Not long after, Thomas Beg lurched to his feet, flushing, as he always did, when his employer, whom he believed to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, entered the kitchen and came gliding towards him at the plain wooden table where he sat. He had been ravenous, devouring a meal of savoury game stew piled atop a thick slab of fresh-baked bread and loving every bite of it, but the moment he saw the countess he lost all awareness of what he had been doing a moment earlier.
“Thomas,” she said, smiling in recognition and ignoring his reddening face as she approached him. “I’m told ye have word for me from Earl Robert.”
The boy dipped his head, speechless.
“Speak up, then. What d’ye have to tell me? Or is it somethin’ ye canna say here?”
The giant boy flushed even deeper and stammered out, “The Earl winna be comin’ this day. But he’ll be here soon, wi’ the King. He wanted ye to ken, so he sent me on ahead, wi’ a letter for ye.”
“A letter? Ye have a letter for me?”
Thomas reached deep into his shirt and pulled out a leather wallet. Marjorie took it from him and flipped it open, seeing the parchment folded inside, but then she closed it again, resisting the urge to snatch the letter out and read it right there in front of everyone. Instead, she merely inclined her head to the boy. “My thanks for this,” she said. “Am I to answer it, do ye know?” Thomas shook his head and half shrugged, and she bit down on the urge to snap at him, knowing that being impatient with him would only make matters worse. “What are you to do now, Thomas?” she asked then, keeping her voice gentle. “Are ye to stay here, or does Earl Robert expect ye back? Where was he when you left him?”
Thomas Beg shook his head, his eyes wide with something approaching panic, a condition that Marjorie had remarked upon whenever she had spoken to him directly, but he managed to answer her question. “He’s in Dunfermline, mileddy, wi’ the King, but he sent me on in front o’ him, to bring you that.”
Marjorie sucked in her breath. “Aye, I see. Well, let me read it. Sit ye down eat.”
She walked away and seated herself on a sturdy chair at a smaller table that held a thick, burning candle, and opened the letter, schooling her face to betray nothing as she read, aware that she was being watched. The letter was written in Latin, and not in her husband’s bold, spiky hand, so she knew it had been written by a monk or a priest at the abbey in Dunfermline. Its brevity, though, marked it clearly as having been dictated by Robert himself, and she read it slowly and carefully, one hand over her mouth to mask it from curious eyes as she formed the Latin words.
My love, this in haste, knowing you need to be aware of how matters have changed—not in substance but in scope. England is here in Dunfermline—Edward himself, accompanied by Queen Eleanor and their train. His friend Richard of Ulster accompanies him with his wife Margaret, who is big with child and close to her term. The occasion is a Royal progress to mark the end of Edward’s Welsh war with a visit to his cousin Scotland, before he undertakes a new campaign in Gascony.
Upon hearing that we are bound for Turnberry to meet with Angus Mohr MacDonald, he decided to accompany our King, to Witness the business being done and to do Honour to our house, citing that he has not set eyes upon you in person since our attendance at his Coronation in London six years ago. So he will accompany Alexander, bringing de Burgh of Ulster with him. Queen Eleanor and her ladies will stay here in Dunfermline with Queen Margaret, the Countess of Ulster being in no condition to travel at this time, within a month of birthing as she is. Even with both Kings present, the royal party will be small enough, but significant none the less, with de Burgh and a few others attending the monarchs, plus a royal English escort of ten men-at-arms. Closer to three score I fear than to the score and a half we had thought.
Knowing you will be aware that I have no choice in this matter, I can but send you advance warning in the knowledge that you will take the steps required to prepare yourself for our advent, my Love, accomplished worker of miracles that you are. I will delay our arrival for as long as may be by arranging a hunting party to divert our guests on the way, and to provide much-needed venison for our larders. B.
Worker of miracles, indeed. Marjorie scanned the letter again, noting the different flourish of the final “B” that proclaimed Bruce himself had signed the missive, and grudgingly admiring, not for the first time, the way in which her scholarly husband could capture words to explain himself clearly and briefly. Her thoughts quickly returned, though, to the hard kernel of the message. Sixty people, descending on her within the day. She folded the letter back into its original creases, giving herself time to think and to clear her face of all expression before looking at anyone else. Young Thomas had sat down again, but he was still staring at her, cow-eyed, and the other four people in the kitchen were pretending not to be watching her.