by Jack Whyte
Bruce grinned. “Aye, I heard about that. It would seem the man’s not as savage and uncivilized as repute would have him.”
Bigod made a face. “Some females prefer beasts to men, I’ve been told—drawn towards the violent and savage. He was taken soon after that. Edward imprisoned him in Winchester for a spell, then let him go, upon his promise of good behaviour, which the fellow broke quickly enough. Since then he’s been in and out of grace and favour constantly. But he’s here now, close by, I’m told.”
“You mean in England?”
“No, I mean here in Essex. You and he are neighbours.”
“Are we, by God? I knew nothing of that. How might I find him?”
“If you’ve an ounce of sense in you, you won’t. The man’s name reeks of ill intent and sedition.”
“He’s imprisoned here, you mean?”
“No, not exactly. He is under parole of good behaviour.”
“I see. And you expect him to break that.”
“I think it’s inevitable. It was the business with Hazelrig that made me think of him. Now there’s a creature to beware of. He can be pleasant enough when he wants to be, and he’s good at what he does, but what he does best is the kind of thing most men like us would choose to do only with great reluctance—and he does everything for Hazelrig before all else. He’ll make a bad enemy. And he has the King’s ear.”
It flashed through Bruce’s mind that Percy himself would make a far more dangerous enemy than Hazelrig ever could. He had watched Harry during the brief confrontation with Hazelrig and had no doubt that matter might have ended fatally had not Hazelrig backed down. Bruce himself had never killed a man. He had come close, particularly so in Ulster, where he had ridden out several times on sorties against bands of rebels and insurgents. None of those had ever come to action, though, and so the entirety of his experience in arms had been in mock battle and in the lists at tourneys, always using blunted weapons. Percy’s experiences had been more practical, in Wales and elsewhere, and Bruce knew that when duty demanded it the Baron of Alnwick would be implacable, killing without a second thought. A man of impeccable honour, combined with probity, integrity, and finely honed military skills. A very dangerous enemy, indeed.
Percy did not notice the barely perceptible hesitation his comment had occasioned. Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “The King’s ear, you say? You mean Edward can’t see his faults?”
“No, I mean the King can use his faults. Hazelrig is an Englishman with certain peculiar talents, let us say—talents that not all Englishmen possess or favour—and the King has need, from time to time, of creatures of his stamp. This Douglas, on the other hand, is a Scot, and an uncouth, ungentle one. But an adder is an adder—venomous whether English or Scots.” He stopped suddenly, then asked, “When did you last speak with the King?”
Bruce shrugged. “In April. He attended my grandfather’s funeral. But we did not speak privately, merely exchanged civilities. He was under duress and had no time for anything more.”
“That was months ago. You have not seen him since?”
“No, nor heard from him.”
“How so? Did you offend him?”
Bruce almost smiled. “I have no memory of doing so. And you know Edward. Had I done so, he would have left me in no doubt of it. But no, I have given him no cause to be displeased with me.” He shrugged. “Nor to summon me, either, for that matter…”
“Then you must go to Westminster and pay your respects,” Percy said, his voice filled with conviction. “The King has much on his mind these days, and he may have lost sight of the fact that four months have elapsed and your mourning is over. Go and show your face, my friend. I’ll warrant you’ll be glad you did.” The other two nodded, even the surly de Bohun scowling in what might have been encouragement.
“I will, then,” Bruce said. “The worst he can do, if he is displeased with me, is have me hanged.”
“No,” de Bohun growled, “he could have your entrails drawn, too, and burn them there in front of you while you watched.”
The big knight was jesting, Bruce knew, but he twisted his mouth wryly. “I doubt that, Humphrey. His name’s Plantagenet. Only a de Bohun would come up with a punishment as refined as the one you describe.”
As the others laughed, Bruce caught sight of Thomas Beg coming towards them, searching among the campsite fires and leading a horse loaded with Bruce’s half armour, shield, and sword belt. “Here’s my man,” he said, rising to his feet and waving to attract his attention. “Come to lead me back home in safety, God bless him. Though why he should feel I have need of armour is beyond me. Thomas Beg, over here!”
He saw Tam veer towards their fire, then swung back to his three friends and thanked them for their hospitality and the pleasure of their company, promising to see them all again soon, most probably in Westminster. By the time his farewells were over, Thomas Beg had reached their campfire and stood waiting.
“Thomas,” Bruce said, eyeing the armour piled on the horse Tam led. “Have I need of all that for the short ride to camp?”
“We’re no’ goin’ to camp, my lord. We’re goin’ back to Writtle. Your father sent word while ye were here that he’ll be there afore noon and expects you there to greet him … Him and the lady Isabella, your wife-to-be.”
Bruce sucked in sharply and choked, then doubled over in a fit of coughing that delighted his English companions, and their guffaws rang in his ears throughout the time it took him to regain his composure. Bruce wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic and blinked owlishly at his retainer, ignoring the splutters and snorts of his suddenly raucous friends. He forced himself to remain motionless until their chortling died away completely and then he cleared his throat gently and spoke in a calm voice. “Forgive me, Thomas. My reaction may have been stronger than you expected, but you took me by surprise. My … my lady wife, did you say?”
Wee Thomas nodded, his face inscrutable. “Aye, that’s what I said. The Lady Isabella o’ Mar, come in train wi’ your father an’ her ain, auld Earl Domhnall himsel’. They’ll be stopping to collect you, on their way to Westminster to obtain the King’s blessing on the match.”
“By the holy rood, Bruce, that’s a bit sudden, is it not? A quick end to your whoring days, no? You had no inkling?”
Bruce shook his head in mute response to Bigod’s question, his eyes still on Thomas Beg, but then Percy slapped him on the upper arm.
“My felicitations, Bruce. Surprise or not, expected or otherwise, you are about to enter Paradise, if my own experience is anything by which to judge. But you must have known something of this, surely? It cannot be a complete surprise.”
In spite of feeling as though someone had kicked him in the belly, he calmly answered Percy’s question. “No,” he said, sounding uncertain even to himself, “I had some inkling, a long time ago, but…” He scrubbed his hand across his eyes again, then moved to resume his seat on the log by the fire, waving to the other three to join him. When they were settled, he sighed and shook his head ruefully. “My grandfather told me about this, years ago, when the lass was no more than twelve. Her brother Gartnait of Mar is already my good-brother, wed to my sister Christina, and her father, the Gaelic mormaer—that’s their word for high chief—Domhnall of Mar, has been a lifelong supporter of the House of Bruce. Domhnall had no more liking for John Balliol and the Comyns than we Bruces did, and it was he who suggested this match soon after the child Isabella was born. I think he thought even then that my grandsire would be King one day. But when I first heard of it from my grandsire the possibility was long years away in the future. And then Balliol became King and we lost our status and our holdings in Scotland, and I thought no more about it. We could not return to Scotland, so how then could I be wed according to my grandsire’s plan?”
Percy sat staring across the fire at Bruce, nodding slowly. “So you have never met the girl?”
“Never met her, never seen her. She exists, that’s all I know. Clearly, though, m
y father seeks to make the old man’s dream a reality, if he has gone to the trouble to bring her to England.”
“Aye, and to involve the goodwill of the King in the matter. That bespeaks long consideration.”
Bruce sighed, thinking wistfully about the other long-considered matter of the woman who would not, after all, be sharing his bed that night. “Aye, it does…” He glanced to where Thomas Beg stood waiting. “I should be away, then, for I can see by my man’s stance that he is impatient to be on the road.”
“How long will it take you to get home?”
“Not long. We have about eight miles to ride … Two hours in the dark? But I had better change into my armour. May I use your tent?”
“Of course,” Percy said with easy grace. “It should be ready by now.”
“Mine certainly is,” Bigod intervened. “And it’s closer. I’ll have your horse brought up from where you left it.”
“My thanks. I will.” He beckoned to Thomas Beg to join him, and they made their way to Bigod’s tent, leading Tam’s mount and the armour-laden packhorse.
“What did you do with the women?” Bruce asked as soon as they were inside the tent.
“Sent them on to Writtle. They’ll hae been there afore it got dark. They werena happy, but they could see for theirsels what had happened. Lord Bruce’s courier arrived no’ long after me. It’s Sir James Jardine, an’ ye ken what he’s like.”
Bruce nodded, his mouth twisting wryly. He recalled the grim, unsmiling Annandale laird clearly. Jardine had been one of the Noble Robert’s most loyal vassals, and he had evidently transferred his loyalty to the old man’s son when the younger Bruce assumed the lordship, but his personality was less than sparkling. Bruce could not recall ever having seen the man smile and could not imagine him finding humour in anything.
“He wasna pleased to find you no’ there when he reached Writtle,” Tam continued. “And that didna improve when ye werena in camp, either, by the time he got there. He’d had a hard time findin’ the place, an’ he made no secret o’ what he was aboot, either, so the whole camp heard him and kenned what was afoot, and it wis plain there wis naethin’ else for us to do but pack everything up and leave. The ladies wis disappointed, but they went wi’out a fuss. Jardine went back to Writtle wi’ them and I told him I’d hae you there, too, as soon as I could collect ye. Oh, an’ the lady sent ye this.” He reached into his scrip and pulled out a folded sheet of fine vellum, shaved to the point of semi-transparency and sealed with a blob of plain wax. Bruce took it and carried it to the nearest light, where he flicked the seal open and scanned the short note.
It seems we are not meant to enjoy each other. A courier brings word that your wife-to-be will arrive tomorrow. I wish you both well. Someday, perhaps, we may meet again and begin again.
No names, no signature. He sniffed, aware of a small feeling of regret, and that it was overshadowed by a small, growing excitement over what the morrow might bring. Tam was watching him, and he held the letter up to the flame of the lamp, holding it there until it caught, then watching it burn, twisting the parchment until the written portion had been completely consumed. He held it until he was in danger of burning himself, then dropped the last, still-burning fragment and ground it under his foot.
“Right,” he said. “Help me get dressed.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NATURAL WRATH
Bruce and Wee Thomas arrived home in the darkness before midnight, when the moon was still high in the sky among a sparse scattering of clouds. They had expected to find the lights all out and the household fast asleep, but instead they saw the place lit up from a mile away, its square tower still visible against the green-tinged lightness of the western sky, and the sight of the unusual brightness glowing through the night from such a distance reminded Bruce that the place was astir with guests and visitors who would have set the place in turmoil, since no one had expected anyone to return from the festive hunting trip for at least another two days. He turned in his saddle to look at Thomas Beg and found the big man watching him, clearly waiting for him to say something. And so, being Bruce, he said nothing. But Tam was not to be put off.
“They’re up late,” he said, his voice hovering somewhere between disapproval and pleasure.
Bruce shrugged. “Not really surprising, if you think on it. You said the women would arrive back here before nightfall, and the sun set less than three hours ago. And they would have been tied to the pace of the lame jennet. We’ve made more than twice the speed they would, but even so, they’ll barely have had time to eat, for Allie would be scandalized to send them to bed with naught but a cold, scant supper. So they might still be at table.”
“A bit late for that,” Tam said, and then his voice brightened. “But that means hot food for us, too.”
Bruce grinned. “Aye, it might, provided someone said we’d be coming after them. Somebody as kind and considerate of others as Sir James Jardine…”
Even in the moonlight he could see Thomas Beg frown as he thought of that, and then the big man kicked his horse into a canter, the words “Better get there while it’s still hot, then” drifting back over his shoulder.
The household was not quite at table when they arrived; the female guests were being shown to their accommodations by Bruce’s harried staff, and the outer yard was bustling with activity as servants loaded the bulk of the ladies’ baggage onto carts and wagons in preparation for an early departure in the morning. Bruce had seen the Lady Gwendolyn de Ferrers as soon as he stepped into the house. She had been going upstairs and turned to him, and he was glad to see that the swift smile she sent him was open and free of resentment. He would have been unsurprised had she withered him with a scathing sneer, and he was grateful for her forbearance.
“My lady,” he called as she began to turn away, surprising himself since he had had no thought until that moment of approaching her. She stopped, as did her companions, and then she moved slightly closer, to the low wall edging the stairs, looking down at him with one hand laid on the decorative stone hand rail that topped the coping stones. Only then, as she looked down at him with that same gentle smile, did he realize how ill prepared he was for this encounter. He had removed his helmet on dismounting and now carried it upside down in the crook of his arm, its bowl stuffed with his riding gauntlets; he had also pulled off the mailed coif, flinging it carelessly across one cloaked shoulder as he scrubbed at his matted scalp with his free hand. Now, looking up at the lushly beautiful young woman above him, he imagined he could see himself through her eyes, awkward and clumsy, unwashed and unkempt and reeking pungently of sweat—his own and his horse’s—and the ingrained stink of oily, leather-lined chain mail and rancid gambeson. The thought made him flush with embarrassment.
“Madame, I must ask you and your companions to forgive me for my neglect of you and for the disappointment I have caused you all—”
He stopped as she raised a hand to silence him.
“My lord Bruce,” she said, her voice low pitched yet carrying clearly to all who listened, “you have no reason to apologize to anyone. Our lives are all dictated by conditions and circumstances that we can seldom control. Yours is clearly no exception. The Earl of Pembroke summoned you, and you had no choice but to obey. Tonight Sir James has told us of your betrothal years since, and of how tomorrow you will set eyes for the first time upon the lady who is to be your wife. We all are glad for you, Earl Robert, and wish you well. And—” She grinned a sudden, wicked grin and turned to eye her companions, inviting them to join in her banter, “we will all be gone again from here long before she comes, lest she should think she has competitors to fear. And now, sir, may God be with you this night and we will leave you to your duties, in the hope of meeting you again someday, with your lady wife.” She smiled again and raised a hand in farewell, then glided up the stairs, already deep in conversation with one of the other women.
Bruce stood blinking at their backs, nonplussed by the thought of the scowling
Annandale knight speaking to them at all, but then he shook his head as though to clear it and made his way into the main hall. He was confident that his path would cross hers again someday and next time, he was determined, they would enjoy settling the business that lay unfinished between them.
His musings were cut off by the sight of Sir James Jardine, still seated at one of the large tables in the hall and gazing at Bruce as he entered. There was no one else of consequence around—several men and women from the household staff were clearing away the debris of the meal, now that the other guests had departed, but none of them was anywhere close to where Sir James sat alone holding a drinking mug, his wooden platter pushed out into the centre of the table for collection. Bruce caught the eye of one of the servants as he crossed the room and pointed to the knight’s abandoned platter, indicating with a flick of his hand that it should be cleared away. He reached the table and waited silently while the servant removed the platter, then nodded courteously to his guest.
“Sir James. You’ll forgive me, I trust, for not being here to greet you when you arrived. Had I known you were coming…”
The Lochmaben knight nodded in acknowledgment, his face expressionless. But then he surprised Bruce by standing up and extending his hand.
“It’s of no import now, Earl Robert,” he said. “Though I’ll admit I was vexed at first when you werena here. But ye’re here now, so there’s nae harm done. It’s just that my bones are getting old and I’d been in the saddle ower long. My hip’s causing me grief these days.” He waved a hand at the tabletop. “Will ye sit wi’ me? The ale here’s better than the usual.”
