The Renegade(20)

He nodded in dismissal, and the man rejoined the guards, who saluted the royal party and then wheeled and marched away, the courier between them, and every eye in the hall followed them as they went. King Alexander clapped his hands in the silence and told everyone to continue as before.

As the bard began to sing and play again and the buzz of voices resumed, Edward sat musing, hefting the packet in one hand again as he stared at it. It was apparently dense with contents, wrapped in a thickly woven envelope of coarse wool that had been dipped several times into melted wax for waterproofing and security and then sealed with the insignia of the sender. Edward had barely glanced at the seal, for the wide, red dot beneath the final coat of wax told him from whom it came. He was more interested in guessing how much of the weight in his hand was coarse woollen wrappings and wax, and how much was written content.

“Affairs of state?” The question came quietly from Alexander, expressing what Edward knew everyone was wondering.

“Aye, brother.” His response was equally quiet. “I fear so. And weighty, it seems.” He tossed the packet to the Scots King. “From Burnell. The red dot is a sign that the matters contained are urgent. We have a pact between us, Robert and I, that he will never waste my time with anything less.” Alexander tossed the packet back, and Edward turned it so that the people sitting closest on his left, his host and hostess, could see the dot. He had no need to say more, for everyone listening was already nodding sagely. Robert Burnell, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, was Edward’s Lord Chancellor of England and one of his closest friends and advisers.

Alexander shrugged. “So be it then, brother. Best make your farewells.”

Edward grunted, trying to imbue the sound with regret, for he had long since grown bored with the unintelligible Gaelic moanings of the old bard, and turned to his host and hostess. Before he could speak, though, Marjorie of Carrick smiled. “Clearly you must go, Your Grace. Such a shame, since I know full well how you must have been enjoying old Seumas’s saga.”

The King found it easy to grin back at her, a tacit acknowledgment of her barb’s accuracy. “I fear I must, Countess, much as it grieves me to deprive myself of your company this evening. Accept my gratitude for this wondrous meal and for your hospitality at large, if you would, for I have enjoyed it thoroughly and look forward to rejoining you tomorrow. In the meantime,” he leaned forward slightly to address the Earl of Carrick beside her, “my lord of Carrick, my thanks are no less due to you. And now, with your permission, I will leave you.”

He rose to his feet, tucking the waxed packet of dispatches beneath his arm, and waved in a broad, unmistakable gesture to the English lords who had been watching him and had risen as one to follow him. His meaning was unequivocal. They hesitated, then all but one resumed their seats, leaving only Roger de Bigod, the Earl of Norfolk, standing. As captain of the King’s Guard, it was Bigod’s duty to accompany Edward everywhere, and now he moved resolutely to join the King before Edward reached the hall door.

Edward frowned, but accepted that the man was merely doing his duty. “If you must come with me, then you must. I am but going to my tent, to read this. You may see me safely there and then return here. De Blais will attend me thereafter.”

“As you wish, sire.” Gervais de Blais was Edward’s personal attendant on this journey, a senior squire in the final preparations for knighthood, and Bigod knew Edward trusted him completely.

The King inclined his head. “I do wish it, my lord of Norfolk.” He paused on the threshold and turned back to scan the hall once more, then waved to Alexander, who was watching him from the head table, and strode out, clutching his packet.

Several hours later, once the high-born guests had returned to their pavilions and the household was asleep, the Countess of Carrick and her consort earl sat comfortably side by side in their candlelit bedchamber, holding hands loosely in front of the stone hearth as they enjoyed the warmth of a leaping fire and discussed the events of their day. It was a habit they had developed years earlier, communing with each other at the end of each day without having to fret about being disturbed, and they had both come to relish the quiet luxury of it, since it was frequently the only peaceful time they had together from one day to the next.

Content with the easy silence between them, Marjorie turned her head slightly to look at the man who had shared her life and her bed for the past ten years. He was unaware of her look, staring into the flames with a thoughtful scowl on his face, and as she gazed at his fire-lit profile she felt herself smiling at the changes in his appearance since they had first met. They were not greatly pronounced, but they were there to be seen in his greying, unkempt hair and closetrimmed beard, and in the fine lines deepening into wrinkles of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He was forty-one now, she thought, a mere three years younger than Alexander and four years younger than Edward of England, and though the years had been good to him, the changes she remarked would surely grow more visible in the years ahead. But the face she knew so well was a strong one, firm of chin beneath the short beard and dominated by a strong, narrow, straight-edged nose and a high, clean forehead above deep-set, piercing eyes.