The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (78 page)

Bruce nodded. “I was Edward’s favourite, once, I suppose. But now I see I am a Scot before all else. You taught me that, Guiscard. You should not have come to hang children. I would have taken anything else but that. But to watch my own folk hanged because an Englishman thinks he can control me thereby? That is the line I will not cross.” He raised his voice to a shout again, smothering any response Guiscard might have made. “
Listen now!
Here is what you will do, to appease me and protect my honour.”

He waited, watching the other man’s eyes for the blink he knew would be forthcoming, and when he saw it he spoke again, more quietly this time.

“You will take your men and ride away from here, back to Berwick. There you can report me to whomever you please—say what you must say. Call me rebel, traitor, what you will. But what I am this day, you made me—you and your lying, treacherous, arrogant ilk. So take your men and your sappers and go and do not look back. If you resist, I’ll wipe you out, here in this place, and I swear by the living, breathing Christ not one of you will survive. Make your choice now. No more talk. Go, or die.”

“I could have you killed now.”

“I don’t care, Englishman. My wife is dead and I have no great wish to live. Your King—the King to whom I gave my fealty—has used me shamefully, and I have betrayed my own people enough to welcome death for that alone. So
have
me killed. Then die with your men. Else be gone within the quarter-hour. And leave the engines here. We’ll burn them before we move on.”

“And what about the woman?”

“She’ll come with us, north, to join her rebel husband. You’re wasting time.”

“Edward will have your head for this, you fool.”

“Then let him come and get it. He has better and more needful things to do, in France. And I meant what I said about Benstead.
When I set eyes on him again I will hang him, for he is an insult and a shame to Holy Church.”

He swung his horse around and spurred away, expecting at any moment to be challenged and attacked, but nothing happened, and eventually he reined in and turned back to watch as Guiscard’s little army reformed itself and marched away to the east.

Three days later, outside the town of Ayr, just north of his own earldom of Carrick, Robert Bruce sat on a low wall and watched as Sir William Douglas ran to greet his wife and his young son, James, newly and surprisingly delivered to him through the good graces of the pampered, foppish favourite of Edward Plantagenet. Being reputedly a churlish, fearsome creature at the best of times, Douglas paid no slightest attention to their rescuer, but Bruce was not offended and was more than glad to be quit of Lady Douglas, who had treated him with glowering suspicion and disdain since he presented himself at her gates and explained what he had done, then offered to transport her north in safety to her husband. She had acquiesced, for she had little choice, but she had made no effort to be pleasant to her saviour. The child, James Douglas, had not spoken a word to Bruce since the day of their rescue, but Bruce had been aware, much of the time, that the boy, whom he gauged to be eight or nine years old, stared at him constantly.

Douglas finally took his family off to wherever he was living, hugging each of them under one arm, and Bruce watched them go. His own men—the forty he had retained as an escort after his return to Carrick—had already scattered, released by Nicol, and only as he began to notice the growing stillness around him did Bruce realize that he had nowhere to stay that night, though he presumed there must be an inn or a hostelry somewhere close by. He rose to his feet and arched his back as well as he could beneath the armour plate he was wearing, pushing his thumbs into the soft spot under his rear ribs beneath his corselet.

“So you would be the great English traitor Robert Bruce, the best-dressed dandy in King Edward’s court. Is that right?”

There was no trace of truculence in the voice, and he turned slowly and found himself facing a man who dwarfed him without being taller than he was; a bearded giant, massive with muscle, with enormous shoulders, solid thighs, and a great, deep chest.

“It might be,” he said easily. “I would hope to seem better dressed than the others at Edward’s court, for they’re a dreary, uninspiring crew. But as for being a great traitor … Are you saying I am a traitor to England because I came to Scotland, or a traitor to Scotland because I went to England?”

The big man smiled back, a warm, humorous grin, and Bruce felt, oddly, that he had seen it before. “Either way, it’s too deep for me. I’m but a simple verderer. But I’m glad to see you’ve learned to walk, at least, without tripping over your spurs.” He ignored Bruce’s shocked expression and held out a big hand. “I’m William Wallace. We met once before, at your grandsire’s estate.”

“I remember.” Bruce’s own smile was wide and sincere. “At Lochmaben, on the day I was knighted. That seems a lifetime ago.”

“Aye, doesn’t it.” The great head cocked sideways. “So, Sir Robert, are ye a magnate in truth, or will ye deign to drink a cup o’ ale wi’ a mere woodsman?”

“Right now I’m thirsty and I’m an unwelcome stranger here, it seems. So I’ll be glad to drink with you, William Wallace—plain Will, if I remember aright—and you can tell me about what life is like in Scotland nowadays. I’ll be a magnate on another day.”

On the point of moving, though, the man Wallace stopped at those words and looked curiously at his new acquaintance. “No,” he said quietly in Latin. “It’s not that simple. You cannot have the luxury of choice. Either you are a magnate or you are one of us, the plain folk. And your name alone precludes you from being that. You are a magnate, I fear.”

“Why would you fear it?”

“I distrust magnates.”

Bruce blinked at him. “Do you, now? Why then are you here with Douglas and the others, Stewart and Atholl and even Wishart? They’re all magnates.”

Wallace was unapologetic. “Aye, but they’re among the few that have proved themselves worthy of trust.”

“Ah … And you would deny me a chance to do the same, merely because I’m Bruce and I’ve been in England?”

The other shrugged. “Those seem like two good reasons to me,” he said mildly.

Bruce nodded tersely. “Fine,” he said. “So will we drink together or no? And will we talk reasonably together or no?” He eyed Wallace’s massive shoulders and added, “I might argue with you, Will Wallace, but I’m not stupid enough to fight with you.”

Wallace barked an unexpected laugh and turned away, extending his arm in an invitation for Bruce to walk with him. “So be it,” the big archer said. “We’ll talk of Scotland, for I fear you know little of it, and you and I will decide how to save it from the English. The howff is up the hill here.”

The two men walked up the sloping roadway side by side, already feeling comfortable with each other, and not a living soul took notice of their going.

GLOSSARY

aey: always; ever (pronounced “igh” as in night)

ayont: beyond

corbies: crows

douce: gentle, sweet-natured

fashing: worrying, fretting over; being concerned about

fell: dire; implacable; resolute

forbye: besides, in addition to; except

gey: quite

gin: if

gowp: throb

haverings: ravings; maunderings; nonsense outbursts

hirpling: limping; doddering; lurching

hoaching: swarming; infested

kine: cattle

mind: recall; remember

mormaer: magnate; Celtic landholder and clan chief

swither: dither; be inconclusive, indecisive

thae: those

thole: tolerate; bear; put up with

tulzie: fight; struggle

wheen: a number; several