Those who dared mention her death at all around him spoke in hushed tones of “childbed fever” and its associated maladies, but Bruce knew that was nonsense. She had been weeks clear of the childbed when she began to fail, and for the first two of those weeks at least she had been as beautiful and delightful as ever, her burgeoning health a cause of rejoicing. He refused to think at all about her malnourished daughter and the failure of her milk, or to consider any possibility that those might have been connected to, or had influence upon, her eventual death, and he refused, resolutely, to consider the possibility that she might have died of the same causes that had taken his mother from him years before.
He did not often have time, however, to ruminate upon such things, for his brothers conspired to shake him out of his brooding. He had just emerged from a steaming bath one day and was towelling himself when the door opened and Nigel and Edward stepped inside, stopping one on either side of the open door to lean back against the wall and look at him.
“Shut that damn door. It’s cold enough in here without adding a February gale.”
They glanced at each other instead. “What do you think?”
Edward cocked his head, squinting at Bruce. “Not good,” he drawled. “Good morning, brother Rob. Did you hear what King Edward said to John Warrenne as they were leaving Scotland last year, with the war neatly finished and the Scottish question settled?”
Bruce merely stared back at him, straight-faced, and Edward continued undaunted. “This is true, I swear it. Warrenne himself repeated it to others. They had just crossed the border at Berwick when the King drew rein and looked back into Scotland. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s done. A man does good business when he rids himself of a turd.’” He stepped a pace closer and grasped Bruce’s upper arm, squeezing it between his fingers before raising the unresisting limb for Nigel’s inspection. “This arm has the consistency of shit. Nigel, do you agree?”
“It seems to have that feel to it. I agree.”
“And therefore?”
“A man would do good business to rid himself of it.”
“Exactly what I think … ” He dropped his hand to Bruce’s forearm and gripped it, turning it until he could look down at the open palm. “The muscle’s almost gone,” he said. “Your hands have lost their calluses. The whites of your eyes are yellow. You, my dear brother, are a mess.” He nodded towards the still-steaming tub. “Not as great a mess as you were earlier, but you need toughening up. Nigel and I have decided to undertake your retraining and get you back into fighting condition, and you are going to be bruised with many colours until you start to hold your own with us again. So put on clothes and cladding and come outside to the yard. We’ll be waiting for you. Am I right, Nigel?”
“You are right, Edward.”
“Good. That pleases me. I enjoy being right.” He winked at Bruce. “You have the quarter-hour. After that, we come and carry you out.”
The Earl of Carrick was dancing despite being swathed in heavy practice armour, hopping lightly and lithely from foot to foot, his shield solidly firm beneath his chin and the long, lethal beauty of his blade moving constantly as he faced his two younger brothers, neither of whom looked as blithe or as comfortably confident as he. Nigel’s padding was mud stained, from landing on his arse when he had failed to anticipate his elder’s next move, and Edward, the slightest of the three young men, was breathing heavily through his open mouth, having barely survived taking a fatal stab in an extended exchange with the earl while Nigel was sprawled in the mud.
“Somebody’s coming,” Nigel said, lowering his sword, and Bruce turned to look. One of the gate guards was running towards them.
“Strangers, my lord, coming from London. They just emerged from the woods, a mile and a half away. A mounted troop and three knights’ colours.” Bruce nodded, and the guard turned and ran back to his post.
“Three knights? I wonder who they are, riding with a mounted troop … ” He shrugged. “They probably will not be coming here. Headed for Colchester would be my guess. But we’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, brethren, thank you for the diversion. I am really glad you decided to retrain me, and I am more than pleased with your success. I have not had a bruise in weeks. Have you two?”
He turned away, smiling. Even his smile had changed since Izzy’s death; it was quieter somehow, less brilliant and far less frequent. But his eyebrows rose in surprise as he saw the guard running back towards them, shouting, “My lord, there’s more of them, bearing the King’s standard!”