Free The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce by Jack Whyte

that is, that they all came here to talk … ”
    “Oh, they’ll talk, my love, you may depend on that. Kings and bishops do little else.”
    “Is it cold in here? Should I light the fires?”
    “God no, lass. It’s high summer out there. Tonight will be time enough, when the sun goes down.”
    She nodded towards a small group of men in the corner beyond the Kings. “I’ve never seen so many bishops in one place at the same time. I know Bishop Wishart, but who are the others? Oh, I know, I met them when they arrived—but I met too many people at once, so their names are all gone and I can’t recall which is which.”
    The earl grinned. “The skinny one in the red cap is Fraser of St. Andrews. He’s younger than he looks and I don’t know him wellbut the King thinks highly of him. The tall man talking to him is not a bishop at all, but he is one of the most powerful churchmen in the realm. That is Master Nicholas Balmyle and he’s the Official—that’s his title—of the Archdeaconry of Lothian, the Sub-Diocese of St. Andrews. That makes him nominally subordinate to Bishop Fraser, but from what I’ve heard, I would not wager on his subservience—to Fraser or to any other prelate. He’s not what I expected. Far more friendly and approachable than I would have thought.”
    “Hmm. He doesn’t look awe-inspiring. What’s so special about him?”
    “His mind, my love. They say he’s more mind than man. I wouldn’t know, but the man is impressive enough for me. The other two with them are abbots—Arbroath on the right and Dunfermline in the brown and blue robes.”
    “Jesu!” Marjorie hissed, astonishing her husband by tugging sharply at his sleeve. “Come with me, quick!”
    She had watched Bishop Wishart nod, smile, and back away respectfully from Angus Mohr before turning to join Fraser of St. Andrews and the other clerics in the corner, but then she had seen Edward of England watching Wishart, too, and as the bishop crossed the room, the English King left the group around him and King Alexander to cross to where Angus Mohr was talking quietly with Marjorie’s uncle Nicol. Marjorie reached them, her bemused husband in tow, just as the two men came face to face and Edward, smiling slightly, said, “Angus Mohr MacDonald, let us talk, you and I.”
    Angus Mohr had drawn himself up to his full height as he saw the Englishman approach, and he answered in Gaelic. “I am Angus Mohr, and you are Edward, King of England … I can see why they call you the Longshanks.”
    Edward blinked, clearly not having expected the rolling Gaelic response, but before he could open his mouth Marjorie laid a hand gently on his forearm. “My lord Edward,” she said pleasantly, “I doubt you speak the Gaelic tongue—would be surprised indeed if you did—and I know for a fact that my lord of Islay here has not aword of English or French, so may I offer my services as interpreter between you?”
    The slight smile on Edward’s face widened. “You may do that, Countess, and I will be even more in your debt than I am already,” he said. He glanced at her husband and winked conspiratorially as he continued. “Few things are more frustrating than for two men to be unable to converse easily together. What did my lord of Islay say?”
    Still smiling but filled with stirrings of apprehension, Marjorie glanced from one man to the other. “Angus Mohr acknowledged your recognition of him.”
    “Aye, and what else did he say? I’ll warrant there was more.” The King’s smile was one of genuine amusement.
    Marjorie felt a tinge of colour rising to her cheeks. “He said he can see why they call you Longshanks.”
    Edward laughed and turned his smile on Angus Mohr. “Tell him I can make no secret of it and that he himself is no dwarf. There are few men at whom I can look levelly, eye to eye. And express my pleasure at meeting him, if you will, for I have heard much about him these past few days.”
    Marjorie translated, then