So I am fallen back on heretics and fables of Templar treasures, he thought, pushing away from the table and walking to the slit window, hands behind his back and twisting this way and that. And two auld dugs …
Far out on the green beyond the castle rock, horsemen galloped back and forth – four hundred at least, lances glittering. It was an illusion, all the same – and one Bruce had used to his advantage more than once – for these were no knights, nor even armoured serjeants. They were mounted infantry in padded coats with long, wicked spears, who finally came together like a flock of sparrows, hurling from their shaggy garrons to form up in a thick block bristling with twelve-foot pikes while the horse-holders led away fistfuls of excited, plunging mounts.
There was confusion, a few fell here and there and even from this distance, Bruce fancied he could hear the poisonous roars of their vintenars, each one determined that their twenty-man command would not be a disgrace.
He craned to see better, but could not distinguish anyone and certainly not Jamie Douglas, who was simply one man in the crowd of them. Closest to the pennant, certes, Bruce thought. At least his block has proper arms and not merely long poles – he wondered if Kirkpatrick and Hal of Herdmanston would succeed and vowed more candles to St Malachy to ensure that they did.
There was a flurry behind him and he heard mutter, turning to see his chaplain Thomas Daltoun scurrying up. Come to give the King confession? It was not on any list Bruce remembered and he frowned.
‘Your brother is here, my lord,’ the chaplain declared and Bruce’s frown started to become painful over his eyes. Edward here? He had been sent to Stirling to prosecute the siege – had demanded the command, in fact, and Bruce had relented, for he knew that he had a trinity of troublesome commanders on his hands, not just Randolph and Douglas vying for glory.
He had thought Edward wanted to devise some equally cunning and glorious way to take Stirling and, if he dared admit it, had manufactured that ploy as surely as he had pitted Randolph against Douglas for the same reason.
But Edward was here in Edinburgh – surely he could not have taken Stirling by storm?
He came in, big and bluff and broad. He nodded to the exiting Chancellor but his usual beaming grin seemed forced and Bruce grew apprehensive.
‘Brother,’ he said, ignoring – as he always did – the lack of protocol Edward used. ‘You have news of Stirling – Mowbray is in chains, the fortress is ours and your glory outshines all others.’
‘It is your glory I am polishing,’ Edward declared grimly, and then glanced pointedly at Daltoun. Bruce said nothing and, eventually, Edward took the hint, though he scowled at the favour shown the chaplain. He took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into freezing water – and now Bruce was frankly afraid.
‘Mowbray is on his way south to English Edward,’ his brother said quickly, as if anxious to spit the words from him before his mouth was stopped up. ‘He carries news of the truce we made, him and I, that Stirling will be surrendered if not relieved by an English army by the Feast of the Nativity of St John.’
The words hung like black smoke, slowly dissipating. Bruce blinked and his head reeled with it, could only gape at his brother and, gradually, felt the thunder in his temples as his brother’s cool, challenging stare would not be broken.
Daltoun shrank as the moment stretched and seemed to thrum like a taut rope.
‘What were you thinking, brother?’ Bruce asked eventually, his voice trembling. ‘Were you thinking?’
Edward flushed a little and the arrowed furrow between his eyes deepened – but he held his temper, which amazed Daltoun and confused his brother.
‘I was thinking that something had to be done,’ he answered slowly and Bruce gave a strangled gasp.
‘Something was done,’ he roared, before catching himself and standing, breathing heavily, his face a strange mask of red flush and unhealthy pallor; Daltoun, fascinated, saw the cicatrice bead with clear drops.
‘You issued an ultimatum to the Scots still with the Plantagenet,’ Edward declared truculently and Bruce exploded.
‘I did,’ he bellowed. ‘I did, brother. I tied the Plantagenet to a time. Now you have shackled me to a place. Have you gone mad, brother? Do you think YOU are king here?’
The French was spat out so that Daltoun swore he saw the words form in the air, though it might, he concluded afterwards, simply have been spit. But the last statement lurched out like a sick dog and sat there festering while the air twisted and coiled between the two.
It was what he wanted, Bruce thought bitterly, wildly. He is not content with Carrick, my last brother …
Edward Bruce leaned forward on the balls of his feet and, for a wild moment, Daltoun thought he was about to do the unthinkable and assault his brother. Assault the King …
‘The opposite, brother,’ Edward replied, sinking back a little, his voice sibilant-soft. ‘I thought to secure you the throne.’