The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (73 page)

He turned back to Bruce, who was as open mouthed as Nigel, and began to walk again. Neither of them spoke until they were inside the house and sitting by the fire in Bruce’s private chambers. There the King sat mute while Bruce recounted the details of the previous months as he had learned to reconstruct them, and when the younger man finally fell silent, he grimaced and shook his head.

“There is nothing I can say to you that will ease your grief, Robert. I know that from personal experience. All any man can do in such a pass is offer his regrets and suffer feeling futile and
helpless. I, too, did what you did when I lost my Eleanor, and all the realm of England went begging until I found myself again. But I still feel the pain from time to time. Memories take you unawares forever afterwards, and each time they do, the pain seems just as fresh and raw as when you first felt it. But it does grow better, I can promise you that. The gaps that separate the pangs of pain grow longer as months pass. How is the child?”

“She’s well enough. Well tended, with no lack of love.”

“You blame her for her mother’s death?”

“What? No, no such thing. It was no fault of hers, poor thing. The fault was mine alone.”

“Yours?” Edward’s eyebrows peaked upward. “How were
you
at fault?”

“I killed her.”

“You
killed
her? How so, man? You mean you murdered her? You loved her, did you not?”

“More than life itself, but I got her with child. That killed her. Which means I killed her.”

“That is horseshit, my lord of Carrick. The getting of children is the reason for our being here. To compare it to doing murder is blasphemous.”

Until that moment Bruce had forgotten to whom he was speaking, addressing Edward as an equal with no thought of titles or proprieties. Now, hearing the familiar truculence in the King’s voice, he pulled himself together.

Edward was still talking, almost grumbling to himself. “Damned nonsense, boy. You spend too much time alone out here, miles from anywhere and brooding about things you can’t change. You need something to occupy your mind, get you out of yourself.” He stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought. “And I have just the very thing to do it. A task for you—the perfect task, in fact. Are you familiar with the name of William Douglas?”

“You mean
Sir
William Douglas, le Hardi, as he calls himself?”

“That’s the man.”

Bruce shrugged. “I know a little of him. He was governor of Berwick when you took the place, was he not?”

“Aye, he was. And he arranged advantageous terms for himself when he surrendered the castle town to us. He was released with all his ilk in the amnesty late last year.”

“And?”

“And now he’s rebelling again, safe back in Scotland, damn the man.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Not that anything he could do will amount to much, but he’s causing dissension everywhere he goes, and he’s interfering with the work of my people in his district. Nothing too damaging, as I have said, but his nuisance value is beyond all proportion to what he does. I cannot have him running around free, defying me wherever and whenever he chooses so to do. So I have dispatched a force to arrest him.”

Bruce cocked his head. “And you wish me to join that force?”

“What? Christ, no. I have other plans for you. His castle in the Dale of Douglas lies close to your earldom, does it not?”

“Near enough, sire, but it really lies in Galloway.”

“Aye, and Galloway is Percy’s territory now. He’s the one I dispatched to take Douglas, but he won’t look for the old fox at home. Douglas is up by Glasgow, conspiring with that other wily creature, Wishart … But his wife remains in Douglas Castle. You know about Douglas’s wife?”

“The willing abductee. I do, sire. She’s English.”

“She’s a witch. I want you to go home and bring her back here. That will get Douglas’s attention. Go and collect your men from Carrick and from Annandale, and burn down Douglas Castle. But get the woman first. I want her here in London, in the Tower if need be, because if there is anything in this world of ours that might bring this Douglas wolf to heel, I believe it might be her, the she-wolf with whom he mates.”

“Very well, my liege, I’ll do that. But Douglas Castle is strongly fortified and I have no siege engines. My Carrick men will not be much use against high stone walls.”

“No, they won’t, but I have siege engines in Berwick. You rouse your men, I’ll see you well equipped. The prime intent is to bring back the woman, and that’s why I’m sending you. You’re Scots, by birth and speech at least, and you’re an earl, and you’re young and believable. Offer her whatever you think necessary, but get her to abandon that castle and surrender for her goodman’s sake, to save his life. And once she’s out, burn down the rats’ nest. Will you do that for me?”

“I will, my liege. I’ll start preparing to leave immediately.”

“Good, but don’t take too many men from here. Travel light and quickly and raise your own men up there. I want Scots involved in this, not an army of Englishmen against a single rebellious Scot.”

Half an hour later, watching the last of the royal cavalcade move off along the road to the northeast, Bruce was deep in thought and failed to hear Thomas Beg come up behind him until the big man’s voice startled him.

“That wis … unusual. Ye’ll have folk callin’ you the King’s catamite, gin this keeps up. What did he want?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “To offer his sympathy.”

“Oh aye? Nice o’ him to wait so long.”

“He didn’t know. He was up north.”

“Fine, and what does he want you to do now? Where are we goin’?”

Bruce looked at him and grinned. “Why would you even ask me that, Thomas? It makes you sound cynical. Do you truly think the King came here apurpose, with something already set in his mind?”

The big man shrugged, his eyes on the columns of departing horsemen. “If he didna, it would be the first time ever. So where
are
we goin’?”

The Earl of Carrick filled his lungs with air, smelling the overpowering scent of the great body of horses that had just gone by, and punched his companion gently on the shoulder.

“Scotland, Tam,” he said. “We’re going back to Carrick, rebel hunting.”

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

LESSONS IN LOYALTY

E
ight days after receiving his instructions from King Edward, Bruce was again in the familiar fortress of Lochmaben. He had ridden first into his own Carrick earldom to raise his men there and advise them on what was afoot, and only then had he travelled back to Annandale. Now he was a supplicant, seeking aid. The lairds of Lochmaben and Annandale were his father’s liegemen, not his, and although he knew his father would abide by Edward’s expressed wishes to raise the Annandale men against Douglas Castle, the fact remained that his father was still bound by duty in Carlisle, and Bruce had not had time to go there and request the earl’s authorization to raise Annandale. Instead he had sent word to Sir James Jardine, asking him to summon the Annandale knights to confer with him, as his father’s representative, when he arrived. That had been several days earlier, and now the lairds were assembled. They had listened respectfully enough to what he had to say, and had then turned in unison towards the knight of Heriot, the senior among them, inviting him to answer for them.

Now John Armstrong of Heriot sat frowning, seemingly unaware that the eyes of every man in the room were fixed upon him, awaiting his opinion. Bruce forced himself to sit motionless, keeping his face blank to betray no slightest sign that he had much to lose should the old man’s stern ponderings result in what the Earl of Carrick feared they might. When he delivered his response, Bruce knew, the others, representing the Annandale tenantry of Dinwiddies, Johnstones, Jardines, Crosbies, and Elliotts, would accept his pronouncement as a verdict. Armstrong, he knew, was barely
literate, but that would in no way affect the old man’s judgment; a lifetime of probity and conscientious duty in the service of the Noble Robert had given the old man an undisputable gravitas that was backed by a faultless record of dedication to the welfare of his folk.

The room in which they had gathered was the hall everyone called the Assembly, the half entrance hall and half common room inside the main doors of the central tower of the Lochmaben keep. Furnished with an open-centred arrangement of half a score of heavy oak tables where the sixteen men were seated haphazardly, it lay just outside the old lord’s former den. On Bruce’s right, separated from him by two other occupied chairs and flanked on his right by his son Andrew, Sir James Jardine sat stone faced, his lips a thin line beneath his grizzled beard.

Armstrong sniffed sharply and straightened up, tilting his head slightly as his pale brown eyes swivelled to meet Bruce’s. His lips pursed into a pout as though he were tasting something sour in his mouth.

“This doesna sit right,” he growled, looking straight at Bruce. “On the face o’ it, it’s straightforward enough, an’ at any ither time I’d say nothin’ an’ just accept what ye’re askin’ o’ us … I’ll no’ dispute your right to be here as your father’s spokesman. But there are things happenin’ here, circumstances naebody could hae foreseen, that winna let me agree to what ye want—no’ without direct instructions frae his lordship in person. Gin ye had that, a letter o’ some kind, I wouldna hae a choice. But that’s no’ the case, and so—”

“I understand, Sir John,” Bruce said, cutting in before the old knight could deny his request outright. “I was aware of that lack when I set out to come here, trusting your goodwill in recognizing my duty to my father. But I came straight from Writtle by way of Berwick at King Edward’s direct request and had no time to meet in person with my father in Carlisle. In truth, though, I have no idea of what you mean by what you have just said. ‘Circumstances nobody could have foreseen’? Explain that to me, if you will. What are these

‘circumstances’ and how do they affect my request on my father’s behalf?”

The old knight nodded judiciously. “It’s no’ easy to explain, Earl Robert, but I can see I need to try, so I’ll start by remindin’ ye in the first place o’ what you’re askin’ o’ us. You’re here in Scotland upo’ King Edward’s business and for King Edward’s ends, and that’s fine. You and your faither are both liegemen to Edward and your duty’s clear—your faither is to bide at his task in Carlisle and you’re to obey the King’s edict to tak Douglas Castle and put it to the torch, then tak the Lady Douglas back wi’ ye in custody to Edward’s court. To that end you’re to raise your men o’ Carrick to your bidding an’ use them to do what ye must. An’ as Earl o’ Carrick, that’s your right an’ they’re your folk. Naebody can argue wi’ that.

“On the ither hand, though, we here are a’ Annandale folk and our earl, your faither, is the only man who can command the like obedience frae us. Maist o’ the time, that’s straightforward, but there are times, an’ nae man can foretell them, when things winna line up the way they should, and that’s what we have here … ”

Bruce gritted his teeth, waiting for the old chief to come to the point.

“Ye’ll hae heard about what happened in Lanark, I jalouse, wi’ the sheriff. ”

“In Lanark? No.” Bruce sat up straighter, suddenly more alert. “That would be Hazelrig. The sheriff. What has he done?”

“We don’t know … No’ yet. But he’s deid, murdert by a Scot, they say, and there’s hell to pay up there.”

“Sweet Jesus! Murdered, did you say?”

“No, I said he was deid. It’s the English who say he was murdert.”

“And was he? Is it true? Who did it?”

The old knight shook his head. “We canna say for sure, except for the fact that he’s deid. But it’s true, like enough. He was hellbent on hangin’ Will Wallace, a forester livin’ as an outlaw in Selkirk Forest, and the word we heard is that he took Wallace’s wife an’ bairn and they wis killed while in his custody. Next thing onybody knew, Hazelrig was deid, too. Some say Wallace went right into
Lanark and killed him in his ain court while he was playin’ the judge there, but I doubt that’s the way o’ it. There would hae been too many guards around for that to happen easily. Others say he went lookin’ for Wallace in the Forest and was found shot fu’ o’ arrows wi’ a’ his men. An’ Wallace is kent to be an archer, i’ the English style, so that’s mair likely true than the other tale, it seems to me.”

“Good God … So where’s this Wallace now?”

“Your guess would be as good as mine, Lord Carrick. He’s disappeared. Some say he’s out now wi’ the Lord o’ Douglas, but I canna swear to that. Wherever he is, though, he’s set the whole o’ southern Scotland heavin’ like a pot o’ boilin’ porridge, and the English are runnin’ mad everywhere, searchin’ for him. It’s an ill time for the folk around here.”

“I see … That makes things … difficult for you. I can see that. And that’s the source of these circumstances you spoke of?”

Sir John’s shrug was restrained. “The source? Aye, I can see why you might say that. But ye’d be wrong. The
source
o’ it’s the English themsel’s an’ the way they treat the folk around here, tramplin’ them like dirt and kickin’ them aside wi’ ne’er a blink o’ concern or care. An’ I’m no’ talkin’ about the odd insult. It’s happenin’ a’ the time, frae day to day, an’ gettin’ worse. Folk canna even trust they’ll hae’ their ain roof ower their heads frae one day to the next. It’s like we’re a conquered folk, an’ the Englishry despise us as though we wis cannibals.”

“Cannibals my arse,” one of the others interrupted. “Gin we wis cannibals they’d keep clear o’ us, for fear o’ bein’ ate. But they treat us nae better than sheep—to be kicked and herded and shorn for what they can get frae us. Rab Dinwiddie’s place was emptied the ither day. Some English fool’s buildin’ a watchtower at the crossroads and a squad o’ men just marched into Rab’s yaird and arrested his three sons an’ anither fower men wha wis working there. Just lined them up, threatened them wi’ a floggin’ gin they objected, an’ then marched them awa an’ set them to work buildin’ their whore o’ a tower. Rab wis too auld, so they left him alane, but he fell doon in
a fit a wee while after and now he’s no’ expected to live. What kind o’ shite is that?”