Bruce shrugged. “They knelt on my arms,” he said. “I told you that. Well, when the stroking began in earnest and I started to respond, I could tell they were paying less attention to me and more to what was happening to me. The one on my right parted her knees, freeing my arm. And my hand was beneath her skirts. She made herself available to me right willingly … and that was what made me lose control and spill myself.”
“Jesu! And you will never know who she was.”
Bruce smiled. “Oh, I will know, Humphrey, if I ever find my hand in there again … ”
The royal summons arrived later that afternoon, delivered by a household steward who was plainly displeased at having had to spend his valuable time searching for a petty squire; a squire, moreover, who had been in none of the places where a squire ought to have been in the middle of the afternoon. He had finally found the four young men sprawling wet and half-naked on the grassy bank by a deep swimming hole in the stream that meandered towards the castle walls to feed the moat fronting the main entrance.
“Bruce!” he bellowed as he swept towards them, radiating displeasure. “Is one of you called Bruce?”
Henry Percy raised himself on an elbow and scowled up at the fellow, shielding his eyes with his free hand. “What does that matter to you, peacock? We have leave to be here, on our own time and about our own business.”
“Are you Bruce?” The question dripped with disdain.
Rob rolled over onto his belly and raised himself to his elbows, looking up at the bad-tempered messenger. “I’m Bruce. You have a message for me?”
“You are to present yourself in the Throne Room before supper. The King commands you.” The man sneered down at the haphazardly piled clothes and practice armour nearby. “I would suggest you make yourself presentable before you present yourself,” he said, smirking at his own wit, and then turned away.
Before he could take more than a step, Percy surged fluidly to his feet and tripped him from behind, sending him sprawling. The fellow sprang back to his feet quickly enough, his long white robe stained with grass and dirt, and spun around to face them, almost spitting with outrage, but his demeanour changed swiftly when he found a long-bladed sword at his throat, the point pressing beneath his chin. His mouth snapped shut and the colour drained from his face as he rose on his toes, wide-eyed. It was plain to Rob the man had no idea the sword was a practice weapon, blunt and useless, but Percy maintained an upward pressure on the dulled point to keep the fellow on his toes and witless with fear.
“You are what, fellow, a steward? Not a serf, I can see, but a servant none the less, with too high an opinion of yourself. Sufficient to persuade you to insult your betters. Stand still now—no, don’t move—and learn the extent of your prancing folly! I am Henry Percy, grandson of the Earl of Surrey. The smiling fellow over there on your left is John Bigod, heir to the earldom of Norfolk. Beside him is Humphrey de Bohun, who will one day be Earl of Hereford, and the fellow you have just insulted unforgivably with your spite and your surly speech is Robert Bruce, heir to the earldom of Carrick in Scotland and a close favourite of the King’s Majesty. Four future earls, halfwit. Four … earls.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Four solid causes for you to wonder how long you will survive as a scullion, let alone a steward, when we come into our own. Four powerful enemies for one mere fool to acquire in a brief moment of ill-tempered pettiness, think you not? Now get yourself out of our sight. Quick now, without another word, lest you have further cause to rue your stupidity. Run!” He swept up the practice sword as though to strike and the steward fled.
Rob was shaking his head. “I know he was an offensive idiot, Percy, but don’t you think you were a bit hard on him? Four earls, in God’s holy name. We are four squires, my friend, not yet even knighted, and I doubt that I, for one, shall ever hold an earldom.
John never will, I know. He’s Norfolk’s nephew, not his son, and we Bruces are a long-lived clan. My grandsire’s still a formidable man and he must be seventy.” He broke off and frowned. “I wonder what the King wants of me.”
“Probably to do with that Scots lad Humphrey said he saw come in with Bek,” John Bigod said. “If he’s really there, and if he’s young, the King will want you to look after him, protect him from dangerous future English earls like us.”
Rob shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, he came in with another lad—the fellow Percy named. What was it, Henry?”
“Clifford. Robert Clifford.” Percy shrugged. “I know Clifford is definitely there, but I wouldn’t wager on any Scot being in his company. I saw no one.” He looked Rob up and down. “That flunky was right, though. You’d better make ready to meet the King. You can’t go into the Throne Room dressed like that.”