He was fumbling awkwardly at the loose straps of his upper right armguard, making heavy weather of the left-handed task, when he was distracted by the brassy noise of several concerted trumpets in the distance. He quickly made his way crabwise under the curved sweep of the wall of the tower in which he was housed, heading towards the grassed courtyard that fronted the main buildings of the palace. Trumpet calls were far from unusual here, for this was the King of England’s home, but such announcements were usually single blasts, heralding the arrival of some visitor or supplicant to the King’s favour. A multiple, disciplined fanfare such as this, on the other hand, indicated the advent of someone of importance, and Rob was curious to see who it might be, forgetting, for the moment, that his own long-overdue arrival at his destination was likely to overshadow the incoming visitor’s, at least in the disapproving eyes of his tutor, Sir Marmaduke Tweng.
Rob Bruce liked Sir Marmaduke Tweng, finding him to be the embodiment of knighthood and chivalry: well bred, well dressed, and always well disposed towards those with whom he had dealings, even servants and menials. The knight was renowned for being civil tongued and even tempered, yet few men—and absolutely none of his youthful charges—would ever dare to arouse his wrath. Unmastered in the lists or in single combat, Tweng was lethally proficient with every weapon he picked up, and when called upon to fight he was implacable and, many said, invincible. Reputed to be one of the most gifted soldiers and commanders in Edward’s entire realm, he had proved himself in battle and on campaign many times, both in the Welsh Wars and on the King’s external campaigns in France as Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony.
Now, recalling that he had justifiably earned Sir Marmaduke’s displeasure, Rob abandoned his wish to identify the newcomers and instead headed down towards the drilling grounds where his companions were training. He found them gazing, though, at the spectacle unfolding on the expanse of open ground fronting the main entrance. The incoming cavalcade was at least three score strong, all of them brightly caparisoned with heraldic colours, with weapons and burnished armour glittering in the late-morning sunlight. They had captured the attention of everyone in the palace yards, so that Bruce was able to take his place with his three companions without being noticed. Or so he thought until Sir Marmaduke turned and eyed him coolly.
“Ah, Master Bruce,” the knight drawled, his voice showing no trace of anger or displeasure. “We are honoured that you should deign to join us, albeit belatedly.” One of his eyebrows twitched slightly and he scanned Rob quickly, from head to foot. “I trust you are sufficiently dry and warm by now?”
Rob felt himself flush as he nodded. “Yes, thank you, sir, I am.”
“Excellent. Then you should be ready for a lesson.” The knight held a long, bare sword loosely, its point resting on the ground by his foot. Rob recognized the training sword, its edges blunted to prevent it cutting through the padded armour worn by the pupils.
Rob nodded again. “I am, sir.”
“No, sir, I fear you are not, and I will not ask how you came by the blood on your face.”
Bruce blinked in surprise. He raised a spread hand to his face and felt a slick wetness on his forehead. “A scratch,” he said, hearing the surprise in his own voice. “I … stumbled on the stairs and must have grazed it.” Then he saw the direction of his tutor’s look and remembered that the buckles under his right arm were still unfastened. “I ask pardon, sir. I came in haste and I fear I could not run and fasten these left-handed while I did.”
“Hmm. Master Percy, assist Master Bruce.”
Henry de Percy, who had evidently been pitted against the tutor before Bruce arrived, since he was the only one of the pupils holding a bared blade, sheathed his weapon and moved to face Rob, where he set about fastening the delinquent straps, pulling them tight and settling them comfortably. He was the oldest of their group, a year Rob’s senior and the grandson of Sir John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey. With his back to Tweng, he looked curiously at Rob while he worked, plainly wondering what had happened. The unformed question had to wait, though, for a man-at-arms came running from the main gate, calling Sir Marmaduke’s name as he approached. The two men stood close together while the newcomer addressed the knight in a muffled whisper, and as soon as the messenger departed, Tweng turned back to his charges.
“Gentlemen, I must leave you to yourselves for a while. I am summoned to the King. While I am gone, you may practise the quarterstaff—but no blades, you hear? I will send Sergeant Bernard to attend you and ensure your diligence. Carry on.”