“Sir James. You’ll forgive me, I trust, for not being here to greet you when you arrived. Had I known you were coming … ”
The Lochmaben knight nodded in acknowledgment, his face expressionless. But then he surprised Bruce by standing up and extending his hand.
“It’s of no import now, Earl Robert,” he said. “Though I’ll admit I was vexed at first when you werena here. But ye’re here now, so there’s nae harm done. It’s just that my bones are getting old and I’d been in the saddle ower long. My hip’s causing me grief these days.” He waved a hand at the tabletop. “Will ye sit wi’ me? The ale here’s better than the usual.”
Bruce was hard put to disguise his astonishment at the man’s affability, but he merely called to one of the servants to bring him a jug of ale and a tankard, and sat down. The Annandale knight had been one of Lord Robert’s oldest, most experienced, and closest retainers. Jardine, Bruce knew, had been prepared to give up all he owned and accompany his master when Lord Robert retired to England, and he had had to be ordered to remain behind in Annandale to look after Lord Robert’s interests. Middle-aged by the time Bruce first saw him, Jardine had impressed him as a sullen, glowering gargoyle; a sturdy, stocky, grim-faced, grizzle-haired veteran who had earned his place, the boy learned later, by dedication, example, and hard work. From their first meeting, young Bruce had considered him to be utterly without humour, truculent and surly, but even then, disliking the man intensely, he had never entertained the slightest doubt about the fellow’s loyalty and dedication to Lord Robert. Jardine extended his intolerance to everyone else equally, and Bruce knew that the man’s peers suffered his behaviour without rancour and accepted him, even amiably, in spite of it.
“What happened to your hip, that it pains you?” he asked.
The other man grimaced. “A horse. Kicked me three an’ twenty year ago. Laid me up for a month, and there were times I thought it had crippled me for good. But it’s near as bad now, frae time to time, as it was then. Six hours in the saddle these days and it starts to gowp, and once it starts it winna go away until I get back on two legs.” He cleared his throat as the servant returned with Bruce’s flagon and a fresh jug of beer, and when they were alone again he refilled his own mug.
“So ye ken your father will be here i’ the mornin’.”
“Aye. Tam told me. And he brings my betrothed.”
Something, perhaps the hint of the beginning of a smile, improbable as that seemed, flickered in the other man’s face before being eclipsed by his normal scowl. “Aye,” Jardine said quietly. “The lassie frae Mar. D’ye recall her?”
“How could I? I’ve never seen her. Frankly, I never thought to hear of her again—had forgotten all about her, in fact.”
One grizzled eyebrow twitched upward. “Why would you think never to hear o’ her again? The two o’ ye were betrothed soon after she was born. Lord Robert, may God rest his soul, would never stand forsworn on a thing like that, even in death.”
Bruce noticed that Jardine still spoke of the old man as Lord Robert and that when he spoke of the son, Bruce’s own father, he referred to him as “Annandale,” his current title. To Bruce himself, of course, he spoke of “your father,” and the earl found himself smiling inwardly at the difficulties in nomenclature caused by having an unbroken succession of seven Robert Bruces in the same family.
“I had no thought of forswearing anything, Sir James. I was speaking purely of the political reality in Scotland nowadays when Bruce is not a name regarded with fondness. I have no intention of returning there while Balliol rules, now that he has dispossessed us of our lands, and it had never crossed my mind that I might return there to be wed. The risk of being imprisoned made it inconceivable.”
The other man squinted at him slightly, then nodded tightly. “Aye, to be sure. That’s why her father brought her here to England. It’s the match that is important, Earl Robert, no’ the placement o’ it. Ye’ll be as tightly wed here in England as ye’d be in Scotland, and your bairns will still be Bruce, wi’ claims to Mar, Annandale, and Carrick, forbye Scotland itsel’.”
“My bairns … Jesu!” Bruce could not imagine having children, and he turned his head aside, his eyes darting nervously around the darkened hall. The servants had all gone now, and most of the candles were out, the air heavy with the distinctive smell of smouldering wicks. On his side, set into the west wall, the great fireplace still pulsed with light from the last oaken logs, and flames cast leaping shadows on the ceiling high above his head. He imagined the shadows capered like faceless infants, reaching out to him and demanding his attention. He looked back at Jardine.
“My bairns,” he said again, grimacing wryly to the other man. “Sir James, I will confess to you that yon notion brings frightening thoughts. I mean, who is this woman? What is she like? What does she look like?” He raised a hand to forestall any answer. “I know that’s not supposed to be important, but she is to be my wife and I know nothing about her! She might be a hunchback, or cross-eyed, or hairy-chinned and plagued with warts and wens! Most of the married men I know had the opportunity at least to set eyes in advance upon the woman to whom they were to be attached for life. This … this advent tomorrow might undo my entire life—” He stopped suddenly, aware that he was raving. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been thinking such thoughts since first I heard of this today and I fear my terrors ran away with me there.”
Sir James nodded, his expression unreadable. “I canna blame you,” he murmured. “From where you sit, I might hae thought the same things mysel’.” He sniffed. “But then, I’ve seen the lass, and I can tell ye there’s nothin’ o’ the like for ye to fret about. Warts and wens and humphy backs, I mean. There’s none o’ that.”
“You’ve seen her? When?”
“Yestreen, afore I rode out to come here. And twice ere that. Once when she was but a bairn, when I went north wi’ Lord Robert for him to arrange the match. And then again when she came down to Annandale wi’ her father, about five years ago.”
“And is she—” Bruce hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Is she wholesome?”
“Wholesome? What does that mean? She’s bonnie enough. A wee on the thin side for my taste, but bonnie ne’er the less. Ye’ll see for yoursel’, come midday.” He lifted his flagon and drank deeply, emptying the pot before setting it down and then leaning back to belch comfortably. “Good ale,” he said. “And gin the cot ye offer me is half as good, I’ll sleep sound. God knows I’m ready for it.”
“Of course, you must be. You’ve had a long day. Did Murdo show you your quarters?”
“Aye, he did. I’ve a room to mysel’, in the back o’ the house.” “Good. The Wee Room, we call it. I sometimes repair to it when I have guests whose need of the main bedchambers I deem greater than my own. Where will my father spend this night, do you know?”
“He’s wi’ an old friend o’ his, Sir Roger Fitz Allen.
“They knew each other in Edinburgh when they were about your age. Sir Roger has a place on the main road north, about thirty mile frae here. They’ll be up an’ on the road afore dawn, if this weather holds, so that should bring them here about midday.”
“Aye, it should. Let’s hope this weather lasts, then, at least until tomorrow. Though it’s June, which means you’d be a fool to bet on it. Before you go, though, tell me this, if you would. How do you find life in Annandale nowadays, with a Comyn overlord?”
Jardine sniffed, half grimacing. “We thole it. I canna say I enjoy payin’ your father’s rightfu’ rents to Buchan, but that aside, it could be worse. He’s seldom there, and when he is he keeps clear o’ us most o’ the time. He put in his ain factor when he took hold o’ the place, as ye’d expect, a man called Hector Comyn—as ye’d expect again. And I have to say he’s a good man at what he does. He’s no Alan Bellow, but he minds his business and mainly leaves the rest o’ us to our lives. And those are much the same as ever. The kine need keepin’ and the lands need tendin’ and the folk hae th
e same problems they’ve aey had. Where is Alan Bellow, by the way? I hinna seen him since I got here. Is he still wi’ you?”
Bruce smiled. “He is, but he’s in London at the moment. Something to do with a wine merchant there. It’s one part of his duties that I never even ask about. He keeps us well supplied with good wine, which is really all I require of him these days, and I leave him to it, since he knows far more than I do about what’s involved.”
“He’s a good man. Dour, but solid.”
Bruce had to school his face to hide his amusement at the thought of Jardine calling anyone else dour. “What’s happening in Scotland these days?” He saw the quirk of Jardine’s eyebrow and added, “We don’t hear much down here in the south, unless it be in Westminster, and I haven’t been there in more than a year. The folk here are more interested in what’s happening in France than anything that happens in the north.”
“It’s much the same in Annandale,” Jardine growled. “Folk have enough to fret ower wi’out fashin’ about what’s happenin’ in foreign parts … like Glasgow an’ Linlithgow. But from what we hear it’s like a wasp’s byke anywhere close to where Balliol might be— angry at the best o’ times, wi’ wise men takin’ pains to walk well clear o’ it. The King’s no’ helpin’, either. Winna make up his mind an’ keep it set frae one day to the next. He blaws hot and cold, like a wind out o’ a snowstorm gustin’ o’er a fire. The magnates—some o’ them, anyway, the ones who arena’ Comyns—are champin’ at the bit. They feel they canna rely on him for anythin’. He’s too … ” He paused, frowning.
“Inconsistent?” Bruce suggested.
The other jerked his head in agreement. “Aye, that’s a good word … gin it means what I think it means.”
“It means unreliable. Changing all the time, from one moment to the next.”
“Aye, then. That’s him. As I said, hot one minute, cold the next. Anyway, some o’ them think he’s too inconsistent in his dealings wi’ England—though no’ so much wi’ England as wi’ its King. Yon’s a hard man and he has men around him who are just as hard as him. Folk like that Bek fellow—the Prince-Bishop he calls himsel’. Christ, he’s mair like a king himsel’ than any bishop I’ve ever seen.” He paused, then added, “Mind you, now that I’ve said that, I have to say the magnates themsel’s are divided. Most o’ them are Comyns— that goes without sayin’, but even so they’re split up amang themsel’s. The main men, Buchan an’ Badenoch, are fine wi’ things the way they are. They like Balliol just the way he is, because it suits their purposes—Bek an’ Buchan are close friends and Buchan doesna’ want to upset England. But there’s others, Comyns o’ the lesser houses, who hae doubts, and some o’ them hae thrown in wi’ the non-Comyn magnates and want the King to show some backbone. An’ the upshot is that the whole country is seethin’ and bubblin’ like a cauldron o’ boilin’ oats.”
“Hmm. What about the bishops, Wishart and the others?”
“They’re wi’ the magnates like the Stewart, tryin’ to make the King take a stand and stick by it. Ye ken Wishart an’ what he’s like. His concern is Scotland, the realm, ahead o’ all else. He sees his sole duty bein’ his flock—the folk first, and the nobles, the King among them, comin’ after that. Him and Fraser is the two ringleaders.”
“Fraser? St. Andrews’ Fraser? He’s a Comyn.”
Jardine shrugged. “He’s one o’ them, but he’s a churchman first, a bishop afore all else, and he doesna believe that Prince-Bishop Antony Bek, or England’s King himsel’ for that matter, has the right to appoint English clergy to Scots livings. He’s been jumpin’ up an’ down in holy outrage ever since the Pope in Rome tried to foist that on Scotland.
“Ach, but I steer clear of it a’. I’m just a knight an’ no’ a magnate, thank God. Forbye, it’s like any other game—dice or any o’ them.” He raised one eyebrow as he saw Bruce’s incomprehension. “Ye canna lose if ye dinna play, lad. Ye canna win, either, mind you, but by no’ playin’, ye juke the chance o’ bein’ accused o’ cheatin’. I play no games. I keep my head down, mind my ain affairs, and look after my folk.”
Bruce could only purse his lips and nod, unable to dispute the man’s logic.
The Annandale knight was looking at him speculatively, scratching one finger idly at his cheek, his fingertip lost in the thick, greying hair that covered it. “Lord Robert was right, though,” Jardine added quietly. “As right as ever he was, and I never knew him to be wrong. Years ago, afore the English got brung in wi’ their courts an’ auditors, when there was need to take strong steps to secure the realm after King Alexander was killed an’ afore the Maid was named to the throne, he said to me many a time that John Balliol would be a feckless king. ‘The worst thing that could happen to this land o’ ours,’ was how he put it.
“Mind you, nobody imagined then that England would come into it at all. Lord Robert simply didna trust the man Balliol to do what needed to be done, gin he ever became King o’ Scots. He swore even then, nigh on ten year ago, that Scotland needed a strong, guidin’ hand, a Scots hand wi’ a tight Scots fist. Balliol, he said, was an Englishman by choice who’d scarce set foot here afore his mother died an’ left him the lordship o’ Gallowa’. Lord Robert didna trust him to be man enough to wear the crown.”
The craggy face broke into a grudging smile. “And he was right. By the crucified lord Jesus, he was right.” He sat silent awhile, then heaved a heavy sigh and stood up, brushing crumbs from his shirt beneath the open sides of his leather jerkin. “I’m in need o’ sleep now,” he said, nodding to his host. “Stay you where you are, though. I’ll find my own way back.” He hesitated, glancing around the empty hall. “They never brought ye aught to eat.”
“They were told not to. There’s food set aside for me in the kitchens. I told Tam that I’d join him there later.”
“Aye, well, then I’ll bid ye a good night and a sound sleep, and I’ll see you in the mornin’. Tell me, though, d’ye ever think about the things Lord Robert used to tell ye?”
Bruce almost smiled. “All the time, Sir James,” he answered quietly. “And I remember all of it.”
“Good … aye, that’s good. He was a wise man, God rest him. I never heard him talkin’ nonsense in a’ the years I spent wi’ him. And that was nigh fifty.” He nodded again. “Keep mindin’ them then, and pay close heed to what they tell ye. God alone knows what’s to come to pass in Scotland, but I dinna think John Balliol will hae a long reign. Keep yoursel’ ready to come back. Ye’re a Bruce, and Scotland will need a Bruce again someday.”
Again a flickering smile tweaked at Bruce’s cheek. “Then Scotland will have my father.”
“No, I think not.” There was a flat finality in the utterance. “Your father lacks his father’s … What’s the word? His strength? His foresight? Neither one of those is right. He lacks Lord Robert’s sense o’ purpose. Scotland will need a sure hand to guide it, stronger than his. Keep that in mind in time to come, and a good night to ye.”
He stepped back on one heel, bowed, though not deeply, then turned and marched stiffly away, leaving Robert Bruce blinking after him and wondering if he had just been accepted by an unlikely ally or patronized in some obscure fashion.
Having discovered that he had no appetite for the food that had been set aside for him, Bruce told Thomas Beg about his unexpected conversation with Sir James and apologized for having kept him waiting pointlessly. He then sent him off to bed and sought his own, feeling ready to fall asleep quickly and soundly. But he found it impossible to relax and find oblivion.
It began innocuously enough with the realization, soon after he had climbed into his bed, that Gwendolyn de Ferrers was within a few paces of him, two doors away along the narrow corridor that connected the sleeping chambers on this second level of his house, and with that he found himself imagining her sleeping face and unbound hair and wondering if she truly would be asleep. It was easy, from that point, to imagine her awake as he was, thinking about him and how close he
was, and his pulse quickened as he saw himself rising and going to her, warning her to be quiet with a finger on his lips, then leading her back here. He remembered the soft yield of her thigh beneath his fingers as he kissed her, leaning into the litter that morning. But he quickly smothered the sensations that aroused. The lady was not alone in that nearby room, he told himself, and even could he enter it stealthily—for at least one of the serving women would be sleeping on the floor inside the door—he would have little chance of picking Gwendolyn out among the other sleeping forms, let alone spiriting her out of the chamber in secrecy.
Annoyed with himself for indulging in such futile fantasy, he grunted and turned on his side, pulling the bedclothes up around his chin only to realize that a new phantasm had entered his thoughts: a faceless woman, wimpled and gowned in shapeless garments that cloaked her utterly, masking any hint of shape or colour and transforming her into a grey wraith, a spirit-being that stood beyond his bed, watching him with unseen eyes that made him want to squirm and hide himself. A part of him knew that what he was feeling was fear—not of the dream wraith but of the unknown threat that it had brought to hover over him. He felt no guilt, though, despite the whispers of the Church-shaped soul within him that muttered inchoately of sinful intent and covetousness. Would he have pursued Gwendolyn de Ferrers so avidly had he known his intended bride was coming to England? He knew he would have, and blithely—he would merely have taken pains to arrange the timing of things more fortuitously. He was an earl of Scotland and a favourite of the King, Edward Plantagenet, and he was young and healthy and tall and strong. He was also well educated and superbly dressed, with a deep and melodious voice and an easy air of confidence and good humour that made him generally pleasing and attractive in the eyes of women. He knew all of that to be true because he had been told it often enough by a very large number of women, young and otherwise, none of whom he had ever doubted was available for the asking. And ask he had, many times, cheerfully ignoring his confessor’s exhortations on the pitfalls of concupiscence and lechery, the moral quagmires of adultery and the perils of promiscuity. He was one and twenty years of age and his life was one of privilege, wealth, and boundless freedom with no responsibility.