The Earl of Carrick braced himself. “And what was the word?”
“Unclear, but a sudden sickness at sea, in foul weather between here and Norway. They put in at Orkney and the child died there. Nothing anyone could do to save her. They sent word to Dunfermline, to the council, and then turned back to take the body home to the wee lass’s father for burial.”
“And now you are doing what, precisely?”
The elder Bruce’s face was stony, his fierce eyes focused upon his son’s. “Looking to my interests—and yours, and his,” he said, lifting his chin towards Rob. “And thanking God I was here when the word arrived.”
“What difference would it have made had you not been?”
Annandale glared at his son in astonishment. “You ask me that? What difference? In Christ’s name, boy, are you besotted? You see what’s at stake, surely?”
“No, Father, not as clearly as you evidently do. What is at stake?”
“The realm, in holy Jesu’s name! The Queen is dead. Are you addled, boy? See you not what this means?” His eyes flicked to Rob. “Do you see it?”
Rob nodded. “Aye, sir. There’s no other heir in direct line. The closest is yourself and … Lord Balliol.”
“Exactly! The House of Bruce stands next in line for the throne, and Balliol comes second. But Balliol has the Comyns at his back to enforce his claim, thousands of them, and all drooling at the mouth at the thought of having the kingdom fast in their claws. We have but ourselves and a few loyal supporters—James the Stewart and the Earls of Fife, Lennox, and Mar, but that will be to our advantage, gin we move hard and fast. The Balliols will no’ have heard the news yet, and once they do, they’ll dither and debate. John Balliol was ever loath to make decisions. If his mother Devorguilla was still alive, things would be different, but as it stands the Lord of Galloway will seek guidance from others, and that will give us a few days.”
“A few days to do what, sir?”
The question earned Rob’s father a look of fleering scorn. “To be decisive, sir! To move. To stake our lawful claim to what is ours by right of blood and birth.” Again the pale blue eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows returned to his grandson. “There is a council called at Scone—has been for months—to convene eight days from now, a gathering of the Guardians of the realm, meant to arrange the coronation and the wedding after it. We need to be there early, and in strength, for our own protection. The place will be awash with Comyns, from Buchan and Badenoch and the whole northeast. They’ll move to consolidate themselves as they foregather, and so we have to beat them to the mark. If we fail, if we are lax or tardy, they’ll steal the throne from under our noses and leave us begging for scraps despite the strength and rightness of our claim.”
Rob understood exactly what his grandfather meant and he felt his insides clench with excitement, so he could not quite believe his ears when his father continued to demur.
“Do you not think it might be better to wait, Father? If you move too quickly, too strongly in the wake of this tragic news, you could convey the wrong impression.”
The old man straightened up and slid his dagger back into its sheath without looking, the movement perfected over decades of repetition. “Wait?” he asked, his voice ominously quiet. “You would have me wait? Balliol and the Comyns would laud you for those words. Wait for what, to lose everything? Look at me, man. I am seventy years old and I have the strongest claim to the kingship in this entire realm. If I wait, I lose my chance—and you lose your crown. Aye, your crown, I said, for it is yours by right. If I fail in this, you fail, and young Rob fails with both of us.
The earl studied the floor, and then looked up at his father. “What, then, would you have me do?”
“I told you. Ride for Turnberry and raise your men, then bring them to join me at Scone. I will take the Stirling road and will watch out for you. How many men can you raise?”
The earl shrugged. “Sixty, I would say, perhaps seventy within a day. The more days I had, the more men I could raise. When will you leave?”
“The day after tomorrow. I’ll be on the road by dawn.”
“Fine, then. If you can provide me with fresh horses, I can be in Turnberry by tomorrow forenoon and I’ll have the word spreading as far and as fast as may be. It’ll take the next day, at least, to assemble and supply everyone … How many men will you have?”
“Of my own, five hundred, give or take a score. The lairds of Annandale will come to me—Bruces and Johnstones; Jardines, Kirkpatricks, and Herrieses; Dinwiddies, Armstrongs, and Crosbies. At fifty men apiece, a piddling number, there’s four hundred already, forbye a round hundred of my own Lochmaben folk. But the Stewart will send his people out to join us, even if he canna come himself, and so will MacDuff of Fife and Domhnall of Mar, so we should number a good thousand, and mayhap half as many again, by the time we get to Scone. Suffice to do what needs to be done and to guarantee we’ll no’ be murdered in our cots.”