Ironically, he knew that, even as she returned to her gilded prison, she was safer than before and had leverage of her own – he had no doubt that part of the price for her compliance would be that neither he nor Herdmanston would suffer.
But the price was high and, even when he returned to Herdmanston to prove to all there that it was his yet, he felt the bitter cost of it every time he looked at the lonely tower chamber, the dress folded neatly, the bed – and the pardoner’s medallion she had left on the pillows.
Bruce, of course, offered sympathic noises and was struck by the darkness in Hal. Who would have thought Isabel could engender that? He had seen her, too, when Red Comyn and the Buchan had come to the Parliament at Scone to oust Wallace and redesign the power in the Kingdom.
The florid Earl had brought the Countess with him, flaunting her like some stag with a returned hind. Bruce had noted the hawk-proud bearing of her and the despair behind her eyes and felt a stab of anger – there was no doubt Buchan had burned his mark anew on his wayward wife. Yet there was defiance there, too – and loss. Who would have thought the likes of Hal could bring out that in her?
Because of what they had once been, he could see the clench of her and felt a wash of sympathy at her plight – yet the love in it was a mystery he dismissed with a head shake. Almost as much a mystery as the one which had married him and the Red Comyn to Scotland’s fate. The only reason the wee popinjay had been so elevated was because he held a claim to the Kingdom’s throne and the Comyn wanted to wave him as a taunt to Bruce.
Still – he was glad Hal had not been there to see Isabel with Buchan, for blood would have been spilled
‘A strange marriage that,’ Henry Sientcler offered as they ate, and Bruce, still thinking of Red John, acknowledged it with a wave of one hand.
‘Wishart says God may still make it work,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I had word from him in his Roxburgh prison.’
Sir Henry shifted and made a moue.
‘He has more ken of the mind of woman than I gave him credit for then,’ he replied and, for a moment Bruce’s food hung, half chewed in his open mouth.
Kirkpatrick chuckled.
‘I believe the lord of Roslin was referring to the marriage of the Buchans,’ he answered, ‘rather than yer hand-fasting to the Red Comyn as joint Guardians.’
‘Ye are unlikely to plough a straight furrow with that wee man at your shoulder,’ Hal suddenly declared. ‘A more mismatched brace of oxen it wid be hard to find.’
‘Indeed,’ Bruce offered with a fixed smile, neither liking the comparison with an ox or the flat-out brooding moroseness of the man.
‘Are you enjoying the fare, my lord earl?’ asked Elizabeth, anxious to sweeten the air. Bruce nodded graciously, though the truth of it was that he thought the Lady of Roslin too pious for comfort – especially his. Broiled fish and lentils with oat bannocks might be perfect Biblical food for the occasion, reminding everyone that St Andrew was the patron saint of poor fishermen, but it was marginally better than a fast and no more.
He managed to keep the smile on his face, all the same, while he watched Sir Henry and his wife exchange loving glances. Well, Kirkpatrick thought as he witnessed this, you arranged for this loving reunion and I daresay you thought to get effusive thanks and pledges for it – at the very least a decent meal. More fool you, my lord earl . . . there are too many folk who still regard you with suspicion.
‘Where is Wallace?’
Hal’s voice was a knife through the soft chatter.
‘Gone,’ Bruce replied shortly.
Hal lifted his head.
‘Gone where?’
‘France, I hear,’ Kirkpatrick said and Bruce nodded, chewing.
‘Fled,’ he managed between forced swallows of clotted bannock, and Hal frowned. Fled did not sound like Wallace and he said as much, though he was surprised by the thoughtful nod he had back from Bruce. He had been expecting the sullen lip and the scowl.
‘Indeed. The Red Comyn is ranting about him not asking permission of the Guardians – namely himself, of course – to quit the realm after he resigned the Guardianship. I suspect this is because he has designs on Wallace holdings.’
‘Resigned,’ Sir Henry said with a twist to his voice which was not missed. When he caught Bruce’s eye, he flushed a little.
‘Hardly freely done, my lord earl,’ he added.
‘They forced him out,’ Hal said, blunt with the black-dog misery of what he had heard of it. ‘The bold nobiles in conclave at Scone. Not content with runnin’ like hares at Falkirk, they then turn on Wallace, as if it was all his doing. Betrayed because he was not the true cut of them. Now ye tell me they squabble over his wee rickle of lands.’
‘I trust,’ Kirkpatrick said sharply, ‘ye are not casting anything at my lord earl. Your liege lord.’
‘Now, here, enough,’ Sir Henry bleated and his wife stepped into the breach of it, bright and light as sunshine.