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Authors: N. Gemini Sasson
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celebrating the betrothal of Walter and Marjorie was a grand affair. In all my life, I had not seen the likes of it. Indeed, Scotland likely had not witnessed such extravagance since the times of King Alexander. It left one to wonder how much of a spectacle the wedding would be.
Trumpets blared as another course was laid upon the tables. Boyd conducted a virelay in mangled French. Tumblers stood upon each other’s shoulders and flipped themselves into the air to gasps of amazement, followed by rounds of applause.
The only time Robert and I had spoken since my return was at a meeting earlier that day, when I reported about the raid into northern England. Edward Bruce was there as well, but he was noticeably irritable and sporting a black eye. The whole time he said nothing, staring at Robert in an uncommon, brooding silence, with his feet tossed up on the table of the council chamber and his arms crossed tightly. After giving my report, I withdrew to lighter company, sharing my exploits with Randolph as promised.
As the guests ate themselves into a state of indigestion, the night wore bitterly on. When Robert raised his glass to the newly betrothed couple, I could not help but notice that Marjorie failed to smile or look at Walter when he snatched up her hand and kissed it. She was dutiful, if not indifferent, while Walter was suffused with cheerfulness, dashing about the hall to receive compliments and congratulations.
Beside Robert, Elizabeth sat uninvolved, looking spent and frail, with barely a blush to her cheeks. Edward, imbued with the confidence found at the bottom of his cup, went from sullen to argumentative. Christina diplomatically buffered the exchanges that had begun to fly between Edward and Randolph, who unlike me, had never learned to shirk the younger Bruce’s malicious comments as simple arrogance.
“Oh, come,” Randolph began, as he flicked a ringed finger at the base of his goblet, “we would put ourselves in senseless peril by straying there and to what end? We’re threadbare in the middle as it is. We should tend to our own for now. Conquest is for the greedy.”
“But when you’re the object of that greed, nephew,” Edward Bruce said loudly, “you have to slam your aggressors at the back of the knees. Bring them down when and where they don’t expect it. In this case: Ireland. It’s been a base of English supply lines for far too bloody long. And once we have a foothold there ...” – he grinned to himself, nodding smugly – “it will be the beginning of the end to English rule everywhere .”
For a moment, Randolph was utterly speechless. He leveled an incredulous gaze squarely on Edward. “You’re mad.”
Edward pushed his chair back, his fists clenched before him. “Am I, then? Mad, you say, for thinking the Irish would have anything to do with us? Mad for thinking we could gain any future advantage from the venture? Is that what you say?” He slammed his fists on the table, rattling cups and bowls so that their contents splashed over their rims. “Is that what you say?!”
Christina, eyes closed, pressed herself against the back of her chair as her brother raged above her.
Serenely, Randolph held his uncle’s gaze. “I do.”
With a gloating smirk, Edward eased down into his chair. “Then perhaps you should share that sentiment with your king. The idea was his.”
Even though the musicians played on, the talk in the great hall of Holyrood had diminished to whispers. Edward snagged a passing servant and stole a flask of wine. After pouring his cup to overflowing, he did the same for his sister, who promptly departed from the table rubbing at a wine stain.
All eyes turned to Robert.
“We’ll speak of this tomorrow, Thomas ... Edward.” Robert held the flat of his palm upward to indicate to the musicians to change to a livelier tune. Then with the same hand he gestured for the tumblers to clear the floor. Robert gave Randolph a fleeting look that cautioned him
Trumpets blared as another course was laid upon the tables. Boyd conducted a virelay in mangled French. Tumblers stood upon each other’s shoulders and flipped themselves into the air to gasps of amazement, followed by rounds of applause.
The only time Robert and I had spoken since my return was at a meeting earlier that day, when I reported about the raid into northern England. Edward Bruce was there as well, but he was noticeably irritable and sporting a black eye. The whole time he said nothing, staring at Robert in an uncommon, brooding silence, with his feet tossed up on the table of the council chamber and his arms crossed tightly. After giving my report, I withdrew to lighter company, sharing my exploits with Randolph as promised.
As the guests ate themselves into a state of indigestion, the night wore bitterly on. When Robert raised his glass to the newly betrothed couple, I could not help but notice that Marjorie failed to smile or look at Walter when he snatched up her hand and kissed it. She was dutiful, if not indifferent, while Walter was suffused with cheerfulness, dashing about the hall to receive compliments and congratulations.
Beside Robert, Elizabeth sat uninvolved, looking spent and frail, with barely a blush to her cheeks. Edward, imbued with the confidence found at the bottom of his cup, went from sullen to argumentative. Christina diplomatically buffered the exchanges that had begun to fly between Edward and Randolph, who unlike me, had never learned to shirk the younger Bruce’s malicious comments as simple arrogance.
“Oh, come,” Randolph began, as he flicked a ringed finger at the base of his goblet, “we would put ourselves in senseless peril by straying there and to what end? We’re threadbare in the middle as it is. We should tend to our own for now. Conquest is for the greedy.”
“But when you’re the object of that greed, nephew,” Edward Bruce said loudly, “you have to slam your aggressors at the back of the knees. Bring them down when and where they don’t expect it. In this case: Ireland. It’s been a base of English supply lines for far too bloody long. And once we have a foothold there ...” – he grinned to himself, nodding smugly – “it will be the beginning of the end to English rule everywhere .”
For a moment, Randolph was utterly speechless. He leveled an incredulous gaze squarely on Edward. “You’re mad.”
Edward pushed his chair back, his fists clenched before him. “Am I, then? Mad, you say, for thinking the Irish would have anything to do with us? Mad for thinking we could gain any future advantage from the venture? Is that what you say?” He slammed his fists on the table, rattling cups and bowls so that their contents splashed over their rims. “Is that what you say?!”
Christina, eyes closed, pressed herself against the back of her chair as her brother raged above her.
Serenely, Randolph held his uncle’s gaze. “I do.”
With a gloating smirk, Edward eased down into his chair. “Then perhaps you should share that sentiment with your king. The idea was his.”
Even though the musicians played on, the talk in the great hall of Holyrood had diminished to whispers. Edward snagged a passing servant and stole a flask of wine. After pouring his cup to overflowing, he did the same for his sister, who promptly departed from the table rubbing at a wine stain.
All eyes turned to Robert.
“We’ll speak of this tomorrow, Thomas ... Edward.” Robert held the flat of his palm upward to indicate to the musicians to change to a livelier tune. Then with the same hand he gestured for the tumblers to clear the floor. Robert gave Randolph a fleeting look that cautioned him
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