FitzHugh shook his head solemnly. “The King commanded there in person, my lord of Carrick. I can only report what I have learned from his dispatches. The townsfolk resisted, believing themselves secure behind their walls, but once again they were overconfident. The walls fell and the defenders were overcome. Merchants and burghers were killed and there were some fires, but the town is now being rebuilt and will be the headquarters of a new administration for Scotland. A team of able officers and administrators is being assembled even now. Berwick will flourish in the coming years.” It was his turn to hesitate then, and he smiled as though at a passing thought. “As will you and yours.”
Bruce frowned briefly. “What mean you by that, Sir Robert?”
FitzHugh’s smile widened. “Why, you will regain your own, of course. The King who dispossessed you is no more, and the family to whom he gave your lands is here in London, in disgrace and safely penned up in the Tower.”
“Buchan is here?”
“He is, and with many of his Comyn kin. The Badenochs, father and son, to be sure. Thus Annandale and Carrick are both redeemed and will be returned to you by a grateful King when he returns.”
“My God, the Earl of Buchan in the Tower of London!”
“And not alone. We have four earls in residence: Buchan himself, and the earls of Athol, Ross, and Menteith. Indeed there are Scots magnates and … what is their other word? Mormaers, that’s it— magnates and mormaers under lock and key throughout the length and breadth of England. Will you be returning to Writtle tonight, my lord?”
Bruce jerked upright. “I will, if there be time. I do not care to leave my wife alone at night nowadays if it can be avoided. But I had lost track of the time.”
FitzHugh gestured with a finger for Bruce to remain where he was and then crossed to the door, where he leaned out into the neighbouring room to speak to someone there. He returned immediately. “Between the second and third hour of the afternoon, so you have plenty of time, with the sun setting so late. Is there anything more you might require of me?”
It was a dismissal, but of the kindliest kind from a man so obviously pressed for time. Moments later, Bruce was in the outer yard again, making his way towards the barracks where Thomas Beg would be awaiting him.
“They deposed Balliol.”
The two men were more than halfway home to Writtle, having passed the sign of the Spotted Cow a good hour earlier, and were cantering easily, knee to knee along the soft verge of the road to save their horses’ hooves. The sun had just passed the midpoint of its descent and would fall more quickly now, but they were making excellent time and were optimistic that they would be back in Writtle, if not in time for supper, at least in time enough to find the food still warm enough to be palatable. Bruce had been reviewing his talk with FitzHugh and wondering for some time whether he ought to tell Thomas Beg what he had learned, and now that he had delivered the news he began to think that the other man was not going to respond at all.
“Aye,” the big man growled eventually. “A good word, that, deposed … Sounds genteel, does it no’? It’s no’ the word I would hae used.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean that, frae what I heard, the man was gutted. They stripped him o’ everythin’, and I dinna mean just his dignity, his good name—however little he might hae had left o’ that. They brought him up in front of Edward in his full regalia, the poor, benighted whoreson, an’ then they stripped him o’ everythin’. Ripped the royal coat o’ arms off his tabard and threw it on the floor for folk to trample. Broke his royal seal. Took his crown and ither jewels as trophies, everythin’ they could lay hands on. They even broke his sword so he could never wield it again. As if he ever had! The preenin’ prince-bishop, Bek o’ Durham, was in charge o’ every bit o’ that and he milked the whole thing like a swollen udder … And him supposed to be Balliol’s friend and kinsman. Pious whoreson hypocrite!”
“Where did you hear all this?”
Thomas Beg eyed him scornfully. “Where d’ye think? It was the talk o’ the sergeants’ barracks. Half the men in there today are new back from Scotland, and believe me, they hae some tales to tell … Two o’ the fellows there—King’s Guard, like Beltane—had been on duty when Balliol was shamed and saw it wi’ their own eyes. They just got back here yesterday and they’re still talkin’ about it as though it was yesterday. One o’ them said it was the worst thing he’d ever had to stand and watch. Like watchin’ a dog gettin’ whipped, he said.”