I did, my lord, Kirkpatrick replied quietly. May I make so bold as to note that yourself has also a nef, a fine one of silver, with garnet and carnelian, and a fine eating knife and spoon snugged up in it. Nor does calling the Earl of Buchan two-faced, or if I have the right of it as ugly as the north end of a south-facing ox particularly helpful diplomacy. At least you did not do it to his face, even in the gaelic. I take it from this fine orchil-dyed linen I am laying out that your lordship is planning nocturnals.
What?
Bruce whirled, caught out by the casual drop of the last part into Kirkpatricks dry, wry flow. He caught the mans eye, then looked away and waved his hands again.
Aye. No. Perchance ach, man, did I flaunt my garnet and carnelian nef at him? Nor have I a serpents tongue taster, which is not an honourable thing.
I have a poor grasp o the French, Sim hissed in Hals ear. Whit in the name of all the saints is a bliddy nef?
A wee fancy geegaw for holding your table doings, Hal whispered back out of the side of his mouth, while Bruce rampaged up and down. Shaped like a boatie, for the high nobiles to show how grand they are.
It was clear that Bruce was recalling the dinner earlier, when he and Buchan and all their entourage had smiled politely at one another while the undercurrents, thick as twisted ropes, flowed round and between them all.
And there he was, talking about having Balliol back, Bruce raged, throwing his arms wide and high with incredulity. Balliol, bigod. Him who has abdicated. Was publicly stripped of his regalia and honour.
A shame-day for the community of the realm, growled the Auld Templar from the shadows, heralding the eldritch-lit face that shoved out of them. It was grim and worn, that face, etched by things seen and matters done, honed by loss to a runestone draped with snow.
From wee baron to King of the Scots in one day, Sir William Sientcler added broadly, stroking his white-wool beard. Had more good opinion of himself than a bishop has wee crosses now he is reduced to ten hounds, a huntsman and a manor at Hitchin. Hell no be back, if what he ranted and raved when he left is ony guide. John Balliol thinks himself well quit of Scotland, mark me.
I am bettering, Bruce said with a wan smile. I understood almost all of that.
Aye, weel, replied Sir William blithely. Try this if ye dont want the same to choke in your thrapple, mind that it was MacDuff an his fine conceit of himself that ruined King John Balliol, with his appeals for Edward to grant him his rights when King John blank refusit.
Bruce waved one hand, the white sleeve of his bliaut flapping dangerously near a candle and setting all the shadows dancing.
Aye, I got the gist of that fine but MacDuff of Fife was not the only one who used Edward like a fealtied lord and undermined the throne of Scotland. Others carried grievances to him as if he was king and not Balliol.
Sir William nodded, his white-bearded blade of a face set hard.
Aye well the Bruces never did swear fealty to John Balliol, if I recall, and I mention MacDuff, he replied, less because he has raised rebellion in Fife, and more because ye are trailing the weeng with his niece and about to creep out into the dark to be at her beck an call, with her own man so close ye could spit on him.
He met Bruces glower with a dark look of his own.
Doon that road is a pith of hemp, lord.
The silence stretched, thick and dark. Then Bruce sucked his bottom lip in and sighed.
Trailing the weeng? he asked.
Swiving began Sir William, and Kirkpatrick cleared his throat.
Indulging in an illicit liaison, he said blandly, and Sir William shrugged.
Bruce nodded, then cocked his head to one side. Pith of hemp?
A hangmans noose, Sir William declared in a voice like a knell.
Serpents tongue? asked Sim, who had been bursting to ask about it since he had heard it mentioned earlier; Hal closed his eyes with the shock of it, felt all the eyes swing round and sear him.
After a moment, Bruce sat down sullenly on the bench and the tension misted to shreds.
A tooth for testing salt for poison, Kirkpatrick answered finally. He had a face the shadows did not treat kindly, long and lean as an edge with straight black hair on either side to his ears and eyes like gimlets. There was greyness and harsh lines like knifed clay in that face, which he used as a weapon.
From a serpent? Sim persisted.
A shark, usually, Bruce answered, grinning ruefully, but folk like Buchan pay a fortune for it in the belief it came from the one in Eden.
We are in the wrong business, sure, Sim declared, and Hal laid a hand along his forearm to silence him. Kirkpatrick saw it and studied the Herdmanston man, taking in the breadth of shoulder and chest, the broad, slightly flat face, neat-bearded and crop-haired.
Yet there were lines snaking from the edge of those grey-blue eyes that spoke of things seen and made him older. What was he twenty and five? And nine, perhaps? With callouses on his palms that never came from plough or spade.
Kirkpatrick knew he was only the son of a minor knight from an impoverished manor, an offshoot of nearby Roslin, which was why Sir William was vouching for him. The Auld Templar of Roslin had lost his son and grandson both at the battle near Dunbar last year. Captured and held, they were luckier than others who had faced the English, fresh from bloody slaughter at Berwick and not inclined to hold their hand.