The Renegade(46)
“I called you fool,” he said, so quietly that Rob had to listen closely to hear every word. “But I do not think you really are foolish. Proud and pigheaded, yes, that you are. Intolerant, certainly. Ill tempered and lacking in manners, manifestly. And arrogant beyond belief for one your age … But not a fool. And because I do not know you, I have to ask myself why you have played the fool’s part when you must know it can bring you nothing but grief.”
“From whom? You? From this new friend I have had thrust upon me? I think not.” Comyn shrugged, exaggerating the gesture, then tugged fastidiously at his clothing, adjusting the gold chain of his woollen cloak so that the garment hung properly again, then smoothing the leather shirt over his arms and chest. As he did so he looked again at Rob and sneered. “I certainly have no fear of suffering grief from a Bruce.”
Rob bit his tongue, willing himself not to respond and not to look at Comyn. He looked instead at Robert Clifford, who was staring at Comyn wide-eyed. Once again Gervais de Blais intervened.
“No one has suggested that you should,” he said quietly. “Come, let me show you something.”
The Gascon knight gently touched the shirt that the Gael had just finished smoothing. He used the backs of his fingers, his movements unhurried as he stroked the softness of the brushed leather just below the twin badges securing Comyn’s cloak. Then, before any of the boys could even guess at his intention, he seized two bunched handfuls of the garment and lifted Comyn off his feet, holding him effortlessly at eye level.
It was the most striking display of sheer strength that Rob had ever seen, and he felt the startled widening of his eyes. It had taken Comyn equally by surprise, for he hung unmoving from the Gascon’s outstretched arms for several moments, a look of shock on his face. But then he regained his wits and began to struggle, chopping at de Blais’s ears with both hands as though to deafen him. He might as well have tried to slap the wind, though, for the big man pulled him close and the flailing hands met harmlessly behind his head as he shook his captive like a child’s plaything, barking a single explosive word: “No!” Again the mighty arms bunched and heaved, and Comyn was hoisted even higher as de Blais stepped back with one foot and pivoted, swinging the younger man effortlessly around in a half circle to slam his shoulders flat against the wall by the door. He held him there with ease, leaning into him straight-armed, pinning him against the stones, and Comyn made no further attempt to struggle.
De Blais was not even breathing heavily.
“The day may come, when you are in your prime, that you might seek to chastise me for this little nonsense, and by then I might well be too old to prevent you. But that lies far in the future, Master Comyn, and for now I am twice, perhaps thrice your size and strength, and you are no match for me, so please do not try to make me angrier than I am. You lack manners and good breeding and would have benefited years ago from the good arse-kickings that you so evidently never received.” Comyn opened his mouth. “Be quiet! And listen to someone else for once in your silly, overprivileged life.”
Comyn glared, and de Blais continued. “You are here as the guest of our King—my King—and he has voiced no more than one requirement of you: that you accept his hospitality and learn something of his court and its ways from another like yourself, a fellow Scot, like you, under the King’s sufferance … A simple thing, others might say, and easily accepted. And yet you choose to see it as an insult to your dignity, offensive to your honour. What honour? You are but a boy, an unformed, uncouth, foreign newcomer in a civi-lized land, an outlander. Think you, perhaps, that we should all change our behaviour in deference to your ideas? Answer me.”
“I will not be subjected to supervision by a Bruce.”
“A Bruce! I see.” The giant Gascon lowered Comyn to the ground, then smoothed the leather of his shirt again with two slicks of his hands. “Now I can call you fool indeed—and if you dare to move I will drop you where you stand. You have no wish to be supervised by a Bruce? And what of Bruce? How does he feel, think you? Look at him! He is sick of the sight of you and has not known you more than a quarter hour … yet suffice, I think, to last him a lifetime. But hear this, laddy-buck. Bruce was given a duty. He was ordered to befriend you. He is not your overseer and he is not a spy set to report on you.”
Rob had to stop himself from smiling when he heard the Gascon say laddy-buck. It was one of King Edward’s own favourite expressions, and Rob doubted that de Blais was even aware of having used it.