by Jack Whyte
Rob felt himself flush as he nodded. “Yes, thank you, sir, I am.”
“Excellent. Then you should be ready for a lesson.” The knight held a long, bare sword loosely, its point resting on the ground by his foot. Rob recognized the training sword, its edges blunted to prevent it cutting through the padded armour worn by the pupils.
Rob nodded again. “I am, sir.”
“No, sir, I fear you are not, and I will not ask how you came by the blood on your face.”
Bruce blinked in surprise. He raised a spread hand to his face and felt a slick wetness on his forehead. “A scratch,” he said, hearing the surprise in his own voice. “I … stumbled on the stairs and must have grazed it.” Then he saw the direction of his tutor’s look and remembered that the buckles under his right arm were still unfastened. “I ask pardon, sir. I came in haste and I fear I could not run and fasten these left-handed while I did.”
“Hmm. Master Percy, assist Master Bruce.”
Henry de Percy, who had evidently been pitted against the tutor before Bruce arrived, since he was the only one of the pupils holding a bared blade, sheathed his weapon and moved to face Rob, where he set about fastening the delinquent straps, pulling them tight and settling them comfortably. He was the oldest of their group, a year Rob’s senior and the grandson of Sir John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey. With his back to Tweng, he looked curiously at Rob while he worked, plainly wondering what had happened. The unformed question had to wait, though, for a man-at-arms came running from the main gate, calling Sir Marmaduke’s name as he approached. The two men stood close together while the newcomer addressed the knight in a muffled whisper, and as soon as the messenger departed, Tweng turned back to his charges.
“Gentlemen, I must leave you to yourselves for a while. I am summoned to the King. While I am gone, you may practice the quarterstaff—but no blades, you hear? I will send Sergeant Bernard to attend you and ensure your diligence. Carry on.”
Henry Percy crossed to the pile of quarterstaffs on the ground nearby and lobbed one of the cumbersome weapons to each of them in turn. Rob hoisted his, twirling it in one hand and gauging its weight and balance almost without thought as he squinted towards where the newly arrived group was now disbanding. The leaders had already dismounted and gone through the gates, and the mounted troopers of the escort, under the command of their sergeants, were deploying in order, wheeling their mounts away towards the distant stables on the far side of the outer walls.
“Who was that?” Bruce asked, jerking his head towards the main gates.
Percy looked at him with wide eyes. “You didn’t recognize the colours? Bek, of Durham.”
“Bishop Bek?”
“Prince-Bishop Bek,” John de Bigod interjected, his voice wry. “Mere bishops do not ride with a private army.”
“I thought he was in Scotland,” Rob said. “My grandfather met with him in Glasgow, two months ago, just before I came down here with my father. Bek had just been named the King’s deputy in Scotland, in dealings with the Guardians over the royal wedding.”
“Well, much may happen in two months and he’s here now. Plainly has pressing business with the King. Mayhap the Scots Queen has changed her mind.”
They all laughed at Percy’s comment, for Princess Margaret of Norway was seven years of age and not yet crowned. Known as the Maid of Norway, the child was the sole granddaughter and acknowledged heir of King Alexander III, who had left the realm without an heir when he was killed in an accident two years before. The daughter of the Norwegian King and Alexander’s deceased daughter Margaret, she lived in Norway and had not yet set foot in her future realm, though she would do so soon. Directly following her lawful coronation at Scone, in Fife, she was to be wed to the five-year-old Edward of Caernarfon, Prince of Wales and heir to the English throne. That union would be a historic one, for the legal progeny of the match would inherit the joint Crowns of Scotland and England for the first time in history. The details of the coronation and the subsequent marriage between the crowns had been under negotiation for more than a year now, and Bishop Bek had been delegated to negotiate with the Guardians of Scotland on behalf of King Edward.
“Who was the Scot who rode with him?” This was de Bohun, the future Earl of Hereford, his voice truculent as always.
Percy glanced over at him. “What Scot?”
“The young one, at Bek’s back.”
“I saw no Scot. That was Rob Clifford, and he’s as English as you are. Lord of Skipton in Yorkshire since his grandfather died. Bek is his mentor nowadays, takes him everywhere.”
De Bohun scowled. “I’m not talking about Clifford. I mean the other fellow, at his back—the one wearing the outlandish green and red.”
Percy frowned. “I didn’t notice anyone like that. But I was watching Bek.” He turned to John de Bigod. “Did you see a Scot?”
Bigod shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention to anyone in particular.”
“What about you, Bruce?”
“Don’t ask me. I missed them coming in. By the time I got here, they were all huddled at the gate, already dismounting.” He looked at de Bohun. “You mean crossed red and green, like green patterned on a red cloth?”
“Aye, or red on green cloth—big, ugly squares.”
“Must be a Gael, then, a Highlander from Scotia, north of the River Forth.”
Percy reached out to tap his quarterstaff against Rob’s. “Enough of Scots. We have work set for us. If the Claw comes by and finds us chattering like women we’ll all rue it. De Bohun, you and Bigod. Bruce, you’re with me.”
As they faced off and began to circle each other cautiously, weapons at the ready, Bruce, half smiling, said, “Enough of Scots, you said? We Scots are not to be dismissed so easily, my lord Percy.”
“D’you say so?” Percy leapt forward, his staff whirling up and then down in a wicked chop, but Bruce parried it easily and pivoted smoothly, passing Percy rearward as the other lunged, exposing his back fatally. Percy was agile and unbelievably fast, though; he checked himself instantly and leapt to his left before Rob’s stabbing thrust could hit him, so that instead of striking the centre of his back the blow merely glanced off his padded shoulder.
He spun back to face Rob, dropping again into a fighting crouch, his teeth bared in a grin of sheer enjoyment. “Don’t look around,” he said. “The Claw’s coming.”
“Behind me?”
“Aye, where else?”
Bruce grinned back. “God bless you, then, for your cautious fears for your craven English arse.” He swung up his guard and went to the attack and for a few moments there was nothing but the whirling blur of Percy’s staff and the clattering impact of hard ashwood as they parried and slashed. And then Rob saw an opening and struck, only to find himself upended and crashing to the ground as Percy’s staff struck him behind the knees and swept his legs from under him. The Englishman had set a trap and Rob had lunged at it, coming to grief through his own eagerness.
“I think you have just been easily dismissed, my Scots friend.” Percy held out his hand, smiling, and helped his fallen opponent to his feet just in time for Sergeant Bernard to reach them.
“A pretty trick, that,” the sergeant growled to Percy. “But if you ever try it against a man with a real sword you won’t live long enough to wonder why it didn’t work.” He paid no heed at all to Bruce, who was brushing himself down ruefully, but turned to speak to the other two, who had grounded their weapons to watch. “All of you, listen. Sir Marmaduke’s with the King and I am to attend him, so hear me: the rest of the day is yours, to spend as you will. But I want you here tomorrow at first flush of dawn, you hear? A moment later than that and I’ll have you running in full mail all day long, so be sure it’s yet dark when you get here.”
He stalked away without another word.
Bruce found himself smiling again, and not just because he had been set free. He was struck as always by the man’s sheer, unrelenting truculence. He knew him only as Berna
rd, sergeant-at-arms and nicknamed the Claw—though never within his hearing—because of his deformed left hand. He had heard the tale: years earlier the man had interposed his arm between King Edward and a hard-swung falchion in a skirmish in Wales, saving the King’s life at the cost of his own limb. But where many another man would have died of his wounds or retired from fighting, the sergeant had fought grimly to retain his arm and regain his health, and against all odds, he had succeeded. His hand was permanently twisted into a gnarled claw, but he could still use it for any task that did not require him to flex his fingers, and his bravery had earned him a permanent posting as a sergeant-at-arms in Westminster from a grateful monarch.
Wondering if he himself would ever have the courage to make such a sacrifice, Rob became aware that one of his companions was standing close beside him and he turned to see the nephew of the Earl of Norfolk watching him curiously. “What took you so long to come back?” Bigod asked.
Rob grinned, the Claw forgotten. “I’d tell you, but I doubt you would believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Aye, where were you all that time?” This was de Bohun. “You were gone long enough to have tupped a woman, let alone changed your clothes.”
Bruce’s grin widened. “I did both, thanks to you,” he said. “I owe you a debt, de Bohun. Perhaps I’ll tell you why someday.” He turned as though to walk away, but all three of his companions surrounded him, determined to have an explanation. He let them clamour a bit and then threw up his hands in mock resignation.
“So be it, so be it! I’ll tell you. But I’m not going to shout over all of you.” They fell silent immediately, and he looked around, seeing several people who were close enough to overhear what he might say. He beckoned the others to follow him. Sensing a story worth hearing, they followed quietly as he led them to a small copse of trees on the near bank of the brook that meandered through the castle precincts. He seated himself against the straight bole of a young oak and nodded to them to join him on the lush grass.
“You tripped me well, de Bohun, right into the ditch,” he began. “My fault, of course, for trusting you to walk behind me. I should have seen it coming.” He eyed the youth from Hereford who, although a year younger, was of a size with Bruce and the others. Humphrey de Bohun glared back haughtily, unsure if he was being insulted.
Bruce laughed, then turned to the others. “Well, as you know, I was soaked to the skin—and chilled to the bone. That ditchwater is icy, as well as filthy, fouled with dung and horse piss. So I don’t mind telling you—not even you, Humphrey—that I was feeling mightily sorry for myself.
“As I neared the tower, carrying my armour in both arms, I saw the launderer’s people boiling bedsheets down by the bank of the stream, and I stopped and asked leave to cleanse myself in one of their vats. They thought I was mad, of course, but they mixed a bath for me, with boiling water from their kettles cooled with stream water. That got rid of the stink on me, but my clothes were ruined. The fellow in charge told me to leave them there and they would wash them, and then he threw me a torn old sheet to wear the rest of the way. The sheet was damp on my skin, and I was freezing, on top of which I had my arms filled with my whoreson armour while I was climbing up the stairs in the dark.”
The others listened intently, nodding as he spoke, for all of them lived in the same tower, in tiny, partitioned rooms on the upper floors set aside for squires, and they were intimately familiar with the long, grinding climb up the dingy, twisting staircase.
“By the time I reached the top I was furious—with you, in part, Humphrey, but mostly with myself for being so stupid as to let you walk behind me.” He looked at Percy, with whom he shared his quarters, then went on. “I dropped the armour on the floor inside the door and tried to dry myself with the sheet, but the damned thing was too clammy, so I snatched up the blanket from my cot and dried myself with that, thinking I might never be warm again. Then, with the blanket over my head, I let myself fall straight back onto my cot, shivering like a done man…”
“And?” de Bohun prompted.
“And I was attacked by three females! They must have been hiding behind the curtain dividing Percy’s cot from mine. I heard them giggling just before they leapt on me, but my head was covered by the blanket and I had no chance to see them. Before I could sit up, one of them landed by my head and held me down, pressing the blanket over my eyes. Then they twisted it, tightening it behind my head, blindfolding me.”
For long moments no one made a sound, until Percy asked quietly, “Three of them?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Who were they?”
“I told you, I didn’t see them, so I don’t know.”
“Were they servants?”
“Hardly. Servants would never dare such a thing. At least not without encouragement.”
“And you had not encouraged them,” Bigod said.
“John, I didn’t know they were there until they leapt on me.”
“That is no answer.”
“You asked no question. But no, I have never encouraged any servant girls to be familiar with me.”
Bigod said, “But if they weren’t servant girls … then they must have been…”
Bruce nodded. “Aye, they must have been. Three of the Muses.”
A profound silence ensued, with no one among the stunned listeners inclined to break it. Nine young noblewomen were staying with their parents as guests at the Palace of Westminster, all of them living in the royal apartments and far removed from the remote defensive tower where the squires were lodged. The girls ranged in age from thirteen to seventeen, and the four young men referred to them as the Nine Muses because they were as distant and ethereal as their classical counterparts, kept strictly apart from the avid young men by ever-vigilant and suspicious parents. The name was doubly apt, though, for each of the young women had provided inspiration, at one time or another over the course of the previous month, for at least one of the small group of nobly born squires who worshipped them from afar. The two groups never spoke or even mixed socially, but their eyes conversed eloquently whenever chance brought them within sight of one another, and the amount of silent flirting that occurred on such occasions provided the four lads with much to talk about in the hours between supper and sleep each night.
Now Bruce’s tale left his three companions wordless as they grappled with the implication: the notion that these divine young creatures—or three of them, at least—might be less than supernaturally chaste. It was an astounding thought, for it contravened everything their knightly code had taught them to believe about noblewomen.
“Not this time, Bruce,” Henry Percy said with a slight smile. “This is one of your tales I’m not going to be gulled by.”
“What,” Bruce said. “You don’t believe me?”
Percy laughed. “Believe you? Would I risk offending a fellow squire’s honour by calling him a liar? Not at all. But let me say instead I’ve learned that your imagination sometimes leaps beyond the edges of our little world and our daily drudgeries. How many times have you enthralled us of an evening with your flights of fancy and your talk of women and the delights they have to offer, taking us with you to places in our minds where we would never venture by ourselves? This time, though, it’s taking place in daylight, and I fear the magic suffers without darkness to enhance it.” He glanced to where de Bohun sat glowering at them. “What say you, Humphrey?”
“I agree. He’s a liar.” His voice was flat, the insult coldly provocative.
Bruce sprang to his feet, about to leap at de Bohun, but then he stopped and narrowed his eyes, and he raised a hand to his face, splaying his fingers over his mouth and nose. Finally he leaned forward, extending the hand to de Bohun, fingers widespread. “Smell that, then tell me again that I lie.”
De Bohun scowled at the proffered hand, but reached out and took it, drawing it slowly to his nostrils. He sniffed deeply, then frowned and tensed visibly, and sniffed again, avidly thi
s time, his eyes growing round with the shock of recognition.
Percy scrunched forward quickly on his buttocks and seized the outstretched wrist, bringing it to his own nostrils. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “It’s true.” He turned slightly, offering Bruce’s hand to Bigod, but the young Norfolk shook his head, his features stiff.
“I believe it,” he said. “But I mislike it greatly. This whole thing smacks of sin and unknightly conduct.”
“How so?” Bruce asked sharply.
“How can you even ask that question? It is the deepest and most shameful sin to dishonour any woman by decrying her in such a way.”
“Decrying who, John? I named no one, so who have I maligned? No names were involved, nor will any be. I merely spoke of an encounter with three unknown women. I saw nothing. I knew none of them. I only know what happened.”
“And what did happen?” Percy’s voice was low. “Tell us … exactly.”
Bruce shook his head. “I can’t, because I don’t really know what occurred, apart from the obvious. I told you, I was on my back, on the bed, believing myself alone, and I was naked and unthinking. I heard, or felt, a sudden rush of movement, and before I could move I was jumped upon and held down. I had no hope of seeing who they were. They pinioned me, giggling and whispering. One of them lay across my neck, holding my head down. I could smell the scent she used—verbena or some such thing. Two others pulled my arms wide and knelt on them—”
“You made no attempt to fight them off?”
Bruce looked straight-faced at the questioner. “I know you called me a liar, de Bohun, but d’you think me truly stupid, too? They were girls. Women. Three of them. Soft and warm and wriggling. Laughing and whispering. Climbing all over me. Would you have fought them off? You probably would have, now that I think of it. But I?” He paused, as though considering the question, and laughed. “I made the best of it and did nothing. I lay there on my back and enjoyed everything they did to me. I grew excited, as any of you would, rearing up at them in plain sight, and they grew quiet. The measure of their stroking changed, moving down from my chest and belly as though drawn by the sight of what was there in front of them. And then one of them, the boldest, took me in hand…” He cleared his throat noisily, willing a sudden tremor to leave his voice, then resumed in a calmer tone, his eyes moving from face to face among his spellbound audience. “I think it was the one on my right side, though I cannot be sure. Her hand felt very small, her fingers almost cold. And then there were other fingers there, beside hers. I’ve never been so exalted, and it did not take long. I exploded. The hands withdrew and they watched in silence, not even breathing, as the hardness drained from me. And then I heard a whisper—something I did not catch—and they were gone. I heard their voices dwindling down the staircase.”