by Jack Whyte
“Robert? Is that you? You’ve grown.”
“Good day to you, my lord.”
His father half turned and waved him away.
“No,” Lord Robert growled. “Let him stay. He’s a Bruce, and if he’s not grown now he will be after this. Close that door and listen, both of you. Sit down, Robert.”
Rob moved quickly to close the heavy door at his back as his father seated himself.
“What’s amiss, Father?” the earl said. “Where is everyone going? We must have passed thirty riders on the way up.”
“More than that. They went out by both gates, front and back, to raise my host, and I’ll need you up and away to Turnberry, too, as soon as may be, to turn out your own men.”
“To turn out—? In God’s name, Father, what has happened?”
“God’s work, though some might gauge it otherwise. The Queen is dead … The lass from Norway. I had the word but hours ago, direct from Dunfermline, two horses killed in the bringing of it.”
“But … But—” The news was so staggering that neither of the younger Bruces could accommodate it. “But the treaty … Birgham … It’s but newly signed … ”
“Aye, and all of it a waste of time. Man’s plan, God’s decree. Now we have to move, and quickly.”
“Are you sure, Father?”
“Sure of what? The tidings? Or the need for haste?” There was an impatient edge to the old man’s voice.
“The Queen’s death.”
“As sure as I can be. The word arrived in Dunfermline mere days ago, and by sheer chance the Stewart was there. As soon as he heard of it, he sent the tidings on to me, bidding me look to myself.”
The Earl of Carrick braced himself. “And what was the word?”
“Unclear, but a sudden sickness at sea, in foul weather between here and Norway. They put in at Orkney and the child died there. Nothing anyone could do to save her. They sent word to Dunfermline, to the council, and then turned back to take the body home to the wee lass’s father for burial.”
“And now you are doing what, precisely?”
The elder Bruce’s face was stony, his fierce eyes focused upon his son’s. “Looking to my interests—and yours, and his,” he said, lifting his chin towards Rob. “And thanking God I was here when the word arrived.”
“What difference would it have made had you not been?”
Annandale glared at his son in astonishment. “You ask me that? What difference? In Christ’s name, boy, are you besotted? You see what’s at stake, surely?”
“No, Father, not as clearly as you evidently do. What is at stake?”
“The realm, in holy Jesu’s name! The Queen is dead. Are you addled, boy? See you not what this means?” His eyes flicked to Rob. “Do you see it?”
Rob nodded. “Aye, sir. There’s no other heir in direct line. The closest is yourself and … Lord Balliol.”
“Exactly! The House of Bruce stands next in line for the throne, and Balliol comes second. But Balliol has the Comyns at his back to enforce his claim, thousands of them, and all drooling at the mouth at the thought of having the kingdom fast in their claws. We have but ourselves and a few loyal supporters—James the Stewart and the Earls of Fife, Lennox, and Mar, but that will be to our advantage, gin we move hard and fast. The Balliols will no’ have heard the news yet, and once they do, they’ll dither and debate. John Balliol was ever loath to make decisions. If his mother Devorguilla was still alive, things would be different, but as it stands the Lord of Galloway will seek guidance from others, and that will give us a few days.”
“A few days to do what, sir?”
The question earned Rob’s father a look of fleering scorn. “To be decisive, sir! To move. To stake our lawful claim to what is ours by right of blood and birth.” Again the pale blue eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows returned to his grandson. “There is a council called at Scone—has been for months—to convene eight days from now, a gathering of the Guardians of the realm, meant to arrange the coronation and the wedding after it. We need to be there early, and in strength, for our own protection. The place will be awash with Comyns, from Buchan and Badenoch and the whole northeast. They’ll move to consolidate themselves as they foregather, and so we have to beat them to the mark. If we fail, if we are lax or tardy, they’ll steal the throne from under our noses and leave us begging for scraps despite the strength and rightness of our claim.”
Rob understood exactly what his grandfather meant and he felt his insides clench with excitement, so he could not quite believe his ears when his father continued to demur.
“Do you not think it might be better to wait, Father? If you move too quickly, too strongly in the wake of this tragic news, you could convey the wrong impression.”
The old man straightened up and slid his dagger back into its sheath without looking, the movement perfected over decades of repetition. “Wait?” he asked, his voice ominously quiet. “You would have me wait? Balliol and the Comyns would laud you for those words. Wait for what, to lose everything? Look at me, man. I am seventy years old and I have the strongest claim to the kingship in this entire realm. If I wait, I lose my chance—and you lose your crown. Aye, your crown, I said, for it is yours by right. If I fail in this, you fail, and young Rob fails with both of us.
The earl studied the floor, and then looked up at his father. “What, then, would you have me do?”
“I told you. Ride for Turnberry and raise your men, then bring them to join me at Scone. I will take the Stirling road and will watch out for you. How many men can you raise?”
The earl shrugged. “Sixty, I would say, perhaps seventy within a day. The more days I had, the more men I could raise. When will you leave?”
“The day after tomorrow. I’ll be on the road by dawn.”
“Fine, then. If you can provide me with fresh horses, I can be in Turnberry by tomorrow forenoon and I’ll have the word spreading as far and as fast as may be. It’ll take the next day, at least, to assemble and supply everyone … How many men will you have?”
“Of my own, five hundred, give or take a score. The lairds of Annandale will come to me—Bruces and Johnstones; Jardines, Kirkpatricks, and Herrieses; Dinwiddies, Armstrongs, and Crosbies. At fifty men apiece, a piddling number, there’s four hundred already, forbye a round hundred of my own Lochmaben folk. But the Stewart will send his people out to join us, even if he canna come himself, and so will MacDuff of Fife and Domhnall of Mar, so we should number a good thousand, and mayhap half as many again, by the time we get to Scone. Suffice to do what needs to be done and to guarantee we’ll no’ be murdered in our cots.”
Rob had listened to the familiar Annandale names roll off his grandfather’s tongue, recognizing each one as it came, from family lore. These were the descendants of the men who had followed the very first Lord Bruce into Scotland, and they had settled here, never to leave the service of the Bruce family. Fiercely loyal with a feudal devotion seldom to be found beyond their dale of Annan these days, they were proud people and ferocious warriors in defending their own.
“So be it,” his father said. “I’d best be away, then, if we’re to catch up to you before you reach Stirling.”
Annandale crossed to open the door and lead them out, beckoning his waiting factor. “Fresh horses for Earl Robert,” he instructed, but then stayed the fellow with an upraised hand. “How many men will you take with you?” he asked his son.
“There are two and thirty of us.”
“Hmm. I doubt we have that many horses left. Do we, Alan?” The factor grimaced.
“We hae ten, I ken that. But I wouldna be willin’ to swear beyond that.”
“Well, that takes care of your escort. Take your nine best men and leave the others here.”
“I’ll take eight. Rob will need a horse, too.”
“No, Rob will stay here and travel wi’ me. It’s time he and I came to know each other. Away wi’ you now, quick as you can, and we’ll be watching for you by Stirling.”
The sun broke briefly from between massed banks of heavy, rainfilled clouds as Rob stood on the knoll that protected the fortress’s main gates and watched his father’s small force dwindle into the west. He thought about the name he had so recently overheard applied to his grandfather. The Noble Robert. He had always been aware of his grandfather’s nobility. Now he realized, it had been the nobility of birth and lineage that he had acknowledged, whereas the title he had heard used a mere hour before had been of another nature altogether. The knights of Annandale were dour, blunt men with scant regard for the pretensions of the world beyond their valleys, and courtesy of any kind meant little to them. Tempered by the harsh realities of life in their rough countryside, they had no time for the proprieties of courtly behaviour in faraway places, and titles meant nothing to them. They gauged a man by what he did and what he was, and they were scornful, to a man, of titles and honours that were conferred by kings and not earned by merit. And yet the manner in which he had heard them refer to his grandfather as the Noble Robert had been completely lacking in either irony or condescension. The title had been used respectfully. It had emerged with the ease of long and proper usage and with all the dignity of great regard. And it occurred to Rob that there must be a great deal more to his forbidding grandfather than he had ever suspected.
As his father’s party dwindled into the distance, they were replaced by newcomers arriving from widely differing directions, some alone, some in groups. He turned and looked back at the great bulk towering behind him, idly wondering whether he would see his grandfather again before they set out in two days’ time. Even as he turned again to look back down the hill, the first of the approaching riders had reached the road leading up to the summit, and he knew that Lord Robert would be far too involved with his own plans to have time to spare for an inconvenient grandson. Unsure whether he ought to be relieved by that, he moved away in search of Nicol MacDuncan, hoping that his uncle would help him while away what promised to be a long and barren afternoon. He had seen no one even close to his own age since his arrival in Lochmaben, but even had the place been swarming with young people, he would have been too preoccupied with his own concerns to approach them. Nicol, he knew, would find plenty of things to occupy both of them for as long as was necessary.
And so he did, beginning with an hour-long, bone-jarring bout of practice with the quarterstaves that had become the insignia of trainee swordsmen from the far north of Scotland to the southernmost shores of England. Rob had been training with the quarterstaff from the age of eight, beginning with a small one suited to his size, and though it had been a puny thing compared with the heavy, fivefoot-long ash dowel he now used, it had taxed his muscles fully and started his unflagging growth towards the status of knight and warrior. Now, at the age of sixteen, he weighed three times more than he had eight years earlier, and all of it, every pound of weight and rope of muscle, was in peak condition, so that he fought his uncle as a man, giving no quarter and expecting none. Nicol was now on the downward side of his middle years, but few watching him fight could have noted any loss of speed or stamina in his performance. Eventually, though, he dropped the point of his staff to the ground, waving a hand in surrender.
“Enough,” he gasped. “I’m spent. I couldn’t lift this thing again if my life depended on it.”
Rob, feeling no whit less tired, grinned through bared teeth. He dropped his staff and bent forward to rest his hands on his knees. “Thanks be to God,” he wheezed. “I thought you were going to keep at me till I dropped, which would have been at any moment now.” He lowered his head and concentrated upon his breathing until it grew less laboured, then looked up at Nicol. “What now?”
Nicol straightened up and placed his hands on his hips, then arched his back and rotated his torso as far as he could from side to side, grunting with the effort before he stopped. “Well,” he said quietly, straining to breathe normally, “two possibilities I see. One remote, the other necessary. You could go and find your grandfather, spend some time with him … ”
Rob grimaced and waved a hand in the direction of the main castle yard, now crammed with men and horses. “I think the Noble Robert has his hands full at the moment. What’s your second possibility?”
“A long, hard run followed by a bath in a friendly stream before the heat goes out of the sun. What say you? We haven’t had a long run together in months and it’ll do both of us good. Might kill me, mind you, but I’ll be too exhausted to fret over it.”
“I would enjoy that, if I had the strength to stand upright. Can we cool off for a while before we start?”
Nicol shrugged. “Aye, but the chances are fair that we’d stiffen up … Or I would. Better to start out walking right away, until we find our wind again. Then we can start running.”
Within the quarter-hour they were at the base of the fortress hill, where they swung right to follow the southerly track they had crossed earlier. There were still several hours of daylight remaining, and the reapers were still working diligently in the fields, the air heavy with the rich smells of dusty, newly cut oats and barley. Rob was fully refreshed by then, feeling as though he could run forever, but he said nothing that his uncle might take as a challenge, content to leave it to Nicol to change from walk to run. Another party of four riders came sweeping along the road from the south at full gallop, and the pair moved aside to let them pass.
“Right,” said Nicol, when the riders had gone. “Are you ready for the road?”
They struck off the sun-baked track and ran overland for what Rob guessed to be a circular ten miles at an easy, loping pace that varied from time to time as one goaded the other to race on a particularly challenging slope. When they broke from a dense copse of trees and found the tower of Lochmaben in view again, and less than a mile away, Nicol called a halt and led the way back through the trees to a looping stream they had passed before entering the woods, noting its steep banks and a pool deep enough to swim in. Rob threw off his belt with its sheathed dagger and took a shallow, running dive into the water fully dressed, and for the next quarter of an hour they bathed and played the fool together like a couple of schoolboys.
It was growing dark quickly by the time they entered Lochmaben again, and the temperature had dropped sharply as soon as the sun set, a humourless reminder through their still-damp clothes of the winter’s chill that lay in the months ahead. Tired to the bone after their long day—seven hours in the saddle and then heavy physical exercise all afternoon—Rob agreed without demur when Nicol suggested they beg something to eat from the kitchens and then get themselves to sleep as quickly as possible. And so they shared a fresh-baked loaf of crusty bread and a large clay bowl of hot venison stew that they washed down with fresh spring water from the fortress’s deep well.
They ate in silence, Nicol staring aimlessly into the distance, engrossed with his own thoughts, while Rob found himself almost fearing the prospect of spending a number of days in the company of his grandfather. It would be the first time he had ever been physically close to the old man for anything longer than a few hours, and he wondered how long it would be before he tried the gruff patriarch’s patience sufficiently to attract the rough edge of his tongue.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PATRIARCH
R ob awoke suddenly, gasping for air and flailing wildly at the threatening face that hovered over him, but even as he swung his arm he knew that the despairing strength of his blow was false and that his arm had only flapped weakly. He had been dreaming, a vivid, terrifying dream, and its aftermath was sharp, filling his throat and chest with flaring panic before he remembered where he was: in his grandfather’s stronghold of Lochmaben, in the family quarters of the great tower.
He breathed in deeply, squeezing his eyes tight shut for a count of three, then pushed himself up onto one elbow, only to see an apparition standing by the foot of his bed, a gaunt figure, muffled and spectral, glowing in flickering, fitful light. His breath caught sharply in his throat as the dreadfu
l dream came surging back to life.
“I startled you. Forgive me. There is no worse way to come out of a sound sleep.”
Rob blinked. “My lord, is that you?”
“Aye. The others have all left and we have time to talk, if you so wish.”
Rob shook his head, trying to dislodge the last of his sleepy witlessness. “What hour is it?” he asked. “Should you not be asleep?”
He could have sworn he saw the old man’s mouth twitch in the beginnings of a smile, but he knew it could only have been a trick of the shifting light.
“No,” the old man rumbled in his deep voice. “I don’t sleep much nowadays. And depending on my mood and the number of things I have to do, I find that to be either a blessing or a curse of age. So, will you come and help me pass an hour?”
“Aye, of course, my lord.”
“Good. Get dressed, then, and come downstairs. I’ll be in the den. There’s a fire in the hearth. Old bones like mine need warmth, but I think it is cold enough tonight to be welcome to you, too. Here, I’ll light your candle. Come down when you are ready.”
As soon as the old man had gone, Rob swung his legs out of bed and sat hugging himself and shivering. It was not the chill that had him shivering. His mind was still in the half grip of his dream, and he knew beyond question that the frightening figure that had threatened him was his grandfather. He sat there, frowning into the candle flame. He had often been afraid of the Lord of Lochmaben, but there had been nothing frightening or threatening in his grandfather’s presence here.
Realizing that he was wasting time and keeping his host waiting, he rose and dressed quickly, muffling himself from neck to knees in a warm, shapeless coat of soft, thick wool before taking his candle and making his way down the wide, wooden stairs to the main hall. It was dark and quiet now, the huge stone hearths at either end holding nothing but glowing embers, but bright light was spilling out from the massed banks of candles in Lord Robert’s den under the stairs, and Rob went forward quickly, announcing himself in a voice that sounded strangely calm and resonant to his own ears.
