by Jack Whyte
“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.”
Henry Percy shook his head in wonder. “Did you not follow them?’
“Follow them? I couldn’t move. I doubt I would have had the strength to stand, had I tried at that moment. No, I did not follow them. I lay there for a time, my head still muffled in the blanket, reliving all of it and wondering what it meant. And then I remembered that I was supposed to be drilling. I pulled on fresh clothes and a clean tunic, and started putting on my armour. By then, though, I was too anxious to be able to buckle it all up properly and I decided to fasten the straps as I went. I ran into a servant on the stairs and almost killed myself and him … And the rest you know.”
“You saw no sign of any women when you left the tower?”
“God, no! They had been gone for ages by then. I looked, but there were only men in sight.”
“By the Christ, Rob, it might have been a waking dream,” Bigod said quietly, all thoughts of unknightly conduct long since vanished and now replaced with an expression of awe. “It could have been, if you but think on it. You were chilled and in pain, and tired. You fell back on your bed. You could have passed out and been visited by a succubus while you slept. A spirit of lust, immortal and intangible.”
Bruce extended the spread fingers of his right hand again. “Intangible?” he said. “I think not, John. Immortal spirits leave no human scents behind when they depart.”
Percy pointed at the hand. “How came you by that … scent? You made no mention of it.”
Bruce heaved himself to his feet, swaying awkwardly for a moment in the heavily padded armour until he found his balance. “I had no need to mention it, and no one asked.” He waited as they all regained their feet, but before they could move anywhere de Bohun barked, “I’m asking now, then.”
Bruce shrugged. “They knelt on my arms,” he said. “I told you that. Well, when the stroking began in earnest and I started to respond, I could tell they were paying less attention to me and more to what was happening to me. The one on my right parted her knees, freeing my arm. And my hand was beneath her skirts. She made herself available to me right willingly … and that was what made me lose control and spill myself.”
“Jesu! And you will never know who she was.”
Bruce smiled. “Oh, I will know, Humphrey, if I ever find my hand in there again … ”
The royal summons arrived later that afternoon, delivered by a household steward who was plainly displeased at having had to spend his valuable time searching for a petty squire; a squire, moreover, who had been in none of the places where a squire ought to have been in the middle of the afternoon. He had finally found the four young men sprawling wet and half-naked on the grassy bank by a deep swimming hole in the stream that meandered towards the castle walls to feed the moat fronting the main entrance.
“Bruce!” he bellowed as he swept towards them, radiating displeasure. “Is one of you called Bruce?”
Henry Percy raised himself on an elbow and scowled up at the fellow, shielding his eyes with his free hand. “What does that matter to you, peacock? We have leave to be here, on our own time and about our own business.”
“Are you Bruce?” The question dripped with disdain.
Rob rolled over onto his belly and raised himself to his elbows, looking up at the bad-tempered messenger. “I’m Bruce. You have a message for me?”
“You are to present yourself in the Throne Room before supper. The King commands you.” The man sneered down at the haphazardly piled clothes and practice armour nearby. “I would suggest you make yourself presentable before you present yourself,” he said, smirking at his own wit, and then turned away.
Before he could take more than a step, Percy surged fluidly to his feet and tripped him from behind, sending him sprawling. The fellow sprang back to his feet quickly enough, his long white robe stained with grass and dirt, and spun around to face them, almost spitting with outrage, but his demeanour changed swiftly when he found a long-bladed sword at his throat, the point pressing beneath his chin. His mouth snapped shut and the colour drained from his face as he rose on his toes, wide-eyed. It was plain to Rob the man had no idea the sword was a practice weapon, blunt and useless, but Percy maintained an upward pressure on the dulled point to keep the fellow on his toes and witless with fear.
“You are what, fellow, a steward? Not a serf, I can see, but a servant none the less, with too high an opinion of yourself. Sufficient to persuade you to insult your betters. Stand still now—no, don’t move—and learn the extent of your prancing folly! I am Henry Percy, grandson of the Earl of Surrey. The smiling fellow over there on your left is John Bigod, heir to the earldom of Norfolk. Beside him is Humphrey de Bohun, who will one day be Earl of Hereford, and the fellow you have just insulted unforgivably with your spite and your surly speech is Robert Bruce, heir to the earldom of Carrick in Scotland and a close favourite of the King’s Majesty. Four future earls, halfwit. Four … earls.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Four solid causes for you to wonder how long you will survive as a scullion, let alone a steward, when we come into our own. Four powerful enemies for one mere fool to acquire in a brief moment of ill-tempered pettiness, think you not? Now get yourself out of our sight. Quick now, without another word, lest you have further cause to rue your stupidity. Run!” He swept up the practice sword as though to strike and the steward fled.
Rob was shaking his head. “I know he was an offensive idiot, Percy, but don’t you think you were a bit hard on him? Four earls, in God’s holy name. We are four squires, my friend, not yet even knighted, and I doubt that I, for one, shall ever hold an earldom.
John never will, I know. He’s Norfolk’s nephew, not his son, and we Bruces are a long-lived clan. My grandsire’s still a formidable man and he must be seventy.” He broke off and frowned. “I wonder what the King wants of me.”
“Probably to do with that Scots lad Humphrey said he saw come in with Bek,” John Bigod said. “If he’s really there, and if he’s young, the King will want you to look after him, protect him from dangerous future English earls like us.”
Rob shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, he came in with another lad—the fellow Percy named. What was it, Henry?”
“Clifford. Robert Clifford.” Percy shrugged. “I know Clifford is definitely there, but I wouldn’t wager on any Scot being in his company. I saw no one.” He looked Rob up and down. “That flunky was right, though. You’d better make ready to meet the King. You can’t go into the Throne Room dressed like that.”
“They probably won’t let me in now anyway. That steward, oaf or not, was a King’s messenger. He’s probably complaining now to the seneschal and they’ll arrest me as soon as I show my face.”
If he expected any sympathy from the others he was disappointed, but Bigod looked at him levelly. “I agree with Percy,” he said. “You had better change into something suitable for a royal execution.”
“Shit,” Rob muttered, but he knew they were right and he went off to change into his best tunic.
Soon after, he was standing in front of the heavily guarded doors fronting the main building of the Palace of Westminster, the Great Hall. He was reluctant to move forward, wondering if the surly steward might, indeed, have lodged a complaint against them. He noticed one of the guards looking at him suspiciously, probably because he was the only person standing still among the tide of bodies shuffling towards the entrance, and so he drew himself up, squaring his shoulders and tugging beneath his light blue silk cloak at the folds of the dark blue French-style quilted tunic he was wearing for the first time. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, directly towards the guard who had been watching him. Without altering his expression beyond a querying twitch of one eyebrow, the guard lowered his spear shaft sideways, just enough to bar the way as Rob reached him.
“Bruce,” Rob said. “Robert. Of Turnberry in Carrick. Son of Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Summoned by His Majesty.”
The guard blinked once, impassively, and raised his spear to the vertical again, allowing Rob to pass through the open doors at his back.
Inside the main doors the vast anteroom was crowded with people, a brightly coloured confusion of noise and movement. Rob stopped just across the threshold, taking it all in with stirrings of awe. This was the first time he had ever approached the Throne Room alone and unescorted, merely one of the throng of hopefuls seeking admission to the world of power behind the tall, wide carved doors in the far wall. He recognized Sir Robert FitzHugh, the King’s seneschal, standing head-down at his post by the high lectern in front of the doors, candlelight reflecting off his thick, silver hair as he consulted his list of attendees. Behind Sir Robert, a sextet of Household Guards flanked the entrance itself, three on either side. Two of them had their hands on the doors’ handles, ready to pull them open. The other four, under the watchful eye of a plumed and polished sergeant-at-arms, stood vigilantly, their eyes scanning the crowd.
Rob made his way to the front, where he stopped, watching Sir Robert as the seneschal dealt with the importuning of a heavy-set, florid-faced merchant, whose equally portly wife stood at his side, frowning. Sir Robert murmured something soothing and glanced away, his eye meeting Rob’s by accident as he did so, and the change in him was immediate. His face lit up and he smiled and drew himself erect.
“Sir Robert,” he said loudly, causing every head within hearing to turn towards the young man. “His Majesty has asked for you. Be so good as to come this way.”
Rob heard the muttering behind him as he followed the seneschal obediently. Sir Robert?
The guards pulled the doors of the Great Hall open to reveal a gathering larger and more brilliant by far than the throng in the anteroom, and in the first moments of what was a revelation unlike anything he had ever seen before, Rob thought he heard stringed music underlying the babble of voices, and his breath caught at the rich mixture of odours and perfumes that filled the air: the unmistakable sweet aroma of hundreds of burning beeswax candles and the hot-waxen smoke from lamps and guttering wicks; sharper woodsmoke from what must be enormous fireplaces; and everywhere eddying smells of delicious foods and spices and the scents of laughing, excited women, all mixed with the musk of sweat and unwashed bodies. He heard the music again, faint and far away though in the room somewhere, but he did not even try to look for the source of it, for the floor was packed with people, many eating, most drinking. He heard snatches of French and even Catalan among the swirling voices on all sides.
The seneschal paused only briefly at the top of the two shallow steps inside the doors to stretch up on his toes and look over the crowd before he reached back and took Rob by the wrist, pulling him along as he swept down the steps into the vast hall, said to be the largest anywhere. Forty feet above their heads, supported by massive, arching rafters atop walls that were six feet thick, the ceiling was masked in darkness that the lights below could never hope to penetrate.
Rob followed on Sir Robert’s heels, weaving in concert with the older man and trying not to step on the skirts of the seneschal’s robe as FitzHugh twisted and wove expertly through the crush of bodies, skirting one group, sidestepping another, and, despite an occasional smile or tip of his head to one person or another, speaking to no one.
They were making their way towards the enormous arched window that filled the entire south wall ahead, its soaring panels gleaming with multicoloured glass, and Rob knew that the royal thrones sat on a dais beneath it, for he had been here several times before. But on those occasions the Hall had been partitioned with folding screens and there had been fewer than a score of people in attendance on the King and Queen, so that the atmosphere had been cordial and relaxed, in fitting with Her Majesty’s gracious presence. When he drew close to the dais, though, he saw that, despite the swarming courtiers in the massive room, both thrones sat empty.
Sir Robert turned sharply sideways, still clinging to Robert’s wrist. There was a single door in the corner, and he led Rob directly to it, releasing his wrist only when he reached out to open the door and step quickly inside. Rob followed him. This room was much smaller, and had two entrances, the second at the rear, facing the one they had used. The only furniture was a single square table in the middle, with an upholstered wooden armchair on one side. The table’s broad surface, large enough to accommodate four seated men on each side, was covered with books, bound scrolls, piles of writing paper, pots of pens and quills, and a full dozen stoppered inkhorns. A heavy chandelier hung over the table, suspended by chains, and the light from its several dozen candles warmed the entire room.
“Now, let’s have a look at you, young Bruce.” The seneschal studied Rob with narrowed eyes, then nodded. “Good. Most excellent. Her Majesty’s tailor has surpassed himself. The Queen will be most pleased.”
Rob felt himself flushing under Sir Robert’s appraising smile, aware that the seneschal knew the story behind his finery. About a month earlier, at Westminster, he had been engaged in a friendly scuffle with Humphrey de Bohun when he was peremptorily summoned to the palace by his father. Running to avoid keeping his father waiting, Rob had encountered King Edward and Queen Eleanor. He had skidded to a halt and had greeted the royal couple respectfully, not even mildly embarrassed. There was no formality or protocol in such informal encounters when they occurred. He was their guest, or his father was, and he was well liked by both of them and returned their affection. The embarrassment had occurred when he bowed and turned to leave them. The Queen immediately called him back and asked him what had happened to his tunic. He was unaware that the back of his tunic, between his shoulders, had been ripped out and hung behind him in a ragged flap. Queen Eleanor, gracious at all times, had insisted that he remain with her while a servant went running to find the seneschal, who was in turn instructed to take Master Bruce to the royal tailor and see to it that he received some new clothes, suitable to his station as her honoured guest. Thus, informally and almost accidentally, was Robert Bruce introduced to the pleasures of wearing stylish and beautiful clothes designed for him by gifted craftsmen. It was a self-i
ndulgence he would take delight in forever after.
“The gathering tonight is for Her Majesty’s pleasure, and the King indulges her,” FitzHugh was saying now in his dry way. “This day marks the forty-sixth anniversary of the day she first heard His Majesty named as her husband-to-be. They were wed in November that same year, in Castile, in the Abbey of Santa Maria la Real, and a blessed match it has proved to be. Her Majesty has celebrated this anniversary every year since then, for, unofficial as it is, she holds the memory dear. Forty-five times, and each year the celebration grows larger. But the King is meeting privily with others at this moment, for the affairs of the realm take no heed of celebrations, and we are to join them—you are to join them—as soon as may be.” FitzHugh hesitated. “Something is troubling you, I can see.”
Rob waved vaguely towards the door through which they had entered. “All those people out there … Did the King and Queen just leave them there?”
“Leave them there? No, that would be ungracious. Their Majesties have not yet made their entrance. Nor will they until the King’s business is concluded and Queen Eleanor announces herself ready. Now, shall we go? Are you ready?”
Rob drew a deep breath. “I am, sir. But for what? What does the King need with me, on a night like this?”
The seneschal merely smiled and led the way to the far door.
Another large room, its walls draped with brightly coloured tapestries that glowed in the light of hundreds of massed candles, some in heavy chandeliers above the heads of the crowd and others ranked in sloping banks along the walls and against the central pillars like votive racks in churches. Leaping flames from a pair of roaring fires in the great hearths at each end added to the flickering light and shadow, for though the summer day outside yet had hours to run, in this windowless room it was night. There was no music here, though, other than the deep, murmurous sound of rumbling male voices.