Hal, useless in the maelstrom of all this and more aware of Kirkpatrick’s smoulder than anything, was almost relieved when Bruce finally called him aside.
‘I have a service,’ he said and explained it. Wishart had rescued the rich royal vestements and even the royal banner and one of the crowns – but they lacked the meat of the matter. They even had, miraculously, the Rood which had been returned to Lamberton in Berwick by a stranger the bishop was certain was a Templar, a man called de Bissot, who had brought the relic ‘in the peace of Christ and for the return of the relic to its home in God’.
But one of Wishart’s notaries had been arrested, which had persuaded Lamberton to quit Berwick; he had no doubt the poor man would be put to the Question and did not want to be around when he told all he knew.
Hal and Kirkpatrick locked eyes at this revelation, knowing the chip of dark wood had been ripped from Lamprecht’s neck and when and where; for a moment there was a shared, intimate ghost of old friendship, which just as suddenly shredded away.
‘I have the Rood and a decent crown,’ Bruce said to Hal when he had drawn him aside. ‘But I need the Stone. And the Crowner, which should be a MacDuff. Because the MacDuff himself is a boy held by the English, there is only one candidate left.’
Isabel, Countess of Buchan. Bad enough that she was hunted by her husband because she had run off, Hal thought bitterly – now Bruce wishes her put beyond any mercy by having her actually place the crown on his head, legitimizing the entire affair as much as the Stone and the Rood and the blessings of bishops. There was not much left for Isabel to affront her husband with, Hal thought – but that would do it.
He had gone to Roslin with the Herdmanston men, riding hard for the place and welcomed by his kin and namesake Sir Henry, thirsting for news, raising men and preparing his castle. Once Hal had been fussed by Henry’s wife and assaulted by delighted bairns, Sir Henry and he and Ill-Made had descended to the dark, chill undercroft and the secret niche built in the floor. There, nestling, glowing red-gold in the torchlight, lay the smuggled Stone of Scone, not having seen daylight for a decade at least. Red murder and treachery had helped bury it from the English – now it was lugged up, wrapped in sacking and loaded on a cart.
Wiping sweat that was not all from his labours, Sir Henry of Roslin took Hal’s wrist in a firm, almost desperate clasp.
‘I am glad, mind you, to be rid of the burden of keeping that,’ he said, nodding towards the cart. ‘I don’t envy you the task of it now. I will come to Scone myself, all the same, bringing men for the King.’
The King. King Robert. The sound of it was strange as a death knell and, seeing the pale, stricken face of Henry’s wife, bairns half-grown clutched to her, Hal finally realized the full measure of snell wind blowing through the Kingdom. Another rebellion – Hal cursed Bruce for it, and for wanting Isabel dragged into his maelstrom.
He said as much to Isabel, heating himself by the big hall fire in Herdmanston after labouring the cart and Stone from Roslin with Dog Boy, Ill-Made, Mouse and the others, buffeted by a howling gale and driving rain so that they had been grateful to roll the wretched affair into the garth and be done with it for a day at least.
She had smiled at him then, all russet hair and green gown and gentian eyes.
‘There was always going to be a moment when this would be thrust on us,’ she replied, with more surety and bravery than she felt. Trembling, she added more to the sickle of her smile.
‘How often is it that a wee Lord of Herdmanston holds two of the three adornments to the coronation of a king?’
For a moment the kings and princes, the great and good, loomed over them, golden, invincible, filling the room like a drone of chanting with the hidden haar of their power. Then, with the defiant tilt of her head, they smoked away and were gone; Hal knew that if he raked the earth and searched through the bright hair of every star he would not find a greater love than the one he felt for her now.
The warmth of it had vanished in the chill, drookit dawn, when Scabbit Wull tumbled down the ladder from the roof, shivering and damp and full of news.
The enemy was almost at the gates.
Hal shook himself from the memory and the wet from his face, while the rain lisped on the stones; in Scone, Bruce was impatient to be crowned king and Hal wondered how long he would wait for the Stone and the Crowner before going ahead anyway. He might desire all the trappings of the Old Style as he could garner – but, in the end, he would prefer the crown alone on his head.