Twelve parchments he had delivered, each hastily copied and sent here. Six were being further copied here, shaven-headed scribblers fluttering their ink-stained mittened fingers, while six were taken out by large-voiced prelates and thundered from altar and wynd corner.
The shriving pews would fill, soon. Those seeking absolution would creep from the shadows, heaped high with pride, avarice, lust and murder, to dump it at the rood screen in the hope of God’s forgiveness. The sensible sinners would flee.
Dog Boy could not read, but he knew the content of those parchments, the copies flying out to Stirling, Perth and every other ‘guid toon’ in the Kingdom. He had not known the jewel he had plucked from Berwick, bouncing around in the saddlebags of the courier’s stolen horse.
A letter, from the Plantagenet to de Valence:
… to spare Leith for the port, but burn Edinburgh town and so to raze and deface it as a perpetual memory of the Law of Deuteronomy lighted upon it, for their falsity and disloyalty. Also sack as many villages around and burn and subvert them, putting every man, woman and child to fire and sword, without exception, for they are creatures who have defied God and king both.
There was more, all in the same harshness, a great long slather of venom which had been read to Dog Boy when he had been taken in to see the King – as if that had not been shock and horror enough.
Bruce was laid up, propped on pillows in St Ninian’s with a face grey and blotched, peeling and unhealthy with sheen. He smiled as Dog Boy was brought to him, the ruin of his cheek gaping like a second mouth and his hand barely able to wave the fingers.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said into the wide-eyed concern of Dog Boy’s face, while the caring monks fussed, moving awkwardly round the great pillar of his brother Edward, who grunted like an annoyed boarpig.
‘Poison,’ he said flatly and the King fluttered weary fingers.
‘They would have been better at it,’ he wheezed. ‘Besides, this is not new, even if no one knows the cause.’
There was a silence where no one looked at anyone else, for the cause was already on everyone’s lips: lepry. No one dared admit it, all the same, just as they did not dare admit that this might be the end of the King. True, this had happened before and as bad – yet Edward had been made heir this time, just in case …
‘The Coontess would ken,’ Dog Boy blurted and the King managed another ruined smile.
‘She is no longer a countess, but Isabel MacDuff’s treatments were an ease, even though she fed me the worst of potions,’ he admitted, and then glared at the monks. ‘At least she sweetened them.’
He turned to the Dog Boy again.
‘You were daring and sprung a prize from Berwick,’ he said and indicated that Edward should read it. Even in the hot, fetid sickroom the words were rotted with hate.
‘Your reward is twofold,’ Bruce went on. ‘Take a dozen copies to the monks of St Giles and have them make copies and spread the word of this in Edinburgh. Other copies will be sent to all the good towns of the realm.’
‘It will cause panic,’ Edward argued, frowning. ‘Folk will flee Edinburgh like ants from a boiled nest.’
‘And so avoid a death that otherwise would have come on them unawares,’ Bruce replied stolidly. ‘I would rather have panic and mayhem, brother, than the deaths of those I am elevated to serve. Besides, if folk hear what the Plantagenet has marked down for them, they will grow as angry as they do fearful.’
‘The best of the realm’s men are already here,’ Edward insisted. ‘The ones who brought their own arms – men of substance, with a holding in this kingdom and a reason for needing its future.’
‘Not enough,’ Bruce said wearily. ‘I had three earls of the realm at my side – one is run off and two I made myself. The Plantagenet, even without half of his, brings thousands – twenty or more, it is said.’
‘God be praised,’ muttered Dog Boy and everyone fluttered a swift cross on their breast.
‘For ever and ever.’
‘On your return,’ Bruce went on, turning his head to Dog Boy, ‘comes the better part of the reward. I am advised, by Sir James Douglas, that you are a master with hounds, which accounts for your name.’
He smiled, lopsided this time for the cheek-drag was irritating him. Dog Boy saw that the portion of pillow under his neck, exposed by his turning head, was yellowed with old sweat.
‘You and I are auld friends,’ Bruce added. ‘Nivver violet a lady.’
Dog Boy jerked as if stung and then flushed; he had not known the King had recalled that campfire moment all those long years ago.
‘So you are now made houndsman to the King,’ Bruce declared. ‘Before witnesses. When I am well, we will hunt together, you and I, and you will breed the best dogs a king can have.’
Dog Boy had quit the place, stunned by it all. Afterwards, all during the swift ride to Edinburgh, he had been silent and numbed – raised, bigod, to be Royal Houndsman. Dog Boy crowned.