“Well, aye, he was standin’ right there, on duty, watchin’ and listenin’. He said Edward laughed, as though he couldna believe what he had heard. And then he went from laugh to rage in half a heartbeat an’ roared, ‘God’s hoary balls, man! Have I no more to do in the middle of a war than find kingdoms for every pulin’ supplicant who comes to me on his knees in search of favours?’ Somethin’ like that, anyway, though I’ve nae doubt the God’s hoary balls bit was word for word. That’s the kind o’ thing Edward would say an’ it’s the kind o’ thing folk remember.”
“Ah, Father, Father, Father … ” Bruce closed his eyes in horror at the thought of his father’s humiliation. It felt like an age before he could continue. “And did my father have a response?”
“Shamed silence, was what I heard. No’ a word o’ protest or selfdefence. He just knelt there, wi’ his head down. And Edward let him wait there on the floor while he attended to other things. Nobody spoke, save for the King himsel’, issuin’ orders here an’ there. But everybody was watchin’ your father like corbies starin’ at a dyin’ beast.”
“Oh, God … And how did it end?”
“The King ordered Sir Robert Clifford to tak a hundred men and ride at once wi’ the Lord o’ Annandale as far as Melrose, there to see his lordship safely an’ speedily on his way back to his neglected duties in Carlisle. An’ that was it. Your father left, wi’ his tail between his legs.”
“Clifford must have loved that, the arrogant pup. He’s even younger than I am—barely one and twenty. One more humiliation atop the rest … ” A silence stretched between the two men, broken only by the sounds of their horses, until Bruce spoke again. “This is sad news, Thomas. And not merely sad but threatening, in its way. Edward is a great bearer of grudges, and I think my father might have placed us all in jeopardy with this folly. God! How can any son grow up to be so different from the man that fathered him?”
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
LOCHMABEN REVISITED
“Carrick! There you are! I thought we’d have to start our parliament without you. Come forward.”
The shout soared above the other voices, and many of the heads in the grand chamber of Berwick Castle that late-August day turned in response to it. Berwick town was swamped with people summoned to the parliament convened there by Edward Plantagenet to formalize his absolute victory over the Scots and to determine the matter of how the delinquent realm would now be ruled, since most of its nobility was under guard in England. Bruce had received his summons ten days earlier and had been riding for a week. He had arrived that same afternoon.
As an earl, he had been assigned quarters in the castle, and had stopped there briefly, taking only sufficient time to wash off the worst of the road dirt that had coated him and to exchange his smelly riding gear for clothing more suitable for greeting a king. He had been ushered into the royal presence as an honoured guest and had stopped just inside the door to scan the crowded assembly, looking for anyone he might recognize, and he had been there mere moments before the King’s voice came to him over the surrounding throng. He nodded as he caught the King’s eye, then wove his way among the densely packed bodies towards the high dais that gave the King, tall though he was, the extra height he needed to survey the monstrous chamber from where he stood.
Edward was being fitted for a new garment of some kind, for he stood in the centre of the platform between two kneeling tailors, with his arms extended to both sides as they fussed and tugged, inserting pins and adjusting drapes of cloth. As Bruce approached the dais, keeping his face expressionless and avoiding all eyes but the King’s, he was wondering what the immediacy and the autocratic sharpness of the summons portended. Edward had called him Carrick, not Bruce or Robert, as he sometimes did, and not even the more cordial my lord of Carrick. Did that mean Edward was angry with him? It might; it could easily mean that, though for what cause he had no idea other than the King’s lingering displeasure with his father’s behaviour. On the other hand, though, the size of the crowd and the din of conversation might simply have demanded a louder, sharper tone. The sins of the fathers, he thought, his mind still on his father’s folly as he slipped adroitly between two older men, idly noting that there were no women present at this assembly.
He was almost at the lowest step leading to the dais when the King spun in a fury, his arms still high in the air like a village dancer’s. “God’s holy arse, fool!” he roared. “Will you bleed me to death with your accursed pins? You’ve drawn more blood from me in half an hour than the entire Scotch army was able to in the course of a war! Get this thing off me and get out of my sight!”