The Renegade(14)
“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.”
“Good, then I’ll go and ask.” He hesitated. “Ship’s boy, you say. Can you ride?”
“Aye, but only a pony, smaller than these.” He indicated the horses he was holding. “Nothing near as big as that thing of yours.”
Rob grinned and patted his own horse’s neck. It was a strong and well-built gelded bay, a biscuit-coloured crossbreed almost as large again as the stocky garron that had foaled it. “This fellow’s not so big,” he said. “You should see the horses the English knights use. Now those are big. Destriers, they call them. Giant warhorses, twice as big as this and more than three times the weight.”
“Get away!” the young Islesman said.
“No, I swear by the Holy Virgin, it’s the truth.”
His listener was unconvinced. “No horse could be that big. Have you seen one? It could be an English lie, to keep us all in awe.”
“They’re real—I’ve seen some. Two years ago, when we visited Lord Bruce in Lochmaben. Four English knights rode in while we were there, and they were mounted on destriers.”
Now Angus Og frowned in puzzlement. “Lord Bruce? You call your da Lord Bruce?”
“No, I told you, my father is the Earl of Carrick. Lord Bruce is his father, my grandsire.” Only then did it occur to him that he never thought of his grandfather by any other name than Lord Bruce, but he saw nothing strange in that. “He lives in Lochmaben,” he went on. “D’you know it? It’s a fortress near the border with England.”
Angus squinted into the sun, tilting his head. “What age will you be tomorrow?”
“Ten.”
“I’m eleven, nearly twelve. Your uncle would let me come, think you?”
Rob smiled. “Aye, he would, and will. But will your Captain Ewan? Wait here.”
Less than half an hour later the two boys, double-mounted on Rob’s big bay, sat off to one side as the rest of their party left the beach and struck out along the coast for Turnberry Castle. They would be there by mid-afternoon, and the talking among adults would begin almost as soon as they arrived, depending on who was there to meet them. Rob knew his mother’s time would be completely consumed by her duties as hostess and castellan, so she would have no time for him, but she would be happy to see him home and he knew she would make his new friend feel welcome. What excited him most, though, was that the affairs of the adults would leave him with plenty of time to show Angus everything he wanted him to see in and around the castle.
They waited for the mounted members of the party to pass by, Angus Mohr and his good-son MacRuaridh of Garmoran riding with Nicol, and two other men whom Angus Og named to Rob as MacDonald chieftains following close behind, and then Rob kicked his stocky bay forward to ride behind them and ahead of the score of heavily armed clansmen who formed Angus Mohr’s guard. Turnberry lay less than five miles to the north, and the summer afternoon was perfect.
CHAPTER THREE
THE KINGS
From where she stood on the roof of the castle keep, Marjorie of Carrick could clearly see the royal party approaching from the northeast, the late-afternoon sunlight glinting off metal and reflecting back at her in shimmering waves of colour and movement. They were still too far away for her to make out individuals, but she had no doubt that her husband was among them, riding at the head with the two kings.
“They’ll be here within the hour,” she said quietly.
Beside her, Murdo cleared his throat. “There’s more o’ them than we thought.”
“Aye, it looks that way, though ye’ve better eyes than me if ye can count them frae here. Still, we’ll be able to take all of them. Ye’ve done well, Murdo.”
“I hope so. It’s lucky we were to have thae big tents—we’d hae been hard put to find room for them a’. An’ thanks be to God the big fellow down there’s the only one likely to need furnishings for his place. I think we can be sure the other three have their own comforts wi’ them.” He nodded to where a number of men were carrying basic furnishings from the castle into the pavilion that would house Angus Mohr of Islay for the next few days, and his mistress turned with him to look down at the four massive tents that now dominated the broad, grassy plain in front of the castle gates.
Angus Mohr’s personal standard had been anchored firmly in front of his temporary abode where no one could fail to see it: a white banner showing a black galley under sail, suspended from a cross-brace and mounted upon a high pole. The Islesman had chosen the pavilion himself on his arrival, indicating bluntly, after a quick glance around him, that this one would be his, and it seemed to the countess that there was more than a little subtlety involved in the choice. With no advantage to be gained from choosing first among four seemingly equal pavilions, Angus faced no possibility of being asked to move later, in order to give precedence to someone else. But two of the pavilions were, of necessity, closer to the castle and its gates. In choosing the pavilion farthest from the entrance, Angus Mohr had made sure that the two kings would take the rear two, leaving Richard de Burgh in the one to Angus’s left as they walked from the castle to the pavilions. And rank, as Angus Mohr well knew, declined from right to left in matters of protocol.