Tibbers had been added to Dalswinton and Caerlavrock, all castles swept up by the Bruce mesnie, as if desperate to stamp authority on what had happened – all but this one had been burned entirely, which would have made Tibbers singular enough.
More importantly, it was where Bruce woke up as if from a sleep, started issuing orders to his scowling brother, who had become used to independent command and now had to knuckle to it; he had been sent off with the other Bruce brothers to secure Ayr as a sop.
Now Bruce was feverishly explaining to a barely comprehending John Seton that Tibbers must be held by him, for it could not easily be slighted. The faces the desperate John Seton glanced at were less than helpful – the Lindsays, Bruce’s taciturn nephew Thomas Randolph, Crawford of Ayr all presented the same stare, flat and iron as a shield. Even his own kin, Alexander and the grim Christopher Seton, seemed to grin ferally back at him, offering no help.
He is out of his depth, Hal thought, seeing John Seton’s white face. We all are – burning out the Comyn stronghold of Dalswinton, capturing Tibbers and all the rest was simply thrashing about and achieving nothing. They could not afford to garrison other than Tibbers and had ruined the rest, which only annoyed the owners into the English camp.
Blinded by Comyn, Hal thought and did not realize he had muttered it aloud until the silence fell and he became aware of the eyes on him.
‘You have something to say, my lord of Herdmanston?’
The voice was clenched as a fist, the hood-shrouded face glowering and both were the mark of the new Bruce, emerged like a foul phoenix from the aftermath of Red Comyn’s murder.
‘You are fixed on the Comyn,’ Hal declared, realizing the mire he had walked himself into but plootering determinedly on, aware of Kirkpatrick’s burst-lip sneer at the far end of the table. ‘You are forgetting the English, who will simply come and take back everything here.’
Bruce needed Hal, so he was prepared to be patient, aware that his two hunting hounds had finally snarled and bit one another and well aware of why.
‘Fhad bhitheas craobh ‘sa choill, bithidh foill ‘sna Cuiminich,’ he said with a grim smile, then translated it for those who did not have the Gaelic. ‘While in the wood there is a tree, a Comyn will deceitful be.’
Those surrounding him chuckled dutifully and Bruce let a parchment roll snap shut with a flutter of seals.
‘You must never lose sight of the Comyn, my lord of Herdmanston,’ he said, still smiling. ‘They will come at you sideways, like a cock on a dungheap.’
He saw Hal jerk at that and knew why – Kirkpatrick had shared that confidence with him, a quote from Hal’s father warning of how Buchan would strike in revenge for his wife. He heard Kirkpatrick’s crow laugh harshing into the silence that followed.
‘We lost sight of one Comyn, certes,’ he growled bitterly, ‘who should not have been allowed out of it.’
Bruce spoke quickly into Hal’s rising hackles.
‘The Comyn will require to be rooted out,’ he said smoothly, ‘the young son of Badenoch among them, so Kirkpatrick is right enough in that. Perhaps not there and then, all the same. There was enough blood spilled to affront the Lord in that wee chapel.’
‘Christ be praised,’ muttered John Seton uneasily.
‘For ever and ever.’
It fluttered round the room like the fledgling sparrows and Bruce stood for a moment, what could be seen of his face etched with lines. Then he shook himself like a dog.
‘We ride north,’ he declared, ‘to meet with Bishop Wishart and try for Dumbarton Castle as well.’
He strode brusquely across to the quiet dignity of Sir Richard Siward and stood over him until the man looked up, his gaze cold and level.
‘You have backed the wrong side,’ Bruce declared simply in French. ‘I spare you, all the same, if only so you can take this to the Plantagenet.’
He thrust out one arm with a sealed packet in it and, after a pause, Siward took it and nodded. Bruce took a deep breath and plastered a forced, wan smile on his face as he turned to the others.
‘Now, gentilhommes, look out your finest cloth – you are off to a coronation.’
Hal took the news into the yard, where the others were making some comfort in a portion of the stable that still had roof on it. They had started a careful fire, were heating pease brose and were less than enthused by Bruce’s coronation plans.
‘A bloody hard ride to Glesca,’ Mouse mourned, stirring the pot and savouring what he could see, which was all he would get of the meal in it.
‘Then to Scone, dinna forget,’ Ill-Made answered bitterly, ‘where kings are made.’
‘In the wet,’ muttered Sore Davey, looking up at the pewter sky through the raggles of remaining thatch.
‘Afraid of a wee bit damp?’
The voice brought them all round, the recognition took knuckle to forehead; Mouse dropped to one knee, as if Bruce was already crowned king. Bruce moved in to the lee of the stable, a slight figure in clerical garb following after, pot hung round his neck and a quill and parchment ready.