‘Again, Buchan’s man – and he is sore hurt, but will survive with Heaven’s help and good broth.’
‘Christ be praised,’ Bruce replied laconically.
‘For ever and ever.’
‘I suspect God’s Hand will be withdrawn from him, all the same,’ Bruce went on, flat and vicious. ‘Failure is a poor option in Buchan lands.’
‘Go dtachta an diabhal thú,’ Comyn hissed, looking right and left.
‘If the Devil does choke me,’ Bruce answered, also in Gaelic, ‘it will be a Comyn hand he uses.’
Which was enough of a reminder of Red John’s previous throttling anger to bring the fiery lord of Badenoch to the balls of his feet; he sucked in a deep breath.
‘What do you wish in this matter?’ he demanded, still bristling like a ginger boar. ‘Why for did you call this meeting?’
They sibilated in Gaelic now, the better to confuse any passing monk who, consciously or accidentally, breached the glowering ring of faces and came close enough to hear; there was chanting somewhere, for the celebration of the Visitation, and monks scurried to and fro with little flaps of sound.
Bruce waved one hand and, despite himself, Red John followed it with his eyes until he saw it was empty of blade.
‘Longshanks is no fool and will have learned of what happened. It is enough for him to leave off wondering and descend on vigorous seeking of answers,’ Bruce replied viciously. ‘He will see where your thoughts run, my lord. The Comyn looking to foil the Bruce? He may not consider this another tourney in our personal quarrels – he may think one or either of us plot against him, which has ever been his way. I am loyalty writ large and gilded, my lord – but yourself and Buchan have been a single thorn to him not long since and he will consider you are about to fight him again.’
‘We were fighting for Scotland before you and will after you,’ Red John replied savagely, then slapped his silk-quilted chest. ‘Comyn and Balliol, my lord Carrick, holding true while you waver and turn whenever it suits you. Titim gan éirí ort.’
May you fall without rising – a good old Gaelic curse that Bruce recalled his mother uttering, so that the memory of it made him smile a little; the sight threw Red John off his course.
‘Aye, you have resisted Longshanks fiercely,’ Bruce agreed, ‘so that your wife will be no guard against his belief that you will do so again.’
Red John’s eyes flickered at that; his wife was Joan de Valence, sister to Aymer and daughter of the King’s own uncle. Red John Comyn must be a fretting annoyance to the de Valence family, Bruce thought – almost as much as he is to me.
‘This must end,’ he said flatly. ‘Enough is enough – our feud is ruining the Kingdom, which needs a strong hand. It needs a king, my lord.’
‘It has a king,’ muttered Red John. ‘A Balliol, not a Bruce.’
‘Unmade by the same hand that raised him up,’ Bruce answered and saw the bristling over this old argument; he waved it away with a dismissive gesture.
‘We may debate it until Judgement Day,’ he growled, ‘but the Gordian Knot of it can be cut simply enough.’
They stared at each other and Red John grew still and quiet, leaning back slightly to look at Bruce – pale for such a dark man, Red John saw, with the tight dark green hood framing his face tightly, the spill of it like moss dagged on his shoulders. To hide the scar on his cheek, he thought, from Malenfaunt’s blow – marbhaisg ort, a death shroud on you, Malenfaunt, he thought. If you had done your work as you were paid to this man would not be such a stone in my shoe.
‘You have such a sharp edge, then? One to cut away a king?’
The question made Bruce’s eyes glitter and Red John caught his breath. God’s Bones, he has, right enough, he thought. This Bruce is planning to usurp a kingdom.
‘There is support for it,’ Bruce replied guardedly, seeing the astonished curve of Red John’s eyebrows. ‘More than you perhaps realize. Together we will be a stronger flame than apart – but even without that, it would be better, at least, if our fire was not being thrust in one another’s face.’
‘Are you saying you will stop plotting against us? That there will be peace – or a truce at least – between our families?’
‘I am.’
‘So that you can make yourself king of Scots and usurp my kin?’
Bruce hesitated.
‘So that a king might be found who is better fitted to the task than John Balliol,’ he replied carefully.
‘What do the Comyn and Balliol get from this?’ Red John asked with a sneer. ‘Apart from a royally angered kinsman and a dangerously powerful Bruce.’