‘The community are unlikely to choose a new king from any but a legitimate line,’ Badenoch went on smoothly. ‘Else any horsecoper or cottar – or a wee lord from Herdmanston – could put himself forward for it.’
He paused, looked at Bruce with a sly peep.
‘Or Wallace,’ he added poisonously.
‘Agreed,’ Bruce countered swiftly. ‘You should know, my lord, that the clergy favour myself.’
Now there was a flat-out treason, breathtakingly brazen as a lolling whore, so that Red John had a moment, of which he was all too aware, of working his mouth like a fresh-caught fish.
‘Wishart, Lamberton …’ Bruce counted off the clergy of the realm on his gloved fingers, while Red John’s mind raced. This had to have been agreed in a meeting. A plot, by God.
‘So you see it clear, my lord of Badenoch. The tide flows in my favour. I realize that you have your own claims to this, but our feud with it defeats the purpose our bishops urge us to fulfil. That God urges us to fulfil. For the good of the realm, my lord, we must resolve this matter.’
Red John found his voice at last, though it was a twisted, ugly parody of it, hoarse with anger.
‘You dare preach to me of the good of the realm,’ he said, his voice so low and trembling that Bruce could barely hear it. ‘You? You forget who it was who defended this kingdom, who put life and fortune at risk to fight. While you turned and twisted and bowed and scraped. What did we get from it, this honourable fight? Near ruin and imprisonment – I am only lately returned to freedom. Others are yet in peril, who would not bow the knee – Wallace is betrayed and murdered for one – while you, my lord of Annandale, gained a wife and all her lands.’
He paused, breathing heavily; he and Bruce locked eyes like rutting stag horns.
‘Yet I would do it all again,’ Red John added in a growl, ‘for a rightful king of this realm. And neither you nor your threats nor your promises will keep me from it.’
There was silence for a moment, which was only because Bruce was fighting his own temper, beginning to realize that Red John was not about to be swayed and that revealing his compact with the bishops had been a step too far. Yet he was on the path and the only way was forward …
‘There can be a rightful king of this realm,’ he answered carefully, ‘though it requires your consideration, my lord, as leader of the Comyn. If I am crowned, with Comyn approval, I will not be slow with reward – Carrick and Annandale would be laurels to the Comyn.’
Red John’s eyes narrowed; he knew Bruce’s brother coveted those titles, so the bribe was daring, if not a little desperate.
‘Do not oppose the bishops’ choice, whatever it may be, at the very least,’ Bruce added.
‘The bishops’ choice?’
It was hissed out, with all the venomous bile released by a knife in a dead sheep’s belly.
‘Yourself, of course,’ Red John went on, his face ugly with sneer. ‘You consider yourself a rightful king, chosen by God Himself.’
It was not a question and Bruce did not quite know how to reply, caught between his desire to shout it out and the shackles of prudence that had kept it secret for so long. In the end, he opened and closed his mouth a few times and said nothing.
Red John climbed up on to the tips of his toes and leaned a little, his scythe of red beard quivering as vibrantly as his voice.
‘Even if John Balliol is a broken reed,’ he declared, soft and vicious, ‘he has a son. Even if the son fails, there is myself. Even if I fail, there are other Comyn more fitting to be rightful king of this realm than you, my lord of Annandale. This you must know, for even if Plantagenet, that Covetous King, took advantage of the moment, the conclave that decided you were not fit to rule was fair and legitimate even then.’
He flicked one hand, no more, on to the Bruce shoulder, a sneering dismissal.
‘God has a plan for this realm,’ he spat, ‘but you do not feature in it as king, my lord. If you declare yourself openly as the usurping bastard you are in secret, you will find a Comyn opposing you at every turn.’
The flick tipped the pan of it, the arrogant sneer of it bringing the memory of when Red John had grabbed him by the throat – Jesu, actually laid hands on an Earl of Carrick. The rage filled Bruce, consumed him, for what he had failed to do then and what had burned him ever since when he thought of it.
He was aware of a bright, white light with a voice at the centre, which might have been God or Satan but was polite as a prelate’s servant as it put the question to him. He felt the dagger hilt under his hand, had it out and slammed into the ribs of the posturing little popinjay who opposed him, all in the time it took to answer ‘yes’.