“I don’t think I can do that, my lord of Carrick. My orders are to hold this place until further notice, and I doubt if my superiors would recognize your authority to relieve me of my duties here. We are still legally in a condition of war, you know.”
Bruce smiled and shook his head. “No, Sir Miles, the war has been over for months. The royal Scottish castles are held by English garrisons, and that is according to the King’s wishes at the close of the hostilities. But Lochmaben is not a royal castle. It is an ancient fortress owned by my father, whose loyalty to King Edward is beyond doubt. Look you here.” He reached into his doublet and pulled out the letter he had dictated the previous night.
“This is a formal letter of instruction, signed by me as an earl of Scotland and my father’s deputy, relieving you of any further responsibility as custodian and freeing you and your men for duty elsewhere, where you can be put to good use. I have given permission for Sir James Jardine to occupy the castle in my father’s stead for the time being, and if you know Sir James at all, you know the place could not be in better custody. I will be leaving to return to Berwick the day after tomorrow, and I suggest you and your men ride with me. There I shall speak personally with King Edward and absolve you of all responsibility in this matter”—he smiled— “because I am an earl and I left you no choice but to obey. I am here, after all, because His Majesty sent me directly, to reclaim my father’s property. Should the King disagree with what I have done in good faith, though, I’ll bear the brunt of it and no discredit will reflect upon you. And if he strongly disagrees, why then you may return and resume your post with nothing lost except a few days of travelling time. Does that convince you?”
The Englishman eyed the letter in a way that suggested to Bruce he might be illiterate, but then he sucked in a great breath and nodded. “So be it, my lord of Carrick. I’ll take you at your word. We will be ready to accompany you when you leave for Berwick.”
Edward was still in Berwick when they arrived, and he professed himself well pleased with Bruce’s report on the status of Carrick and Annandale, assigning Humphreys and his score of men to other duties in Berwick. On the matter of Bruce’s concerns over the behaviour of his troops in Scotland, however, the monarch was disconcertingly noncommittal. He listened to what Bruce had to say, frowning with what Bruce assumed to be displeasure at what he was hearing, and then mumbled something about looking into it. But where Bruce had looked for outrage he saw nothing but annoyance, and he could not tell whether it was directed at him or at the miscreants he had denounced. Edward then gave him permission to return to his home and his wife.
Two days later, Bruce was back in England, pushing his little following hard in his eagerness to win home.
CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR
DEATH AND RESURRECTION
The time went quickly after that, the weeks flitting by until the day when Izzy jerked upright at the dinner table and clutched at the great mound of her belly, her huge green eyes going wider than he had ever seen them.
“Robert—?” she said, the word wrenched out of her, and Bruce’s world disintegrated into a blur of being ignored and waiting, waiting, waiting, pacing the floor and praying, muttering to himself. It was fifteen harrowing hours before Allie approached him, beaming with smiles.
“You hae a dochter, my lord,” she said, “and her ladyship is fine. Exhausted, poor lamb, but that’s to be expected. The bairn’s a bonnie wee thing, an’ gin ye’d like to see the two o’ them I’ll tak ye up. Come on wi’ me now.”
Even newborn, the child was beautiful, a tiny, lovely thing with long, dark hair that Allie said would soon fall out. Bruce hoped it would not, but said nothing, content, after having kissed and cosseted his wife until she fell asleep, to gaze in fascination at the tiny being in his arms, wrapped in her new swaddling clothes. Izzy had long since agreed that, should their firstborn be a girl, her name would be Marjorie, after Bruce’s mother, and now, looking down at the perfect, pink-faced mite, he felt that the name suited her well. Marjorie Bruce, future Countess of Carrick, would have a life of ease and beauty combined with duty and would be a credit to the grandmother for whom she was named.
She was a fractious child, though, screaming all night long every night so that neither of her parents could sleep properly. Allie grew more and more concerned as each day passed and finally, at the end of the first week, she drew Bruce aside.
“I think the wee mite’s hungry, sir.”
“How can she be hungry? She’s forever at the tit.”