The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (43 page)

“Shit. When, now?”

“No, no. When he sees you. So were I you, I’d keep away from him. There’s nothing he can do now. They’re all dead and there’s an end of it, so all he can do is carp. Seems to think it would have been good for him had he taken back some guilty felons to show to the crowd in Westminster. It never hurts to keep the King happy, he thinks, though he didn’t say it aloud. He’s right, too, though Christ knows it’s growing more difficult from day to day.”

Bruce’s ears pricked at that. “How so?” he asked. “Is the King distempered?”

“Don’t even ask,” Bigod answered him, his voice heavy with disgust. “Believe me, you’ve done well to be so far removed from things this past year, beyond the sea, in the Ulster wilderness.” He waved a hand to indicate his two companions. “We, on the other hand, have had to suffer through all of it.”

Bruce was frowning. “All of what, John?”

“He means all of the things that have happened to displease the King this past year,” Percy explained. “Rattling like hailstones on a helmet. France set it off, back in May or June of last year—” He hesitated, then asked de Bohun, “When was it, Humphrey? When did Philip of France cut off our good King’s beard?”

“May nineteenth. I remember it because it was the same day my grandmother died, God rest her soul. But that was ten years ago … when she died, I mean.”

Percy rolled his eyes and kept on talking to Bruce. “That’s it. May nineteenth last year, it was. Of course, we heard nothing of it until weeks later, but on that day Philip of France had his lawyers declare Edward’s stewardship of Aquitaine invalid because Edward refused to do him homage, or some such nonsense. Anyway, Philip marched his armies into Aquitaine and seized it, and Edward declared war as soon as he heard of it. That put us at war with France
and
the rebels in Gascony, both at the same time, and that set some of our own barons howling about the costs of it all. Then in July, your Scots parliament stepped on Edward’s toes in earnest when he required a supporting levy of Scots knights and liegemen to accompany us to France. They told him to his face that your King John had no power, even had he willed it, to commit Scots knights to support an English war in France without their authority as parliament.”

Bruce blinked in astonishment. “They told him that
in person
? Who dared do that?”

Percy waved the question away brusquely. “Well, they didn’t tell him, exactly. They sent a letter, much beribboned and festooned with seals. It was sheer defiance, but cloaked with churchly decorum. Edward was livid, believe me. No one dared mention Scotland or Scots within his hearing for months.”

“Balliol is not
my
King John, since you mention it,” Bruce murmured. “Never was and never will be, which is the point of my family’s presence here in England. But I did know something of that debate and its upshot. My grandfather said that parliament had behaved correctly. No Scots King has ever had the power to send an army beyond the seas without first consulting with all the magnates of the realm, and none of those would ever go, lacking some massive urgency. The costs are ruinous and the land is far less populous than yours. Scotland simply cannot spare the men. Not surprising, then, that they spoke as they did, but I can see why Edward would be displeased.”

“Displeased!” Percy made a sound between a snort and a scornful guffaw. “Aye, ‘displeased’ might be a good word for it. About as apt as
dismayed
would be in describing a well-born maiden who finds herself confronted by a blood-mad pirate bent on tupping her. There was nothing he could do about it, though, short of going to war with Scotland atop all else. And then, as we finally made ready to embark for Gascony with an army in September, the mad Welsh dog Madog made a costly error. Costly for everyone. Someone had told him that the main part of our armies had long since shipped safely away to France and there was nothing but a holding force left behind to raise more Welsh bowmen. So up he jumped in rebellion, mouthing the same tripe: that Welshmen could not be conscripted by an English King—” He broke off, staring at Bruce with a strange expression. “But you must have heard all this, surely, here, if not in Ulster.”

Bruce nodded. “A bit here, a bit there, and little of it about Wales. de Burgh had his own priorities to deal with in Ulster, though, and little time to sit around and talk about what might be happening elsewhere. And we heard nothing from the King himself. There were rumours, of course, particularly about the French treachery last year, but I’ve never heard the full litany listed quite like this.”

“That’s not the full litany. Merely the start of it,” Bigod added. “And none of it grows better in the telling.” He wrinkled his nose. “The Scots in general are a contentious issue. Never at rest, those people, and always arguing. They’re like ants—there’s order there,
of a kind, but no mere man can say how it works or what controls it. Now they have a King who shifts about like a flag in an errant wind and whose temper can never be depended on for any length of time, and all of us wonder how he can ever hope to keep control of the savages he is supposed to govern. Which reminds me, d’you know a knight called Douglas? Sir William Douglas?”

Bruce dipped his head. “Of Douglasdale, aye, I’ve heard tell of him. Never met the man, but from what I hear he’s a wild one, ungovernable, foul-tempered and … What was that word you used? ‘Contentious’? Aye, that would fit what I’ve heard. How do
you
know him, John?”

“I don’t.” Bigod’s denial was curt. “But I’ve met him, once, on May Day past. Now
there
is an arrogant whoreson. I detested him on sight. The King is well aware of the fellow, though. Calls himself William le Hardi, Lord of Douglas, and behaves as though he were King of all Scotland—and England, too, for that matter. Considers himself answerable to no one. He abducted an English woman some years ago—back in eighty-eight it was—a widowed woman of noble birth whom the King himself had dowered. She was living in the north at the time, under the protection of Lord Alan la Zouche, Baron of Ashby, and this lout Douglas laid siege to the baron’s castle for some imagined grievance and captured the woman. Eleanor Something-or-other. Same first name as my wife and the late Queen. Carried her off to his castle, and before a ransom could be arranged, the silly woman married him and refused to be ransomed.”

Bruce grinned. “Aye, I heard about that. It would seem the man’s not as savage and uncivilized as repute would have him.”

Bigod made a face. “Some females prefer beasts to men, I’ve been told—drawn towards the violent and savage. He was taken soon after that. Edward imprisoned him in Winchester for a spell, then let him go, upon his promise of good behaviour, which the fellow broke quickly enough. Since then he’s been in and out of grace and favour constantly. But he’s here now, close by, I’m told.”

“You mean in England?”

“No, I mean here in Essex. You and he are neighbours.”

“Are we, by God? I knew nothing of that. How might I find him?”

“If you’ve an ounce of sense in you, you won’t. The man’s name reeks of ill intent and sedition.”

“He’s imprisoned here, you mean?”

“No, not exactly. He is under parole of good behaviour.”

“I see. And you expect him to break that.”

“I think it’s inevitable. It was the business with Hazelrig that made me think of him. Now there’s a creature to beware of. He can be pleasant enough when he wants to be, and he’s good at what he does, but what he does best is the kind of thing most men like us would choose to do only with great reluctance—and he does everything for Hazelrig before all else. He’ll make a bad enemy. And he has the King’s ear.”

It flashed through Bruce’s mind that Percy himself would make a far more dangerous enemy than Hazelrig ever could. He had watched Harry during the brief confrontation with Hazelrig and had no doubt that matter might have ended fatally had not Hazelrig backed down. Bruce himself had never killed a man. He had come close, particularly so in Ulster, where he had ridden out several times on sorties against bands of rebels and insurgents. None of those had ever come to action, though, and so the entirety of his experience in arms had been in mock battle and in the lists at tourneys, always using blunted weapons. Percy’s experiences had been more practical, in Wales and elsewhere, and Bruce knew that when duty demanded it the Baron of Alnwick would be implacable, killing without a second thought. A man of impeccable honour, combined with probity, integrity, and finely honed military skills. A very dangerous enemy, indeed.

Percy did not notice the barely perceptible hesitation his comment had occasioned. Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “The King’s ear, you say? You mean Edward can’t see his faults?”

“No, I mean the King can
use
his faults. Hazelrig is an Englishman with certain peculiar talents, let us say—talents that not all Englishmen possess or favour—and the King has need, from
time to time, of creatures of his stamp. This Douglas, on the other hand, is a Scot, and an uncouth, ungentle one. But an adder is an adder—venomous whether English or Scots.” He stopped suddenly, then asked, “When did you last speak with the King?”

Bruce shrugged. “In April. He attended my grandfather’s funeral. But we did not speak privately, merely exchanged civilities. He was under duress and had no time for anything more.”

“That was months ago. You have not seen him since?”

“No, nor heard from him.”

“How so? Did you offend him?”

Bruce almost smiled. “I have no memory of doing so. And you know Edward. Had I done so, he would have left me in no doubt of it. But no, I have given him no cause to be displeased with me.” He shrugged. “Nor to summon me, either, for that matter … ”

“Then you must go to Westminster and pay your respects,” Percy said, his voice filled with conviction. “The King has much on his mind these days, and he may have lost sight of the fact that four months have elapsed and your mourning is over. Go and show your face, my friend. I’ll warrant you’ll be glad you did.” The other two nodded, even the surly de Bohun scowling in what might have been encouragement.

“I will, then,” Bruce said. “The worst he can do, if he is displeased with me, is have me hanged.”

“No,” de Bohun growled, “he could have your entrails drawn, too, and burn them there in front of you while you watched.”

The big knight was jesting, Bruce knew, but he twisted his mouth wryly. “I doubt that, Humphrey. His name’s Plantagenet. Only a de Bohun would come up with a punishment as refined as the one you describe.”

As the others laughed, Bruce caught sight of Thomas Beg coming towards them, searching among the campsite fires and leading a horse loaded with Bruce’s half armour, shield, and sword belt. “Here’s my man,” he said, rising to his feet and waving to attract his attention. “Come to lead me back home in safety, God
bless him. Though why he should feel I have need of armour is beyond me. Thomas Beg, over here!”

He saw Tam veer towards their fire, then swung back to his three friends and thanked them for their hospitality and the pleasure of their company, promising to see them all again soon, most probably in Westminster. By the time his farewells were over, Thomas Beg had reached their campfire and stood waiting.

“Thomas,” Bruce said, eyeing the armour piled on the horse Tam led. “Have I need of all that for the short ride to camp?”

“We’re no’ goin’ to camp, my lord. We’re goin’ back to Writtle. Your father sent word while ye were here that he’ll be there afore noon and expects you there to greet him … Him and the lady Isabella, your wife-to-be.”

Bruce sucked in sharply and choked, then doubled over in a fit of coughing that delighted his English companions, and their guffaws rang in his ears throughout the time it took him to regain his composure. Bruce wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic and blinked owlishly at his retainer, ignoring the splutters and snorts of his suddenly raucous friends. He forced himself to remain motionless until their chortling died away completely and then he cleared his throat gently and spoke in a calm voice. “Forgive me, Thomas. My reaction may have been stronger than you expected, but you took me by surprise. My … my lady
wife
, did you say?”

Wee Thomas nodded, his face inscrutable. “Aye, that’s what I said. The Lady Isabella o’ Mar, come in train wi’ your father an’ her ain, auld Earl Domhnall himsel’. They’ll be stopping to collect you, on their way to Westminster to obtain the King’s blessing on the match.”

“By the holy rood, Bruce, that’s a bit sudden, is it not? A quick end to your whoring days, no? You had no inkling?”

Bruce shook his head in mute response to Bigod’s question, his eyes still on Thomas Beg, but then Percy slapped him on the upper arm.

“My felicitations, Bruce. Surprise or not, expected or otherwise, you are about to enter Paradise, if my own experience is anything by
which to judge. But you must have known something of this, surely? It cannot be a complete surprise.”

In spite of feeling as though someone had kicked him in the belly, he calmly answered Percy’s question. “No,” he said, sounding uncertain even to himself, “I had some inkling, a long time ago, but … ” He scrubbed his hand across his eyes again, then moved to resume his seat on the log by the fire, waving to the other three to join him. When they were settled, he sighed and shook his head ruefully. “My grandfather told me about this, years ago, when the lass was no more than twelve. Her brother Gartnait of Mar is already my good-brother, wed to my sister Christina, and her father, the Gaelic mormaer—that’s their word for high chief—Domhnall of Mar, has been a lifelong supporter of the House of Bruce. Domhnall had no more liking for John Balliol and the Comyns than we Bruces did, and it was he who suggested this match soon after the child Isabella was born. I think he thought even then that my grandsire would be King one day. But when I first heard of it from my grandsire the possibility was long years away in the future. And then Balliol became King and we lost our status and our holdings in Scotland, and I thought no more about it. We could not return to Scotland, so how then could I be wed according to my grandsire’s plan?”