The Renegade(69)

Rob hurried to obey, serving each of the men and listening closely so as not to miss a word.

“Of what do we need to clear the air?” his grandfather asked. Wishart blinked at him. “Why, this threat of civil war, of course … the talk of it.”

“Ah. And how will we do that?”

“By demonstration. Your departure with your men in train and no blood spilt will kill the talk.”

There was a long pause, and then Bruce said, “Is that all you want? For me to turn tail and go home meekly, without a word to anyone, and leave the Comyns here to laugh at me and mine? Tell me, if you will, that that is not what you meant.”

“It is precisely what I meant, though no one will laugh at you behind your back.”

Bruce’s deep-lined face was expressionless. “No, they might not. They’ll be more like to wait until I emerge again from Lochmaben and then laugh in my face.”

Wishart hissed, swiping the flat of one hand across the table, narrowly missing his cup. “In God’s name, man, can you not see?”

“I can see them all laughing, aye. I swear, Rab Wishart, you men of God are never loath to make impossible demands on ordinary folk.”

The bishop shook his head in frustration. “By doing this, as Bruce of Annandale, you will send a signal to the entire community of Scotland—the Guardians, clergy, earls, barons, and commons north and south of the Forth—to be mistaken by none. A clear signal that you are prepared to set aside your own legitimate rights in the interests of the realm until such time as that community itself can come to a just decision, in full parliamentary assembly and assisted by whatever powers of law, custom, and usage God will provide, upon the matter of whose claim is strongest. Surely you see the truth of that?”

“Aye, I can see it. But what if some folk disregard the signal? We need name no names, but what then, Master Bishop?”

Wishart slammed his hand against the tabletop. “Then they will be in rebellion no matter who they are and they’ll face the wrath of the council and the assembled host of the realm of Scotland!”

“Aye, and so they should, of course,” the patriarch said mildly. “But tell me, does that no’ sound like civil war to you, Lord Wishart?”

The bishop glared at him, then nodded. “Aye, it does, Lord Bruce. But if that should come to pass—the which may God forbid—it will be for the good of the realm and at the behest of the council and community, not at the whim of some ambitious malcontent.”

Lord Robert sucked at his teeth. “So be it, then. I’ll do it. But I’ll need to talk to my folk and tell them why we’re turning back with nothing done after so long a march.”

“No!” Rob flinched at the angry snap of Wishart’s voice. “That’s not true at all and you must not even think it. Much has been done, Robert, and that is how you should present it to your folk, for without a drop of blood being spilt or a blow struck, you have gained what you sought to achieve in coming here. Your cause is guaranteed an open judicial hearing by the community of the realm, arbitrated by a fair-minded judge of your own choosing, and you have set yourself above the ruck of your adversaries by keeping the peace and leaving them to do likewise. No failure there of any kind, old friend.”

Lord Robert sighed. “Aye, well, mayhap. We’ll see. I envy you your optimism, Robert. But it’s done. We’ll head back to Annandale come morning.”

Wishart inclined his head soberly. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “Scotland is in your debt.” His eyes moved to the two younger Bruces. “And you two should be proud of the restraint and good judgment your elder has shown.”

The words, simple as they were, filled Rob’s chest with a riot of unfamiliar sensations. He held his breath and looked across the table at his father, and watched as a small, rare smile transformed the earl’s features. He was almost afraid to look at his grandfather, sitting beside him. He sat frozen, willing himself to master his pounding heart and his suddenly uneven breathing, but then he turned his head slowly, and found Bishop Wishart’s eyes watching him closely.

He met the old bishop’s look squarely, then turned to his grandsire, whose fierce old eyes were filled with a look that Rob could not define. A great aching lump was in Rob’s throat, and as tears spilled down his cheeks—tears he had not even known were there—he stood and pushed back his chair with his legs, then dropped to one knee and bent his head. How long he knelt there he could not have said, but he felt the outstretched hand settle upon his head as he tried to blink away his tears. Soon after, he stood up and stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe at his cheeks like a child, and found all three men gazing at him solemnly. No one spoke, but the old patriarch nodded to him kindly and with a wave of the fingers of his still-outstretched hand gave him permission to leave.