The Renegade(16)
As soon as Murdo had hurried away she turned back towards the approaching cavalcade and narrowed her eyes. The party was close enough by then that she could see the flashing colours carried by the standard-bearers, and the distant sound of a trumpet indicated that the approaching party considered themselves close enough to Turnberry to be heard. She became aware of the size of the group and noted its composition, with kings and armoured courtiers in the forefront, bishops and priests in upholstered carriages behind them, and the mounted men-at-arms of the King’s Guard preceding the motley array of baggage carts and wagons and extra horses that brought up the rear.
She drew in a sharp breath. Time was flying past her. She turned away and hurried down the narrow spiral staircase to her own quarters in the corner tower. Quickly as she moved, though, she was
unable to stop her mind from pursuing a perplexing train of thought.
Edward Plantagenet had introduced an entirely new element into the situation she had been thinking about for weeks. The two original principals, King Alexander and Angus Mohr, might have been governable enough, sufficiently intent upon their own interests to overcome any strangeness between them. But the unforeseen addition of the English King had added a very different element. Edward spoke no Gaelic. Angus Mohr spoke neither English nor French. Every word that passed between them, then, would have to be translated by an interpreter. Her own husband spoke but little Gaelic, having come to learn the language as an adult and finding that it was not an easy tongue to master. Thus Robert might speak to either King easily, and with difficulty to Angus Mohr. Angus Mohr, in his turn, would speak easily with Alexander, and Alexander effortlessly to his brother-in-law Edward. But the gulf between the Gaelic Lord of Islay and the King of England might be unbridgeable, since neither one knew the other at all, engendering a fundamental lack of trust aggravated by Angus Mohr’s well-known disdain for all things English. She wondered if the Ulster earl spoke Gaelic—it seemed likely that he might, and if he did, she thought, he might serve as a translator between the two.
Her thoughts were cut short when she reached her chambers and found her three women waiting for her, anxious to begin transforming her into a regal hostess. She looked wryly at them. “We have little time to transform me,” she said, “so I expect miracles from you. Let’s be about it.”
Less than an hour later, looking radiantly confident and not at all matronly, Marjorie of Carrick took advantage of a momentary lull in the buzz of conversation to cast her eyes over the brilliant assembly in the main hall of Castle Turnberry. Everyone present was engaged with someone else, and the hum of conversation was sustained and pleasant. Even the taciturn Angus Mohr was deep in conversation with Robert Wishart, who had been Bishop of Glasgow for the past twelve years. Marjorie allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief, at ease, though still apprehensive, for the first time since the English King’s party had arrived at her gates.
They had approached the castle in formal order, a walking thunder of heavy hooves amplified by jingling, clinking metal and creaking saddlery and augmented by the rumble and squeaks of heavy baggage wagons, and no one had said a word until the sparkling, brightly coloured but dusty and weather-worn front ranks had reached where she stood waiting for them. As he drew near, her husband patently ignored the new pavilions on his threshold, failing to acknowledge them with as much as a glance, as though such princely accommodations were commonplace at Turnberry. His countess had watched as the earl dismounted along with the two Kings and stepped forward, smiling, his hand outstretched to bring her forward and reacquaint her with the monarchs, both of whom she knew from former occasions, and with Richard de Burgh the Earl of Ulster, whom she had never met. She had known King Alexander all her life, but she had also accompanied him to London, years before, with Earl Robert and a hundred other Scots lords, to attend the English King’s coronation in Westminster.
As the royal guests and the senior members of their entourage greeted their hostess, all smiles and cordiality, the churchmen behind them climbed down from their carriages and came forward in their turn to do the same. Someone at the rear then shouted orders to the baggage train and escorts to break formation and disperse, and Murdo and his team of ushers moved among them to guide the various contingents towards the areas set up for them.
Angus Mohr MacDonald had stood slightly behind and to the left of Marjorie throughout these proceedings, side by side with her uncle Nicol, and though the Islesman had nodded graciously and acknowledged the newcomers wordlessly one by one as they were presented to him, his obvious lack of warmth and his inscrutable expression had been enough to unsettle her. And so as soon as she had finished her formal welcoming greetings and before any awkwardness had a chance to develop, the countess had invited all the principals into the great hall, where food and drink awaited them.