The Renegade(70)

It was only as he walked away, straight-backed and with his head held high, that he understood why he had been weeping: he had been giving thanks for the miracle within himself that had transformed his grandfather, within the space of a single week, from the grim, threatening old troll Rob had always feared into the Noble Robert he knew he would always revere from that day forth. As he stretched out his hand to open the tent flap, he wondered if, should he ever become Robert Bruce the Elder, he would embody even a fraction of the nobility he had just witnessed.

“You didna like that, did you?”

His grandfather’s voice came from close behind him, making him jump. He had not heard the old man approaching, for he had been lost in thought and watching the scene ahead of him, where the Annandale men yet sat their horses in a loose ring around the bishop’s pavilion, facing outward towards the uneasy group of townsfolk watching from the edges of the market square.

“There was a lesson for you there, Robert. A lesson most men go to their grave wi’out ever having seen, let alone learnt. But I want you to learn it, here and now, for it could make a wise leader out o’ ye, so heed me here. You don’t aey need to spill blood to win a victory, nor swing a blade to win a dispute. There will be times ahead of you when all you’ll need to do is make an appearance—a strong appearance, mind—prepared to fight gin the need arise. Just bein’ there, ready to act, can sometimes win the day for you when the ruck o’ folk would rather hang back and do nothin’ than set their lives at risk. Some folk might call it recklessness, but it’s far from being anything o’ the kind, for it’s never the choice that any wise man makes wi’out long, hard thought and consideration o’ the consequences. That kind of effrontery—resolve, we’ll call it—will aey set the strong leader apart frae the switherers, for it’s the very soul o’ leadership, and other men will follow you gin you show it. They’ll take heart from your example and they’ll rise to it.”

Rob frowned. “That’s all? The lesson? The mere need to be there?”

Lord Robert reached out and grasped his grandson’s shoulder. “Aye, lad, that’s all. The simple need to be there, from time to time. But it’s never easy. And believe me, I’ve had plenty o’ years to come to know the truth o’ that. It goes against the grain o’ human nature for a man to put himself deliberately in danger’s way. The greater the harm he faces, the bigger the risk he takes and the more he stands to gain by it. But most would call him a mad fool. Others—a very few others—would see him as a God-inspired leader.”

He loosened his grip and formed his hand into a fist, then punched the younger man’s breast gently. “I think you might make such a leader, one o’ these days. Wi’ the help o’ God, of course.” He smiled. “It’ll no’ be soon, mind, for I’ve no plans to die afore my time, but I’m encouraged to think the day will come when you’ll remember this day and make your own choice to be somewhere, to make a stand, for Bruce and for Scotland … Now, come back to the tent wi’ me, for I have things I’ll need you to do for me.”





CHAPTER NINE

FAMILY TIES

“Master Bruce. Your turn, if it please you.”

The words were expected, but Rob felt his chest tighten none the less. His friend John Bigod had just picked up his fallen sword and walked out of the whitewashed circle in the centre of the training ground, holding the weapon awkwardly in his left hand while he clamped his sore right hand, still in its mailed gauntlet, beneath his armpit and fought to keep his face free of any sign of the pain he was feeling. Sir Marmaduke Tweng, now alone at the centre of the circle, was waiting for Rob, waving his long sword gently, point down, from side to side in front of him.

Rob stepped into the circle, hoisting his blade as he went, and for a moment stood in a slight crouch, acutely aware of the weight and heat of the plate armour he was wearing over his mailed hauberk and of the padded stiffness of his heavily armoured gloves as he flexed his fingers on the sword’s hilt. It was approaching noon on a hot day in late September, and he could feel sweat running down the channel between his shoulder blades to pool in the hollow at the small of his back before trickling itchily to the crack of his buttocks. His hair was soaked under the mailed cowl of his coif, and he knew that if a single bead of sweat ran down his temple to penetrate the corner of an eye it would sting unbearably and he would not be able to wipe it away … Not with a steel-backed gauntlet.

Sir Marmaduke, on the other hand, looked cool and fresh, notwithstanding that he had dispatched seven consecutive opponents within the past half-hour, all of them less than half his age. The only sign of his efforts was the slightest sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and even that seemed to dry up as Rob approached. The knight brought his weapon up to touch his chin with the cross-guard in a salute, then swept it down and out before bringing it back into the guard position.