Rob looked about at the score or more of richly clad men, many of them clerics, standing in separate groups, some talking quietly among themselves, others plainly waiting, though for what he could not have said. Sir Robert FitzHugh was already striding towards the largest group, near one of the fires, and as he hurried to keep up Rob saw the tall figure of Edward Plantagenet among the cluster of men there, dominant even had his height not been enhanced by the crown he wore. The monarch was in full regalia, and Rob noted that the coronet of heavy gold, with its studding of precious stones, appeared to sit very comfortably and naturally on its wearer’s head.
Edward was talking to the elderly John de Warrenne, seventh Earl of Surrey and grandfather to Rob’s friend Henry Percy. To the King’s right, Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, was listening intently, his heavily jowled, saturnine face scowling in the habitual frown he had passed on to his son. Roger de Bigod of Norfolk was there, too, on the King’s left and flanked in turn by Antony Bek, the Prince-Bishop of Durham, and two other clerics, both wearing the pectoral cross and crimson scapulae that marked them as bishops, too. There was one more man among the coterie, almost concealed from Rob’s view by the trio of bishops, and although he caught only a glimpse of him Rob recognized him at once, from a previous encounter. William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, was one of the most powerful men in Edward’s realm, notwithstanding his French birth. He owned vast territories in both France and England and was a close associate of the King. As Rob approached behind FitzHugh, he looked more closely at the Anglo-French earl, noting the air of barely suppressed ennui with which he listened to the voices surrounding him.
The seneschal’s hand waved backward in a signal to Rob to stop where he was, and Sir Robert went on alone, clearing his throat deferentially as he approached the royal presence. A flash of garish colour to his left drew Rob’s eye away from the encounter, and he saw a youth of about his own age move into view from behind two others. Bare headed, with long, dark hair that hung smoothly to his shoulders, he was unmistakably a Highland Gael, and a wealthy, privileged one. Where Rob would have expected him to wear the normal brogans of his people, this young man wore burnished, calfhigh boots that were laced up their open front over tight trousers of saffron-coloured deerskin. He wore an open-collared shirt made of the same soft skin, its deep-cut front laced loosely over his bare chest and secured at the waist with a heavy belt of gold-studded leather. A fringed shawl of light wool in alternating squares of red and dark green hung down his back to his heels, anchored by a brace of magnificently jewelled brooches at his shoulders that were connected by a thick pendant chain of gold links.
Whoever he was, he seemed very sure of himself and completely unaware of Rob, his attention focused on the tall man who stood beside him, talking intently. Rob recognized that man as Sir Gervais de Blais, Edward’s personal attendant, a former Gascon cleric whom the King had knighted a few years earlier. Rob had first met de Blais six years before, when the Gascon, then a squire, had accompanied Edward on the King’s visit to Turnberry, but he knew him well enough by now to be on easy, first-name terms with him. The Gascon knight met his eye, though whether accidentally or not Rob could not have said, and inclined his head amiably but unobtrusively in recognition before turning his gaze to the last member of their trio, another young man of about Rob’s age who was richly dressed in the normal fashion of the English nobility. Rob assumed him to be the new English arrival, Bishop Bek’s protégé, Robert Clifford.
“Robert! Come forward, lad.” The sound of the King’s voice snapped him back to attention and he went forward, receiving a quick wink from Sir Robert FitzHugh as the seneschal passed him, returning to his post in the anteroom. As a man, the entire group surrounding the monarch turned to Rob, and he felt himself flushing, knowing he could not return all their looks eye to eye without neglecting the King. He had an impression of hostility in some of their gazes, open dislike on de Valence’s face, and curiosity in the eyes of the two unknown bishops. Bishop Bek merely stared at him impassively. Edward, however, was paying attention to none of them.
“By God, boy, you look impressive, for a heathen Scot.” The King was smiling as he spoke, removing any sting from his words. “That tunic’s French, is it not? De Valence, what say you?” He did not wait to hear what the French earl might have to say, but carried right on. “Our Queen will be most pleased with what you have inspired her tailors to achieve. My lords, have any of you not yet met young Robert Bruce, firstborn son of our good friend Robert, Earl of Carrick?”