Sim recalled the day before, when Buchan had arrived and everyone flew into a panic, for here was the main Comyn rival to the Bruces standing at the gates and no-one was sure whether he was in rebellion, since he should not be here at all.
Worse still, his wife was here, thinking her husband a few hundred or more good Scotch miles away with English Edwards army heading for the French wars, so leaving her free for dalliance with the young Bruce.
So there had been a long minute or two when matters might have bubbled up and Sim had spanned his monstrous latchbow. The young Jamie, caught up in the moment, had raised himself on the tips of his toes and lost entirely the usual lisp that affected him when he roared, his boys body shaking with the fury in it, his childs face red.
Ye are not getting in. Yell all hang. We will hang you, so we will.
Weesht, Sim had ordered and slapped the boys shoulder, only to get a glare in return.
Ye cannot speak to me like that, he spat back at Sim. One day I will be a belted knight.
There was a sharp slap and the boy yelped and held his ear. Sim put his gauntlet back on and rested his hand on the stock of his latchbow, unconcerned.
Now I have made ye a belted knight. If ye give your elders mair lip, Jamie Douglas, yell be a twice belted knight.
He mentioned the moment now to Hal, just to break the mans gaze on the place where the boys had been. Jerked from the gaff of it, Hal managed a wan smile at Sims memory.
Bigod, I hope he has no good remembrance of it when he comes into his own, he said to Sim. Youll need that bliddy big bow to stop him giving ye a hard reply to that ear boxing.
A sudden blare of raucous shouting snapped both their heads round and the great slab face of Sim Craw creased into one large frown.
Whit does he require here? he asked, and Hal did not need to ask the who of it, for the most noise came from in and around the great striped tent of the Earl of Buchan.
His wife, I shouldnt wonder, Hal answered dryly, and Sim laughed, soft as sifting ashes. Somewhere up there, Hal thought, glancing up to the dark tower, is the Countess of Buchan, the bold and beautiful Isabel MacDuff, keeping to the lie that she had coincidentally turned up to visit Eleanor Douglas.
Buchan, it seemed, was the one man in all Scotland who did not know for sure that the young Bruce and Isabel were rattling each other like stoats and had been lovers, as Sim said, since the young Bruces stones had properly dropped.
For all the humour in it, this was no laughing matter. The Earl of Buchan was a Comyn, a friend to the Balliols of Galloway, who were Bruces arch-rivals. A Balliol king had been appointed four years before by Edward of England and then stripped of his regalia only last year when he proved less than biddable. Now the kingdom was in turmoil, ostensibly ruled directly from Westminster.
But all the old kingdom rivalries bubbled in the cauldron of it and it would not take much for it all to boil over. Finding an unfaithful wife with her legs in the air would do it, Hal thought.
A piece of the dark detached itself and made both men start; a wry chuckle made them drop their hands from hilts, half ashamed.
Aye, lads, it is reassuring to a mans goodwill of himself that he can make two such doughty young warriors afraid still.
The dark-clothed shape of the Auld Templar resolved into the familiar, his white beard trembling as he chuckled. Hal nodded, polite and cautious all the same for the Auld Templar represented Roslin and the Sientclers of Herdmanston owed them fealty.
Sir William. God be praised.
For ever and ever, replied the Templar. If ye have a moment, the pair of ye are requested.
Aye? Who does so?
Sims voice was light enough, but held no deference to rank. The Auld Templar did not seem put out by it.
The Earl of Carrick, he declared, which capped matters neatly enough. Meekly, they followed the Auld Templar into the weak, guttering lights of hall and tower.
The chamber they arrived in was well furnished, with a chest and a bench and a chair as well as fresh rushes, and perfumed with a scatter of summer flowers. Wax tapers burned honey into the dark, making the shadows tall and menacing which, Hal thought, suited the mood of that place well enough.
Did you see him? demanded Bruce, pacing backwards and forwards, his bottom lip thrust out and his hands wild and waving. Did you see the man? Gods Wounds, it took me all of my patience not to break my knuckles on his bloody smile.
Very laudable, lord, answered a shadowed figure, sorting clothing with an expert touch. Hal had seen this one before, a dark shadow at the Bruce back. Kirkpatrick, he recalled.
Very laudable, lord, answered a shadowed figure, sorting clothing with an expert touch. Hal had seen this one before, a dark shadow at the Bruce back. Kirkpatrick, he recalled.
Bruce kicked rushes and violets up in a shower.
Him with his silver nef and his serpents tongue, he spat. Did he think the salt poisoned, then, that he brings that tooth out? An insult to the Lady Douglas, that but there is the way of it, right enough. An insult on legs is Buchan. Him and his in-law, the Empty Cote king himself. Leam-leat. Did you hear him telling me how none of us would have done any better than John Balliol? Buchan tha thu cho duaichnidh ri earr airde de a coisich deas damh.
I did, my lord, Kirkpatrick replied quietly. May I make so bold as to note that yourself has also a nef, a fine one of silver, with garnet and carnelian, and a fine eating knife and spoon snugged up in it. Nor does calling the Earl of Buchan two-faced, or if I have the right of it as ugly as the north end of a south-facing ox particularly helpful diplomacy. At least you did not do it to his face, even in the gaelic. I take it from this fine orchil-dyed linen I am laying out that your lordship is planning nocturnals.
What?
Bruce whirled, caught out by the casual drop of the last part into Kirkpatricks dry, wry flow. He caught the mans eye, then looked away and waved his hands again.
Aye. No. Perchance ach, man, did I flaunt my garnet and carnelian nef at him? Nor have I a serpents tongue taster, which is not an honourable thing.
I have a poor grasp o the French, Sim hissed in Hals ear. Whit in the name of all the saints is a bliddy nef?
A wee fancy geegaw for holding your table doings, Hal whispered back out of the side of his mouth, while Bruce rampaged up and down. Shaped like a boatie, for the high nobiles to show how grand they are.
It was clear that Bruce was recalling the dinner earlier, when he and Buchan and all their entourage had smiled politely at one another while the undercurrents, thick as twisted ropes, flowed round and between them all.
And there he was, talking about having Balliol back, Bruce raged, throwing his arms wide and high with incredulity. Balliol, bigod. Him who has abdicated. Was publicly stripped of his regalia and honour.
A shame-day for the community of the realm, growled the Auld Templar from the shadows, heralding the eldritch-lit face that shoved out of them. It was grim and worn, that face, etched by things seen and matters done, honed by loss to a runestone draped with snow.
From wee baron to King of the Scots in one day, Sir William Sientcler added broadly, stroking his white-wool beard. Had more good opinion of himself than a bishop has wee crosses now he is reduced to ten hounds, a huntsman and a manor at Hitchin. Hell no be back, if what he ranted and raved when he left is ony guide. John Balliol thinks himself well quit of Scotland, mark me.
I am bettering, Bruce said with a wan smile. I understood almost all of that.
Aye, weel, replied Sir William blithely. Try this if ye dont want the same to choke in your thrapple, mind that it was MacDuff an his fine conceit of himself that ruined King John Balliol, with his appeals for Edward to grant him his rights when King John blank refusit.
Bruce waved one hand, the white sleeve of his bliaut flapping dangerously near a candle and setting all the shadows dancing.
Aye, I got the gist of that fine but MacDuff of Fife was not the only one who used Edward like a fealtied lord and undermined the throne of Scotland. Others carried grievances to him as if he was king and not Balliol.
Sir William nodded, his white-bearded blade of a face set hard.
Aye well the Bruces never did swear fealty to John Balliol, if I recall, and I mention MacDuff, he replied, less because he has raised rebellion in Fife, and more because ye are trailing the weeng with his niece and about to creep out into the dark to be at her beck an call, with her own man so close ye could spit on him.
He met Bruces glower with a dark look of his own.
Doon that road is a pith of hemp, lord.
The silence stretched, thick and dark. Then Bruce sucked his bottom lip in and sighed.
Trailing the weeng? he asked.
Swiving began Sir William, and Kirkpatrick cleared his throat.
Indulging in an illicit liaison, he said blandly, and Sir William shrugged.
Bruce nodded, then cocked his head to one side. Pith of hemp?
A hangmans noose, Sir William declared in a voice like a knell.
Serpents tongue? asked Sim, who had been bursting to ask about it since he had heard it mentioned earlier; Hal closed his eyes with the shock of it, felt all the eyes swing round and sear him.
After a moment, Bruce sat down sullenly on the bench and the tension misted to shreds.
A tooth for testing salt for poison, Kirkpatrick answered finally. He had a face the shadows did not treat kindly, long and lean as an edge with straight black hair on either side to his ears and eyes like gimlets. There was greyness and harsh lines like knifed clay in that face, which he used as a weapon.
From a serpent? Sim persisted.
A shark, usually, Bruce answered, grinning ruefully, but folk like Buchan pay a fortune for it in the belief it came from the one in Eden.
We are in the wrong business, sure, Sim declared, and Hal laid a hand along his forearm to silence him. Kirkpatrick saw it and studied the Herdmanston man, taking in the breadth of shoulder and chest, the broad, slightly flat face, neat-bearded and crop-haired.
Yet there were lines snaking from the edge of those grey-blue eyes that spoke of things seen and made him older. What was he twenty and five? And nine, perhaps? With callouses on his palms that never came from plough or spade.
Kirkpatrick knew he was only the son of a minor knight from an impoverished manor, an offshoot of nearby Roslin, which was why Sir William was vouching for him. The Auld Templar of Roslin had lost his son and grandson both at the battle near Dunbar last year. Captured and held, they were luckier than others who had faced the English, fresh from bloody slaughter at Berwick and not inclined to hold their hand.