by Jack Whyte
“Aye, I do … I dislike it, but I understand. And we have made our choice long since, to stay in England.”
“For the duration, aye.”
“For the duration…” Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “The duration of Balliol, you mean? Would you change your mind were that to change, Father?”
The Lord of Annandale shook his head, the gesture studiously noncommittal, his eyes betraying nothing. “So,” he said, “I believe King Edward will be glad to see us.”
Bruce dipped his head, blinking rapidly against a surge of lethargy that told him Brother Reynald’s new concoction was taking effect. “Let us pray it be so, Father.” He could hear himself slurring the words though he forced himself to speak clearly.
“You’re tired,” Annandale said, leaning forward. “Brother Reynald told me not to stay too long. Try to sleep now. I have other things to do … Domhnall, for one. I need to speak with him. Rest now, boy.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ENCHANTMENTS AND INTRIGUES
When he opened his eyes again it was night, and the darkness of the room was relieved only dimly by a dying fire flickering weakly in the grate. He lay still for a while, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he listened to the silence, searching for the sound that had awakened him, but as he lay quietly waiting for it to be repeated, he began to believe that it might have been born of a dream.
Then it came again, a whisper, unmistakably feminine, followed by a stifled giggle from the darkest corner of the room, near the door.
“Who is there?”
Another muffled, furtive sound was followed immediately by the darkness in the corner growing blacker, and even as his eyes widened in surprise he knew what had happened. Someone had moved the wooden screen from the wall beside his cot and set it up in that far corner to conceal them from where he lay, and at the sound of his voice they had blown out the candle there. Now he heard the voices again, whispering urgently, and saw hurried movement; the door to his room swung open and a tall, slim shape, undoubtedly a woman, swung into momentary view in the dim firelight before vanishing into the passageway and pulling the door shut behind her.
Silence fell again, deep and unbroken, and Bruce lay still, his mind working quickly and clearly. Lady Isabella’s young women, Thomas Beg had called them, all of them younger than their seventeen- or eighteen-year-old mistress, and all set to watch him at various times while his physician and Father Baldwin were otherwise occupied. Clearly they had been told to watch over him while he slept, and they had moved the screen or had it moved for them—it was a heavy, cumbersome thing made of carved wooden panels—to where they could do both with the least risk of disturbing him. If that were the case, though, they should have had no need to startle at his awakening and no reason at all to run away. But only one had fled and there had been two of them at least, whisperer and giggler, which meant that one was still there, hiding in the darkness.
He called again, expecting a response this time, but when nothing happened he felt the first stirrings of annoyance. On the point of raising his voice, though, he remembered what he was dealing with here. The young woman hiding from him was from the earldom of Mar, north of the river Forth, and thus it was more than possible that she might speak no language other than her own, the Erse tongue of the northern folk. Keeping his voice calm and level he tried again, this time in Gaelic.
“I know you are there, so come out now and bring your candle with you. Light it at the fire again and then light another one for me, over here.”
Nothing happened for a few moments, and he was on the verge of speaking again when he heard the tiniest of rustling sounds and a child emerged into the dim glow of the firelight and moved slowly towards him. She stopped about five paces from the bed and stood there timorously, staring at him as he looked back at her. He could not see her clearly, but even so her waif-like form reminded him of his younger sister Mary and he reacted as would have done with her.
“You should be abed, child, at this time of night. What are you doing here? And what hour is it, anyway?” He flattened his hands on the mattress and tried to push himself up to sit, but he was rewarded with a blinding pain that made him gasp. He fell back and the pain passed quickly, but by the time he opened his eyes again the child was standing close, one arm stretched out as though to help him. He grimaced and waved her away.
“Leave me be,” he said, hearing the shakiness in his own voice. “I have no need of help.” He drew a deep, steadying breath, and when he spoke again his voice sounded normal. “It’s too dark in here. I can’t see your face. Light your candle at the fire, as I said. There’s a taper there. Then light mine.”
She moved to obey him, but his mind was already ranging elsewhere, wondering why the other, taller woman had raced away so guiltily. He thought he knew the answer.
The child came back, frowning in concentration as she held one hand protectively over the flame of the thin wax taper she was holding. She went to the table the physician had moved to the foot of the bed and stooped over the thick candle stub in the holder there, her frown holding steady until the wick caught. Then, with less of a frown and still without looking at him, she held up her taper and looked around until she saw the other candle in its tall, floor-standing holder on the far side of his bed. She went to it quickly, lit it, then blew out her taper and took it back to its place at the fireside. Then she set about replenishing the dying fire from the pile of logs in the fuel bunker beside the hearth before lodging the heavy iron poker securely among the logs in the fire basket.
Bruce watched her idly throughout, half amused that she avoided his eyes in everything she did, but he knew exactly why she was doing so; she believed her secret to be safe as long as she did not look at or speak to him.
When she had remade the fire, she picked up her candle holder but remained kneeling in front of the hearth with her back to him, leaning back on her haunches and staring into the flames.
“Come here, child. Place your candle on the table there and pull that chair across to where I can look at you.” She obeyed willingly enough, dragging the heavy chair noisily over the stone flags. “No, come closer. I won’t bite you and I want to speak to you without having to shout. Closer. There, that will do.”
She sat down facing him, a tiny, frowning tic between her brows as she finally looked him in the eye, but then she squinted sideways and blew an errant lock of black hair away from her cheek before tucking it back demurely into the wimple from which it had escaped. When it was safely out of sight, she looked back at him and nodded. “My lord,” she said, in a small, subdued voice.
“What is your name?”
She blinked at him and tilted her head slightly to one side. “Mary, my lord.”
“Fancy that,” he said, and smiled. Even without the Gaelic, her voice would have been unmistakably Scots from north of the Forth, but it had a pleasant, vaguely husky timbre, and he had a sudden certainty that her wit, when she chose to show it, would be quick and wickedly barbed. “The first thing that came into my mind when you stepped into the light was that you reminded me of my sister Mary. Mary what? I can see now, in the light, you’re clearly not my sister Mary Bruce.”
In fact he could see now, in the light, that she was not the child for which he had first taken her. She was small enough in stature, but now he could see she must be four or five years older than he had first thought her. And she was devastatingly pretty. A heartbreaker, someday. The tightness of the plain white wimple emphasized the heart shape of her face, and she had high, prominent cheekbones and a wide, generous mouth that looked as though it would laugh easily. But it was her eyes that drew his attention; they were large and brilliantly green in the light of the candle’s flame.
Now she nodded her head slightly, as though reassuring herself that his question had been reasonable. “Mary Henderson, my lord. My father is Sir Gavin Henderson of Thorndell, knight in service to Earl Domhnall.”
“I see. And how old are you, Mary Hender
son?”
She hesitated, then quirked her lips ruefully. “I’m seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” He managed to stop himself from smiling but let his voice express his gentle disbelief. “Seventeen?”
Now she flushed and tossed her head. “Well, then sixteen … But I’ll be seventeen come July.”
“Good for you. And how long have you been a companion to Lady Isabella?”
“Two years, come Martinmas.”
“And how many of you are here?”
The black eyebrows drew together. “What d’you mean, my lord?”
“How many ladies did the countess bring with her?”
“Oh, five of us. But she’s no’ a countess, my lord. She’s just Lady Isabella … Your own sister, Christina, is to be Countess of Mar.”
“True, but your mistress is to be Countess of Carrick when she becomes my wife.”
The green eyes blinked. “So she is … I never thought of that. Countess Christina is the only countess I’ve ever met.”
“And do you like her?”
“Who, your sister?”
“No, your mistress.”
“Why would I not like her?”
Bruce hitched one shoulder in a semi-shrug. “I don’t know, Mary Henderson. You know the answer to that better than I do. The lady is to be my wife but I have never met her. I merely wondered whether you enjoy your life as her companion.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.” The girl’s voice radiated a distinct coolness.
Bruce raised his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, Mary. I did not mean to pry, or to ask you to say anything improper.” He gave her what he hoped was an engaging smile. “I have been stuck in this bed, in this room, since soon after she arrived here and I have yet to set eyes upon her. And so I am curious about her. But I’ll ask no more questions of you … None, at least, that might take advantage of your position.”
Mary nodded slowly, and Bruce returned the gesture equally slowly.
“Who was behind the screen with you when I woke up and spoke to you?” He saw her eyes widen and she looked away quickly. “Was it one of the others, your companions?”
She nodded her head, biting her lower lip.
“Or was it Lady Isabella herself, come here to snatch a stolen glimpse of the ogre she is to wed?”
The great green eyes widened instantly. “That’s not true,” the girl snapped. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because she ran away when there was no need.”
“There was a need! But that wasn’t Lady Isabella. The very saying that it was is an insult.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, surprised by the ferocity of the girl’s defence of her mistress. “How so? I meant no insult—”
“Yes you did! You accused her ladyship of spying on you like … like some kind of thief, and then running away when she thought she might get caught.”
There was no doubting the young handmaid’s outrage, for her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled, and Bruce threw up both hands for the second time in as many minutes. This time, though, he made no attempt to plead innocence or justify himself; he merely waited for the young woman to calm down. When she did, eventually, he said mildly, “This is my house, you know, Mary Henderson.”
A blink of incomprehension, then, “What does that mean?”
“What does that mean, my lord?”
A pause, more of a hesitation, followed that before she repeated, “What does that mean, my lord?”
He blinked slowly back at her, knowing the effect was largely lost with one eye covered by bandages. “It means, Mary Henderson, that I can say whatever I please, most of the time, beneath my own roof.” He gave that time to reverberate before he added, “Of course, most of the time I don’t have to worry about quick-tongued young women jumping down my throat. We have no such young women here in Writtle. Or we did not until you and your mistress came to stay.”
“I don’t— I didn’t—”
“Jump down my throat? Did you not? Pardon me, then, I must have been mistaken, but I was sure…” He stopped, then snapped back with another question. “You said there was a need for your companion who was not the Lady Isabella to run away. What was it?” He saw the sudden, stubborn set of her chin and waited, counting silently to five, then resumed. “Look, you, I believe you when you say that it was not your mistress who fled, but who was it, and why was there a need? I hope you can see that there is a mystery here and that we need to resolve it between us. Because I am a Scots earl in England and this is my sickroom and I could scarce defend myself were someone to attack me.” He saw her eyes grow large with consternation and added, “I am not saying I expect to be attacked and murdered in my bed, or that I fear you or your friends might be plotting against me, but I do suspect that you have fears of causing trouble for someone else by telling me, and that concerns me. If I am right and that is true, then put your mind at rest. Whatever you say to me here will go no further. You have my word on that. Now, who was she?”
She spoke a name. It was indistinct, almost inaudible, but then she cleared her throat and spoke it clearly. “It was Marian.”
“And who is Marian?”
“A friend … My friend … One of us.”
“One of the five, you mean? And why did she need to flee?”
Again the reluctant, almost stubborn pause and then the dam burst and the words came pouring out of her. “Because she was forbidden to be here—not her, exactly, or not really her, but any one of us at all who was not supposed to be here. The old man made it clear—he was very angry with us—but he told us all that whenever any of us was here we were to be alone. You were an earl, he said, and betrothed to our mistress, and you were sick, and if we could not be trusted to watch over you without the need of being watched ourselves, then all our being here was a waste of time and he would make other arrangements and we would not be needed…”
She was almost breathless by the time she finished, and Bruce stared at her, trying to make sense of what she had said. At length he raised a calming hand, palm out towards her. “Very well,” he said, keeping his voice low and unhurried. “First, which old man are you speaking of? Brother Reynald?”
“Yes, the old French monk … The physician.”
“And why was he angry at you?”
“Because—” She stopped, and her shoulders slumped. “Because we were being silly—flighty was what he said. Elaine was here with Marian and me and we were chattering while he was doing something. I think he was mixing your physick.”
“And your chattering annoyed him?”
“Yes…” She stopped again, then shook her head. “No. It was more than that. Elaine pushed Marian against the table and it fell over.”
Bruce’s eyes widened. “She knocked the table over? With the box on it, the wooden box that held the medicinal powder? She spilt it?”
“Yes … and no. She knocked the table over and the box was on it, but it was closed and Marian almost caught it as it fell. She missed, but nothing spilt. But he was very angry. I picked the box up off the floor myself and it was tight-shut, but the old man snatched it away from me and railed at me as though I had been the one to knock it over.” She pouted. “He does not like young women, that old man.”
“He is a monk and a physician, Mary—a Knight of the Hospital, and he is very old. He has little patience with young people at the best of times, even with me, and I’m older than you are. Besides, his monkish training as a knight would have taught him long ago, before ever you were born and perhaps even before your parents were born, to avoid all women under pain of mortal sin. He would have sworn a sacred oath to shun all women—not merely young ones. Besides, that box of powder has more value than you could ever begin to calculate. It would be irreplaceable, were it lost, for it came from the Holy Land long years ago and its like does not exist in all of Christendom. Small wonder he was angry. So he banned you from the sickroom?”
She shook her head tightly. “No, my lord. He forbade
us to be together in the sickroom. We could be here, he said, but no more than one at a time, alone. Otherwise we would be banished.”
“So why did you not just leave? What made it so important for you to keep watch?”
The young, earnest face cleared suddenly as though it had been wiped clean, and Mary Henderson smiled at him, emitting a radiant burst of pure and innocent beauty. “And leave you to lie here alone?” She shook her head, dismissing any such possibility. “You are Sir Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick and our mistress’s betrothed. Our welfare lies with you in the years ahead, so how could we neglect a chance to care for you?” She hesitated, briefly, and then shrugged. “Besides, there is nothing else to do here in England. Not in this place, at least. We would all die of boredom otherwise, waiting for you to heal, and that would do no one much good.”
Bruce nodded, as gravely as he could, flat on his back. “I see…”
A sniff, small and dainty, followed by a fumbling and the appearance of a small kerchief to wipe a dainty nose. “Marian came with a message from Lady Isabella. She was to deliver it and leave, but we started talking and woke you up. You frightened us and Marian ran away.”
“Hmm. And how long will you stay here, Mary Henderson?”
“Until midnight. Then the old man will come back. He sleeps over there.” She pointed towards the corner to the left of the fireplace, and Bruce turned his head to see a plain cot that had escaped his notice.
“It must be nigh on midnight now, I reckon.”
She bowed her head. “Aye, sir, it must.”
“What next, then?”
“Oh! Your physick. I near forgot.” She sprang up and crossed quickly to the table, where she picked up a large clay mug and took it to the fireplace. After wrapping her hand in a heavy cloth, she pulled the iron poker from the roaring fire and plunged its red-hot end into the mug, releasing a dense cloud of hissing steam. She waited until the hissing died away and then rose again and carried the mug carefully to where Bruce lay watching her. She hesitated at the bedside, eyeing him uncertainly.