The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (35 page)

“So what did you do, Grandfather?”

“What would you expect me to do? The miscreant committed crimes while in my employ, black crimes that could have besmirched my name for hanging an innocent man had things turned out otherwise, and then he lied to me, bare-faced. I hanged him on two counts—for the attempted murder o’ young Wallace and the probable murder o’ his perjured witness, who vanished wi’out trace the day young Wallace was accused.”

“He said he’d come to thank you and to pay his respects, but he mentioned nothing of what had happened.”

“Aye, well … That’s done with now. How are you finding the sword?”

Rob grinned and raised his arm stiffly and theatrically before dropping his hand to the hilt at his waist. “Heavy,” he said.

“Aye, you’ll grow used to it. Years of practice, lad, that’s all it will take, and you have years ahead of you—fifty o’ them at least, if you take after me.” He looked back towards the lowering bulk of the dusk-dark buildings behind them. “I should be getting back,” he said. “Come with me. It will do you no harm to mix wi’ my folk, let them gauge your mettle. They’ve all had a dram or two by now, so they’ll be eager to take your measure now that ye outrank them all. But tonight, when all is quiet again, we should talk more, you and I. I have things to tell you.”

Rob hesitated, but then he nodded. “Of course, Grandfather. I’ll come and find you after everything is quiet. You’ll be in the den?”

“Where else would I be at that time of night? Now come away inside and let folk meet the new Earl of Carrick. But don’t be gulled into staying too long. Ye’ve had no sleep since the night before last and I need ye to be sharp-eyed when we talk later. If ye’re in bed
within the hour ye’ll have had a good five or six hours of rest by midnight.”

He began to walk back towards the main hall, and as Rob fell into step beside him he glanced sideways at his grandson, one eyebrow twitching. “D’ye feel like an earl yet?”

“I’ve no idea, sir,” the younger Bruce said quietly. “How is an earl supposed to feel?”

That earned him a smile. “Humble at first,” the old lord said. “The arrogance comes later.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE DANGERS OF IDEAS

I
t was after midnight by the time Lord Robert brought a horn cup of steaming toddy to where Rob sat in front of the glowing brazier, gazing into the coals. Rob straightened up and took the proffered cup with a word of thanks, reflecting briefly that since they’d last sat together like this, he had come to relish the fiery drink.

His grandfather angled the chair beside Rob slightly, so that he could look at him as they spoke, then settled into it. He raised his cup in a silent toast before sipping from it appreciatively and resting it on his knee. “Well,” he said. “It’s been a while since we two sat and talked like this.”

A while indeed, Rob thought. Two years, in fact. He hitched around and glanced at the closed door. “Is my father not coming to join us?”

“No, he’s been abed these two hours. How is he doing these days?”

Rob sipped his toddy slowly, rolling the tangy heat around his tongue and enjoying the sensation of warmth and comfort offered by his padded chair and the lively fire. He had slept well for several hours and now felt strong and refreshed.

“Better,” he said finally. “He’s better. He was always quiet, but now he’s even more so. Still mourning Mam, I suppose, even now that a month and more has passed. He scarce speaks now unless he has to, but when he
needs
to speak or act, he does so as he did today, confidently, with strength and conviction. I believe he’s improving
with every day that passes, and so do the others—Isabel, Nigel, all the rest.”

The old man nodded. “That’s good to hear. I think the same. He’s mending rapidly. Would to God that everything else besetting our house were doing as well.”

“What do you mean, sir? Is there word from Norham?”

“No, not yet, but it will come soon, now that I’ve removed myself from the debate.”

“And what will we do then?”

Lord Robert sipped from his cup again before responding. “What do
you
think we should do, my lord earl?”

Rob blinked, hearing his title used casually for the first time. “I … I don’t know, Grandfather. Will we attend the coronation?” He stopped, frowning. “I suppose we’ll have to, will we not?”

“No, we will not.” Lord Robert smiled crookedly, seeing the surprise in his grandson’s eyes. “They’ll place the crown on Balliol’s head whether we are there or not, lad, and I see no benefit in travelling all the way to Scone merely to watch the smiles of victory on every Comyn face in Scotland. By the time they do crown him, though—and they’ll waste no time—I’ll be in England and so will you. Your father might remain here for a time, but he’ll have much to do in Turnberry, tending to the family and making arrangements for their future.”

“What kind of arrangements?”

“The kind that must always be foremost in a father’s mind, and especially so after the loss of his wife. But we’ll come back to that, for we hae more important things to speak of right now. Remind me of it later, though, if I forget. Now, let’s deal wi’ Scone first, and the coronation. It will be a great celebration, and rightly so, for it will give this land a visible head again. We’ve needed a king in Scotland these six years now and not everyone believed that king should be a Bruce. The court at Norham has been thorough and its judgment long awaited by everyone. When Balliol’s succession is announced none will question it, especially in the light of my withdrawal of my own claim.”

“But won’t our absence there be noted?”

“Aye, and remarked upon, ye may be sure o’ that. But we will have legitimate reasons for being absent, no matter what the old wives make of it. I’ll be withdrawing to my new life as plain Sir Robert Bruce of Writtle in Essex and you’ll be accompanying me as my deputy, to learn at first-hand how I will live there and make do.” He raised a hand. “Mind you, I’m no’ saying we’ll no’ swear allegiance to the new king. We will eventually—we’ll hae no choice. But better to do it later, when the crowds are all dispersed. Plenty o’ time then. And it will be safer.”

There was the merest suggestion of a hesitation before that last word, and Rob seized on it. “Safer, sir? How so? I can hardly think there might be physical danger in attending the coronation. More risk in not being there, I think, and having our absence noticed.”

The patriarch’s lips twitched wryly. “That’s no’ the kind o’ safety I was talking about. For the moment, think of this: gin you were to attend the Scone affair, you would be forced to swear allegiance then and there, in front o’ all the eyes of Scotland. You’d be seen to bend the knee to Balliol at the outset, and that might no’ be to your advantage further down the road.”

Rob’s eyes again betrayed his puzzlement.

“Edward will be there in Scone, lad, taking note of how things unfold, and if my suspicions are anywhere near correct, he’ll be marking how many men kneel to Balliol and how keen they are to do it. He’ll be watching with great care to see whom he can mark among his friends and enemies there. Who will be apt to accept whatever he might do and who is likely to prove troublesome in future. For that alone I’d have you far from there and safely neutral in England. I have no wish to see you placed on either of those lists.”

“But … But surely Edward wouldn’t—”

“No, surely Edward
would
. And he
will
. Mark me, boy, and pay heed. You’ll serve all o’ us Bruces well by being absent from that place. D’you hear what I am saying?”

“Aye, Gransser, I do. But I’m still not sure I understand all of it.”

“No, and how could you?” The patriarch’s voice was a low growl. “I havena told you all of it yet. But I will now. At least, I’ll try to … ” He sat straighter, his voice becoming stronger. “Pour us some more toddy. The water’s still hot and there’s enough for two more. Then let me think about this, for in truth I’m no’ quite sure what I want to say to you.”

His grandfather sat squinting into the fire as Rob spooned the remaining honeyed spirits into the two cups and fetched the heavy iron kettle from where it simmered over the brazier’s coals.

“I’m an old man,” Lord Robert said quietly, “but I fear you might think me a daft old man when I try to say what’s in my mind, for I’m going to talk of things I never even considered until recently and I’m no’ sure I can even find the words to explain what I’m thinking … I would like to think, having lived as long as I have, that I have learnt to look at life and draw some truths from what I’ve seen.”

“It’s called wisdom, my lord,” Rob said quietly, smiling.

The patriarch shook his head vehemently. “No, it’s no’ wisdom. It’s experience,” he said, his Scots pronunciation growing more assertive. “Or mair like, it’s the insight that comes wi’ experience. Wisdom’s no’ necessarily the result o’ old age. Last night, while you were standing your vigil in the chapel, I spent a long time talking to yon young priest, Lamberton. Now there’s a clever man, Robert, and I’d wager he’s less than half a decade older than you. That yin is wise beyond his years and has a canny head on his shoulders. He’d have to have, to impress Robert Wishart the way he has at sich a young age.” He half smiled. “Rab Wishart might no’ be easy to talk wi’, now that he’s Bishop o’ Glasgow, but he wasna always so straight-faced. Truth to tell, though, he never could stomach fools, and he’s always had a keen eye for seein’ talent in others. Young Lamberton will go far, I jalouse, wi’ auld Rab as his mentor.”

“What did he and you talk about?”

“Oh, this and that. I’ll tell you about it later, but right now I want to speak my thoughts and have you sit there and listen carefully. Will ye do that?”

“Of course I will, sir.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. Young men seldom pay attention to the haverings of old ones. They might
seem
to be listening, sitting there and bobbin’ their heads frae time to time, but most o’ the time their thoughts are miles away, thinkin’ o’ the kind o’ things that young men think important. And I know how true that is, for I can remember being young mysel’ and doin’ exactly that … ”

“I will listen, Gransser, I promise.”

“Fine, then. It’s important that you hear these … these things, even should you never have to act on them. They shook me when I first heard them. They were … worrisome, and persistent, wouldna go away and leave me to myself … Tell me,” he asked, “are you familiar wi’ the ancients, folk like Aristotle and Plato?”

“A little, sir. I’ve heard of them. Father Ninian used to talk about them. Thinkers, he called them, and another word, Greek, I think. Philosophers.”

“Aye, that’s it, ‘philosophers.’ It means lovers o’ wisdom in Greek, but it’s just another word for men who love
ideas
, talking about them and debating them. Dangerous men, philosophers, for the thoughts they think are never gi’en to ordinary men—ideas can be calamitous, and too often they contain the seeds of destruction.”

“But what on earth can they destroy? They’re but ideas, no more than notions. They’re not
real
.”

“Not so. They’re real, Grandson. Make no mistake on that.” Lord Robert frowned slightly. “And if they’re profound ideas, new ideas, and if the men who dream them make them work, they spread to others and grow in the spreading. And once that happens, they bring changes, as sure as the sun brings daylight. Changes in the way folk think and behave. The old ideas and ways of doing things die, making way for the new. Believe me, Grandson, that is the way the world works. And I’ve been struggling with some new ideas these past few months, as I said.” He stopped abruptly, looking vaguely alarmed as a new thought occurred to him. “None of them are
mine
, mind you. Don’t go thinking that. I’m no great dreamer of new ideas. But they’re there, for all that, all around us, waiting to be seen and believed by ordinary folk.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about this world we live in now, about duties and responsibilities and loyalties, all the touchstone things that keep us anchored in our daily lives.”

“And you think they’re changing, all those things?”

“I don’t
think
it. I
know
it. I believe it—canna deny the truth o’ it. I’ve been thinking about it for months now, since a talk I had with Rob Wishart when I was last in Glasgow. It was he who first brought up the notion of a changing world, of our whole
system
changing, throughout Christendom—and him a bishop! I thought at first that he was havering. But young Lamberton had just come back from France after living there for near two years, and Wishart brought him in that night to talk to me about the things he had seen and heard over there, the things he’d learned.

“We talked long into that night, about a wheen o’ things. By the time I left to come home a few days later, my head was spinning, and I’ve scarce had a minute’s peace since. Ideas, Grandson. They can drive you mad, defying your belief and everything you had held to be common sense.” He nodded, sombrely, letting the pause stretch. “And so tonight I thought to pass them on to you. You’ve your whole life in front of you, whereas I’m old and nearly done. You should be aware of what’s happening in the world out there beyond our doors, and able to think about it all in times ahead. What’s out there willna
stay
out there. These new ideas will come here, whether we will it or no’. And no’ just here to Scotland. They’ll spread everywhere.”

“That sounds … terrifying, Gransser.”

The old man barked a laugh. “Aye, I know. And daft as well, eh? I can see it in your face. You’re frettin’ for my wits.” The laughter vanished as quickly as it had erupted. “I swear to you, Robert, I’m no’ mad, nor am I lying. I told you before, the Bruce doesna deal in lies. Yet I can see you’re having difficulty grasping what I’m talking about. Let me help. Young Lamberton gave me an example o’ the way these ideas have the power to change things.”

Lord Robert nibbled his upper lip between his teeth for a few moments, then emptied his cup in one great swallow. “Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus the Christ. An ordinary man—forbye bein’ the Son of God, of course. But an ordinary man none the less, the scriptures tell us. A carpenter, from a wee village in Galilee. But he had an idea the like o’ which no one had ever heard. He believed in mercy, in compassion and forgiveness, talked o’ loving his enemies and turning the other cheek to them that struck him, talked about the allforgiving mercy o’ a single God to
all
men, no’ just his own kind, the Jews, who looked down on everybody else and called themselves God’s chosen. And, mark you, this was a time when there was no such thing as mercy or compassion in the world. Rome ruled the world then. Rome
was
the world and showed no mercy to anyone, anywhere. Roman law was brutal—oppressive and all-powerful, and anybody who dared to defy it was quickly dealt wi’, usually by killing but sometimes wi’ a floggin’ that would leave a man unfit to work and live, or wi’ a lifetime of hard labour in the mines or as a galley slave.