The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce

by Jack Whyte

“How long have I been asleep?” “Four days.”

  “Four days? How is that possible?”

  “I told you before, everything is possible if one has faith.”

  “Your … Your powder is still potent, then.”

  “It is, thanks be to God. And you are awake now because you appear to have no more need of it. Yesterday, beginning in the morning, I began reducing the amount you received. You will require no more. Do you feel hungry?”

  Bruce thought about that and nodded.

  “Excellent, then we shall feed you. Hot broth alone today, though. Perhaps something more solid tonight, but by tomorrow you should be eating normally.”

  “Is my father still here?”

  The bushy eyebrows rose. “Of course! Where else would he be? I will send someone to tell him you are awake, as soon as you have eaten. And I will send you some broth from the kitchens now.” He turned on his heel and went directly to the door, moving quickly for a man of his age with a bad limp, but he stopped on the threshold and turned back. “One thing. Do not try to rise from the bed alone. You are not strong enough, and should you try, you will most certainly fall and might injure yourself again. Lie where you are and be patient a while longer. I will come back later.”

  As soon as the door swung shut Bruce raised himself cautiously on an elbow. He counted to five, then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, noticing that the shirt he wore was a nightshirt of fine wool, plain white and ankle-length. The old man’s warning served its purpose, though, for instead of launching himself up to his feet as he would have done mere days earlier, he sat on the edge of the bed for a time, the whole room reeling and swaying as he moved his eyes. He felt a warning stir of nausea and quickly swung his legs back up to the bed, then lowered himself to lie flat again, grasping the edges of his palliasse and closing his eyes tightly against the sickening sense of motion that came close to overwhelming him. He lay still, holding his breath, and waited for it to pass. The heaving rotation died away gradually and left him clammy with sweat and clutching at the mattress. Finally, when his heartbeat had died down and his head no longer felt as though it were spinning, he lay quiet, breathing deeply and regularly.

  His father was still in Writtle. That surprised him, although he knew the purpose of this visit was to take him along to Westminster with the rest of the Bruce and Mar party. But in days not long past, before the death of his grandfather, he would never have believed his father would remain quietly in one place for days on end when he had plans of his own to prosecute, particularly once he was assured that his son was in no danger and would recover. The Earl of Carrick Rob had known as a boy would have ridden on ahead to do what he must do, leaving instructions for his son to catch up as soon as he was able.

  But if the Lord of Annandale was yet in Writtle, so too must be Domhnall, the Earl of Mar, and his daughter Isabella. He felt his spirits plummet at that thought, then remembered the strange sensations he had had of young women here in this room. There were no young women in Writtle … Certainly none that would dare raise their voices in the earl’s sickroom. And yet he was almost sure that he had heard them, perhaps even seen them. He had hazy recollections of differing colours, different shapes. And Nicol MacDuncan! If his father was yet here, then his great-uncle would be, too. He felt a surge of pleasure at that thought, and at that very moment the door to his chamber opened and Nicol himself stepped in, followed by Thomas Beg carrying a covered serving tray.

  “We have brought you food, Nephew! Can you sit up? You can’t sup lying on your back.”

  “You’ll have to help me. I feel light-headed.” “From starvation, I don’t doubt. Here, hold on to my arm. Now pull up … That’s it. Slowly now, slowly.”

  Thomas Beg was holding the tray as though it were a diplomatic offering.

  “What’s under the cloth, Tam?”

  “Soup,” the big man said. “Clear soup. Ye’re to drink it slow, for fear your stomach winna thole it. Gin ye get sick an’ puke, ye’ll hurt your ribs again. Here, I’ll hold it for ye.” He lowered himself to one knee with great care and held the tray steady while Nicol removed the covering, then watched as Bruce picked up the horn spoon with an unsteady hand.

  The hot broth was delicious, rich and tangy with the flavour of venison and better than anything Bruce could ever remember tasting. He moved tentatively at first, spilling some because of the pronounced tremor in his hand, but after the first startling mouthful he lost all awareness of anything except the need to taste more of it.

  Nicol had perched himself on the edge of the bed to watch his nephew as he ate, and when the spoon scraped against the empty wooden bowl he looked up at Thomas Beg with a raised eyebrow. “I think he could have eaten more,” he said.

  Thomas took the bowl away from Bruce, then placed the tray on the table nearby. “Aye,” he agreed. “We should hae brought the whole cauldron. But if yon was slow, I wouldna want to be here when he eats fast.”

  Bruce ignored him. His body felt alive again, his head full of questions. “So,” he said to Nicol, “tell me what’s been happening while I slept.”

  The two men made him comfortable, propping him up against his pillow, and then they talked for a long time.

  No human remains had been recovered from the ashes of the stables, they told him; Father Baldwin had set up a makeshift altar in front the ruined building and on the second day after the fire had offered a Mass for the souls of the missing six. The next day, the remaining walls of the stable had been pulled down and a team of men set to cleaning the old mortar from the fallen stones and storing them in piles by size and weight, for use in rebuilding on the same site, which was already being made ready.

  The flooded fields were drying well, Tam told him.

  “So we have sand beneath us,” Bruce murmured. “Now we know we have good drainage.”

  “Ye dinna think we’ll lose them then, the crops?”

  “I hope we won’t. The decision is God’s, though. All we can do is wait and see what happens. Speaking of which,” he continued, turning to Nicol, “tell me about my father. Why is he still here?”

  Nicol MacDuncan spread his hands. “He has his reasons, clearly, but he has not shared them with me. We had an ill time on the road, though, in that storm. None of us has ever seen anything like it. Twenty miles we travelled through it, and it was hellish every step of the way. Everyone needed a few days of rest and warmth by the time we finally arrived here.”

  “Twenty miles of it? I didn’t think it could be that widespread. Still, a few days of rest I can understand, but four? That smacks of idleness.”

  Nicol gazed back at him with a quizzical arch to one eyebrow. “You had best ask him yourself for his reasons. I suspect they have much to do with the need he feels to have you with him when he reaches Westminster. But that’s my own opinion and I might be wrong.”

  “Hmm. All right, then, I’ll ask him that when I see him. Brother Reynald said he would send him to me as soon as I had eaten … Were there women here? I thought— It seemed to me I heard women’s voices from time to time. Young women. Did I dream that?”

  “No, that would hae been the lassies that ye heard.” Thomas Beg answered him. “Lady Isabella’s young women. Three o’ them’s even younger than she is. There’s no’ much here to keep young folk busy, and so the auld monk had them fetchin’ and carryin’ for him, runnin’ to the kitchens and wherever else he needed, and sometimes keepin’ an eye on you when he had to go out.”

  Nicol cleared his throat and stood up. “We’d best leave you alone again. Your father will be waiting for word to come and see you, and we’ve said all we have to say for now. Is there anything I can bring for you?”

  There was nothing, so they went about their business, each of them nodding farewell as he left.

  As soon as they were gone, Bruce pushed himself away from the wall, with more difficulty than he had expected, and stretched out full length upon his cot. The sitting posture that had seemed so comfortabl
e at first had taxed him quickly after a short time, for the curvature of his body had placed increasing pressure on his injured ribs. Now, flat on his back again, he could feel the pain recede slowly from a throbbing fullness to a dull, steady ache and eventually, as he continued to lie still and draw slow, shallow breaths, it faded completely.

  He must have dozed because he started awake at a sudden noise and found Brother Reynald standing over him, holding a steaming cup in his hand. Feeling absurdly guilty at having been caught sleeping in the light of day, he muttered something unintelligible, hearing the thickness in his own voice. Brother Reynald paid no attention.

  “Drink this,” he said, holding out the cup.

  “What is it? More of that white stuff?”

  “No, it is mulled wine, with something in it to make you sleep.”

  “I’ve been sleeping for days, Brother, as you know very well. I have no need of more.”

  “That is your opinion. Mine is different. Sleep is still necessary if you are to heal quickly. Drink.” The old monk helped him again to a position in which he could drink without spilling, and when he was satisfied that his patient had taken as much as would be helpful, he stood to leave.

  “Your father is here,” he said. “Waiting outside. Are you strong enough to receive him?”

  “I believe so. I feel much better than I did earlier. But will your wine permit me to?”

  “It will. It is nowhere near as strong as the white powder and will take longer to affect you. I’ll send him in.” He went to the door and opened it, beckoned to Lord Annandale to come in and then left, drawing the door shut at his back and leaving father and son to face each other.

  Bruce nodded, feeling awkward to be on his back looking up at his father. “My lord father,” he said with a nod, “be welcome.” He waved towards one of the room’s two high-backed chairs. “Sit, if you would.”

  Lord Annandale’s mouth parted in a smile. “I would not, as your lord, but I will, gratefully, as your father. I have been on my feet since dawn, without respite. You look better today, Robert. Not so pale.” He stepped forward and bent to peer at the bandages that still covered his son’s left eye. “And the burn looks fine … No scorching at all that I can see, though I can’t see much beneath the wrappings.”

  He moved away and picked up one of the heavy chairs easily with one hand, returning to the side of the bed and angling it so that he could sit and look down directly into his son’s eyes. “How do you feel, though?” he asked, then looked at the pillow that his son was reaching for with clawed fingers, though it was inches beyond his reach. “Here, let me do that.” He pummelled the pillow and smoothed it before placing it behind Bruce’s raised neck. “So you are well? No weakness from the potions?”

  “No, Father, none at all.” The pillow felt wonderful behind his head and he sighed and stretched his neck appreciatively.

  He looked at his father carefully now, noting his high colour and the weight he had gained since last they had seen each other. The older Bruce looked tired and careworn. His cheeks and eyes, seen from beneath, were baggy and pouched, and the younger man wondered why that should be, since his father’s duties and concerns were now far less onerous than they had been in Annandale.

  “Uncle Nicol was here earlier, soon after I awoke, and when he told me you were still here I was surprised.”

  Lord Robert raised his eyebrows. “And why should that surprise you? Would you expect me to leave you sick and strapped to a board?”

  Bruce did not know what to say, since that had been precisely what he’d expected.

  “I came here to collect you in passing, thinking to let you meet your future wife and then ride with us to Westminster. God annulled my plans. But Brother Reynald tells me you should be fit to travel in a few more days, if all continues to go well.”

  “I know, Father … He said the same to me.” He coughed nervously. “And how is the Lady Isabella?”

  His father smiled. “Better than I had expected, after the misadventures she has had. That journey through the storm—the cataclysm as one of our priests called it—was the stuff of nightmares. But she’s a sturdy lass, strong as an ox, for all her female charms. She came through it all well and is now eager to meet you, once you are well enough.”

  God help me, Bruce thought, glumly aware that his father’s words echoed those of Sir James Jardine: a wee on the thin side, but a sturdy lass and strong as an ox. With praises like those, I can but imagine her female charms. He forced himself to nod in response and tried to keep his voice pleasant as he said, “I, too, look … forward to that meeting.” Then, to conceal his growing discomfort, he changed direction. “When does the King expect us to arrive, Father?”

  Lord Annandale gave a mildly scornful snort. “Expect us? The King does not expect us, Robert. Were that so, we would face the risk of keeping him waiting, and that would be sheer folly. He knows we will be visiting Westminster when we do arrive, because I sent him word that we would pass this way about this time and that I hoped to meet him again and renew my allegiance while we were here. But he has no expectations of us, and any expectation on our part would be presumptuous.”

  “Then there is no urgency to reach Westminster … ”

  “Of course not. Why should there be? But there is ample reason for our going there. Good policy and sound common sense both dictate that it will do no harm to show the King our faces again and remind him of our fealty and our family’s obligation to his royal goodwill. He thinks highly of you, too, and has favoured you greatly since we lost our lands in Scotland, so it is fitting that you should extend him the courtesy of presenting your intended wife for his approval. Besides, I want Edward to meet Domhnall of Mar and be assured that not all the magnates in Scotland are anti-English.”

  “What does that mean, Father? Are you implying that most of the magnates are anti-English now?”

  His father’s right cheek twisted in a familiar grimace that had become a habitual tic. “Aye, so it would seem, from what I hear from north of the border. There’s great unrest in Scotland these days and we Bruces are well out of it. The place is become a stewpot of politics wherein good men who seek but to mind their own affairs must scurry about like mice, lest they give offence to someone—anyone— who could have their life for it.”

  “Are things that bad?”

  The elder Bruce scowled. “They’re worse, from what I’m told.

  The realm is falling into anarchy and I wish I could lay the blame squarely at the feet of the Comyns, but I cannot. It’s the King himself who is at the root of all of it, and he is Comyn only through marriage.” His voice died away and when he resumed again it was low and bitter and hard-edged with resentment. “John Balliol of Galloway, may God preserve us all! The only King in Scotland’s history to be called the King of Scotland and not the King of Scots. Damn the man! That distinction marks him clearly—he thinks more highly of the land itself, a place for him to possess, than of the folk who live there.

  “My father called it rightly, years ago, when he named him a weakling unfit to rule. Not a coward, mind you, but his lack of passion—call it strength of will or assertiveness—will be the undoing of us all someday. The man is not capable of making a solid decision and then standing by it. He is forever changing his mind— swearing defiance against Edward at one moment, then grovelling for his forgiveness the next—and that, as you might imagine, is driving the magnates to distraction, since they themselves know not which way the royal cat is going to leap tomorrow.”

  That was almost exactly what Jardine had said earlier, and Bruce wondered if the knight had discussed the matter with his father. “What about the Stewart?”

  “What about him? He is my main source of information, and he despairs of the situation.” Annandale surged to his feet and began to pace the length of the room, his right hand clutching the hilt of the dagger at his waist as the words poured out of him.

  “There is a move afoot, the Stewart says, to form a council o
f Guardians, officially, to assist the King in his administration of the realm. That assistance will entail guidance in forming policy, in establishing resolve, and in enforcing that resolve thereafter. Twelve Guardian councillors—four bishops, four earls, and four barons, equally drawn from north and south of the Forth. The Stewart will be one of them, of course, as will Bishop Wishart of Glasgow. Fraser of St. Andrews and Comyn of Badenoch will make two more. The others I know not at this stage.”

  Bruce was frowning. “And what if the King decides he has no need of such assistance?”

  “He will be … persuaded to change his mind. The magnates stand convinced of his incapacity to rule. He has shown no slightest capacity to withstand the will of England’s King and that has led to grave concern among the magnates that the future of the realm itself may be under threat of English domination.” Lord Bruce had stopped pacing and now he stood behind his chair, grasping its high back, glowering.

  “My God, Father. That is scarce believable. A council of Guardians usurping the King’s authority.”

  “There is no usurpation involved, and the King is demonstrating no authority.” Bruce had seldom heard his father sound so acerbic. “And that, God help us all, is the distilled truth at the heart of this entire matter. The King of Scotland for the time being is a feckless nonentity. He is incompetent! But there are those among his following who see that and stand prepared to set the cause of the realm above the weakness of the monarch. Any action taken by the council will be aimed solely at strengthening Balliol’s royal presence and bolstering his status for the good of the realm.”

  “Aye. But whether he likes it or not is what you are saying. They have placed his kingly power under interdict. It sounds treasonous to me.”

  For a moment he thought his father would explode in anger, but with a visible effort of will the lord of Annandale moved around his chair and sat down again. The florid face lost its tension and his shoulders slumped against the chair’s high back. “‘Treason’ is not a word to be lightly used by folk like us, Robert, dispossessed and exiled as we are. Besides, ask yourself what the land would have without such a council. It’s easily named—anarchy. And I have already said we’re close to that as things stand. Scotland is in turmoil, and unless there are changes in the near future—great changes—the country faces civil war. The men of goodwill, the leaders within the realm—people like James Stewart and Domhnall of Mar and Andrew Moray of Petty, along with others of their ilk from north and south of Forth—are seeking ways to make things better. And this council is the sole, honourable course open to them. The Church stands with them, as do most of the Comyns. They see no other way to guard themselves than by uniting behind the King despite the King, and forcing him, in time of need, to play his part convincingly and be monarch in fact as well as name.”