The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce

by Jack Whyte

  Rob looked about at the score or more of richly clad men, many of them clerics, standing in separate groups, some talking quietly among themselves, others plainly waiting, though for what he could not have said. Sir Robert FitzHugh was already striding towards the largest group, near one of the fires, and as he hurried to keep up Rob saw the tall figure of Edward Plantagenet among the cluster of men there, dominant even had his height not been enhanced by the crown he wore. The monarch was in full regalia, and Rob noted that the coronet of heavy gold, with its studding of precious stones, appeared to sit very comfortably and naturally on its wearer’s head.

  Edward was talking to the elderly John de Warrenne, seventh Earl of Surrey and grandfather to Rob’s friend Henry Percy. To the King’s right, Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, was listening intently, his heavily jowled, saturnine face scowling in the habitual frown he had passed on to his son. Roger de Bigod of Norfolk was there, too, on the King’s left and flanked in turn by Antony Bek, the Prince-Bishop of Durham, and two other clerics, both wearing the pectoral cross and crimson scapulae that marked them as bishops, too. There was one more man among the coterie, almost concealed from Rob’s view by the trio of bishops, and although he caught only a glimpse of him Rob recognized him at once, from a previous encounter. William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, was one of the most powerful men in Edward’s realm, notwithstanding his French birth. He owned vast territories in both France and England and was a close associate of the King. As Rob approached behind FitzHugh, he looked more closely at the Anglo-French earl, noting the air of barely suppressed ennui with which he listened to the voices surrounding him.

  The seneschal’s hand waved backward in a signal to Rob to stop where he was, and Sir Robert went on alone, clearing his throat deferentially as he approached the royal presence. A flash of garish colour to his left drew Rob’s eye away from the encounter, and he saw a youth of about his own age move into view from behind two others. Bare headed, with long, dark hair that hung smoothly to his shoulders, he was unmistakably a Highland Gael, and a wealthy, privileged one. Where Rob would have expected him to wear the normal brogans of his people, this young man wore burnished, calfhigh boots that were laced up their open front over tight trousers of saffron-coloured deerskin. He wore an open-collared shirt made of the same soft skin, its deep-cut front laced loosely over his bare chest and secured at the waist with a heavy belt of gold-studded leather. A fringed shawl of light wool in alternating squares of red and dark green hung down his back to his heels, anchored by a brace of magnificently jewelled brooches at his shoulders that were connected by a thick pendant chain of gold links.

  Whoever he was, he seemed very sure of himself and completely unaware of Rob, his attention focused on the tall man who stood beside him, talking intently. Rob recognized that man as Sir Gervais de Blais, Edward’s personal attendant, a former Gascon cleric whom the King had knighted a few years earlier. Rob had first met de Blais six years before, when the Gascon, then a squire, had accompanied Edward on the King’s visit to Turnberry, but he knew him well enough by now to be on easy, first-name terms with him. The Gascon knight met his eye, though whether accidentally or not Rob could not have said, and inclined his head amiably but unobtrusively in recognition before turning his gaze to the last member of their trio, another young man of about Rob’s age who was richly dressed in the normal fashion of the English nobility. Rob assumed him to be the new English arrival, Bishop Bek’s protégé, Robert Clifford.

  “Robert! Come forward, lad.” The sound of the King’s voice snapped him back to attention and he went forward, receiving a quick wink from Sir Robert FitzHugh as the seneschal passed him, returning to his post in the anteroom. As a man, the entire group surrounding the monarch turned to Rob, and he felt himself flushing, knowing he could not return all their looks eye to eye without neglecting the King. He had an impression of hostility in some of their gazes, open dislike on de Valence’s face, and curiosity in the eyes of the two unknown bishops. Bishop Bek merely stared at him impassively. Edward, however, was paying attention to none of them.

  “By God, boy, you look impressive, for a heathen Scot.” The King was smiling as he spoke, removing any sting from his words. “That tunic’s French, is it not? De Valence, what say you?” He did not wait to hear what the French earl might have to say, but carried right on. “Our Queen will be most pleased with what you have inspired her tailors to achieve. My lords, have any of you not yet met young Robert Bruce, firstborn son of our good friend Robert, Earl of Carrick?”

  “I have not yet met young Master Bruce, Your Majesty,” said one of the bishops, and his companion added quickly, “No more have I, my lord King.”

  The King’s eyebrows rose, whether in real or feigned surprise Rob could not say. “D’ye say so? The son of one of Scotland’s foremost earls and unknown to the realm’s two most prominent churchmen? Well, we can remedy that. Robert Bruce, I present to you their eminences Bishop William Fraser of St. Andrews and Bishop Robert Wishart of Glasgow.” Rob immediately wondered if a mere bishop could be an eminence, but he had no time to dwell on it. “When the time comes for you to inherit your estates, these two, or their successors, will be bound to make great demands of you. It is their nature and their duty. Master Wishart here is a long-standing friend of your grandsire.”

  Rob, feeling the tips of his ears burning now, bowed to each of the prelates in turn and managed to murmur that he was honoured to meet them. And in a way he was, for he had heard much of both of them throughout his life. Robert Wishart of Glasgow was the heavier and stockier of the pair, his voice gruff and deep in keeping with his bulk. His bishopric of Glasgow lay within the territories of James Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland, commonly known as James the Stewart, and he had been a Bruce adherent all his life. William Fraser of St. Andrew was taller and much older, almost frail looking, with white, wispy hair and a stoop that made him seem shorter than he was. His voice reflected his age, thin and high pitched with the slightest hint of a tremor, and his loyalties, never doubted, lay with the House of Comyn and their political affiliate, John Balliol of Galloway. On the death of King Alexander, with the Scots throne fallen vacant, Rob’s grandsire, Lord Robert, had been considered a legitimate successor, and Balliol perceived to be his strongest rival.

  “Master Bruce,” Wishart began, “I am delighted to meet you, having heard much about you from your noble grandsire, Lord Robert. I would have you call on me while I am here in London, should you have the time.”

  “He will make the time,” King Edward said, the edge to his voice reminding all of them that this was his royal gathering and he had no wish to hear others speaking out on matters that did not directly concern him. “But not here and not now, Master Wishart. Robert, I have a task for you—the guidance and care of another of your own race, brought here by Bishop Bek.” He raised a hand and crooked a finger, and Rob sensed movement from behind. Unable to restrain himself, he glanced back and saw Sir Gervais de Blais approaching them, accompanied by the two youths Rob had seen him speaking to earlier.

  “Gervais, make haste then. Will you keep us waiting?” The comment was voiced mildly enough, but none there failed to note the implicit rebuke.

  De Blais increased his pace a little and bowed when he reached the King. “Majesty,” he murmured, bowing slightly from the waist. The two young men flanking him stopped when he did, and one of them, the Englishman, bowed low to the monarch. The other stood silent and arrow straight, gazing calmly at the English King as though he were his equal. Rob felt a stirring of gooseflesh as he awaited Edward’s reaction, sensing the same anticipation among the others. Edward, however, merely arched an eyebrow at the young Gael before beckoning him closer, then waving the same hand towards Rob.

  “You two will not know each other, I am sure. But that will change within the coming days and you will learn to be friends beneath my roof.” Rob immediately heard the ambiguity in the words. One interpretation was straightforward: I am glad to
have the opportunity to bring you together in friendship. But the other was ominously different: You may be as you wish elsewhere, but beneath my roof you will be friends. One look at the newcomer, though, and Rob had decided that the second meaning was by far the likelier of the two. The Gael kept his face utterly blank, and yet his entire demeanour radiated arrogance and disdain, the wide mouth quirking rigidly at one side in what barely escaped being a sneer.

  No friend of mine, this one, Rob thought. Not now, not ever. I might spend a lifetime kicking his arse and never get that look off his face.

  “Take note, my lords,” Edward said to the group around him. “These two young men are sometime heirs to the proudest, noblest, and most puissant houses in Scotland—houses notably at odds with each other down the years, though both are now sworn to uphold the realm and honour of their future Queen, whose welfare brings our brethren of Mother Church to meet with us this day. I have no doubt these two will stand shoulder to shoulder in the days to come, gladly sharing the honours of fealty to monarch and realm. Robert Bruce of Carrick, bid ye well-met to John Comyn of Badenoch and see to it that he enjoys his visit here beneath our roof.”

  It was a royal command—the monarch’s slightly altered tone emphasized that. Rob tried to keep his face unreadable as he turned to greet the Comyn. He knew he ought to muster a smile of welcome, no matter how false, but the words in his mind were rebellious, and the muscles of his face refused to yield to his insincere efforts.

  I’ll greet him as you command, my lord, he thought. But I will be damned if I’ll bow or scrape to the self-loving whoreson. “John of Badenoch, I bid you welcome to the Palace of Westminster, in the name of the King,” he said, his lips feeling wooden.

  The other nodded, his eyes fixed on a point beyond Rob. “Comyn will do,” he answered, his voice clipped and curt as though he were speaking to a menial. “Badenoch is my father.”

  Aye, and welcome he is to that distinction. Rob nodded. “So be it. Comyn you will be.”

  “And Robert Clifford will go with you for the time being, until Bishop Bek has need of him.” The King spoke as if completely unaware of any strain between his two young guests.

  Rob glanced at Clifford, who nodded coolly but amiably enough. “As you wish, Majesty,” he said levelly, looking directly at Edward. “Have we your royal permission to retire?”

  “Aye, and our express wish that you should. We have men’s business to conduct here. Away with you now. De Blais, see them out.”

  All three boys bowed deeply and took the requisite three steps backward from the royal presence before straightening up and turning to follow de Blais, who headed for the nearest door. They followed him along a short passageway that led to the Throne Room, and the noise of the assembled courtiers there grew louder with every step. But de Blais turned left at the door and led them through a maze of intersecting passageways, some narrow, some wide, threading his way deftly with the ease of long experience until he reached a narrow, reinforced door that opened onto an enclosed courtyard. Not a word had been spoken among them since they left the audience chamber, but when they were all outside, blinking in the light of the late-afternoon sun, de Blais closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, gazing at his temporary charges with narrowed eyes.

  “Well,” he said, more to himself than to any of them, “that was interesting. We have a word in France that I never hear over here. Nuance. You know it?”

  None of them answered directly, but Rob shook his head, intrigued as always with an unfamiliar word.

  “It means many things, nuance, but all of a kind. Nuance is subtlety—shades of meaning, complexities of mood and … ” He wagged one hand, searching for an English word. “How do you say … Texture? Substance? And all of it conveyed in speech, in tone of voice. Sometimes in silence.” He eyed each of them again and then shrugged. “Clearly none of you cares, but take my assurance, there were many nuances in that brief encounter you two had with His Majesty. Many subtleties, much left unsaid but deeply meant none the less. I hope you will be friends, as the King wishes. It would vex him did you not.”

  John Comyn threw Rob a withering sidelong glance and said, “I choose my friends.” He sounded different this time, and Rob was surprised at the new richness and strength of his voice, a deep and pleasant baritone unlike the terse, high-pitched voice he had used in the audience chamber. He had been anticipating some kind of whine.

  “I’ll wager you do, and easily, too, for there must be precious few eager to be chosen.”

  The blood drained from the other’s face and he dropped his hand to where his dagger’s hilt should be. But weapons were forbidden in the audience chamber, and he clutched for his blade in vain. By the Christ, Rob thought. He’s as sudden-tempered as I am.

  Before either of them could move again, de Blais was towering between them. In the space of a heartbeat he had shed the easy air of tolerance Rob admired and was transformed into an angry knight in his prime, one large, steely hand gripping each of the young Scots by the shoulders.

  “Nom de Dieu!” he snarled, jerking both of them towards him as though they were weightless. “Have you gone mad, fool?” He was glaring at Comyn, who returned the look with loathing.

  “Take your hands off me.”

  “Not hands. One hand, but it has you.” Rob saw the muscles in the knight’s thick forearm tense as he increased the pressure of his fingers.

  Comyn grunted in fury and whipped a fist up and over, pivoting to put his full weight behind the blow to the knight’s face. Rob was barely aware of the speed with which the Gascon’s other hand released his shoulder and shot out to intercept the strike. Comyn’s driving fist stopped short, clamped in the vise that had closed around his wrist, and there it remained immobile while he strained to wrest it free. De Blais’s grip was relentless, forcing the younger man’s clenched fist back and away, turning him until the two of them were chest to chest, Comyn with his face against the French knight’s sternum as he wriggled and fought like a clean-hooked fish. De Blais was immovable, his face expressionless as he held the other effortlessly and waited for his struggles to die down. When they did, he released the young Scot.

  “I called you fool,” he said, so quietly that Rob had to listen closely to hear every word. “But I do not think you really are foolish. Proud and pigheaded, yes, that you are. Intolerant, certainly. Ill tempered and lacking in manners, manifestly. And arrogant beyond belief for one your age … But not a fool. And because I do not know you, I have to ask myself why you have played the fool’s part when you must know it can bring you nothing but grief.”

  “From whom? You? From this new friend I have had thrust upon me? I think not.” Comyn shrugged, exaggerating the gesture, then tugged fastidiously at his clothing, adjusting the gold chain of his woollen cloak so that the garment hung properly again, then smoothing the leather shirt over his arms and chest. As he did so he looked again at Rob and sneered. “I certainly have no fear of suffering grief from a Bruce.”

  Rob bit his tongue, willing himself not to respond and not to look at Comyn. He looked instead at Robert Clifford, who was staring at Comyn wide-eyed. Once again Gervais de Blais intervened.

  “No one has suggested that you should,” he said quietly. “Come, let me show you something.”

  The Gascon knight gently touched the shirt that the Gael had just finished smoothing. He used the backs of his fingers, his movements unhurried as he stroked the softness of the brushed leather just below the twin badges securing Comyn’s cloak. Then, before any of the boys could even guess at his intention, he seized two bunched handfuls of the garment and lifted Comyn off his feet, holding him effortlessly at eye level.

  It was the most striking display of sheer strength that Rob had ever seen, and he felt the startled widening of his eyes. It had taken Comyn equally by surprise, for he hung unmoving from the Gascon’s outstretched arms for several moments, a look of shock on his face. But then he regained his wits and began to struggle, ch
opping at de Blais’s ears with both hands as though to deafen him. He might as well have tried to slap the wind, though, for the big man pulled him close and the flailing hands met harmlessly behind his head as he shook his captive like a child’s plaything, barking a single explosive word: “No!” Again the mighty arms bunched and heaved, and Comyn was hoisted even higher as de Blais stepped back with one foot and pivoted, swinging the younger man effortlessly around in a half circle to slam his shoulders flat against the wall by the door. He held him there with ease, leaning into him straight-armed, pinning him against the stones, and Comyn made no further attempt to struggle.

  De Blais was not even breathing heavily.

  “The day may come, when you are in your prime, that you might seek to chastise me for this little nonsense, and by then I might well be too old to prevent you. But that lies far in the future, Master Comyn, and for now I am twice, perhaps thrice your size and strength, and you are no match for me, so please do not try to make me angrier than I am. You lack manners and good breeding and would have benefited years ago from the good arse-kickings that you so evidently never received.” Comyn opened his mouth. “Be quiet! And listen to someone else for once in your silly, overprivileged life.”

  Comyn glared, and de Blais continued. “You are here as the guest of our King—my King—and he has voiced no more than one requirement of you: that you accept his hospitality and learn something of his court and its ways from another like yourself, a fellow Scot, like you, under the King’s sufferance … A simple thing, others might say, and easily accepted. And yet you choose to see it as an insult to your dignity, offensive to your honour. What honour? You are but a boy, an unformed, uncouth, foreign newcomer in a civi-lized land, an outlander. Think you, perhaps, that we should all change our behaviour in deference to your ideas? Answer me.”

  “I will not be subjected to supervision by a Bruce.”