“So, Thomas, when did you leave Dunfermline?”
“Yesterday morn—” The lad cleared his throat noisily before continuing. “Lord Robert telt me to ride like the wind and no’ to stop atween there an’ here.”
“And how far behind you will the others be?”
“They wis to leave this mornin’, and to stop this night in Stirlin’.
Then Lord Robert said they wad stop again, the next night, at Kilmarnock, and come on down here the day after that.”
“You’re sure o’ that? They’ll no’ be here tomorrow?”
“No, no’ tomorrow. Earl Robert said it wad tak them three days … I think the Kings want to hunt deer on the way.”
“Thanks be to God for that, then. We’ll need every minute o’ time between now and then.” She moved quickly to the door, then turned at the threshold. “My thanks, Thomas,” she said. “Earl Robert will be pleased wi’ how ye’ve done. Run now and find Murdo for me and send him to me directly. Directly, mind—I need him this minute. I’ll be upstairs, tell him. Away wi’ ye now.” She went out, her head filled with arrangements that would have to be seen to at once, and made her way straight to the family quarters.
The first problem was one of protocol, and Marjorie of Carrick was realistic enough, and feminine enough, to see the inherent irony, but she was far from amused by it. Edward of England’s unexpected advent meant that she would have four proud and powerful men beneath her roof for several nights, but only two suitable bedchambers in which to accommodate them. Two of the four, Alexander and Edward, would naturally claim precedence based upon their regal titles, but what, she wondered, was she to do with the other two? De Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, was the most powerful man in Ireland, and they would all be worse than foolish if they expected Angus Mohr MacDonald of Islay to be abashed by that distinction. Within his own domain of the western mainland and the hundreds of islands that made up the Isles, Angus Mohr was every inch the monarch, as powerful in his own territories as the other three were in theirs, and no one there doubted—or flouted—his authority. Moreover, Angus was the one whom King Alexander had specifically invited to attend this gathering, so he was, in fact, the guest of honour and entitled to the finest accommodations available. Marjorie had no idea how she would work out that problem, but she refused to be overwhelmed by it.
Murdo arrived within moments, and she immediately waved him to a seat at the large table where she and Earl Robert both worked in the administration of their daily affairs. With no more reaction than a mildly raised eyebrow, the factor lowered himself into the chair and waited. He had known his mistress since she was a child learning to walk and speak, and had witnessed every form of tantrum, mood change, and caprice and every fit of pique she had added to her woman’s arsenal along the way, so that now, as Countess of Carrick, she had long since lost any capability of surprising him.
Marjorie launched directly into bringing him up to date on all that had changed since they had last spoken, early that morning. Murdo listened solemnly, making no attempt to interrupt her until she eventually fell silent. Then, when he was sure she had no more to say, he nodded judiciously and cleared his throat.
“Aye,” he growled. “The Blessed Mother o’ God had the same problem—three kings chappin’ at her door and a’ she had was a bed o’ straw in a stable. But that bed was for her and the Bairn, and naebody kens to this day where the wise men slept while they wis there.”
Marjorie opened her mouth to snap at him, thinking he was being flippant, but she stopped short as he held up an open hand. “I’m no’ bein’ foolish, lassie. I’m just tellin’ ye what came into my head as ye were talkin’.” He lapsed into silence, staring down at the tabletop, and now it was Marjorie who sat waiting for him. Murdo was the only man she knew who would dream of calling her “lassie,” as though she were still a child. But in his eyes, Marjorie knew, she was but a child, countess or no, and she knew he meant no disrespect. The old man never spoke to her that way in front of anyone else.
“It’s remindin’ me o’ the time Earl Niall had the fower bishops here,” he continued. “The same kind o’ thing, that was. Fower bishops to your fower kings. Fower lords o’ the Church then, fower lords o’ Creation now. D’ye recall what he did?”
“Murdo, I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”
His eyebrows rose. “I’m talkin’ about the time the earl—” He stopped, and his eyes narrowed. “Aye,” he murmured. “Aye, mayhap ye werena born yet, now I think o’ it. It was a while ago an’ I was young then, mysel’ … What happened was that fower bishops cam to Turnberry. Fower important bishops, a’ at the same time. There was Richard Inverkeithing o’ Dunkeld, Clement o’ Dunblane, Bondington o’ Glasgow, an’ auld Gamelin o’ St. Andrews … God, they’ve a’ been dead these twenty year an’ more. But that’s neither here nor there. What I’m sayin’ is, the fower o’ them turned up here, uninvited, all o’ them on their separate ways to a gatherin’ in the north o’ England and each one o’ them expecting to be treated according to his rank. Truth was, though, that they were a’ equal, even though each o’ them thought he was more important than the other three. Fower bishops … ”