It was a royal command—the monarch’s slightly altered tone emphasized that. Rob tried to keep his face unreadable as he turned to greet the Comyn. He knew he ought to muster a smile of welcome, no matter how false, but the words in his mind were rebellious, and the muscles of his face refused to yield to his insincere efforts.
I’ll greet him as you command, my lord, he thought. But I will be damned if I’ll bow or scrape to the self-loving whoreson. “John of Badenoch, I bid you welcome to the Palace of Westminster, in the name of the King,” he said, his lips feeling wooden.
The other nodded, his eyes fixed on a point beyond Rob. “Comyn will do,” he answered, his voice clipped and curt as though he were speaking to a menial. “Badenoch is my father.”
Aye, and welcome he is to that distinction. Rob nodded. “So be it. Comyn you will be.”
“And Robert Clifford will go with you for the time being, until Bishop Bek has need of him.” The King spoke as if completely unaware of any strain between his two young guests.
Rob glanced at Clifford, who nodded coolly but amiably enough. “As you wish, Majesty,” he said levelly, looking directly at Edward. “Have we your royal permission to retire?”
“Aye, and our express wish that you should. We have men’s business to conduct here. Away with you now. De Blais, see them out.”
All three boys bowed deeply and took the requisite three steps backward from the royal presence before straightening up and turning to follow de Blais, who headed for the nearest door. They followed him along a short passageway that led to the Throne Room, and the noise of the assembled courtiers there grew louder with every step. But de Blais turned left at the door and led them through a maze of intersecting passageways, some narrow, some wide, threading his way deftly with the ease of long experience until he reached a narrow, reinforced door that opened onto an enclosed courtyard. Not a word had been spoken among them since they left the audience chamber, but when they were all outside, blinking in the light of the late-afternoon sun, de Blais closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, gazing at his temporary charges with narrowed eyes.
“Well,” he said, more to himself than to any of them, “that was interesting. We have a word in France that I never hear over here. Nuance. You know it?”
None of them answered directly, but Rob shook his head, intrigued as always with an unfamiliar word.
“It means many things, nuance, but all of a kind. Nuance is subtlety—shades of meaning, complexities of mood and … ” He wagged one hand, searching for an English word. “How do you say … Texture? Substance? And all of it conveyed in speech, in tone of voice. Sometimes in silence.” He eyed each of them again and then shrugged. “Clearly none of you cares, but take my assurance, there were many nuances in that brief encounter you two had with His Majesty. Many subtleties, much left unsaid but deeply meant none the less. I hope you will be friends, as the King wishes. It would vex him did you not.”
John Comyn threw Rob a withering sidelong glance and said, “I choose my friends.” He sounded different this time, and Rob was surprised at the new richness and strength of his voice, a deep and pleasant baritone unlike the terse, high-pitched voice he had used in the audience chamber. He had been anticipating some kind of whine.
“I’ll wager you do, and easily, too, for there must be precious few eager to be chosen.”
The blood drained from the other’s face and he dropped his hand to where his dagger’s hilt should be. But weapons were forbidden in the audience chamber, and he clutched for his blade in vain. By the Christ, Rob thought. He’s as sudden-tempered as I am.
Before either of them could move again, de Blais was towering between them. In the space of a heartbeat he had shed the easy air of tolerance Rob admired and was transformed into an angry knight in his prime, one large, steely hand gripping each of the young Scots by the shoulders.
“Nom de Dieu!” he snarled, jerking both of them towards him as though they were weightless. “Have you gone mad, fool?” He was glaring at Comyn, who returned the look with loathing.
“Take your hands off me.”
“Not hands. One hand, but it has you.” Rob saw the muscles in the knight’s thick forearm tense as he increased the pressure of his fingers.
Comyn grunted in fury and whipped a fist up and over, pivoting to put his full weight behind the blow to the knight’s face. Rob was barely aware of the speed with which the Gascon’s other hand released his shoulder and shot out to intercept the strike. Comyn’s driving fist stopped short, clamped in the vise that had closed around his wrist, and there it remained immobile while he strained to wrest it free. De Blais’s grip was relentless, forcing the younger man’s clenched fist back and away, turning him until the two of them were chest to chest, Comyn with his face against the French knight’s sternum as he wriggled and fought like a clean-hooked fish. De Blais was immovable, his face expressionless as he held the other effortlessly and waited for his struggles to die down. When they did, he released the young Scot.