The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (34 page)

Rob rose, assisted by the abbots on either side of him, and was immediately surrounded by the assembled knights, all pummelling his back and shoulders and shouting in congratulation, welcoming him for the first time as an equal. When he could win free of them, he moved to embrace his father, whose eyes, he saw with astonishment, were brimming with tears, and then he turned to his
grandfather, who awaited him with open arms. The fierce old warrior hugged him close for long moments, cuirass to cuirass, then held him at arm’s length.

“Your father has a gift for you,” he said, then beckoned Alan Bellow, who had been awaiting the signal and now stepped forward smartly, holding out a crimson cushion on which rested a beautifully crafted pair of ornate silver spurs. Earl Robert picked them up, one in each hand, and held them out to Rob. “You’ll wear these from now on,” he said, smiling through eyes that were still moist. “But you’ll have to learn how to put them on yourself, later … For the rest, well, now that you’re to be an earl, you’ll need a sword befitting your rank.”

He gestured with an open hand towards his own father, and Lord Robert slipped his thumb under the heavy leather sword belt that hung across his chest and shrugged it over his head, his left hand grasping the thick scabbard of the enormous sword it held. He had sheathed the weapon after knighting Rob, but now he seized the hilt and bared the blade again, holding the sword up for all to see. It was a massive thing, its hilt made from solid steel and bound with wirewrapped rawhide, and its great, broad blade reflected the lights that filled the hall, silencing every man there. Lord Robert hefted it, then stabbed it upward, thrusting it high above his head and gazing up at its gleaming point.

“It’s no’ a delicate thing,” he said to Rob in Scots, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Nor is it fancy. But men heed it and it has served me well for nigh fifty year and more.” He brought his arm down and held the blade horizontally across his body, bracing it with his left forearm and gazing down at it as he continued speaking. “Afore that, though, it belonged to your great-great grandsire on your grandmother’s side, William the Marshal of England himself, master-at-arms and teacher to King Richard o’ the Lion Heart.” He slid the long blade back into its sheath and held it out hilt-first to Rob. “I’m near too old to lift it now, never mind swing it, but if I’m any judge o’ what I saw the other day between you and Rab Elliot, it should serve you well, too. Wear it wi’ pride,
Sir Robert Bruce. An’ should you e’er hae cause to swing it in earnest, swing it hard and clean.”

Speechless, and uncaring that his eyes were blurred with sudden tears, Rob tucked his new silver spurs awkwardly beneath his left arm and reached out to take the massive weapon in his right hand, feeling the solid weight of it threaten to drag his arm down as his grandfather released it. He tensed in time and shifted his grip, raising the sword to eye level with both hands on the scabbard, clamping his left arm hard against the suddenly superfluous spurs and holding the huge sword hilt uppermost like a cross between himself and the old man. He swallowed hard, forcing his tongue to form the words, and whispered, “I will, my lord. So help me God.”

The deep hush in the chamber lasted five heartbeats before the hall erupted again with shouts of approval.

The day proceeded from that point as planned, but much of what was said and done went over Rob’s head, for it was all policy and ritual and it held no further surprises for him. He heard his father’s announcement of his resignation of the earldom and the succession of Rob himself as Earl of Carrick, and he smiled in acceptance of the applause of the gathering, but for some time he had accepted that as being important but already in hand. Far more important to him was the solid weight of metal hanging from the wide, supple, hundred-year-old belt slung across his chest. He could hardly wait to take it out to the training yard, but hours were to elapse before he could find an opportunity to leave.

When the ceremonies and speeches were at last all over and the assembled throng had settled in to eat and drink, Rob whispered an excuse to his grandfather, telling him what he wished to do, and the old man gave him leave, pointing out that the November afternoon was fading quickly and he had best make haste. Impatiently aware of the truth of that, Rob made his way unobtrusively to the back of the hall, still clutching his new spurs, and slipped quietly out, making his way directly to the training yard just inside the main gates of the fortress.

The area was usually one of the busiest places in Lochmaben, but now it was deserted, for this was a day of celebration and Lord Robert had proclaimed a general holiday. But then he noticed the single fellow loitering alone in the distance, close by the open gates. The man was unknown to Rob, though, and too far away for him to take more than a passing interest.

He went directly to one of the solid oaken posts the garrison used for sword practice, chipped and slashed now by a hundred thousand hard-swung blows, and drew his new sword. But the act of unsheathing the weapon brought the new spurs back to his attention, for he still held them clamped beneath his left arm. He straightened his arm and released them to drop into his left hand, then gazed at them for a moment, knowing that he should put them on, for if he laid them on the ground by his feet he might step on them. He sheathed his sword and examined the spurs more closely, this time taking note of how beautifully made they were. He had worn spurs before, of course, but those had been simple jags—mere spikes of hammered steel. These ones were vastly different, made in the French fashion and finely worked and chased, the ends of their longish shanks split like the nocked end of an arrow and then riveted to hold ornate rowels that spun freely when he flicked them with a finger. He looked around him for a footrest, and crossed to a low log where he spent some time—too much time, a part of him insisted— fastening the things securely over his heavy boots until they were properly in place and tightly strapped, and then he straightened up to return to the training post. As soon as he began to walk, though, he found the spurs forcing him to change his gait. Their long shanks and jingling rowels altered the natural rhythm of his walk so that he had to pick each foot up and place it carefully at every step. His booted feet now felt clumsy, and although he knew he would grow used to the sensation quickly, he was aware of a need to be careful at first.

Back at the practice post, he drew his blade again and began the preliminary exercises designed to loosen his arms, shoulders, and back muscles, moving slowly and concentrating on the range of
motion involved before even considering swinging the blade in earnest at the post. He settled into the rhythm quickly, enjoying the feel of his new weapon and the way it changed at once from a heavy, inert weight of metal to a living, balanced force as he swung it, and soon he was belabouring the oak post, thrilling to the solid delivery of the keen blade and the way chips flew from the dense oak at every stroke.

Seeing how quickly he was shaping twin grooves into the sides of the target, he stepped to his right and began to circle it, varying the height and angle of his blows, and as he did so he found his new spurs hampering him. His right heel lodged solidly as its spur caught on a projection and threw him off balance; he lurched, and then fell sideways, landing with a crash that knocked the wind out of him. He lay on his back for long moments, mouthing curses until he regained his breath, and then he rolled over clumsily and pushed himself back to his feet, fighting for every inch against the unaccustomed weight and unyielding constriction of his armoured legs. He retrieved his sword with difficulty, bending awkwardly from the waist and managing to grasp it with scrabbling fingers, and then straightened up, breathing heavily and wiping the dust from the blade with his hand.

The stranger he had noticed earlier was now less than ten paces away, leaning on a heavy staff and watching him with a smile on his face.

“What in Hades are you grinning at?” The words, snapped out in Latin, were out before Rob knew they were in him, but the big stranger merely straightened and held up a hand, his expression stating clearly that he had had no wish to offend. Rob continued in Scots, “Your pardon. That was … uncalled for—and ill mannered. But I felt foolish.”

“No need. They’re awkward things, I can see. I watched you strap them on and I could tell you werena used to them. They’re very fine, forbye new … They’ll be silver, then?”

“Aye,” Rob said, eyeing the man.

“New silver spurs. You’ll be Lord Bruce’s grandson, then, I jalouse. The new knight.”

Rob nodded slowly and sheathed his blade. “I am,” he said, managing to summon up a one-sided, self-deprecating smile. “Robert Bruce of Carrick, newly knighted this day. Who are you? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“No, I’ve only ever been here once. I’m from Jedburgh.”

“Oh! Did you come with Abbot de Morel?”

“From the abbey, you mean?” The stranger shook his head. “No. I didn’t even know he was here. I’m no’ really from Jedburgh. I bide close by there, though, on Bishop Wishart’s estate. I arrived but an hour ago, to pay my respects to Lord Bruce, but they told me he was busy with his grandson’s knighting.” He shrugged enormous shoulders. “I left word that I’d wait, so here I am, and since you’re here, too, and no’ cloistered with your grandsire, it appears I might no’ have to wait much longer.”

Rob cocked his head curiously at the fellow, caught by his way of speaking. “Cloistered? Are you a knight, then? You don’t look like one … ” He hesitated, eyeing the stranger’s clothing, which was predominantly green, then smiled. “I mean … Well, you know what I mean. And I meant no offence. But you speak like a knight.”

The big fellow matched his smile. “No, I’m just a verderer— woodsman and gamekeeper for Bishop Wishart. But I’ve a brother who’s a knight with Sir James Stewart the Guardian and I’m nephew to Sir Malcolm Wallace of Elderslie, one of Lord Bruce’s tenants.” He switched effortlessly to Latin. “As for my speech, I blame the monks. I went to school in Paisley for a while, at the abbey there.”

Rob found himself attracted by the man’s openness and his air of easy confidence, and now his eye settled on the long cylinder of heavy polished leather that hung from the other’s right shoulder. “Is that a bow case?” he asked, nodding towards it. He knew it was, even without the matching bag of arrows hanging from the other shoulder, for the man’s enormous chest, arms, and shoulders proclaimed him an archer.

“Aye, it is.” The big fellow reached back to touch the lower part of the case with his fingertips.

“It must be English,” Rob said. “Too big to be a Scots one.”

“Aye, it’s a longbow—yew, from the mountains of Aragon. Better than any grown in England today. But it was made here in Scotland.”

“Made here?” Rob looked at the case in surprise. “By whom?”

The smile flashed again. “I made it myself, but with much help from a friend who is half Welsh and all bowyer.”

“Hmm. And what about that?” Rob nodded, indicating the heavy staff that now rested comfortably beneath the big man’s left arm, the thicker end lodged beneath his armpit. “It has the look of long, hard use. Did you make it, too?”

“I did, a long time ago.”

“As a walking staff or a quarterstaff?”

“A quarterstaff.” A quick smile flickered, showing white, even teeth. “But you look as though you’d like to try me wi’ it and I fear I canna oblige you, no’ when Lord Robert might send for me at any minute.” Even as the big man said the words, they heard a shout, and one of the household staff came running towards them. The big man held up a hand to the messenger and looked back at Rob. “Mayhap later, though, if you are still here. I shouldna keep Lord Bruce waiting.”

Rob nodded. “No, that’s never a good idea. Your name is Wallace, you say?”

“It is. William Wallace of Elderslie, though most folk call me plain Will.”

“Well met, then, plain Will Wallace. I hope your meeting with my grandsire goes well.”

The friendly smile flickered again, accompanied by another effortless switch to Latin. “It will, Sir Robert. I came but to express my thanks to his lordship and pay my respects as I said, nothing more.” He pointed down at Rob’s feet. “In the meantime, should we not meet again, I wish you well with mastering those spurs.” He dipped his head slightly in farewell and turned away to follow the
summoner. Then, alone again, Rob drew his sword and again faced the drilling post, highly aware of his spurred boots and the need to mind his footing.

He was still hammering away at the post, though moving his feet with far more confidence, when he heard his name being called and looked up to see his grandfather approaching him through the rapidly gathering November dusk. He sheathed his sword, marvelling at how fast the light had gone.

“Should I be back in the hall, sir?” he asked. “What? Oh, no, no. It’s gey smoky in there and I needed some fresh air, so I thought I’d come and see how you’re getting along.” He glanced down at Rob’s feet.

Rob looked down himself and grinned. “Ah, those … I’m growing used to them, my lord, though they were … awkward, at first. Did your guest tell you about me falling on my arse?”

Lord Robert blinked at him. “Guest? What guest are you talking about?”

“The forester. Wallace, I think his name was.”

“Oh, him. You met him, then. No, he never said a word. You fell down?”

“Tripped over my spurs and he was watching. Is he gone already?”

“No, he’s getting something to eat. He’ll probably stay in the stables tonight and head home tomorrow. What did you think of him?” He tilted his head sideways.

Rob shrugged. “I liked him, what I saw of him. We spoke for a little while until your man came to fetch him. Who is he?”

“A fine young man who almost came to grief over a woman. Was falsely accused o’ a crime by a rival. Fortunately Wishart, who thinks highly of him, caught wind of it. He asked some questions and discovered a plot to have young Wallace arrested and hanged for slaughtering a herd of my deer. At the time the deed was done, though, I was in Glasgow myself and met Wallace there having dealings with the bishop, so it wasna possible for him to have done what he was accused o’. Turned out to be plain jealousy over some young
woman in Ayr, and the man who accused him—one of my own woodsmen—had suborned another forester to lie under oath that he had seen Wallace do the killing. Parcel of lies from start to finish, but it would have served his ends had I not met young Wallace in Glasgow when he was supposedly down here slaughtering my beasts.”