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

listened to the flood of Gaelic that poured out of Angus Mohr in response before she turned back to Edward. “That was well said, and the two of you well met, he says. He, too, has heard much of you and your exploits, in the Holy Land in your youth and in Wales these past few years. The name of Edward Plantagenet is well respected everywhere, he says. Perhaps not always loved, if one thinks of Wales, but respected even there.”
    “Hah!” Marjorie stiffened as the English King punched a clenched fist gently into Angus Mohr’s shoulder, but his eyes were alight with good humour. “Good man!” he said. “I admire a man who speaks his mind—always have.” He turned again to Marjorie. “Tell him, if you will, that I suspect we could be friends, we two, upon sufficient acquaintance and were we able to converse, and though his time will be much taken up by my royal brother Alexander tomorrow, I hope I might have the pleasure of talking tohim at more length in the days ahead.” Without waiting for Marjorie to translate his words, he inclined his head graciously to the Islesman and returned to join King Alexander.
    Angus Mohr’s face had remained expressionless as Edward administered the gentle punch, but Marjorie was acutely aware of Edward’s unwitting breach of protocol. No one, ever, was permitted to lay hands upon the Lord of Islay. The Islesman, however, had plainly chosen to accept the gaffe, clearly aware that the Plantagenet had committed his sin unknowingly. Now he looked at her, one eyebrow slightly elevated, awaiting her translation. When he had heard it he gazed speculatively at Edward, who now stood with his back to them, conversing with his brother-in-law.
    “I think I might enjoy talking to the man,” he admitted, “though until this moment I would never have believed it. So be it we can find a man we can both trust to translate for us. My thanks to you, Countess, for interceding here, and for your timing. Earl Robert, I am told you are learning our tongue.”
    “Poorly, I fear, Lord Angus,” the earl said haltingly in Gaelic. “I came too late to the study of it. But I work at it, since it is my lady wife’s tongue, and my children speak it fluently, being born into it here in the west, but I fear I will never be aught else than a plodding stammerer.”
    Angus Mohr smiled lopsidedly. “You do passing well, for an Englishman. Better than your English King.”
    Once again Marjorie felt herself go tense in the face of Angus Mohr’s disconcerting bluntness, and awaited her husband’s response.
    “My King is Alexander Canmore, my lord, the man you have come here to meet. Edward of England may claim to be my feudal liege, in that my family holds great estates in England by his pleasure, but not to be my royal one. I am a Scot by birth, as is my father, and Alexander is the King of Scots.”
    The earl spoke evenly, evincing no displeasure, but Robert Bruce was not noted for either his patience or his tolerance, and his wife knew how angrily he would normally have reacted to such provocation, mild though it was. But Angus Mohr was not yet finishedspeaking his mind, and she saw his eyebrow quirk up before he mused, “By your own admission, though, you hold two loyalties, and one of them is to your family and its estates in England. We can but hope that nothing untoward should ever force you to choose between the two. Someone once said—and I can’t remember who it was—that no man can serve two masters.” He held up a hand before Bruce could respond. “I am not criticizing you, Lord Bruce. We all have tasks to perform and expectations we must meet in the eyes of others.”
    The earl’s response was as temperate as before. “And what might change, to affect those loyalties, my lord? The two Kings could not be closer in friendship, allied as they are by love and marriage and mutual esteem. Nothing is like to change that.”
    “Agreed,” said Angus Mohr, nodding slowly and scratching his chin