Read Online The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce by Jack Whyte - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Whyte
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said, “so I expect miracles from you. Let’s be about it.”
Less than an hour later, looking radiantly confident and not at all matronly, Marjorie of Carrick took advantage of a momentary lull in the buzz of conversation to cast her eyes over the brilliant assembly in the main hall of Castle Turnberry. Everyone present was engaged with someone else, and the hum of conversation was sustained and pleasant. Even the taciturn Angus Mohr was deep in conversation with Robert Wishart, who had been Bishop of Glasgow for the pasttwelve years. Marjorie allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief, at ease, though still apprehensive, for the first time since the English King’s party had arrived at her gates.
They had approached the castle in formal order, a walking thunder of heavy hooves amplified by jingling, clinking metal and creaking saddlery and augmented by the rumble and squeaks of heavy baggage wagons, and no one had said a word until the sparkling, brightly coloured but dusty and weather-worn front ranks had reached where she stood waiting for them. As he drew near, her husband patently ignored the new pavilions on his threshold, failing to acknowledge them with as much as a glance, as though such princely accommodations were commonplace at Turnberry. His countess had watched as the earl dismounted along with the two Kings and stepped forward, smiling, his hand outstretched to bring her forward and reacquaint her with the monarchs, both of whom she knew from former occasions, and with Richard de Burgh the Earl of Ulster, whom she had never met. She had known King Alexander all her life, but she had also accompanied him to London, years before, with Earl Robert and a hundred other Scots lords, to attend the English King’s coronation in Westminster.
As the royal guests and the senior members of their entourage greeted their hostess, all smiles and cordiality, the churchmen behind them climbed down from their carriages and came forward in their turn to do the same. Someone at the rear then shouted orders to the baggage train and escorts to break formation and disperse, and Murdo and his team of ushers moved among them to guide the various contingents towards the areas set up for them.
Angus Mohr MacDonald had stood slightly behind and to the left of Marjorie throughout these proceedings, side by side with her uncle Nicol, and though the Islesman had nodded graciously and acknowledged the newcomers wordlessly one by one as they were presented to him, his obvious lack of warmth and his inscrutable expression had been enough to unsettle her. And so as soon as she had finished her formal welcoming greetings and before any awkwardness had a chance to develop, the countess had invited allthe principals into the great hall, where food and drink awaited them.
Now the food had been satisfyingly depleted and most of the men had consumed at least one drink from the supplies of homebrewed ale, honeyed mead from England, and wines imported from France, and Marjorie found it easy to smile at Earl Robert as he detached himself from the group surrounding the two Kings and made his way towards her.
“Ye’ve done well, lass,” he said, slipping an arm about her shoulders. “Later on ye can tell me where you found those damned tents.”
“You left me little choice but to improvise, Husband. Do you approve?” Her speech had changed from the broad, localized Scots she used in speaking to the local folk of Carrick to the more formal, smooth-flowing, English-enriched variant that she used with her husband. Earl Robert, aristocratic and English-born, and raised in Scotland’s far southeast, spoke Gaelic reluctantly and with great difficulty, and Marjorie had always deferred to his preference for the anglicized Lowland tongue.
“Approve? I was thunderstruck, but I could hardly show my surprise in front of everyone. They are wondrous, my love. And four of them!”
“I thought them big enough to serve as venues for your talks. Supposing,
Less than an hour later, looking radiantly confident and not at all matronly, Marjorie of Carrick took advantage of a momentary lull in the buzz of conversation to cast her eyes over the brilliant assembly in the main hall of Castle Turnberry. Everyone present was engaged with someone else, and the hum of conversation was sustained and pleasant. Even the taciturn Angus Mohr was deep in conversation with Robert Wishart, who had been Bishop of Glasgow for the pasttwelve years. Marjorie allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief, at ease, though still apprehensive, for the first time since the English King’s party had arrived at her gates.
They had approached the castle in formal order, a walking thunder of heavy hooves amplified by jingling, clinking metal and creaking saddlery and augmented by the rumble and squeaks of heavy baggage wagons, and no one had said a word until the sparkling, brightly coloured but dusty and weather-worn front ranks had reached where she stood waiting for them. As he drew near, her husband patently ignored the new pavilions on his threshold, failing to acknowledge them with as much as a glance, as though such princely accommodations were commonplace at Turnberry. His countess had watched as the earl dismounted along with the two Kings and stepped forward, smiling, his hand outstretched to bring her forward and reacquaint her with the monarchs, both of whom she knew from former occasions, and with Richard de Burgh the Earl of Ulster, whom she had never met. She had known King Alexander all her life, but she had also accompanied him to London, years before, with Earl Robert and a hundred other Scots lords, to attend the English King’s coronation in Westminster.
As the royal guests and the senior members of their entourage greeted their hostess, all smiles and cordiality, the churchmen behind them climbed down from their carriages and came forward in their turn to do the same. Someone at the rear then shouted orders to the baggage train and escorts to break formation and disperse, and Murdo and his team of ushers moved among them to guide the various contingents towards the areas set up for them.
Angus Mohr MacDonald had stood slightly behind and to the left of Marjorie throughout these proceedings, side by side with her uncle Nicol, and though the Islesman had nodded graciously and acknowledged the newcomers wordlessly one by one as they were presented to him, his obvious lack of warmth and his inscrutable expression had been enough to unsettle her. And so as soon as she had finished her formal welcoming greetings and before any awkwardness had a chance to develop, the countess had invited allthe principals into the great hall, where food and drink awaited them.
Now the food had been satisfyingly depleted and most of the men had consumed at least one drink from the supplies of homebrewed ale, honeyed mead from England, and wines imported from France, and Marjorie found it easy to smile at Earl Robert as he detached himself from the group surrounding the two Kings and made his way towards her.
“Ye’ve done well, lass,” he said, slipping an arm about her shoulders. “Later on ye can tell me where you found those damned tents.”
“You left me little choice but to improvise, Husband. Do you approve?” Her speech had changed from the broad, localized Scots she used in speaking to the local folk of Carrick to the more formal, smooth-flowing, English-enriched variant that she used with her husband. Earl Robert, aristocratic and English-born, and raised in Scotland’s far southeast, spoke Gaelic reluctantly and with great difficulty, and Marjorie had always deferred to his preference for the anglicized Lowland tongue.
“Approve? I was thunderstruck, but I could hardly show my surprise in front of everyone. They are wondrous, my love. And four of them!”
“I thought them big enough to serve as venues for your talks. Supposing,
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