Robert the Bruce--A Tale of the Guardians

by Jack Whyte

  Bruce nodded gravely. “I will, Nicol, I promise you. And yet I have seen nothing, heard nothing, that would indicate to me that Edward is guilty of the things that you ascribe to him. And until I do, until Edward demonstrates such behaviour personally in ways I cannot misconstrue, he will have my loyalty and my trust. Tell Bishop Wishart that.”

  Nicol MacDuncan stood, his face an expressionless mask. “I will, if you truly wish me to. But keep your head up as you proceed from here, Nephew. You will be pursuing a new course by even looking for the kind of things you will seek now. And only a fool heads into the unknown burning all the bridges at his back.”

  “Then you may have a fool for a nephew, Uncle.” He paused, frowning. “Nicol, I have known you all my life, and of all my family, you have been closest to me. You have said what you came to say today and I have listened to you, and I respect your viewpoint. I have raised my voice against you, too, as I never did before, but that sprang from my anger that Robert Wishart would propose such a course of action to me and use you to present it to me where he knew no other could or would. But that said, I see no need for you and me to quarrel between ourselves … I would hate that.”

  “So would I, Rob, so would I.” The older man stepped forward and extended his hand, and as they shook, he grinned ruefully. “No quarrel, then, between us two and I thank God for it. The world will make its own demands and we will all respond to them in our own ways, and only God can tell who will do what when any given day arrives. Be at peace, Nephew.”

  “And you, Uncle. May God watch over you. Will you ride with us to Westminster?”

  “No, by Jesus! All those Englishmen and Frenchmen, and ne’er a Gaelic speaker among them? The heavens spare me that! No, I will head homeward tomorrow, if the weather holds. And when I see the bishop, which should be within the week, I will be frank with him. I might not bid him go to Hell, but neither will I underplay your response to what he had to say.” He pointed at Bruce’s ribs. “Your ribs seem sounder. I have not heard you gasp in pain today.” He grinned. “In outrage, aye, but not in pain. And you walked.”

  Bruce harrumphed, but he was smiling, too. “Four steps,” he demurred.

  “Four more than you’ve walked in the week past. By this time tomorrow you’ll be moving normally. It doesn’t take long, once you’re firm on your feet again. But I should go. I’ll send that servant back to tend your fire.”

  “Give him a penny, too, in recompense for frightening him.”

  Nicol’s grin grew wider. “I’ll do that. And I’ll come back and say farewell before I leave for home.”

  * * *

  Brother Reynald returned in the middle of the afternoon, and when Bruce stood up to greet him he blinked in surprise. When the monk asked him if he could walk, he nodded and set off across the room, moving hesitantly at first but gaining confidence with every step from the moment his dizziness vanished.

  “So,” the old man said. “Speedy and laudable improvements since this morning, no? I am well pleased. God has been good to you, and I think I may return now whence I came. You will progress quickly from now on, without any more need of me.” His old eyes flickered in what might have been a smile. “Go with God, Master Bruce, but take care not to throw yourself upon any more piles of stones in the next few days. Wait for a few months at least.” He bowed and was turning away when Bruce stopped him with an upraised hand.

  “Brother, may I ask you a question?”

  “You may, and I may even answer it if I am able. Is it about your injuries?”

  “No, Brother, it is about you.”

  The fiercely grizzled eyebrows rose, but the old man’s response was mild. “Then ask it, Master Bruce.”

  “I know you were a brother of the Hospital and I know you were gravely injured, in Outremer.”

  “I was. Near Acre, four years before the city fell to Baibars and his Mamelukes. Did we not talk of this before?”

  “No, Brother, not directly. You spoke of your physician friend Sayeef ad-Din and how he befriended you in your captivity, no more than that.”

  “Yes, I recall now. What more can I tell you of those days?”

  “Nothing. My question is more concerned with your life now. As a monk and a Hospitaller, how can you now be inactive? Both, I thought, were lifelong commitments, but you no longer wear the insignia of the order, though I see the outline of its patch upon your cloak, and clearly you do not live in cloisters.” Bruce shrugged. “I know it is none of my affair. I am merely curious and I will not be offended if you choose not to tell me.”

  Now the old monk smiled easily and tilted his head to one side. “Dispensations, Master Bruce, on both commitments. You are correct, of course. The vows we take are permanent. In my case, though, my superiors were … lenient and merciful. I served the order faithfully for more than forty years and was already far past youth when I was captured by the enemy. My wounds were severe and I have never fully recovered from them. I returned to France eventually, and to my monastic, though not my knightly, duties, but there remained one thing to be discovered about the nature of my injuries.”

  He smiled again. “Weak and debilitated as I had been in Outremer, I had thrived there beneath the desert sun. Only after my return to Christendom did I discover how badly the cold and dampness of my native France would aggravate my condition. My health declined steadily with every passing year, and in the seventh winter I came close to dying, in the monastery—they are not built as palaces, as I am sure you know.

  “Hospitallers take great pride, perhaps even sinful pride at times, in their ability to heal ailments of all kinds, but mine defeated the entire fraternity. Only one of my brethren was able to define anything about my sickness with certainty. I was chronically sick, he said. You know this word, ‘chronically’?” Bruce nodded. “Ah, good. I was chronically sick of unknown causes, or of causes we did not yet understand, and I would most certainly die, unnecessarily, were I to remain where I was. It was the climate and environment of our monastery, he said, that was keeping me sicker than I should have been—the coldness and the constant dampness of the stones that housed our cells. Monks choose to live a life of hardship and austerity, he said, but mine, my chosen life, was leading me unwittingly to suicide. And so I was relieved of my responsibilities and my membership in the order, in order to prolong my life.

  “I have one blood relative in all the world, a younger sister who is wife to an English lord, Sir John Mowbray, a tenant of the Earl of Surrey. Sir John required someone to tend the hospice he set up on his lands when he returned from Outremer, long years ago, and he was happy to offer me a place. The friend who foresaw my impending death in the monastery arranged for everything, for he was, and he remains, active in our order and travels widely here and in France in the performance of his duties on its behalf.” He spread his hands in a purely Gallic gesture, smiling gently. “And here I am, in England, for the sake of my health, though few in France might find that credible.”

  “And you enjoy it here.”

  “I do. I love the daily work with which I am blessed, and the life I live. I have a small cottage of my own, and it is warm and snug and dry, allowing me to pray according to the dictates of my former order.”

  “But it is not home, as you think of home.”

  The physician—for there was no trace now of the monk as he gazed at Bruce with narrowing eyes—pursed his lips, then pressed the tip of his index finger into the ledge of his nose before drawing it all the way down the beak’s sharp edge. “No, Master Bruce,” he said quietly, “I think I must disagree with you there. It is my home. This is my home now. England…” His eyes drifted out of focus for a moment. “But it will never be, it can never be France.” He drew a deep breath and laid an open hand on his chest. “The homeland can never be dislodged, Master Bruce. It resides here, always.”

  And then he bowed and turned away, limping towards the door, and as Bruce watched him go, he was highly conscious of the honour the old man had so casually
bestowed upon him. Brother Reynald de Frontignac, Knight of the Order of the Hospital and aged in the service of that august order, was a man who would voluntarily bow to very few.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CONFESSIONS

  “D’ye feel strong enough to go out for a walk?” Thomas Beg asked. “It’s a rare day.”

  At the mere thought of it, of stepping outside into fresh air and sunshine, Bruce felt a surge of energy. “Aye,” he said, “I do … Providing it’s not too far or too fast.”

  “We’ll tak it slow. Here, let me get your cloak an’ I’ll help ye on wi’ your boots.”

  As they stepped out through the main door of the house and stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the courtyard, Bruce threw back his head and spread his arms wide, inhaling the scents of the June day and feeling his troubles of the past week fall away from him. The sky was a bright, brilliant blue with only a few scattered, woolly clouds, and the air was warm and balmy, rich with the scents of summer. There were people everywhere he looked, going about their usual business, and though most of them failed to notice him, several acknowledged him with passing nods or smiles, and he saw none of the tense and careworn frowns he had seen everywhere the day of the fire. He inhaled again, deeply, sniffing the air for the telltale stink of charred wood and smoke, but there was nothing to mar the calm beauty of the day.

  “Where d’ye want to go first?”

  Bruce tilted his head and met Tam’s eye. “The stables. Let’s see what’s happening there.”

  What was happening there, he soon discovered, was an astonishing rebirth. No slightest sign remained of the building that had burned, save for the cleared and levelled space it had occupied. Even the newly riven channel scoured by the floodwaters had been filled in, and the pond that had been washed out had been re-banked and deepened, its earthen sides now lined with heavy stones that would channel any future spate downhill and away from the stables themselves. There were huge piles of round stones everywhere, graded by size, and mountainous piles of sawn lumber.

  Thomas Beg pointed with his thumb towards a deep, broad trench on the far side from where they stood.

  “There’s masons down in there, layin’ foundations. That trench is three steps wide there at the back, an’ it’s even deeper than the old one was. They’re linin’ it wi’ boulders set in cement, the kind the Romans used to use—harder than mortar an’ made to last forever. Nae fear o’ that washing away.”

  “Cement? What’s that?”

  The big man shrugged. “God knows, but it’s hard, as hard as granite once it’s set. I’d never heard o’ it afore, either. The mason in charge there knows where to get the stuff that’s in it, but he wouldna tell me where or say what it is. He mixes whatever it is wi’ lime an’ sand, like ordinary mortar, but it’s far frae ordinary, accordin’ to what his folk say.”

  “And he keeps the source secret? Wise man.”

  “Aye. A secret passed frae father to son. Like one o’ they…” He frowned, unable to find the word he was looking for.

  “An inheritance, you mean?”

  “Aye, that’s it, the very thing.”

  Bruce looked out at the miles of fields beyond the stables, marvelling at all he could now see from this vantage point, for the old stable building had hidden this view and the new one would soon do so again. “Hard to believe that was all under water a week ago.”

  “It still was six days ago, but aye, it is. But that’s what comes o’ haein sand underneath instead o’ clay.”

  Bruce smiled to himself, enjoying the big man’s unconscious assumption of knowledge and authority. “That reminds me,” he said. “Is Sir James Jardine still here? I haven’t seen him since the day of the fire.”

  “Aye. He spends most o’ his time wi’ your father and the Earl o’ Mar. They’re out huntin’… unless I didna see them comin’ back. But they wis up an’ away this mornin’ early, the three o’ them wi’ some local folk as guides.” He glanced sideways. “How are ye doin’? Are ye ready to go back?”

  “Not yet. We can go a little farther.”

  “As ye wish, but it’s your first time out. You shouldna overdo it.”

  “I won’t, Tam. Just a little longer.”

  They walked for another quarter of an hour and were nearing the house when a young woman emerged, wearing a full, long-waisted kirtle of pale grey cloth and clutching a basket piled high with linen. She was a lively-looking lass, tall and straight-backed, with curling hair and bright, flashing eyes that widened suddenly as she saw the two men approaching. Thomas Beg surprised his earl greatly then by stepping in front of him, bowing low and doffing his cap with a muttered “Mistress Mary, good day to you. Let me take that for you.” The big man moved quickly and, more gracefully than Bruce would ever have believed, relieved the young woman of her burden before she could protest. He watched in amazement as they left him there without another glance, walking in the direction of the outbuildings, with the young woman hurrying to keep up with Tam’s long stride.

  “Another Mary … Two out of five,” he mused, smiling at a pleasant recollection of little Mary Henderson with her great green eyes. The departing pair vanished around a corner, and Bruce turned to enter the house. In the space of a single step, though, with his hand outstretched to push open the door, the smile withered on his lips and he froze.

  He was no longer sick but up and moving about again, growing stronger with every passing minute. And that meant, inevitably, that sometime very soon, possibly within the next few hours, he was going to come face to face with Lady Isabella of Mar, his betrothed bride. The woman had been here in his own house for a full week already, unmet and unseen thanks only to the grace of God and a fortuitous injury. But now he would have to face her, accompanied by her father and his own, and acknowledge his commitment to a lifetime of having her by his side, bearing his children and judging his every move and motive …

  Bruce had never thought of himself as being a coward, but at that moment he wanted to run to the stables, mount a horse, and flee into the forests. Dizziness swept over him again, a swooping vertigo, and then he stiffened himself defiantly, clamping his jaw as he pushed open the door. Duty, he told himself. Face up to it! He drew a deep breath and held it, then walked stiffly into the house.

  It was dark inside after the brightness of the late-afternoon sun, and it seemed to his dazzled eyes that the stone-flagged hallway was full of people and busier than usual. As his sight adjusted, however, he saw he had been mistaken; there might have been a few more people there than usual, but they were all household staff and they were congregated in the long room to the right of the main entrance. He could not begin to guess what they were doing, but it was evident they were organized and working hard. Then he caught a flash of bright-coloured movement above him and glanced up to see two more of the Lady Isabella’s young women climbing the staircase to the upper floors. He recognized one of them immediately, little Mary Henderson herself, his sole contact with the imponderable quandary that lay ahead of him.

  He was unaware of calling her name aloud, but he knew he must have, for she turned to look down in surprise, hesitating before saying something to the other girl with her. She stepped closer to the edge of the staircase as her companion continued up the stairs. And with an eerie sense of foreknowledge Bruce found himself where he had stood a week earlier, gazing up at a young woman who looked back at him from above, one hand resting on the polished stone rail of the staircase. Where Gwendolyn de Ferrers had smiled warmly at him, however, Mary Henderson was eyeing him with concern, the line between her brows visible even from where he stood.

  “My lord?” she said, turning the salutation into a question. “Is aught amiss?”

  Reality returned and he looked around quickly to see who might be listening, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention, and he looked back to where the girl stood staring down at him, her wide green eyes appearing disproportionately large in her pale face. He raised a hand as though
to say something, then found he had no words, either in mind or mouth, and so he stood there, his lips moving silently while a voice in his mind berated him, What are you doing, you fool? What can you say to the girl? Where will you go with this?

  But then she was coming down the stairs towards him, hesitantly at first and then more quickly, still with that vertical line of concern etched between her brows, and he went to meet her. She stopped before she reached him, hovering on the third step above the floor, and he drew a gulping breath, incapable of speaking or of looking away from those fascinating eyes. He had been close to panic moments earlier but he was unprepared for the soaring wave of mingled pleasure and guilt that now engulfed him to see her looking back at him with such transparent concern. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and he wanted, more than he had ever wanted anything, to reach out, pick her up by the waist, and lift her to where he could smell the scent of her.

  “My lord,” she said in her native Gaelic, “what is the matter? Are you unwell?”

  Again he opened his mouth and again he was unable to speak. He stood stock-still, hearing a distant thundering in his ears and comprehending, finally, the enormity of what he had come close to doing. And then his shoulders slumped and he dropped his hands to his sides.

  “No, Mary Henderson,” he heard himself say as if from a great distance. “I am not unwell at all … But I am utterly undone.”

  She blinked at him, and as her frown grew deeper, his crushing misery deepened with it. He raised his hands again, palms forward in supplication, then, horrified to feel his eyes starting with tears, he stepped back quickly and whispered, “Forgive me, lass. I am a fool and I am damned. Forgive me.”