The level of activity in and around the fortress increased alarmingly as they approached, with parties of mounted riders suddenly erupting from the main gates like angry bees and swarming down the sloping roadway to the plain, where they dispersed rapidly, one grim-faced group of ten passing the Bruces with hardly a glance as they rode on up the hill and along the road towards Berwick.
They followed Sir James through open gates into the main courtyard to find it seething like a nest of ants, people scurrying in all directions and an air of tension and excitement everywhere. Earl Robert paid no attention to any of it, but swung down from his horse, dropped the reins to the ground, and strode towards the tower doors that hung open on their huge hinges. Rob followed close on his heels, aware that Nicol MacDuncan had not dismounted and was staying behind with the others of their party.
The vast hall beyond the doors was only slightly less crowded than the yard outside, but in the sparse light that penetrated the gloom from the open doors and the few tiny windows above them, Rob saw that the half score of heavy black oak tables that normally filled the room had been dragged aside to clear the central space, evidently to accommodate the mass of men he suspected had been in here only a short time earlier. One man, his grandfather’s factor, Alan Bellow, stood alone by the far wall, glowering down at a scroll he held open in his hands. He raised his head to them and nodded curtly. Earl Robert nodded back, but he did not stop moving forward.
“Where is my father?”
“I’m in here!” Lord Robert’s voice came from the room he referred to as his den, as though it were the lair of some wild beast. Rob had always thought the name appropriate. It was a dark, deep, and surprisingly spacious cubicle under the broad stairs that soared up to the floors above. Permanently lit with racks of thick, stubby candles mounted in sloping iron holders, its rear wall, a sweep of solid stone, was hung with the cured pelts of animals, mainly bears, wolves, and wildcats. One great hanging rack of tanned and worked deer hides served to divide the den into two parts, the nethermost of which held a chimneyed brazier. This room, Rob knew, was where his grandfather spent most of his time, tending to the affairs of his lands and their swarming folk at all hours of the day and night.
The old man had not raised his head as he shouted, but stood looking down at his work table, his body bent forward as he tapped the point of his dagger on a parchment that lay there, its corners weighted by four fist-sized smoothly polished stones. Rob recognized the pose and the dagger, for the latter was never far from Lord Robert’s hand and he invariably used it as a pointer whenever he was deep in thought.
The earl stopped in the doorway, as though reluctant to disturb his father. The old man glanced up at him and beckoned him inside, and he stepped through the open doorway. Rob hesitated, unsure whether he should follow or wait, and his grandfather’s eyebrows rose as he caught sight of him.
“Robert? Is that you? You’ve grown.”
“Good day to you, my lord.”
His father half turned and waved him away.
“No,” Lord Robert growled. “Let him stay. He’s a Bruce, and if he’s not grown now he will be after this. Close that door and listen, both of you. Sit down, Robert.”
Rob moved quickly to close the heavy door at his back as his father seated himself.
“What’s amiss, Father?” the earl said. “Where is everyone going? We must have passed thirty riders on the way up.”
“More than that. They went out by both gates, front and back, to raise my host, and I’ll need you up and away to Turnberry, too, as soon as may be, to turn out your own men.”
“To turn out—? In God’s name, Father, what has happened?”
“God’s work, though some might gauge it otherwise. The Queen is dead … The lass from Norway. I had the word but hours ago, direct from Dunfermline, two horses killed in the bringing of it.”
“But … But—” The news was so staggering that neither of the younger Bruces could accommodate it. “But the treaty … Birgham … It’s but newly signed … ”
“Aye, and all of it a waste of time. Man’s plan, God’s decree. Now we have to move, and quickly.”
“Are you sure, Father?”
“Sure of what? The tidings? Or the need for haste?” There was an impatient edge to the old man’s voice.
“The Queen’s death.”
“As sure as I can be. The word arrived in Dunfermline mere days ago, and by sheer chance the Stewart was there. As soon as he heard of it, he sent the tidings on to me, bidding me look to myself.”