The Renegade(36)
Henry Percy crossed to the pile of quarterstaffs on the ground nearby and lobbed one of the cumbersome weapons to each of them in turn. Rob hoisted his, twirling it in one hand and gauging its weight and balance almost without thought as he squinted towards where the newly arrived group was now disbanding. The leaders had already dismounted and gone through the gates, and the mounted troopers of the escort, under the command of their sergeants, were deploying in order, wheeling their mounts away towards the distant stables on the far side of the outer walls.
“Who was that?” Bruce asked, jerking his head towards the main gates.
Percy looked at him with wide eyes. “You didn’t recognize the colours? Bek, of Durham.”
“Bishop Bek?”
“Prince-Bishop Bek,” John de Bigod interjected, his voice wry. “Mere bishops do not ride with a private army.”
“I thought he was in Scotland,” Rob said. “My grandfather met with him in Glasgow, two months ago, just before I came down here with my father. Bek had just been named the King’s deputy in Scotland, in dealings with the Guardians over the royal wedding.”
“Well, much may happen in two months and he’s here now. Plainly has pressing business with the King. Mayhap the Scots Queen has changed her mind.”
They all laughed at Percy’s comment, for Princess Margaret of Norway was seven years of age and not yet crowned. Known as the Maid of Norway, the child was the sole granddaughter and acknowledged heir of King Alexander III, who had left the realm without an heir when he was killed in an accident two years before. The daughter of the Norwegian King and Alexander’s deceased daughter Margaret, she lived in Norway and had not yet set foot in her future realm, though she would do so soon. Directly following her lawful coronation at Scone, in Fife, she was to be wed to the five-year-old Edward of Caernarfon, Prince of Wales and heir to the English throne. That union would be a historic one, for the legal progeny of the match would inherit the joint Crowns of Scotland and England for the first time in history. The details of the coronation and the subsequent marriage between the crowns had been under negotiation for more than a year now, and Bishop Bek had been delegated to negotiate with the Guardians of Scotland on behalf of King Edward.
“Who was the Scot who rode with him?” This was de Bohun, the future Earl of Hereford, his voice truculent as always.
Percy glanced over at him. “What Scot?”
“The young one, at Bek’s back.”
“I saw no Scot. That was Rob Clifford, and he’s as English as you are. Lord of Skipton in Yorkshire since his grandfather died. Bek is his mentor nowadays, takes him everywhere.”
De Bohun scowled. “I’m not talking about Clifford. I mean the other fellow, at his back—the one wearing the outlandish green and red.”
Percy frowned. “I didn’t notice anyone like that. But I was watching Bek.” He turned to John de Bigod. “Did you see a Scot?”
Bigod shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention to anyone in particular.”
“What about you, Bruce?”
“Don’t ask me. I missed them coming in. By the time I got here, they were all huddled at the gate, already dismounting.” He looked at de Bohun. “You mean crossed red and green, like green patterned on a red cloth?”
“Aye, or red on green cloth—big, ugly squares.”
“Must be a Gael, then, a Highlander from Scotia, north of the River Forth.”
Percy reached out to tap his quarterstaff against Rob’s. “Enough of Scots. We have work set for us. If the Claw comes by and finds us chattering like women we’ll all rue it. De Bohun, you and Bigod. Bruce, you’re with me.”
As they faced off and began to circle each other cautiously, weapons at the ready, Bruce, half smiling, said, “Enough of Scots, you said? We Scots are not to be dismissed so easily, my lord Percy.”
“D’you say so?” Percy leapt forward, his staff whirling up and then down in a wicked chop, but Bruce parried it easily and pivoted smoothly, passing Percy rearward as the other lunged, exposing his back fatally. Percy was agile and unbelievably fast, though; he checked himself instantly and leapt to his left before Rob’s stabbing thrust could hit him, so that instead of striking the centre of his back the blow merely glanced off his padded shoulder.
He spun back to face Rob, dropping again into a fighting crouch, his teeth bared in a grin of sheer enjoyment. “Don’t look around,” he said. “The Claw’s coming.”
“Behind me?”
“Aye, where else?”
Bruce grinned back. “God bless you, then, for your cautious fears for your craven English arse.” He swung up his guard and went to the attack and for a few moments there was nothing but the whirling blur of Percy’s staff and the clattering impact of hard ashwood as they parried and slashed. And then Rob saw an opening and struck, only to find himself upended and crashing to the ground as Percy’s staff struck him behind the knees and swept his legs from under him. The Englishman had set a trap and Rob had lunged at it, coming to grief through his own eagerness.