Rob shrugged. “He might, someday,” he said, unconscious of any impertinence, and then he frowned. “Sir, I don’t know what to call you.”
“Most people address me as sire.”
Rob nodded slowly. “Aye, but they’re English and I am Scots. I would call King Alexander Your Grace if I met him, but not sire. We don’t call anyone sire in Scotland.”
The English King cocked his head. “Does that mean you never have met the King?”
Rob shook his head. “No, not yet. I was supposed to, on my birthday, when he arrived. But he was too busy.”
“Call me my lord, then, and I will see to it that you do meet him. Have you ever been to England?”
“No, my lord.”
“Your father has great lands there. Does he never visit them?”
“No, my lord. Not much, anyway. They are my gransser’s lands—Lord Robert’s.”
“Ah, Lord Robert’s. Of course. Well, one of these days your father the earl will come again to England—he attended my coronation, you know, with your lady mother—and I will tell him that when he does, he must bring you to visit me in Westminster. Would you like to see London?”
Rob nodded solemnly. “Aye, my lord, I would.”
“Then so you shall. But now I must go and join your parents. Where are you two going?”
“To the kitchens, my lord.” Rob hesitated then, frowning again. “Can I ask you something else?”
For a moment he thought the English King was going to smile, but he maintained a straight face and merely nodded. “You may.”
“Why are you called King Edward the First? There were three other kings of England before you.”
The King’s eyebrow shot up. “There were. That is true. I am wondering how you knew that.”
“My tutor, Father Ninian, told me.”
“I see. And did he tell you their names, these three former kings?”
“Aye, sir, he did. Edwards three—the Elder, the Martyr, and the Confessor.”
“All of them named, but none of them numbered. Did you ask why?”
“I did, my lord, but Father Ninian didn’t know.”
“It is very simple, young Bruce. The custom of numbering kings is a French one—a Norman one, in fact. I am the first king called Edward to rule in England since the days of my great ancestor the Conqueror William. Therefore I am Edward the First. The others you named were Anglo-Saxon Kings, the elden Kings of England, and hence they had no numbers to their names. Do you understand now?”
Rob nodded, and the King of England waved a hand. “Excellent,” he said. “Go then, and sup well. We will speak again. Farewell.” He nodded kindly, including both boys in the gesture, and made his way inside the heavy doors, leaving them staring after him.
“That was Edward Longshanks, the King of England,” Rob said quietly in Gaelic, his voice tinged with awe. “Did you see the height of him?”
“Aye,” Angus Og said equally quietly. “What was he saying to you?”
“He invited me to come and visit him in England, at his palace of Westminster in London.”
Angus Og blinked in surprise. “Will you go?”
“Of course I’ll go—if my da will take me. D’ye think me daft enough to say no? My da says London is bigger than Dunfermline and Perth together.”
“He might keep you there,” Angus said, his expression dubious. “My da says there are too many Scots folk who go down there and never come back.”
“That’s not true,” Rob said. “Who would want to stay down there anyway, among Englishmen? I’d surely come back if I went. But I want to see Westminster. Mam says there’s a church there that’s bigger than any other church in England or Scotland. Westminster Abbey, they call it.”
“I’m starved.”
“Me too. Race you to the kitchens.”
Supper was long past, and by the rules of the Bruce household, Rob should have been safely abed hours earlier, but on those magnificent late July days in the year 1284, thanks to the gathering of so many distinguished guests and their retinues, there was nothing of the normal in effect within Turnberry Castle, and Rob and Angus Og had taken advantage of the general confusion to slip out of doors again almost as soon as they were sent to bed. No one saw them leave and none paid them any attention as they walked through the encampments for the lesser visitors. They wandered among the long rows of tents, listening to all there was to hear, and Rob was amazed by the range and variety of dialects and languages being spoken. Some of the conversations were incomprehensible to him, but all of them, save for the Gaelic of the Islesmen, were gibberish to Angus Og. Awash in the sea of foreign-sounding tongues, the two drifted without purpose, driven by their curiosity and gazing avidly at the heavy, gleaming armour and polished weapons of the soldiers and men-at-arms around their fires, none of whom were even aware of the gawking boys.