The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce

by Jack Whyte

Wishart slammed his hand against the tabletop. “Then they will be in rebellion no matter who they are and they’ll face the wrath of the council and the assembled host of the realm of Scotland!”

  “Aye, and so they should, of course,” the patriarch said mildly. “But tell me, does that no’ sound like civil war to you, Lord Wishart?”

  The bishop glared at him, then nodded. “Aye, it does, Lord Bruce. But if that should come to pass—the which may God forbid—it will be for the good of the realm and at the behest of the council and community, not at the whim of some ambitious malcontent.”

  Lord Robert sucked at his teeth. “So be it, then. I’ll do it. But I’ll need to talk to my folk and tell them why we’re turning back with nothing done after so long a march.”

  “No!” Rob flinched at the angry snap of Wishart’s voice. “That’s not true at all and you must not even think it. Much has been done, Robert, and that is how you should present it to your folk, for without a drop of blood being spilt or a blow struck, you have gained what you sought to achieve in coming here. Your cause is guaranteed an open judicial hearing by the community of the realm, arbitrated by a fair-minded judge of your own choosing, and you have set yourself above the ruck of your adversaries by keeping the peace and leaving them to do likewise. No failure there of any kind, old friend.”

  Lord Robert sighed. “Aye, well, mayhap. We’ll see. I envy you your optimism, Robert. But it’s done. We’ll head back to Annandale come morning.”

  Wishart inclined his head soberly. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “Scotland is in your debt.” His eyes moved to the two younger Bruces. “And you two should be proud of the restraint and good judgment your elder has shown.”

  The words, simple as they were, filled Rob’s chest with a riot of unfamiliar sensations. He held his breath and looked across the table at his father, and watched as a small, rare smile transformed the earl’s features. He was almost afraid to look at his grandfather, sitting beside him. He sat frozen, willing himself to master his pounding heart and his suddenly uneven breathing, but then he turned his head slowly, and found Bishop Wishart’s eyes watching him closely.

  He met the old bishop’s look squarely, then turned to his grandsire, whose fierce old eyes were filled with a look that Rob could not define. A great aching lump was in Rob’s throat, and as tears spilled down his cheeks—tears he had not even known were there—he stood and pushed back his chair with his legs, then dropped to one knee and bent his head. How long he knelt there he could not have said, but he felt the outstretched hand settle upon his head as he tried to blink away his tears. Soon after, he stood up and stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe at his cheeks like a child, and found all three men gazing at him solemnly. No one spoke, but the old patriarch nodded to him kindly and with a wave of the fingers of his still-outstretched hand gave him permission to leave.

  It was only as he walked away, straight-backed and with his head held high, that he understood why he had been weeping: he had been giving thanks for the miracle within himself that had transformed his grandfather, within the space of a single week, from the grim, threatening old troll Rob had always feared into the Noble Robert he knew he would always revere from that day forth. As he stretched out his hand to open the tent flap, he wondered if, should he ever become Robert Bruce the Elder, he would embody even a fraction of the nobility he had just witnessed.

  “You didna like that, did you?”

  His grandfather’s voice came from close behind him, making him jump. He had not heard the old man approaching, for he had been lost in thought and watching the scene ahead of him, where the Annandale men yet sat their horses in a loose ring around the bishop’s pavilion, facing outward towards the uneasy group of townsfolk watching from the edges of the market square.

  “There was a lesson for you there, Robert. A lesson most men go to their grave wi’out ever having seen, let alone learnt. But I want you to learn it, here and now, for it could make a wise leader out o’ ye, so heed me here. You don’t aey need to spill blood to win a victory, nor swing a blade to win a dispute. There will be times ahead of you when all you’ll need to do is make an appearance—a strong appearance, mind—prepared to fight gin the need arise. Just bein’ there, ready to act, can sometimes win the day for you when the ruck o’ folk would rather hang back and do nothin’ than set their lives at risk. Some folk might call it recklessness, but it’s far from being anything o’ the kind, for it’s never the choice that any wise man makes wi’out long, hard thought and consideration o’ the consequences. That kind of effrontery—resolve, we’ll call it—will aey set the strong leader apart frae the switherers, for it’s the very soul o’ leadership, and other men will follow you gin you show it. They’ll take heart from your example and they’ll rise to it.”

  Rob frowned. “That’s all? The lesson? The mere need to be there?”

  Lord Robert reached out and grasped his grandson’s shoulder. “Aye, lad, that’s all. The simple need to be there, from time to time. But it’s never easy. And believe me, I’ve had plenty o’ years to come to know the truth o’ that. It goes against the grain o’ human nature for a man to put himself deliberately in danger’s way. The greater the harm he faces, the bigger the risk he takes and the more he stands to gain by it. But most would call him a mad fool. Others—a very few others—would see him as a God-inspired leader.”

  He loosened his grip and formed his hand into a fist, then punched the younger man’s breast gently. “I think you might make such a leader, one o’ these days. Wi’ the help o’ God, of course.” He smiled. “It’ll no’ be soon, mind, for I’ve no plans to die afore my time, but I’m encouraged to think the day will come when you’ll remember this day and make your own choice to be somewhere, to make a stand, for Bruce and for Scotland … Now, come back to the tent wi’ me, for I have things I’ll need you to do for me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  FAMILY TIES

  “Master Bruce. Your turn, if it please you.”

  The words were expected, but Rob felt his chest tighten none the less. His friend John Bigod had just picked up his fallen sword and walked out of the whitewashed circle in the centre of the training ground, holding the weapon awkwardly in his left hand while he clamped his sore right hand, still in its mailed gauntlet, beneath his armpit and fought to keep his face free of any sign of the pain he was feeling. Sir Marmaduke Tweng, now alone at the centre of the circle, was waiting for Rob, waving his long sword gently, point down, from side to side in front of him.

  Rob stepped into the circle, hoisting his blade as he went, and for a moment stood in a slight crouch, acutely aware of the weight and heat of the plate armour he was wearing over his mailed hauberk and of the padded stiffness of his heavily armoured gloves as he flexed his fingers on the sword’s hilt. It was approaching noon on a hot day in late September, and he could feel sweat running down the channel between his shoulder blades to pool in the hollow at the small of his back before trickling itchily to the crack of his buttocks. His hair was soaked under the mailed cowl of his coif, and he knew that if a single bead of sweat ran down his temple to penetrate the corner of an eye it would sting unbearably and he would not be able to wipe it away … Not with a steel-backed gauntlet.

  Sir Marmaduke, on the other hand, looked cool and fresh, notwithstanding that he had dispatched seven consecutive opponents within the past half-hour, all of them less than half his age. The only sign of his efforts was the slightest sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and even that seemed to dry up as Rob approached. The knight brought his weapon up to touch his chin with the cross-guard in a salute, then swept it down and out before bringing it back into the guard position.

  Rob sucked in a deep breath and repeated the gesture, then fell into his fighting stance. Tweng had had them drilling in the blazing sun since daybreak, mercilessly running them through their paces with quarterstaff and heavy weights until their muscles were numb and their reflexes hammered into nothingness. This final te
st, blade to blade and without shields, had become a ritual, the last ordeal of each day, a ceremony religiously pursued at the close of every training session in order to remind the trainees that, though they were within days of achieving knighthood, none of them had yet managed to best their mentor and taskmaster.

  There were eight trainees, all senior squires, and the swords they used were blunted, their edges filed flat and their central spines augmented with narrow strips of lead solder to increase their weight, making each one half again as heavy as a normal sword blade. But the solid weight of them on impact was barely less lethal than a keen-edged blow would have been, and John Bigod, nursing his bruised hand, was the last of seven who had been newly reminded of that. This was the final half day of formal training for the youths, and the knight seemed determined to sweat the last ounce of fight out of them before he released them for the last time at noon. By tradition, the night ahead would be theirs as soon as they were dismissed, an entire night in which to celebrate together in the knowledge that their training was complete and there would be no pre-dawn run and no soul-numbing drill the next day. Instead, the following afternoon, they would be ceremonially bathed and shriven in preparation for the solemn rites of the eve of their knighting. At sunset they would be escorted into the castle chapel to stand vigil, spending the entire night in prayer, in full armour, under the watchful eyes of priests. The next morning, ritually purified, they would be knighted by the King himself, their manhood and nobility formally acknowledged in the eyes of all the world.

  Sir Marmaduke tilted his head slightly to one side, questioningly, and Rob gripped his sword more firmly and moved to the attack. He saw his opponent back away respectfully, his eyes watchful and his movements slightly tentative, but he knew from experience that the move was designed to tempt him to strike out. It had been successful in the past, but this time he ignored the invitation and concentrated on how he could change his established pattern of engagement. Tweng had taught them well, and Rob, at least, had finally learned that fighting patterns were predictable to a self-possessed antagonist, especially after months and years of familiarity with the fighters. And predictability, when the matter at hand was combat with swords, was invariably lethal.

  Today, this last bout, Rob was determined not to be beaten as easily as he usually was—as all of them always were—and a thought flicked into his mind. He sprang forward, eyes and point centred upon his opponent’s breast in a full frontal lunge, but before he committed himself fully he went down on one knee, almost as though his foot had slipped, opening himself up to a punitive rap from Tweng’s ever-ready blade. As his knee touched ground, however, and the knight’s sword came slicing towards him exactly as predicted, Rob thrust his blade upward, straight-armed, to catch the descending edge on the braced bar of his own. In the brief moment of Sir Marmaduke’s surprise, Rob twisted with his entire upper body to sweep the knight’s sword to the side with all his strength, then, with a two-fisted grip, whipped the blade down to land solidly on the outside of Tweng’s knee. The knight stumbled sideways and back, off balance but already swinging his blade back awkwardly to defend his centre. He was too late, though, for Rob had immediately launched himself into a lunging, two-handed thrust, driving himself forward and up from his kneeling position with churning legs, his sword striking like a lance solidly against the very centre of the knight’s armoured breast, with all of Rob’s uncoiling strength and weight behind it. He heard the roar of approval from his fellows as Sir Marmaduke Tweng crashed full-length on the flat of his back. He was suddenly appalled at what he had done and stricken with fear by the stunned silence that followed.

  In the distance, a bullock bellowed in outrage, but no one moved. Rob swallowed hard, feeling himself begin to shake, then bit down on his own teeth and thrust the blunted point of his sword into the ground, leaning on it to force it home, He stepped forward and stood looking down at Sir Marmaduke, one nerveless hand extended in a timid offer of assistance. The knight lay still, looking up at him with wide-open eyes. Then he blinked and moved his head to one side, to where the others of Rob’s group stood staring in awe.

  “I have never seen any of you from this viewpoint before,” he said evenly, “but I must admit it is no more flattering than my normal view of you.” Still no one moved and no one dared to smile. Tweng did, however, his strong white teeth showing suddenly in a bright grin. “That, gentlemen,” he said, looking up at the seven gaping observers and then back at Rob, “is what these past months have been all about. That was the triumph of a fighting man. A stratagem that came from inside, unsought—and unplanned, I believe—and perfectly executed. Help me up.” He gripped Rob’s proffered hand and heaved himself to his feet. “Well done, Robert Bruce,” he said, his smile still in place. “We’ll make a fighting knight of you after this.” He hesitated. “It was unplanned, was it not?”

  “Aye, sir, it was. It came into my mind as we saluted.”

  “And what prompted it, do you know?”

  “Aye, sir, I do … I was thinking about how to be unpredictable for once, and then it came to me that even you can be predictable. I didn’t stop to think about it but I knew at once what you would do if I left myself open, even slightly.”

  Tweng was nodding judiciously. “Excellent. Truly excellent. Of course, the boy I first crossed swords with a few years ago could not have done it, nor even thought of it. But that boy has changed greatly in those years—as have all of you. Bigger by far, stronger by far, and sometimes, unfortunately, denser by far. Well done, Bruce. By knocking me down you have brought your training to a fitting end.

  I wish you all well in future, gentlemen, and I know you will be worthy knights in the King’s service. Go, then, and enjoy yourselves with my full blessing. Oh, wait.” He reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out a small leather purse, which he tossed to Rob. “In case you should have need of coin tonight, this should purchase a decent meal for all of you. Now be off.”

  He turned to walk away but stopped, his eyes on a figure running towards them. “Hold again,” he added. “It looks as though someone here might be in demand.”

  The runner reached them, breathing heavily, and made a sketchy bow. “Your pardon, Sir Marmaduke,” he gasped. “Is Master Robert Bruce among your number?”

  “I’m Robert Bruce,” Rob said.

  The fellow was still labouring for breath. “You are summoned, Master Bruce. You must come with me at once. To meet the King. As you are.”

  Rob glanced at Tweng, wide-eyed with surprise, and the knight bowed his head.

  “At once is the word. But I would counsel you to walk, not run. A knight must show dignity at all times, and it will not aid your case—whatever that might be—to walk into the royal presence panting like a dog and pouring with sweat. Go, then, and fare ye well, Robert Bruce.”

  Rob bent his head in acknowledgment and spoke to the messenger. “Lead on, then, but bear in mind what Sir Marmaduke has said. We will walk befittingly.” He tossed the leather purse to John Bigod. “I’ve no idea what’s afoot, so don’t wait for me. But if you find any wenches worth spending time with, save one of them for me. I’ll join you as soon as I may.” He flipped a hand in farewell and turned away to follow the messenger.

  He thought of the last time King Edward had sent for him unexpectedly, more than two years before, and he recalled quite clearly how apprehensive he had been about entering the royal presence then, not knowing what to expect and then finding the King surrounded by dukes, bishops, and barons, all of them looking at Rob as if he were a beggar who had intruded upon them. Today he was even more ill at ease, because the Edward Plantagenet who summoned him now was a very different man. The King had lost his Queen to a sudden illness in November that same year of 1290 and had vanished from public view for months, shutting himself up with his grief for an entire winter, during which the governance of the realm of England was effectively suspended. When he re-emerged to take up his reign again, people immediately began to no
te the changes in him.

  Eleanor of Castile had been Edward’s wife for thirty-six years, and not only had they loved each other deeply and faithfully throughout that time but the Queen’s advice and tolerant guidance had become indispensable to Edward, who trusted her above all others in matters relating to his own weaknesses. It had been she who advised him best in matters of policy wherein his own impetuosity and impatience might often have led him astray, and it was well known within his small circle of intimates that Queen Eleanor had, in many instances, been the actual source of Edward’s more important regal decisions. The tragic loss of her had radically changed the man she had loved. Gone forever, it seemed, was the whimsical, frequently irrational, and self-deprecating sense of humour that had set Edward apart from other powerful men. Nowadays he was all careworn monarch, beset by swarming, never-ending duties, and it was said that he had not laughed aloud since.

  Rob had greatly liked Queen Eleanor, and she had returned his fondness, often going out of her way to make him feel welcome at her court, for despite his family’s great English landholdings, others still perceived him as something of an alien, a Scot among Englishmen. She it was who had encouraged him to take advantage of his differentness rather than try to conceal it; she had encouraged him to be more flamboyant in dress and manners than his peers, accentuating his status as a visiting guest from beyond the borders of the realm. Rob missed her greatly.

  They were all far from Westminster on this occasion, in the formidable stone castle of Norham that belonged to the King’s friend and sometime deputy for Scotland Antony Bek, Prince-Bishop of Durham. The castle, two hundred years old but recently rebuilt, lay at the northernmost reach of England, directly facing the Scots border, and for the past two years it had been the setting for King Edward’s court of inquiry to decide which one among an entire cadre of claimants—fourteen of them in all and including Rob’s own grandfather—held the strongest claim to the vacant Scots throne. That number of competitors had long since failed to impress Rob, for he knew, as did everyone, that there were only two serious contenders, his own grandfather and Lord John Balliol of Galloway, both of whom were southern Scots. Edward of England, though, as arbitrator in the affair, had been, as always, at great pains to be perceived as even-handed and judicious, and a gathering of 105 auditors, including the King himself as moderator and presiding judge, had been assembled at Norham. The court was modelled on the centumviri of the ancient Roman republic, the court of 105 formed to settle property disputes.