“I have not yet met young Master Bruce, Your Majesty,” said one of the bishops, and his companion added quickly, “No more have I, my lord King.”
The King’s eyebrows rose, whether in real or feigned surprise Rob could not say. “D’ye say so? The son of one of Scotland’s foremost earls and unknown to the realm’s two most prominent churchmen? Well, we can remedy that. Robert Bruce, I present to you their eminences Bishop William Fraser of St. Andrews and Bishop Robert Wishart of Glasgow.” Rob immediately wondered if a mere bishop could be an eminence, but he had no time to dwell on it. “When the time comes for you to inherit your estates, these two, or their successors, will be bound to make great demands of you. It is their nature and their duty. Master Wishart here is a long-standing friend of your grandsire.”
Rob, feeling the tips of his ears burning now, bowed to each of the prelates in turn and managed to murmur that he was honoured to meet them. And in a way he was, for he had heard much of both of them throughout his life. Robert Wishart of Glasgow was the heavier and stockier of the pair, his voice gruff and deep in keeping with his bulk. His bishopric of Glasgow lay within the territories of James Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland, commonly known as James the Stewart, and he had been a Bruce adherent all his life. William Fraser of St. Andrew was taller and much older, almost frail looking, with white, wispy hair and a stoop that made him seem shorter than he was. His voice reflected his age, thin and high pitched with the slightest hint of a tremor, and his loyalties, never doubted, lay with the House of Comyn and their political affiliate, John Balliol of Galloway. On the death of King Alexander, with the Scots throne fallen vacant, Rob’s grandsire, Lord Robert, had been considered a legitimate successor, and Balliol perceived to be his strongest rival.
“Master Bruce,” Wishart began, “I am delighted to meet you, having heard much about you from your noble grandsire, Lord Robert. I would have you call on me while I am here in London, should you have the time.”
“He will make the time,” King Edward said, the edge to his voice reminding all of them that this was his royal gathering and he had no wish to hear others speaking out on matters that did not directly concern him. “But not here and not now, Master Wishart. Robert, I have a task for you—the guidance and care of another of your own race, brought here by Bishop Bek.” He raised a hand and crooked a finger, and Rob sensed movement from behind. Unable to restrain himself, he glanced back and saw Sir Gervais de Blais approaching them, accompanied by the two youths Rob had seen him speaking to earlier.
“Gervais, make haste then. Will you keep us waiting?” The comment was voiced mildly enough, but none there failed to note the implicit rebuke.
De Blais increased his pace a little and bowed when he reached the King. “Majesty,” he murmured, bowing slightly from the waist. The two young men flanking him stopped when he did, and one of them, the Englishman, bowed low to the monarch. The other stood silent and arrow straight, gazing calmly at the English King as though he were his equal. Rob felt a stirring of gooseflesh as he awaited Edward’s reaction, sensing the same anticipation among the others. Edward, however, merely arched an eyebrow at the young Gael before beckoning him closer, then waving the same hand towards Rob.
“You two will not know each other, I am sure. But that will change within the coming days and you will learn to be friends beneath my roof.” Rob immediately heard the ambiguity in the words. One interpretation was straightforward: I am glad to have the opportunity to bring you together in friendship. But the other was ominously different: You may be as you wish elsewhere, but beneath my roof you will be friends. One look at the newcomer, though, and Rob had decided that the second meaning was by far the likelier of the two. The Gael kept his face utterly blank, and yet his entire demeanour radiated arrogance and disdain, the wide mouth quirking rigidly at one side in what barely escaped being a sneer.
No friend of mine, this one, Rob thought. Not now, not ever. I might spend a lifetime kicking his arse and never get that look off his face.
“Take note, my lords,” Edward said to the group around him. “These two young men are sometime heirs to the proudest, noblest, and most puissant houses in Scotland—houses notably at odds with each other down the years, though both are now sworn to uphold the realm and honour of their future Queen, whose welfare brings our brethren of Mother Church to meet with us this day. I have no doubt these two will stand shoulder to shoulder in the days to come, gladly sharing the honours of fealty to monarch and realm. Robert Bruce of Carrick, bid ye well-met to John Comyn of Badenoch and see to it that he enjoys his visit here beneath our roof.”