their easy intimacy that they were both satisfied with the outcome of their deliberations.
The Scots King laughed aloud and slapped Angus Mohr gently on the shoulder, and as he did he saw Edward of England standing close by, watching him, and in unfeigned pleasure he opened his arms to his royal kinsman, calling out his name. Edward moved forward to embrace his brother-in-law as the Gaelic chief stepped back, giving him room. As they exchanged pleasantries, Angus Mohr cleared his throat and spoke in Gaelic to Alexander, bowing his head slightly but none the less deferentially to the Scots monarch, who listened graciously and answered him in the same language. The MacDonald chief then glanced at Edward, nodded pleasantly, and left the two Kings together.
They watched him leave, and when he was safely beyond earshot Edward asked quietly in English, “Well
, cuz, did you get what you required of him?”
“Aye, brother, I did. A good day’s work, indeed, from both our viewpoints. Angus Mohr is now my official ally in the far west, Lord of the Isles by royal decree and ten times richer than he was when he set foot here in Turnberry to meet us. From this day forth he will prosper greatly, enriching me and this realm with his friendship—which might conceivably prove fickle, though I doubt that—and with his championship, which will endure if for no other reason than that his future welfare will depend on it. We have had concerns, these past few years, about the activities of certain people in the far west whose ambitions I have found difficult to curb from Dunfermline. We have few good roads here in Scotland, as you know, and none at all in the west and armies progress too slowly when they have to march overland, picking their way over trackless wastes, around lakes and mountains. Now I will have MacDonald there, ready to protect my interests in concert with his own. Those others I spoke of are his enemies—traditionally so—but now that he is my man, beholden to me for all that he owns from this day forth, he will protect my welfare and that of my realm in furthering his own. And so I am well pleased.”
He took a step backward, eyeing his royal guest. “What about you? Is all well?”
“Aye, it is,” Edward answered. “But why should you suspect otherwise?”
“Why? Because I saw you take your chancellor’s dispatch from the hands of his messenger and I know you spent hours walking and thinking about it, fretting over it. Your man Norfolk told me that you left before dawn this morning and when you returned earlier this afternoon you were caked with dust and sweat. A long walk alone in the hot summer sun bespoke grave concern, but I was happy to see you looked well content when you came back.”
