“Forgive me, my lords,” he said in a voice that matched his smile. “I had no wish to impose myself, merely to speak a moment with Master Murray. But since he is clearly occupied, I will return later.” And with that he turned on his heel as though to walk away.
Will and I were speechless, appalled by our own ill manners, but fortunately that was not the case with Andrew. “My lord,” he said quickly, his voice tinged with desperation. “My lord, forgive me. We were deep in talk and did not see you coming.”
Lord John swung back towards us, still smiling. “That much was obvious,” he said. “But I find myself wondering about what you found so engrossing. When I was your age, the only topic that could inspire such dedication and reverence was consideration of the beauties of young women.”
None of us was capable of responding to that, but from the corner of my eye I could see the wave of colour that engulfed Andrew’s face as his mouth opened and closed. Balliol, however, was merciful and allowed his squire to slip easily off the gaff.
“I am new come from a meeting with the Abbott and his staff, which means I have spent the entire day talking about affairs of state and bruising my backside through a too-thin cushion, and so I thought to take some fresh air.” He reached behind him and kneaded his buttocks. “I had been thinking about you, young Andrew—guiltily, I suppose—imagining you waiting and fretting somewhere and no doubt cursing me, and so when I saw you here I thought to bid you good day and tender my regrets for having summoned you only to leave you waiting, since even a squire has the right to a little freedom.” He glanced sideways at Will, who had finally managed to close his open mouth. “You have made friends, I see.”
“Yes, my lord, I have.” Close to stammering, Andrew made us known to his master, who extended his hand to each of us in turn, nodding and smiling and making us feel at ease, a feat I would not have thought possible mere moments earlier. He was neither as tall nor as broad as Will, but such was the impression of confidence that radiated from the man that he seemed to occupy no less an amount of space, and I noticed now that he was eyeing Will’s staff.
“That looks like a quarterstaff,” he said. “Or is it simply a big walking stick?”
Will actually smiled. “My tutor tells me it is a quarterstaff, my lord.”
“And who is your tutor?”
“A man called Ewan Scrymgeour.”
“Scrymgeour … A Scots name.”
“Aye, sir, but his mother’s family is Welsh. He was an archer with King Edward, until the Welsh wars.”
“Hmm.” Lord John glanced at Murray, then looked quickly over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the deserted forecourt behind him. “Good. Then walk with me, if you will, to where the air is even fresher.”
The three of us fell in behind him as he walked steadily towards the fringe of mature elms and oaks that began some hundred paces from where we had been standing. He seemed to float ahead of us, moving easily and gracefully with long, confident strides, the red and nested white shields of the great House of Balliol emblazoned across his wide shoulders and the wind of his passage making the long skirts of his surcoat billow at his heels. None of us spoke, though all three of us boys exchanged curious looks as we followed him. He led us into the trees until we were concealed from any eyes that might be watching from the Abbey behind, then stopped in a clear space between the boles of two enormous elms. There he shrugged out of his beautiful white surcoat, allowing it to fall from his shoulders. He caught it in one hand and threw it aside, all the while smiling at Will.
“This will suit, no?” he said. “A fine spot to test your skills and permit me some exercise.” He extended his hand. “Andrew, your staff, if you will.”
Murray looked mystified, but he held out his staff, and his master took it, spun it easily in one hand, then moved gracefully into the opening stance for combat.
“You want to fight me?” Will asked, wide-eyed.
“Not fight—to try you. So come.”
A sharp shake of his head indicated Will’s bewilderment. “I can’t fight you. You are—”
“I am a student of this weapon, which I use for sport, trained in its use but rusty from long lack of practice.” The easy smile was back on Balliol’s face, and he flipped the staff until he held it cross-handed. “You start.”
“You are the King’s envoy, my lord. It would be death to strike you.”
“Pah! What makes you even think you could strike me, a stripling youth like you? I’ve been training with this thing since I was half your age and now I’m twice as old as you. If you can hit me, though, then hit me hard, for I intend to drub you.” He straightened up again quickly and took a step back, his smile now a wide grin. “Besides, would you deny me in my pleasure and my need? The King’s envoy? I need the exercise and you’re the only one here to supply it. I can hardly fight my own squire, can I? Imagine, were he to beat me! You, on other hand, might beat me soundly with no ill effect, if God’s asleep. So come, let’s be about it, shall we?”