The Renegade(196)
Waiting turned out to be the operative word, because Bruce sat there in silence for two hours while others came and went, though none of them was sent for by the seneschal. He was thoroughly bored and out of sorts by the time the door opened and FitzHugh crossed directly to him with an outstretched, welcoming hand, apologizing for having kept him waiting for so long. He had been in conference, he said, but was now free, at least for the moment, to spend some time with Bruce. He waved in invitation, and Bruce followed him from the room, all impatience banished by the warmth of the old man’s welcome.
Sir Robert’s private quarters were located close to the centre of palace activity, as was fitting for the seneschal, and he led Bruce into his small, private room at the rear where, in spite of its being high summer outside, a cheerful fire blazed in the grate. He went directly to a small table in one corner and uncovered a tray that held a jug of cold ale and two mugs, with new-baked, crusty bread, fresh butter, cold sliced meats, and two dishes of pickled onions and raw chopped carrots.
“Join me, my lord, if you will. I’m famished. Talking for hours on end breeds thirst and hunger both and I have been talking since dawn about one thing after another. Come, help yourself. I told them I would have a guest with me, so there is ample for both of us, and as you can see, there are two cushioned seats there by the fire … Unless you are too warm?”
Bruce grinned and moved to the table. “Never too warm in this place, my lord FitzHugh. No matter how hot the day, the warmth never seems to penetrate the stone of castle walls … And there were no cushions on that seat in your anteroom.”
The old man smiled back at him. “Nor will that ever change. The last thing one needs in such a place is comfort for one’s supplicants. Hard seats keep them suitably anxious. Sit down, sit down. I trust your countess is well?”
They talked while they ate of Isabella and her pregnancy and of how a mere man feels useless and foolish in the face of such female mysteries, and eventually they came to the purpose of Bruce’s unheralded visit.
“So, I confess I was surprised to hear of your arrival this morning, my lord. It has been months since last we spoke on your return from your circuit of the Balliol estates, on which, in retrospect, I should offer my deepest congratulations. Everything is precisely as it should be there and your attention to even minor details in what you achieved—details that many another might have deemed unimportant—has not passed unnoticed. But I am sure you did not come all the way from Writtle simply to hear that. How, then, may I help you? Is there something you require?”
Bruce wiped his mouth and set his empty platter carefully on the small table by his side. “Yes, my lord, there is. I need information.”
The old seneschal smiled. “Information is the most precious commodity in the world, my young friend, sought after equally by kings and paupers. May I presume you are asking about the war in Scotland?”
“Aye, sir, you may. And in Carlisle. I have heard nothing from my father since hostilities began. I know not whether he is alive or dead, and that does not sit well with me.”
“Nor should it. Your father is alive and well. I had a lengthy report from him the day before yesterday, although he had written a preliminary report which I received last month. Carlisle was attacked at the outset of the war, while our main army was in the east, but thanks to Lord Robert’s preparations the assault was beaten off. Since the Scots had no siege weapons and the defenders were ready for them, they turned back and went to raid elsewhere in the region—to little effect, I am glad to say. They set fire to some of the buildings in Carlisle, but the fire was quickly contained and the damage has been repaired.” He took another swig of his ale.
“In his first report your father mentioned that the Scots leadership had appeared to be disjointed, which had resulted in their lack of cohesion in pressing the attack on his position, but obviously, in a report written in haste in the aftermath of the action, he had had access to little concrete information about the situation. Since then, though, the details have become more clear. The force that attacked Carlisle contained no fewer than seven earls, apparently, each with his own retinue of followers and each thinking himself the paramount leader, though the Earl of Buchan would have been in nominal command. In consequence, their invasion, as they thought of it, foundered quickly and resulted in little more than isolated raids on several nearby communities, civil and religious. As for the Scots war in itself, it is over … Has been for months.”
Bruce blinked. “For months? When did it end?”