The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (6 page)

That conversation, which had lasted throughout an entire afternoon, had resulted, as such talks with his uncle Nicol nearly always
did, in a far broader understanding of things in the boy’s mind, prodding him to think about matters he had never considered before. The Romans in ancient times had built wide, straight roads throughout England, as they had throughout the entire world, for the sole purpose of moving their armies quickly and efficiently, and those roads had made it possible for men to build towns everywhere along their lengths. Scotland had few such roads, because the Romans had never made a determined attempt to conquer the remote and inhospitable territory they called Caledonia. As a result, Nicol had pointed out, Scotland had far fewer towns than England and only a few port cities. The revelation had fascinated the boy.

In and around the villages and hamlets of the Carrick region there were beaten paths, created by the coming and going of the local folk. But there were no large settlements worthy of being called towns in Carrick, other than, perhaps, Maybole, the administrative centre, and there were no roads. England lay mere miles to the south of where Rob and his uncle rode now, but on the entire western seaboard there was only one real route between the two countries, and that was little more than a winding track, unusable at the border crossing much of the time because it was under water. Travellers coming north from England did so along the single narrow road that ran north from Carlisle to the border, but then they had to wait for low tide before crossing the wide, sandy estuary of the Solway Firth that separated the two countries.

It was a tedious and inconvenient route for travelling merchants, but at least they could use it. Armies, on the other hand, could not, so the Solway crossing was never considered seriously as an invasion route. The firth was as safe as a wall in shutting out large armies, because the shifting tides and treacherous sands made crossings impossible for large numbers of soldiers and supplies, and the lie of the land on the north side of the firth made it possible for small numbers of defenders to destroy any advance guard that might have crossed from the south before the next low tide allowed the invaders to be reinforced. Rob knew that was true because his uncle Nicol had taken him all the way down there the day after their talk, and
they had spent the night on a low hill overlooking the wide, wet sands of the firth so that Rob could see for himself how straitened and dangerous the crossing was, even at low tide. He had asked his uncle when an army had last tried to cross there from England.

“Eighty-five years, I’ve heard. That seems a long time even to me. But it’s not that long at all. There has been peace between Scotland and England for all that time, and life has been good in these parts. But in truth that could all change tomorrow, for any one of a hundred reasons. All it would take is for some idiot on either side—and not even a king, just some powerful baron or earl—to offend, or threaten, or cross some other fool on the opposite side, and we could have English armies trotting towards us across those sands within a month. So look well at what I’m showing you and remember it. This route will lead any enemy who crosses here directly into Carrick, into your lands and towards your folk. Take heed, then, and don’t ever lose sight of the dangers of having an open door at your back.”

Rob, for all his youth, felt certain he would never have to worry about such a thing.

Lost in his thoughts and the places they led him, the boy fell into a daydream, content to allow his horse to follow Nicol’s, his body adjusting mechanically to the lurching of the beast’s back as it picked its way across the tortuous landscape and began the long climb up the last sloping hillside between them and the sea. He came back to attention, though, as they crested the hilltop and he heard his uncle speak.

“They’re here already. But we haven’t kept them waiting.”

A hundred feet below them, on a shallow, sandy beach, a long, sleek, wide-bellied galley was drawn up onto the strand, its sail already furled and secured to the enormous spar that braced it, and a number of men were busy around it in the shallows, some of them up to their waist in water as they laboured at transferring horses from the vessel to the shore. Two beasts had already been unloaded and were being tended on the pebbled shore above the wrack by a boy whom Rob gauged to be about his own age. A third horse was
about to be swung over as he looked, hoisted in a wide cloth cradle slung beneath its belly, and a fourth stamped nervously on the small cargo deck that seemed barely large enough to have held four animals. Nicol kicked his horse forward, leading the way down the grassy hillside as Rob shortened his reins and followed.

The boy on the beach with the horses was the first to notice them, and he shouted something to the others, so that within moments everyone was looking up the hill to where Nicol and his young companion were wending their way down. Rob saw row upon row of upturned faces staring at them from the rowing benches on both sides of the galley’s central aisle, but though he was close enough to see the colour of their hair and beards he was still too far away to see any faces clearly. Above the oarsmen, on a platform in the prow, a dozen more men were working around the hoist being used to transfer the animals from the ship to the shore, and six more, besides the boy and his horses, were on the beach, four of them unloading the beasts from the galley, standing up to mid-thigh in the water but soaked to the waist as they waited for the suspended horse to be lowered to them. Their interest in the two newcomers had been brief, little more than a quick glance in response to the boy’s shout, and quickly abandoned in the need to maintain a secure footing among the waves that broke over the submerged stones of the shelving shoreline.

The remaining two men on the shore stood on the pebbled beach above the waterline and were clearly, even at the distance from which Rob first saw them, of a different rank to the others. As he and his uncle drew closer to the water’s edge, and details began to grow clearer, Rob saw what it was that set these two apart from their companions. Their clothing seemed little different from that worn by the rest of their party, but it was brighter, the colours bolder, more vivid, and the decorations adorning their garments—feathered crests and jewelled brooches—were larger, richer, and more elaborate, so that the pair stood out from their fellows like two of Earl Robert’s beloved cock pheasants among a brood of dowdy hens.

“Which one’s Angus Mohr?” Rob whispered to his uncle.

“Which do you think? The older one. The other’s his good-son, a MacRory lordling, married to his daughter Morag. I only met him once and I can’t recall his name but it will come to me … ” Nicol spoke from the side of his mouth without turning his head away from the bustle below. He was smiling, though, and Rob knew the smile was for the people watching them.

“Why would they land here, when Turnberry’s only four miles up the coast?”

“I can make a guess. Angus Mohr trusts no one—and believe me, he has learnt that to his cost. He has known your mother all her life and would probably trust her, but he does not know your father, other than as an English-born incomer, and therefore I would guess he is loath to sail blithely into Turnberry harbour without a guarantee of being able to sail back out again. Now say no more about it.”

The hillside beneath them began to level out, and as they neared the shore Rob kept his eyes on the fierce-looking older man of the pair awaiting them. The man called Angus Mohr was imposing, so much so, in fact, that the man beside him, his son-in-law, faded into insignificance, appearing slight and nondescript. The Lord of Islay was every inch what his title proclaimed him, tall and broad in the shoulders, but where both height and width should have demanded depth and weight, the man was slim and agile looking. He was stern looking, too, Rob thought, the space between his brows showing a single crease that, while not quite a frown, looked as though it might easily become one. His hair was thick and black, with a single blaze of white above his left eye, and it hung in ringlets to his shoulders. There was no trace of a curl in his short, neatly trimmed beard, though, and his sun-darkened skin emphasized deep-set eyes that were startlingly, brilliantly, blue. His thin-ridged nose was more like a beak than any Rob had ever seen. A brimless black cap with a silver ring brooch that secured a hackle badge of distinctive blackcock tail feathers hung from his left hand.

Rob felt the change in his horse’s gait as it stepped onto the yielding surface of the pebbled beach, and he tightened his reins,
remaining slightly behind Nicol until his uncle reined in and slid from his mount’s back, stepping forward with hands outstretched to welcome his guests, the elder of whom was now smiling broadly. By the time the boy dismounted and followed him, their greetings had been made and Nicol was waiting for him, half turned to him with a beckoning arm. The tall man stood glowering down at him.

“Angus, may I present my great-nephew Robert de Brus. He is firstborn son to my niece Marjorie, whom you know well, and he has been spending time with me these past few months. Robert, this is Angus Mohr MacDonald, Lord of Islay, and beside him is Lachlan MacRuaridh of Garmoran, goodman to Lord Angus’s daughter Morag.”

Both men nodded soberly at the boy, and Lord Angus’s eyebrow twitched. “You would be what,” he drawled, “the
seventh
Robert de Brus?”

Rob nodded, too young to be surprised by such knowledge in a foreign potentate. “Aye, sir,” he said. “My father is the sixth of our name.”

“As
his
father is the fifth. Aye, I know the man. Your grandsire, I mean. But you are born here in Scotland, are you not?”

“Aye, sir. In Turnberry.”

“Aye, indeed. And not in England. Your father was born in England, if I remember rightly. In Writtle, is that not so?”

Rob had no idea if that were so or no, but he knew that his grandfather held lands at Writtle in Essex, and so he merely nodded, noncommittally. The Highland chief, watching the boy keenly, almost smiled, then shifted his gaze to Nicol, who had been watching the interplay.

“So, Nicol MacDuncan, are we to stay here all day or are you to take us to Turnberry to meet this King of Scots?”

“We are for Turnberry. We can leave as soon as you are ready.”

The third horse scrambled ashore at that moment and was led to join the others while the last one aboard was moved into place to be fitted with the sling, and the three men began discussing other things that were of no interest to Rob. Knowing they had lost awareness of
him, he looked about him curiously, and his eyes were drawn back to the boy holding the horses nearby. He was unsurprised to find the other gazing back at him levelly, his face expressionless. Rob glanced at his uncle, then, leading his mount, walked over to where the stranger stood clutching the reins of the newly landed horses.

“Hello,” he said when he was close enough to be heard.

The other boy simply stared at Rob, his eyes empty of all emotion, then turned and led the horses away. He did not go far, though, barely more than a score of paces, before he stopped again and stood staring down at the pebbles at his feet. Rob watched him, unsure whether to ignore his bad manners and follow him or to take offence, turn his own back and walk away, too, leaving the lout to curdle in his own ungraciousness. He decided to follow and see what happened, telling himself he had nothing better to do. He drew level with the other boy again and found himself greeted with that same empty look, but this time the other’s eyes slid away over Rob’s shoulder towards the men talking behind them, and he spoke without moving his lips or looking again at Rob.

“I’m no’ supposed to talk to ye,” he said in Scots. “I havena been permitted.”

Rob felt his eyebrows rise. “Permitted?” he said. “Ye mean ye’re no’ allowed to
talk
?”

The other boy continued to avoid his eyes, watching the distant trio of men. “No, I’m supposed to be workin’. And until they tell me to stop I canna do anything but work.”

“Are ye some kind o’ slave, then? A bonded servant?”

A smile, remote and bitter, flickered over the other boy’s face.

“No, but I might be better off as either one. I’m but my father’s son. And my task is to see to his wishes at all times, until he gies me leave to stop.”

“And who is your father, some kind of king? A tyrant?”

The half smile flickered again. “Sometimes he is. But at other times he’s well enough. That’s him, talking to the man you came wi’.”

“Angus Mohr? That’s your father?”

“Aye. Angus the Old since I was born. I’m called Angus Og— Angus the Young. Who are you?”

“Rob Bruce.”

The other boy turned to look at Rob, his eyes suddenly full of curiosity, and he spoke unthinkingly in Gaelic. “Bruce? You mean like the Englishman who married into Carrick?”

“The Earl of Carrick, you mean,” Rob responded in the same tongue. “Aye. He’s my father. The countess is my mother, and that’s where we’re going. To Turnberry Castle. That’s where I live.”

Angus Og was wide-eyed. “You speak the Gaelic?”

Rob grinned. “I should. I was born here. Will you be coming to Turnberry with us?”

Angus Og’s glance flitted from Rob to his father, whose back was to them. “I … I don’t think so. I’ll have to stay here with the boat.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I have no choice. I’m in training.”

“For what?”

The look that drew was almost pitying. “For life … ”

“We’re all at that. Would you like to come? To Turnberry? D’you want to?”

“Aye, of course I’d like to come, but I know better than to ask.”

“Then don’t. I’ll ask for you, and I’ll ask my uncle Nicol, not your father. You’re about the same age as me and there’s nobody else around who’s my age, and besides, tomorrow’s my birthday. Nicol will say yes, I know, and your father will be hard put to say no after that.”

“No,” the other said quickly. “Don’t ask my da. He’d never let me. Tell your uncle to ask Ewan, the captain, over there by the water’s edge—the big fellow in the red jerkin. I’m ship’s boy in his crew, but he’ll let me go with you.”