The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce

by Jack Whyte

  The question, softly spoken, brought him back, and he turned quickly to look at her, feeling the sudden stab at his heart as her beautiful face filled his awareness again. And then, before he could lose heart, he spoke the words in his mind.

  “Will you have me, lass?”

  Her brows came very slightly together, and then she shook her head in a tiny gesture that, while not refusal, was not yet acceptance. “I am sworn to you, sir. I have no choice.”

  “No, by God’s holy dominance, you do! That choice is yours and freely given. I might be as selfishly unthinking as you said a moment since, but I heeded what you had to say about being married to a man you could not love. If that’s the way you feel I’ll let you go, for I doubt I could face a future with you, knowing you had no wish to be wed to me.”

  “Oh … ” She watched him closely. “And you would do that willingly, for my sake?”

  He felt as though his tongue were coated with coarse sand and the words emerged as a guttural, growling croak. “Aye, lady, I would. And will, if you but say the word. But not willingly … I have no wish to let you go, now that I’ve found you. None at all.”

  “And what of your fears of being chained and tamed?”

  He dipped his head to one side, smiling for the first time since he had stepped outside with her. “They vanished, my lady, dried up and disappeared as soon as I saw them for the boyish things they were. Now the fears that plague me are all fluttering around my dread of hearing you ask me to release you.”

  “Then let them go, Sir Robert, and be rid of them. But ask yourself, before you say another word, if you are sure of what you want. You asked if I will have you, and I will, gladly. But now I ask, will you have me?”

  He had once heard one of his grandfather’s men explain relief by saying that he felt as though the cares of all the world had been lifted from his shoulders, but he had been very young at the time and had puzzled over the meaning of those words. Now, in a flash, he understood them perfectly and felt the radiance in his own face as he smiled.

  “Isabella MacWilliam of Mar, I will have you above and beyond all others if I can, and for all time.”

  His reward came in the way she rose up from the seat and looked at him, her eyes glowing and then sparkling as they filled with tears. She reached out a hand to him and he took it and rose to stand beside her, drawing her close to his side and marvelling at the way the top of her head came barely to the centre of his chest. He stooped to kiss her, but she shrank back quickly and pressed her hand against his breastbone.

  “Have a care, my lord,” she said, but through a smile. “There are folk around and we are betrothed, not wed.”

  He laughed, throwing back his head and feeling the joy surge through him as he spun to see who had been watching them, but they were alone there in the open yard, and the lark had begun its upward spiral again, refreshed and strengthened by its rest, singing its heart out anew as it climbed towards the heavens. He spun back, pulled her forward before she could resist, and kissed her full on the wide, red lips that parted slightly in surprise as his hands closed upon her waist. It was a brief embrace and a briefer kiss, but the wonder of it lingered once they were apart again. He looked down at her, smiling, started to speak, then stopped.

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, a mere memory … When we are wed, or even sooner if I behave well, will you show me again that vision I had never seen before?”

  Colour surged into her cheeks and she gaped at him half-scandalized. But then she slapped him lightly on the arm and laid her other hand on his forearm, and together they walked slowly back into the house.

  They met again at dinner that same night, and though Bruce marvelled that no one even thought to ask them how they had come to meet each other, he was far too busy staring at the wonder of her to pay attention to anything else that was going on in the great hall. He had taken care to look his best, in a dark blue quilted doublet of the rich French fabric known as damask, worn over hose of lighter blue and boots of fine doeskin. Isabella had changed into a gown of pale green, edged in gold, and her ebony hair, free of restraint save for a net of golden filigree studded with tiny green gems that matched her eyes, enhanced her beauty in a manner that took his breath away each time he looked at her.

  He paid no attention at all to the food laid out for him and he heard little of the conversation around him, although at one point he had to rally himself to agree without demur when his father suggested that, since his condition had improved so remarkably within a single day, they might be able to leave for Westminster in two days’ time. He was entranced by the vision Isabella presented for his admiration; enchanted by the smiles she sent his way; bewitched by the play of light upon her face and skin and hair. He was in fact, though he did not know it, the very picture of a man hopelessly in love.

  Only at the end of dinner, when Isabella’s father led him aside to talk with him in private, did reality descend to bother him again. He expected Earl Domhnall to talk about his daughter at first, but the old man had apparently accepted the pair’s evident satisfaction with their situation as a matter requiring no further comment. His purpose in sequestering his future good-son was to bring up the matter of Bishop Wishart’s message, and even in his euphoria Bruce retained sufficient presence of mind to conceal the fact that he had already heard the gist of it.

  He listened gravely, nodding from time to time, and when the old earl had finished, he told him what he had already told Nicol MacDuncan earlier, though this time he felt less of the resentment that had angered him then.

  “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but this communication, the message it contains, has nothing in it that I find attractive. Frankly, I’m greatly vexed. But I must ask you, is this an invitation, or is it an instruction?”

  Domhnall blinked, taken aback. “It is not my place to judge that, Earl Robert. I am but the messenger, acting in good faith.”

  “I don’t doubt that, my lord, nor would I dream of holding you accountable. But I fear Bishop Wishart may have miscalculated my priorities in the face of his own. He would have me hold myself in readiness, he says. In readiness for what? A return to Scotland at some undetermined time? In the event that the currently anointed King might fail in his duty? And to the insulting and disloyal exclusion of my own father, to whom this message should have been rightfully directed? Is my father even aware of this communication?” The other man did not respond. “As I suspected. No, my lord, I can agree to none of that.”

  “But— In God’s name, there’s nothing wrong in what the bishop asks. No insult intended. He’s merely thinking of the realm’s welfare—and your own, as Bruce.”

  “Aye, I can see that. But Bruce stands banished from that realm today. Banished, my lord—our holdings forfeit to the ill will of our enemies, our very name tainted by lies and slurs. We chose to leave Scotland at my grandfather’s urging, and his reasons—our family’s reasons—were, as you well know, based soundly on the undying enmity of the Comyns, who are now all-powerful under King John. Since then we have renewed our oaths of fealty to England and its Crown—an oath that must equally apply to every man and woman in Scotland who holds lands in England. And yet, for taking it, we have been dispossessed of all our Scots holdings.”

  Bruce eyed his future good-father, trying to gauge how deeply he might have offended him, and then continued, keeping his voice pleasant and level. “Those are my concerns in this. And the disloyalty to my father, whether intentional or no, is the greatest among them. I wonder how deeply Bishop Wishart considered them before asking you to come to me like this. And I wonder, too, if he thinks me ambitious enough to betray my own father. But here is my answer, for you to take to him. My loyalty—the Bruce loyalty—lies with Edward Plantagenet and is bound by oath. And neither my father nor I has seen any reason to doubt the goodwill or motive of England or its King—a thing we cannot say of Scotland.”

  Domhnall had listened with pursed lips. “Aye,
well. That’s not what I’d expected you to say, and I’d like to talk about it further, just between ourselves as family. But here’s neither the time nor the place.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Bruce said quietly. “But my father must be included in the discussion—as family, as you say.” The Earl of Mar nodded, and Bruce felt relieved, for he had been dreading the inevitable airing of this subject with his father; he could easily imagine the anger and wounded dismay his report would provoke. And yet he could think of no way to lessen the blow he must deliver to his father’s pride.

  He laid a hand on Domhnall’s shoulder. “But before we join the company, my lord of Mar,” he went on, “I want to tell you something privily, as your good-son. No man can know with any certainty what lies ahead for him or his, but I will swear this to you in person. No matter what the future holds for all of us, I will cherish and revere your daughter for as long as we both shall live. She will be my wife and my countess, honoured and loved above all else in my life, and wherever I may go, so too will she, at my right hand.”

  Domhnall of Mar inclined his head graciously. “I would expect no less,” he said. “But I am glad to hear you say it. So be it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE EARL OF CARRICK’S IDYLL

  Harry Percy had been right, as it transpired. Bruce was welcomed back into the royal favour without question, other than a momentary flicker of surprise on the part of King Edward when he first saw the young earl enter his royal presence. That brief hesitation, unnoticed by everyone but Bruce himself, who had been watching for it, confirmed what Percy had surmised: that the King had had too much on his mind in the past year to be aware that the young earl’s period of mourning for his grandsire’s death had passed and that it was time he returned to the world again.

  Edward, being the man and monarch that he was, behaved as though he had been patiently awaiting the Bruce party for some time. Noticing them the moment they were ushered into the audience chamber, he stood up from his throne and welcomed them loudly and with apparent pleasure, dismissing with a wave the group surrounding his seat, the foremost of whom was a resplendently dressed, dark-faced man with whom Edward had been speaking when they entered. The man, whom Bruce had noted immediately as a foreigner by his dress, backed away with a deep bow, accompanied by the others of his group, but he did not quite succeed in concealing a scowl at being interrupted in his dealings with the King. Edward did not so much as glance in his direction after waving him away. Instead he watched the Scots visitors bow deeply, and as they straightened up again he called to the younger Bruce in a loud voice, stilling the crowd as he proclaimed his delight at seeing the young man there and demanding that he come directly to the throne and kiss his royal hand.

  Bruce did so obediently, bowing low over the royal fingers and reflecting that Edward, with his gold, bejewelled crown resting naturally on his regal head, knew better than anyone how to put a faithful servant at his ease and bathe him in the welcoming warmth of the King’s favour.

  “You’re well, boy?” the King growled. “I must say you look well, though your hair is … different.”

  “I am well, my liege. Better than I have ever been, in fact.”

  “Is that so?” One royal eyebrow rose in a query. “It pleases me to hear that. And to what is that due?”

  “To my lady, my liege. I am to be wed.”

  “Are you, by God?” The question emerged as an incredulous roar, filled with gladness and disbelief in equal measure. “You’ll take a wife who makes you smile like that?” All the crowd now watched. “By St. Alban’s martyrdom that’s something few men are fortunate enough to find, though Christ Himself knows you’ve done enough winnowing among the female wheat and chaff around here to have learnt to recognize value when you encounter it, eh? Where is this paragon? Is she here? She is? Then bring her to me.”

  Bruce stepped back, bowing and turning to obey, but Edward stopped him with a quick hand on his sleeve, his voice now quiet. “No, wait. She comes.” He raised a hand towards Isabella, who had started forward uncertainly, and crooked his finger. “Come forward, my dear,” he called. “I would look upon the face that has transformed my long-faced young earl here.”

  The lord of Annandale and his party were still at the rear of the audience chamber, a good twenty paces and more from the dais where the King sat, and as Isabella moved forward alone the people between her and the throne drew aside to clear her way, bowing deferentially. She walked regally, her small head held high, and once again Bruce felt his throat swell with love of her.

  “By God, she looks like my Eleanor when first I met her,” the King said quietly, for Bruce’s ears alone. “You have a treasure here, young Carrick.” He rose to his feet and draped the sides of his light cloak of blue-lined, pale gold silk back over the shoulders of the blue robe that covered him from neck to ankles and then he stepped quickly down from his elevated throne and went to meet her, arms stretched towards her to take both her hands in his own before she could dip into a curtsy. “Now, now, enough of that, young woman. It is I should be kneeling to you, for I have just finished telling the Earl of Carrick that you remind me forcibly of my dear wife Eleanor, God rest her soul. In her youth, she had that same flashing-eyed beauty and that regal bearing that you now own. Tell me your name, then, milady, and place me in your debt.”

  Bruce could see the truth in what the King was saying; there was a discernible resemblance between Isabella and the Queen he had known, though he could not have described what it was had his life depended on it. Something about the eyes and the cheekbones and the wide and generous mouth, he thought. The Queen had not been young when Bruce first met her, but she had retained sufficient of her youthful beauty to remain striking. As he listened to Edward’s honey-tongued flattery, he felt nothing but pleasure at the effect his beloved was having on the King. It would do Isabella no harm at court for people to know the monarch had been taken with her.

  Lost in thought for a moment, he had missed something of what the King was saying, but now Edward turned back to him and beckoned. “Come, Robert, we will welcome both of your fathers together.” Bruce obediently fell into step at King Edward’s right as the monarch, still holding Isabella’s hand in his left, walked between the pair to where the Lords of Annandale and Mar stood waiting with their small entourage. The audience chamber was silent, Bruce noted, though no fewer than threescore people crowded it, and the assembled courtiers parted and stepped aside for them, bowing and curtsying, the only sounds the rustling of clothing and the occasional clack of a heel on the hard, wooden floor.

  Despite the formality of the audience chamber, Edward welcomed his visitors warmly, congratulating Domhnall of Mar on his daughter’s beauty and on the fitness and excellence of the proposed match between his own house and the House of Bruce.

  He turned his head to Bruce. “And where and when will this event take place?”

  “We have arranged no date, my liege. Lord Domhnall and my lady are but newly arrived from Scotland, and we came directly here from Writtle in the hope that you would welcome us as you have and deign to look kindly upon our match.”

  Edward almost smiled as he glanced again at Isabella. “And how could I do otherwise? You have my heartfelt blessings and it will be our royal pleasure to attend the nuptials, here in the Abbey of Westminster if that should please you.”

  Bruce’s mouth fell open.

  “FitzHugh, our faithful seneschal, will see to the arrangements and it will be done within the month—unless there be some pressing need to wait beyond that time?” The King turned to Lord Domhnall. “Would that be suitable, my lord? You have no pressing urgency that must take you back to Scotland ’twixt now and then?”

  It was the King of England who had spoken there, though with Edward Plantagenet’s most cordial voice, and no one listening had any doubt of it. Lord Domhnall inclined his head gravely. “None at all, my lord King,” he said. “My place is here until I see this matter done and I am greatly
sensible of the honour you do my house.”

  “So be it, then.” Edward looked about him now, gauging the distance between himself and listening ears, and then waved the nearest courtiers away. He waited as people withdrew to a discreet distance, then beckoned Sir Robert FitzHugh to come closer. Dropping his voice to a gentle murmur, he spoke directly to Lord Bruce.

  “I am engaged at this present time with Frenchmen, from France itself and from my Duchy of Gascony. Always a nuisance but never to be neglected. Matters with which I have to deal privily and quickly, concluding them this night if that is possible, so I have no time to talk with you at length. I do, however, wish to talk with you and soon as may be done. FitzHugh will inform you of the appointed time when he has made arrangements. He will also attend to your lodgings while you are with us.” The seneschal bowed, giving no indication that those matters had already been dealt with, and Edward nodded, indicating that he knew they had.

  “Again, then, I bid you welcome here, and you, young lady, most particularly so.” He bowed and kissed the fingers he still held in his own, then nodded sideways, indicating Bruce. “Keep Carrick smiling, if you will. He seldom does so and never sufficiently, so I must lay this upon you as a solemn charge.”

  Isabella curtsied prettily, her head high as she looked into the fierce old eyes of the greatest King in Christendom. “And solemnly will I accept it, my lord King.” She paused, and then added mischievously, “Although solemnity sits ill with smiling, I find.”

  Edward laughed, a double bark of pleasure, and drew her across in front of him, handing her off to her betrothed. “May God bless your coming union, my lady of Mar and Carrick. I have no doubt He will.” His eyes scanned the small group again and he nodded. “Until tomorrow, then, for I must return to my Frenchmen. FitzHugh will look after you. Sleep well beneath our roof this night.”

  He moved away, back to his throne on its high dais, and as he went the focus of the entire room shifted to follow him, leaving the Scots party to make a discreet departure, shepherded by the old seneschal.