The Abbey of Scone
The same day …
He made a face and twisted the scar into a snake writhe.
‘Christ’s Bones, that’s foul.’
Isabel’s glance at the King was fouler still as she collected the bowl.
‘Yon Cathar never fed me anything so sour,’ Bruce persisted, smacking his mouth in a grimace of disgust.
‘He never fed you anything worthwhile,’ Isabel answered tartly, ‘and has run off besides. A wee proscribed French Cathar Perfect, heart-afraid for his life now that he has shackled himself to a usurping king declared red murderer and about to be cast loose from Holy Mother Church. Now you have only me.’
‘Aye, speak plain why don’t you? Never bother sweetening it, woman.’
‘You are a king and supposed to be stronger than others. Besides, I sweetened the brew I gave you with honey and spices and it seems to have made little difference to the taste.’
‘What was in it?’ he asked suddenly, his voice quiet; she heard the fear threnody in it.
‘Rue, valerian, fox’s clote, lady’s bedstraw and laurel among others. This is an ointment of radish – do not swallow it, rub it on.’
‘Will it work?’
She looked at him and smiled.
‘It is not a cure for lepry,’ she said, ‘if that is indeed what you have. For that, any blessed water will be as good.’
‘Then why am I poisoning myself with it?’ he demanded, truculent as a babe.
‘Because it will help with the skin complaint you do have, which is common enough and nothing to do with the lepry,’ she answered. ‘At worst the lady’s bedstraw might dye your beard yellow, while the radish ointment, if you spread it on Lady Day, will keep you in funds all year if Hildegard of Bingen is to be believed.’
He heard her tone and lost his irritation in an instant. She had always dabbled in herbs and potions, he knew, but he thought it was merely a mild woman’s interest, like they had in wool thread or good needles. He said as much, while managing to marvel at her expertise enough to rob the patronising sting of it.
‘Better still,’ she answered, ‘is that you can trust me with the secret. That scar is a worry, certes, but there is nothing here that makes me believe in lepry, Robert.’
‘The signs are slow,’ Bruce replied and it was clear he had found out all he could. ‘They take years to manifest.’
That was true, but Isabel refrained from pointing out that the usual first signs were when the appendages started to rot – the end of the nose and fingers. And the prick.
‘I would stop hiding it,’ she said. ‘Once the skin clears, you can let the air and sun to that scar, which will do more than your hodden hoods. Besides – the mark of a great tourney knight is to have at least one scar on the face, to make women swoon and men cower.’
‘Christ, Izz,’ Bruce said, shaking his head and smiling. ‘I should have married you.’
‘Instead, you cast me back to my husband and married an earl’s daughter. That will learn you.’
‘I am a king now,’ he growled, eyeing her sideways. ‘You are not supposed to speak so.’
‘You are a great bairn,’ she answered lightly, ‘who cannot sup a wee grue without making a face. Besides – we have both made our respected beds and now must lie in them.’
Bruce relaxed, tried not to pick skin from his cheeks.
‘Aye – how is the master of Herdmanston?’
‘More bitter these days than the brew you swallowed,’ she replied brutally. ‘His lands are scorched, his castle slighted, his folk scattered – and that done by those he has sworn fealty to. God help him when his enemies get to work.’
‘I hope he knows the necessity of it,’ Bruce answered suspiciously, then sighed wearily. ‘I do not need to lose more good men. There are few enough as it is.’
Faintly through the thick walls, they both heard the sound of the few good men, drilling frantically in pike squares while their women stitched and sewed thick gambeson coats, the quilted flutes stuffed with straw.
‘He will stick,’ she said firmly, then gathered up her jars and packets. ‘Now I must attend your wife in the role you gave me – lady to a queen.’
‘An honour well earned,’ he answered and she smiled wryly.
The last time she had seen the Queen she had been riding a palfrey using a sambue, a sidesaddle so elegant and so useless that the horse had to be led because the rider had no control of it. She and her new coterie were discussing the chansons of Guilhem and pointedly fell silent when Isabel approached; it annoyed Isabel, but only because all the other women were local wives and daughters who should know better – but the court, she knew, had a way of corrupting.
‘An honour that does not sit well with Her Grace,’ she answered, ‘which you might have known. Bad enough I placed the crown on her head without constantly attending her as a reminder of how I was once her husband’s hoor.’
‘God in Heaven, Izzie – moderate yer tongue.’