“I think you have just been easily dismissed, my Scots friend.” Percy held out his hand, smiling, and helped his fallen opponent to his feet just in time for Sergeant Bernard to reach them.
“A pretty trick, that,” the sergeant growled to Percy. “But if you ever try it against a man with a real sword you won’t live long enough to wonder why it didn’t work.” He paid no heed at all to Bruce, who was brushing himself down ruefully, but turned to speak to the other two, who had grounded their weapons to watch. “All of you, listen. Sir Marmaduke’s with the King and I am to attend him, so hear me: the rest of the day is yours, to spend as you will. But I want you here tomorrow at first flush of dawn, you hear? A moment later than that and I’ll have you running in full mail all day long, so be sure it’s yet dark when you get here.”
He stalked away without another word.
Bruce found himself smiling again, and not just because he had been set free. He was struck as always by the man’s sheer, unrelenting truculence. He knew him only as Bernard, sergeant-at-arms and nicknamed the Claw—though never within his hearing— because of his deformed left hand. He had heard the tale: years earlier the man had interposed his arm between King Edward and a hard-swung falchion in a skirmish in Wales, saving the King’s life at the cost of his own limb. But where many another man would have died of his wounds or retired from fighting, the sergeant had fought grimly to retain his arm and regain his health, and against all odds, he had succeeded. His hand was permanently twisted into a gnarled claw, but he could still use it for any task that did not require him to flex his fingers, and his bravery had earned him a permanent posting as a sergeant-at-arms in Westminster from a grateful monarch.
Wondering if he himself would ever have the courage to make such a sacrifice, Rob became aware that one of his companions was standing close beside him and he turned to see the nephew of the Earl of Norfolk watching him curiously. “What took you so long to come back?” Bigod asked.
Rob grinned, the Claw forgotten. “I’d tell you, but I doubt you would believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Aye, where were you all that time?” This was de Bohun. “You were gone long enough to have tupped a woman, let alone changed your clothes.”
Bruce’s grin widened. “I did both, thanks to you,” he said. “I owe you a debt, de Bohun. Perhaps I’ll tell you why someday.” He turned as though to walk away, but all three of his companions surrounded him, determined to have an explanation. He let them clamour a bit and then threw up his hands in mock resignation.
“So be it, so be it! I’ll tell you. But I’m not going to shout over all of you.” They fell silent immediately, and he looked around, seeing several people who were close enough to overhear what he might say. He beckoned the others to follow him. Sensing a story worth hearing, they followed quietly as he led them to a small copse of trees on the near bank of the brook that meandered through the castle precincts. He seated himself against the straight bole of a young oak and nodded to them to join him on the lush grass.
“You tripped me well, de Bohun, right into the ditch,” he began. “My fault, of course, for trusting you to walk behind me. I should have seen it coming.” He eyed the youth from Hereford who, although a year younger, was of a size with Bruce and the others. Humphrey de Bohun glared back haughtily, unsure if he was being insulted.
Bruce laughed, then turned to the others. “Well, as you know, I was soaked to the skin—and chilled to the bone. That ditchwater is icy, as well as filthy, fouled with dung and horse piss. So I don’t mind telling you—not even you, Humphrey—that I was feeling mightily sorry for myself.
“As I neared the tower, carrying my armour in both arms, I saw the launderer’s people boiling bedsheets down by the bank of the stream, and I stopped and asked leave to cleanse myself in one of their vats. They thought I was mad, of course, but they mixed a bath for me, with boiling water from their kettles cooled with stream water. That got rid of the stink on me, but my clothes were ruined. The fellow in charge told me to leave them there and they would wash them, and then he threw me a torn old sheet to wear the rest of the way. The sheet was damp on my skin, and I was freezing, on top of which I had my arms filled with my whoreson armour while I was climbing up the stairs in the dark.”
The others listened intently, nodding as he spoke, for all of them lived in the same tower, in tiny, partitioned rooms on the upper floors set aside for squires, and they were intimately familiar with the long, grinding climb up the dingy, twisting staircase.