Rob’s father’s official affairs in England had concluded with the signing of the Birgham Treaty, but he had family business to attend to after that, and so he and Rob had travelled south and east again, beyond London into Sussex and then Essex, to inspect his own father’s properties there. Rob had enjoyed the journey, seeing his father’s birthplace and his own future inheritance of Writtle, in Essex, for the first time and meeting an entire clan of English-born relatives whose existence he had barely suspected. There had been no urgency to their journey, and they had been made welcome at Writtle, spending two pleasant weeks in the southern English countryside in magnificent September weather, Rob hunting and fishing with his newfound cousins while his father conducted his audit of the family’s English affairs. When they eventually left to return home, they made their way back unhurriedly up the eastern length of England to the border at Berwick, where they crossed into their own country and headed west to visit the earl’s father.
Rob kneed his horse into motion and guided it to join his father and Nicol, who turned in their saddles as he approached. The earl nodded, cordial but reserved as always.
“Well,” he said, “here we are again. How long has it been since you last saw your grandfather?”
“Almost two years, sir.”
“He’ll be glad to see you. You’ve grown much since then.”
Rob noticed how his father had used “you” instead of “us.” No one had ever said anything on the topic, but Rob had been aware for years that there was something missing in the relationship between the two senior Roberts. His grandfather had never been the kind of man to show emotional attachment, even to his elderly wife, but even so there was something more than a simple lack of warmth between Earl Robert and his stern-faced sire. Rob had heard tenuous, infuriatingly tantalizing hints at earlier strife between father and son when the elder Bruce had married for the second time, at the age of fifty. That wife was still alive and thriving, two decades later, but Rob did not know her well at all, though he spoke with her every time he came to Lochmaben. She was a withdrawn woman who said little to anyone and notably less to Rob’s father.
Rob knew from his own investigations that his father, for some unknown reason, objected to the union . That objection had earned the earl his father’s displeasure and, Rob had come to believe, his dislike, perhaps even his mistrust. Yet his father, Earl Robert, was a good man, Rob thought; a gentle if somewhat reserved parent, a fond and faithful husband, and an able administrator of his own affairs. He had been a friend and confidant of the late King Alexander, and was well regarded by his own tenants and liegemen in Carrick. It was true that he lacked the volatility, the fire and unbridled passion, of his noble father, but there seemed nothing unnatural to Rob in that, and he could see no reason why the earl’s own father should consider him untrustworthy because of it.
“Is Grandfather expecting us?”
“He should be,” his father replied. “I sent word on ahead from Berwick.”
“Good, because I’m hungry. Let’s hope he has told his cook to throw an extra hare into the pot.”
The earl barked out one of his rare but welcome laughs. “Oh, he’ll have more than that. Even his enemies concede that Annandale’s larder is generous. Look, there’s someone coming out to meet us. A party of five, with standards. That is encouraging, for it means we are awaited, and I could eat a haunch of venison myself. What say you, Nicol?”
“Swine,” MacDuncan answered in the sibilant English he used only when speaking to Earl Robert. “A juicy haunch of pig, with crackling rubbed in flour and salt, and roasted apples.” He was looking away as he spoke, his eyes narrowing as he watched the approaching riders. “These folk look agitated, Robert. Does your father always send an escort to meet you?”
Rob turned with his father to look more closely at the approaching men and felt a swift rash of gooseflesh on his nape as he saw that Nicol was right. The riders had an undeniably martial look about them, and the banners they bore were the chivalric pennons of the House of Bruce, pennons normally unseen in times of peace. The man at their head was Sir James Jardine, one of the old lord’s staunchest followers, and he wasted no time in pleasantries beyond a stern nod of recognition.
“You are expected, Earl Robert, but your faither has grave need of you. You are to come with me at once.”
“What’s wrong, Sir James?”
“It’s no’ my place to say, Earl Robert. The Bruce will tell ye that himsel’. Best no’ keep him waitin’. Come awa.” He rowelled his horse brutally and wrenched it around to face the fortress in the distance, and the beast took off with a whinny of outrage, leaving the rest of them with no choice but to follow at the gallop.