The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce

by Jack Whyte

  “Ye dinna like him, do ye?”

  “Who? de Bohun or de Valence?”

  “De Valence. I’ve heard ye say as much.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know the man at all, other than by name and repute. He’s French and unfriendly and he’s never given me a single nod of recognition, but he’s well respected, if not well liked. He’s one of Edward’s oldest allies, too. Fought with him at Acre. It’s his son, Aymer, I don’t like, but he’s not here, or Percy would have said so.”

  Thomas Beg harrumphed and pulled his horse to a halt, facing Bruce directly. “Right then,” he said, his jaw set pugnaciously. “Three good friends, no’ seen in a long time. But ye’ve a woman waitin’ for ye. What makes them mair important than her, this minute? I’ve never seen ye choose the company o’ a man ahead o’ a willin’ woman.”

  “It’s about information, Tam,” Bruce said, nudging his horse into movement again, and the big man swung his mount again to ride by his side. “I need the latest word on what’s happening, here and in Scotland, and I’ll get more truth out of de Bohun and Percy and Bigod in an hour than I’d get from anyone else in England in a month. They won’t even know I’m pumping them. But I need to know what Edward has in mind these days regarding Balliol and his supporters. I haven’t been invited to Westminster since I came down from the north, and Edward barely spoke ten words to me at my grandfather’s funeral. I don’t know what I’ve done to displease him this time, apart from having been born in Scotland—and now that I think on it, that’s probably reason enough. He has troubles uncounted up there, I’m told. But then it never was hard to make Edward Plantagenet glower, so who can tell what’s displeasing him from day to day?”

  He shrugged. “For all that, though, these men are the best friends I have. They’ve been fighting in Wales for the past year and more and they’re as much in favour with the King as I am out of it, it seems. So that leaves me with two options that I can see: to dally for pleasure with a woman tonight, or to spend that same time on an opportunity to find out what’s really happening in the world. Sad that I can’t have both, but there it is. My friends will be gone come daybreak.”

  “Fine. But now I think it wad be better for me just to ride in by mysel’ an’ tell the lassie ye’ve been detained by the Earl o’ Pembroke, on the King’s business. She’ll no’ be able to get vexed ower that. An’ forbye, if you turn back now ye’ll reach their camp damn near as soon as they do. Then later on I can go up there and tell ye ye’re needed here.” He saw the indecision in Bruce’s eyes and cocked his head. “It’s aey easy to come back and say ye’re sorry ye was detained, but ye might look like a fool was ye to ride a’ the way in there just to say ye had to go back again, when ye could hae stayed where ye wis i’ the first place and done what ye had to do.”

  Bruce grimaced, unable to refute the simple, terse logic in that, but then he looked down at himself and shook his head. “I’m unarmed, Tam—dressed for womanizing.”

  “And why no’? Ye’ll no’ need to be armed anyway, ridin’ in plain daylight wi’ sodgers everywhere. But here, gie me that fancy dagger and tak my dirk an’ awa ye go. I’ll no’ need a blade this close to camp, and I’ll bring your sword and shield when I come to get ye, for the night ride back.”

  The earl nodded. “Go, then, and present the lady my good wishes and my regrets. And blame it on Pembroke, as you said. It’s a small enough lie and worthwhile, to soothe her pride. But mind you tell her I’ll be back soon after nightfall, and that you’re coming to make sure I do. Go, then.” He half smiled. “And don’t be afraid to flee if the lady rounds on you. I’ll be waiting for you later.”

  Bruce swung his mount around and kicked it to a canter.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE POLITICS OF FRIENDSHIP

  Bruce did not catch up to his English friends before they won back to camp, for they had clearly wasted no time moving out from the site of the mass hanging. The place was

  deserted by the time he reached it again, and he carefully avoided approaching the line of dangling bodies, all too aware of the sights and smells of violent death that would pollute this spot until the scavengers and the weather had cleansed it again and the dead men’s fallen, insect-scoured bones had been covered by grass. Only in passing did he recognize that these were Englishmen hanged by other Englishmen, for they had been felons and had earned the justice meted out to them. Had he himself been sent to deal with them they would have fared no differently, for all his personal dislike of summary hangings.

  He left them behind without another thought, following the broad, unmistakable path left by Percy’s force, and within a few miles he found the English encampment spread out along the open lea flanking the river below the tiny settlement Percy had mentioned. A hamlet too small to have a name of its own, the tiny cluster of buildings had sprung up haphazardly on the crested flanks of a low knoll overlooking the crossing where the main London road forded the shallow, equally nameless river.

  He drew rein before approaching the camp, far enough away to see it as a whole, and was surprised to find it larger and more carefully organized than he had expected. It was square, in the fashion of the old Roman marching camps, between three and four hundred paces long on each side and cut into quarters by two broad, intersecting avenues, with the horse lines laid out in the two rear sections.

  Someone has strong notions of how to do things right, he thought, wryly acknowledging that the unapproachable Earl of Pembroke must be responsible. More than three hundred men and their horses, baggage, and attendants all in one spot created quite a scene. Orderly lines of tents were already laid out in disciplined blocks here and there in the two closest sections of the camp, while others were being busily erected in the intervening spaces. He saw one great pavilion in the centre, towering over all the others, that had the colours of de Valence fluttering at its peak, and he determined to avoid it, having no wish to meet the French-born Earl of Pembroke. He turned his horse towards the line of guardsmen on his left and rode forward to present himself.

  The sergeant in charge of the detachment looked at the newcomer’s rich appearance and waved him through, not bothering to ask his business but raising an eyebrow at his lack of armour and the single, belted dirk. Bruce halted anyway and asked him if he knew where Sir Henry Percy might be found. The sergeant waved, indicating one of the new blocks of tents being built and saying he thought he had seen Percy arrive earlier with Sir John Bigod’s party.

  Bruce made his way slowly in that direction until he spotted a chevroned sergeant supervising a group who were labouring to put up a knight’s tent. The fellow wore Percy’s new insignia on his left shoulder, a gold patch bearing the blue lion rampant that so resembled Bruce’s own, and the look on his face as the earl approached made it plain that he recognized him from earlier in the day.

  Bruce drew rein again, nodding down at the man. “Bruce, Earl of Carrick,” he said. “Where will I find Sir Henry?”

  “He’s here somewhere, my lord, but I couldn’t say where. You might find him at one of the fires, in there somewhere.” He lifted his chin, and Bruce turned in his saddle, scanning the mass of bodies moving aimlessly among the scattered campfires and the teams of men raising tents all around. He could hear the staccato rattle of quarterstaves close by, but the press of bodies was so thick that he could see no sign of the fighters.

  He swung down from his saddle and held out the reins. “Have someone look to my horse, will you? But keep him nearby, if you will, not in the horse lines. I’ll be riding out again in an hour or two and I don’t want to have to go looking for him.”

  The sergeant took the reins. “I’ll keep him here, Lord Bruce, since you won’t be staying.”

  Bruce nodded in thanks and turned away to walk into the crowded encampment where the noise quickly engulfed him, a riot of sounds and voices that hammered at his ears and made it impossible to really hear anything.

  Within moments the press of bodies around him was dense enough to
hamper his progress so that he had to shoulder his way forward carefully. And then, through a momentary eddy in the crowd, he saw Bigod’s blazoned shield in front of a knight’s tent not far ahead of him and veered towards it, realizing as he did so that Bigod had seen him at precisely the same moment and was waving to him. He started to wave back, but before he could even raise his arm the space ahead closed again and an abrupt change in the tenor and volume in the voices to his right warned him that something was going on there, just beyond his view. The crowd parted again, this time surging around him as men shuffled backward, shouting to each other, all eyes on whatever was happening ahead of them. He was aware again of the urgent clatter of quarterstaves nearby, but even more conscious of a new and ugly sound among the crowd, and though a voice in his head was telling him to be cautious, he reached out and grasped the two men directly ahead of him by their upper arms, prising them apart gently but firmly and stepping between them to find himself on the outer edge of a wide circle of cleared space.

  Three men were fighting there, two against one, all of them armed with the thick, heavy poles of ash or oak that the English called the quarterstaff. He had a flickering impression of sullen hostility on the faces of the spectators ringing the space, and then his eyes were drawn to the activity in the ring itself as a vicious crack rang out, followed immediately by a woofing, explosive grunt and the dull, meaty sound of a heavy club smashing into a body. One of the three combatants went staggering, the quarterstaff spinning from his hands and into the packed throng as he reeled and stumbled, then fell heavily, face down, and lay motionless in a sprawl of mail-clad limbs.

  The two other fighters ignored him, feet shifting warily as they crouched facing each other, but then one of them shook his head angrily and straightened up, throwing his quarterstaff to the ground and raising his hands high in surrender. His opponent, whose back was to Bruce, was a big man, almost as big as Bruce himself, dressed in a heavy gambeson that covered his arms down to the elbows and his legs to mid thigh. A chain-mail coif lined with padded leather covered his head, its flared tail protecting his broad shoulders. He, too, straightened up, but Bruce, who had expected the fellow to stand back and accept the surrender, was astonished when he spun the quarterstaff and lunged forward, slamming its thick end like a spear into the midriff of his defenceless opponent. The hapless victim whooped in shock, his eyes flying wide, and dropped to his knees like a stone before toppling sideways, too stunned even to clutch at himself. His attacker launched himself forward and kicked him viciously in the side of the head as he lay on the ground, then skipped back and raised his quarterstaff over his head in both hands.

  Bruce was barely aware of moving but his fingers closed over the man’s wrist and locked before he could begin his downward chop. “Enough,” he said. “He’s done.” He felt the iron pressure of the wrist pulling against him, trying to break his grip, and he squeezed harder, tensing his arm to hold it motionless. Suddenly the fellow twisted, pivoting around the grip on his right wrist, his left hand scrabbling claw-fingered to grip Bruce’s shoulder as he whipped his mailed head forward to butt his tormentor in the face. Bruce recognized the face immediately, even twisted with fury as it was, and almost hesitated in surprise to find himself confronting the knight Hazelrig from the hanging glade. His lifetime of rough-and-tumble training saved him, though, and he swayed backward, easily avoiding the clumsy attack, though he felt the fabric of his fine shirt give way at the collar to Hazelrig’s wrenching. But he had to release the other’s wrist to complete his move, and as soon as he was free Hazelrig grasped his quarterstaff in a fresh, two-handed grip and lunged, driving its end in a lethal thrust towards Bruce’s throat.

  This time, though, Bruce was ready, icy, familiar rage filling his breast. His right hand shot up and grasped the shaft, deflecting it almost scornfully as his other hand closed on it lower down. He stepped back with one foot and swung his powerful weight around to one side, arching his body and pulling hard, using the other man’s momentum to jerk him off balance so that he almost fell as Bruce completed the heaving pivot, releasing the thick shaft and leaping forward to kick the man hard behind the knee with the heavy sole of his iron-studded boot. The impact drove Hazelrig forward, and he lurched into the arms of the watchers at the front of the circle. There was no doubt now of their hostility. Rough hands seized the sprawling knight and spun him around before one burly soldier planted a boot at the base of his spine and propelled him back into the circle.

  Bruce stood waiting, cradling one quarterstaff while standing over another. A silence fell as the two knights faced each other and the watching crowd held its breath in anticipation. Bruce stood easily, his face showing no sign of the tightly controlled anger that seethed in him. Hazelrig, on the other hand, was red-faced and glaring wildly, breathing loudly through his mouth. His shoulders were hunched forward and his arms outstretched, the large hands clenching and unclenching as he glowered at the unarmoured man in the open-necked tunic.

  “You had no right to lay hands on me,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you for that.”

  Bruce flexed his knees and squatted to pick up the second quarterstaff, the down-and-up movement fluid and graceful. “With one of these?” He shook his head, a tiny, deadly smile playing across his lips. “I doubt it,” he replied, deliberately emphasizing his Scots pronunciation. “You havena been fed well enough for that. But if you want to try it, go ahead.”

  He tossed the second quarterstaff across the circle, lightly enough for Hazelrig to catch it easily, and then fell into fighting stance, one foot ahead of the other and his staff in a two-handed grip, extended like a sword. Hazelrig stood unmoving, holding his own staff as he had caught it, his eyes narrowing and his wild anger fading visibly now as he took the measure of the elegant dandy across from him. He himself was a big, imposing man, a shade over six feet in height, broad in the shoulder and heavily muscled, his compact midriff hidden by the padded coat he wore.

  The man he faced, though, was even bigger, taller than he by two or perhaps even three inches, and his shoulders were enormous even without padding or armour. The chest beneath the velvet tunic and soft shirt was broad and deep, the waist trim, the belly apparently hard and flat. The long legs, covered in brightly coloured hose, were like young trees, and the hands that held the extended quarterstaff were large and broad. The man reeked of confidence and competence, and now he was smiling more widely.

  “Whenever you feel like it,” he said quietly, and the watching crowd caught its breath again as Hazelrig grunted and slid into motion, extending his weapon and sidling to his right in the opening steps of the dance. Bruce watched him narrow-eyed as he, too, began to move, concentrating intently now and shutting the crowd out of his awareness, refusing to be distracted by the sudden surge of movement he caught from the left side of the circle. And Hazelrig sprang forward, his quarterstaff sweeping up in an axelike swing.

  “Now, by the bowels of Christ! Enough!”

  The shout was accompanied by a whistling arc of light as Sir Henry Percy leapt between the two men, landing nimbly and swinging a broadsword in a two-handed grip that drove the weapon’s edge cleanly into Hazelrig’s upraised staff. The blade cut deep into the thick pole and shattered it, driving the English knight back on his heels, where he dropped the severed stub and clamped both hands beneath his armpits, grimacing as he vainly tried to relieve the sting of the unexpected impact. He glared at the interloper and the other two knights who stood vigilantly behind him, John Bigod and a heavily bearded Humphrey de Bohun.

  Percy hung there tensely for a moment, sword still upraised, watching Hazelrig through slitted eyes and poised for a reaction, then quickly took a half step back. He dropped one hand from the hilt of his sword and swung the long blade out and sideways, holding it horizontally between the two men.

  Bruce had not moved since grounding his quarterstaff when Hazelrig lost his, and now he remained motionless as Percy turned his head to look at him, his eyes flickering down, the
n up, looking for damage. When he saw none, the knight looked away again, this time downward to where Hazelrig’s two erstwhile opponents yet lay on the ground, the first of them unmoving, the other writhing feebly and groaning. Bruce saw him draw in a deep breath, then hold it, but Percy’s face betrayed little of his thoughts before he stepped towards the huddled form of the first man. He knelt smoothly and felt beneath the chin, looking for a pulse, then stood up and scanned the surrounding crowd. He pointed with the tip of his sword.

  “You four. Take up these two—carefully—to the Hospitallers’ area. Carry them on poles and shields and be cautious. They may be gravely injured.” His voice was flat and hard, and he raised it higher as he looked around at the watching throng. “As for the rest of you, we have a camp to set up here and no time for idleness. I will find ample work for any man still here by the time I count to ten. One. Two … ” Before he reached four the crowd was scattering, men hurrying to appear busy and industrious. Percy kept counting none the less, and by the time the tenth syllable rang out the five knights were alone amid the bustle of normal camp activities.

  Hazelrig had lowered his hands from beneath his arms and now stood staring blank-faced at Percy, whom Bruce supposed to be his nominal commander. Percy, however, ignored him for the moment, turning to look directly at Bruce and waving in the direction of the departing porters.

  “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  Bruce merely shook his head, and the knight looked from him to Hazelrig.

  “Then why were you two fighting? Hazelrig?”