Читать книгу The Complete Kingdom Trilogy: The Lion Wakes, The Lion at Bay, The Lion Rampant - Robert Low - Страница 16

Chapter Five

Roxburgh Castle

Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ, August 1297

A groan; the coverlet stirred. Ralph de Odingesseles waited warily with tunic, judging tenor and temper before stepping forward to the half-asleep figure who rolled over in a rustle of straw and feather mattress to sit upright, blinking, on the edge of the canopied box bed.

Ralph moved to a covered pitcher of heated water, which he poured into a basin and brought forward. He discreetly handed his master a gilded pot and watched it vanish beneath his nightshirt; water splashed and Ralph stood patiently holding the basin, a towel and a clean tunic draped over either forearm; his master grunted, groaned and cocked one buttock to let out a squeaky fart.

Yawning, Hugh Cressingham handed the chamberpot back to Ralph, dabbed water from the basin on his face and his close-cropped head, then dried his meaty jowls on the presented towel. Slowly, he woke up and blinked into a new day.

Ralph de Odingesseles watched him, dispassionate but cautious – Cressingham was not tall, running to fat, had eyes that bulged like a fish and his cheeks were stubbled because a skin complaint made it painful to pumice off a beard and irritating to grow one. Nor did he keep his hair fashionably neck length and curled, as Ralph did – Cressingham paid lip service to his prebendery stipends by affecting the look of a monk, though untonsured, and that left him with a hairstyle like an upturned bird’s nest.

He seemed, in his crumpled white nightserk, as bland as plain frumenty, but Ralph de Odingesseles knew the temper that smouldered in the man, stoked by pride and envy.

By the time Cressingham was in tunic, hose and a cote embroidered with the – as yet unregistered – swans he claimed as his Arms, the whole sorry mess of life had descended on him afresh and Ralph de Odingesseles, coming forward with the gardecorps, was more cautious still. Experience had taught him that the storms forming on Cressingham’s brow usually resulted in a sore ear, which was the lot of a squire, he had discovered.

Sufferance, on the other hand, was better than the alternative for the son of a poor noble. Ralph de Odingesseles’s only claim to fame was that he was related to an archdeacon and his grandfather had been a well-known knight on the Tourney circuit, who had once been beaten into dented metal by the then king’s French half-brother, Sir William de Valence.

Eventually, Ralph would be made a knight and take no blows he would not return. The thought made him forget himself and smile.

Cressingham looked sourly at the smirking squire holding the gardecorps. The garment was elegant and in the new shade of blue which was so admired by the French king that he had adopted it as his colour. Not diplomatic, Cressingham thought, and made a mental note never to wear it in the presence of Longshanks.

He did not much want to wear it at all and, in truth, hated the garment, for the same reason he was forced to wear it – he was fat and it hid the truth of it. It was, he knew, not his own fault, for he was more of an administrator than a warrior, but you did not get knighted for tallying and accounts, he thought bitterly, for all the king’s admiration and love of folk who knew the business.

As always, there was the moment of savage triumph at what he had become, despite not being one of those mindless thugs with spurs – Treasurer of Scotland, even though it was a Gods-cursed pisshole of a country, was not only a powerful position, but an extremely lucrative one.

As ever, this exultant moment was followed by a leap of utter terror that the king should ever discover just how lucrative; Cressingham closed his eyes at the memory of the huge tower that was Edward Plantagenet, the drooping eyelid that gave him a sinister leer, the soft lisping voice and the great, long arms. He shuddered. Like the grotesque babery carved high up under cathedral eaves and just as unpredictably vicious as those real apes.

He slapped Ralph de Odingesseles for it, for the smirk, for Edward’s drooping eye and this Pit-damned brigand Wallace and for having to wait in this pestilential place for the arrival of De Warenne, the Earl of Surrey.

He slapped the other ear for the actual arrival of De Warenne, the hobbling old goat complaining of the cold and his aches and the fact that he had been trying to retire to his estates, being too old for campaigning now.

Cressingham had no argument with this last and slapped Ralph again because De Warenne had not had the decency to die on his way north with the army, thus leaving Cressingham the best room in Roxburgh, with its fire and clerestory.

Worst of all, of course, was the mess all this would leave – and the cost. Gods, the cost … Edward would balk at the figures, he knew, would want his own inky-fingered clerks poring over the rolls. There was no telling what they might unveil and the thought of what the king would do then almost made Cressingham’s bowels loosen.

Ralph de Odingesseles, trying not to rub his ears, went to the kist in the corner and fetched out a belt with dagger, purse and Keys, the latter the mark of Cressingham’s position as Treasurer, designed to elicit instant respect.

Like most such observances, the truth was veiled, like statues of the Lady on her Feast Days; everyone knew the Scots called Cressingham the ‘Tracherer’ and you did not need to know much of the barbaric tongue to know it meant ‘Treacherer’ and was a play on his title.

Yet he was also the most powerful in Scotland, simply because he held the strings of the purse Ralph now handed him.

He helped fasten on the belt, then adjusted his master’s arms in the sleeves of the long, loose gardecorps; Cressingham consoled himself with the fact that at least his gardecorps was refined. No riotous colours here, no gold dagging along the hem, or long slits up the sides, or three-foot tippets. Plain black, with russet vair round the sleeves and neck, as befitted someone of probity and dignity.

‘I will break fast now,’ Cressingham said and Ralph de Odingesseles nodded, took a step back and bowed.

‘The Seneschal is here. Brother Jacobus also.’

Cressingham frowned and swallowed a curse – couldn’t they at least let him wake up and eat a little? He waved his page away to fetch food and told him to let the Seneschal in, then went to brood at the shuttered window, peering through the cracks rather than open it to the breeze – even in August it was cold. Outside, the river flowed, gleaming as quicksilver and he took comfort from the Teviot on one side and the Tweed on the other, so that the castle seemed to sail on a sea, a boat-shaped confection in stone.

Roxburgh was a massive, thick-walled fortress with four towers and a church within the walls. Cressingham’s room was on a corner of the main Keep overlooking the Inner Bailey and, because of that, had a proper window of leaded glass rather than the shuttered arrow slits that faced the outside. The other sides of his room bordered on a corridor, so there were no windows at all, which made it dim and dark. Not for the first time, Cressingham thought of the light-flooded solar tower and its magnificent floor tiles, where De Warenne had installed himself.

A polite cough turned him and the Seneschal, Frixco de Fiennes, stood, waiting patiently in his sober browns and greens.

‘Christ be praised,’ Frixco de Fiennes said and Cressingham grunted.

‘For ever and ever,’ he responded automatically. ‘What problems have surfaced this early in the day?’

Frixco had been up for several hours and all the lesser folk of the castle hours before that. Half the day was gone as far as Frixco was concerned and he had already dealt with most of the castle’s problems – the cook needing the day’s salt and spices, the Bottler warning that immediate ale stocks were low and small beer lower still.

The other problems he had no answer for were worse -supplies for the 10,000 men currently filtering through Berwick and heading this way, the timber to the workmen scaffolding the Teviot wall in order for minor repairs to be done, men to make spears and quarrels and bows. Where grain for bread was to come from, or fodder for animals, or bedding for horse and hound.

‘The world turns, Treasurer,’ he replied. He should properly have addressed Cressingham as Lord but that was a step too far for the fine-bred Frixco de Fiennes, who was brother to the Warden here. Frixco, however, was not brave, or clever. He should have gone to the Church but liked women too much even to suffer the slight restriction priesthood would place on his whoring – the thought of the splendid Mattie down at the Murdoch’s Tavern in the town tightened his groin so much he almost bent over, convinced it could be seen.

Seneschal here was perfect, for it let him use his skills in tallying and reading and writing in English, French and Latin while leaving him free to plough whatever furrows he could find.

He laid out the problems as Ralph de Odingesseles returned with bread and dishes of mutton, pork and fish. The squire poured watered wine and Frixco stood while Cressingham chewed and swallowed, toying absently with the bread as he walked to the shuttered window and, finally, opened it to the day. Behind him, sly as a mouse, Ralph filched slices of meat and fish, popping it in his mouth at once and ignoring the frowning Frixco.

There was Stirling, one of the main fortresses still held by England. Frixco meticulously listed the castle stores there – 400 barrels of beer, four of honey, 300 of fat, 200 sides of beef, pork and tongue, a single barrel of butter, 10 each of pickled meat and herring, seven of cod, 24 strings of sausages, two barrels of salt and 4,000 cheeses.

‘Enough for six to eight months,’ Frixco de Fiennes ended, ‘given that the garrison is not large. I have assumed that the townsfolk will seek sanctuary within.’

‘If we do not succour the town?’ Cressingham asked and the Seneschal looked astonished at the very idea of not taking in Stirling’s desperate. That was the purpose of the castle, one of the three such purposes fortresses were designed for. One was as a base for the destruction of enemies, the second was the succour of guests and pilgrims and people in their charge and the third was to stamp the authority of the king on the area.

Frixco de Fiennes said nothing, all the same, for he knew that Stirling should have had stores for two years, but complacency and greed had corroded that. In the end, Cressingham gave up expecting a reply.

‘The townspeople of Stirling must work if they wish the protection of the fortress,’ Cressingham declared. ‘Make it clear to them that rations will be given to those who volunteer for service.’

Frixco duly made a note, tongue between his teeth, juggling parchment and quill and the ink pot hung round his neck, though he knew Cressingham only did this because the commander at Stirling was Fitzwarin, a relative of the Earl of Surrey.

Frixco had already delivered lists to Cressingham regarding Roxburgh itself, which should have made it clear to the man how unlikely it was that any castle in Scotland could fully equip enough townspeople – Roxburgh had 100 iron helmets, 17 maille tunics cut for riding, seven pairs of metal gauntlets, two sets of vambrace and a single cuisse. What use a solitary thigh guard? Frixco wondered. And if one was found – what use a one-legged knight?

‘My lord.’

Ralph was back, announcing that the Earl of Surrey and Sir Mamaduke Thweng were in the main hall, awaiting Cressingham’s pleasure. Brother Jacobus had joined them.

The scathe of it lashed Cressingham, so that he scowled. My pleasure, indeed. He was tempted to let them wait – two tottering old warhorses, he thought viciously, though he had to temper that in Sir Marmaduke’s case, since he was younger than De Warenne by a decade or more and still held a formidable reputation as a chivalric knight. Muttering, he swept from his room.

The three sat at the high table benches in the huge hall, misted with faint blue smoke from badly lit fires and empty but for De Warenne, Sir Marmaduke and Brother Jacobus, Cressingham’s chaplain from the Ordo Praedicatorum.

Before Cressingham had even slippered his way across the flagged floor, Frixco scuttling behind him, he could hear De Warenne’s complaints, saw that Thweng stared ahead, forearms on the table, and with the air of a man shouldering through a snowstorm while Brother Jacobus, piously telling his rosary, listened without seeming to listen.

‘Plaguey country,’ the Earl of Surrey was saying, then broke off and looked up at Cressingham with watery, violet-rimmed eyes.

‘Here you are at last, Treasurer,’ he snapped. ‘Did you plan to sleep all day?’

‘I have been busy,’ Cressingham fired back, stung by his tone. ‘Trying to sort out the feeding and equipping of this rabble you have brought, claiming it to be an army.’

‘Rabble, sirra? Rabble …’

De Warenne bristled. His trimmed white beard was shaped into a curve and pointed; with his round arming cap he looked like some old Saracen, Cressingham thought.

‘Good nobiles, chided Brother Jacobus and the soft voice stilled everything. De Warenne muttered, Sir Marmaduke went back to staring at nothing and Cressingham almost smiled, though he resisted the triumph of it, for fear the priest would notice. Domini canes – God’s Dogs – folk called the Order of Preachers, but not to their face, since they had been given the papal permission to preach the Word and root out heresy, a wide and sinister writ.

Now this bland-faced little man sat in his frosting of habit and jet cappa, the over-robe that gave them yet another name, Black Friars. He let the polished rosewood beads slip, sibilant as whispers, through his fingers.

Shaven and washed so clean his face seemed to shine like a white rose, Jacobus was, Cressingham knew, using the rosary as a pointed reminder to everyone that this was the Thursday of the Transfiguration of Christ, one of the days of Luminous Mystery. He also knew those beads were just as easily used to tally and list in the service of the Treasurer; if Jacobus was a hound of God, Cressingham thought, then he is kennelled at my command – though it would be prudent to check his chain now and then.

The beads, click-clicking through the friar’s smooth fingers, brought tallying surging back to Cressingham.

‘Gascons,’ he declared viciously, startling De Warenne out of a slump so suddenly he could not form a response; the air hissed out of the Earl and he gobbled like a chicken.

‘Three hundred crossbows from Gascony,’ Cressingham went on accusingly. ‘Now more than half have no crossbows.’

‘Ah,’ said De Warenne. ‘The carts. Missing. Lost. Strayed.’

‘It was the Earl of Surrey’s quite proper military decision,’ Sir Marmaduke said suddenly, his voice a slice across them both, ‘to relieve the march burden on the Gascons by loading their equipment on wagons. After all, they were not to need it until Berwick, at least – unless your reports were misleading about the extent of the rebel problem and it was possible to have encountered this huge ogre Wallace somewhere around York.’

Cressingham opened and closed his mouth. De Warenne barked a short laugh.

‘Ogre,’ he repeated. ‘I am told he is as large as Longshanks – what say you to that, eh, Cressingham? As big as the king?’

Cressingham did not take his eyes from the long-faced Thweng. Like a mile of bad road in England – or two miles of good in Scotland, he thought.

‘What I say, my lord Earl,’ he said, biting the words off as if they had been dipped in aloes, ‘is that you claim some eight hundred horse and ten thousand foot on the rolls. If they are all as good as your Gascons, we may as well quit this land now.’

‘Equip them with new,’ De Warenne snapped back, waving one hand. ‘Make ‘em if you have none in stores.’

‘We have sixty crossbows only here,’ Frixco murmured.

‘Make ‘em bowmen then – one is as good as the other.’

‘We have some fifteen thousand arrows, my lord,’ Frixco declared humbly, ‘but only one hundred bows.’

‘Then make the damned crossbows,’ bellowed De Warenne. ‘Ye have wood and string, d’ye not? Folk who know the way of it?.

Cressingham’s jowls quivered, but he closed his mouth with a click as Jacobus cleared his throat.

‘If it please you, Lord Earl,’ the friar said, ‘we are short on sturgeon heads, flax threads and elk bones.’

De Warenne blinked. He knew flax was used in the making of the bowstrings, but had no idea why a crossbow needed elk bones or, God’s Wounds, sturgeon heads. All he knew of crossbows was that the lower orders could use them without much training. He roared this out, to the satisfaction of the smirking Cressingham.

‘One is for the sockets,’ Brother Jacobus explained quietly to the Earl. ‘The sturgeon heads supply a certain elasticity not found from any substitute.’

De Warenne waved a scornful, dismissive hand.

‘What do you know, priest? Other than one of your old Councils banned the thing.’

‘Canon 29 of the Second Lateran,’ Cressingham offered haughtily.

‘I understood,’ Sir Marmaduke said, his lips curled in what might have been a wry smile or a sneer. ‘that it was a ban only on foolish marksmanship. Shooting apples from heads and such. A ban on that seems sensible enough.’

Brother Jacobus nodded unctiously.

‘Even if it had been an entire ban,’ he replied, ‘such would not apply to use against unbelievers – Moor and Saracen and the like. Happily, English bishops have declared the Scots rebels excommunicate, which means we may use these anathema weapons freely.’

‘Unhappily,’ Thweng replied dryly, ‘I believe Scotch bishops have excommunicated us, which means the rebels can point them our way, too. The Pope is silent on the matter.’

Jacobus looked at Thweng. It was a look that had seldom failed to make folk quail, combining, as it did, displeasure and pious pity. Sir Marmaduke merely stared back at him, eyes blank and glassed as the black friar’s beads.

Sturgeon bones, De Warenne thought wildly. God’s Wounds, this whole enterprise could fall because we don’t have enough fish heads.

Men and food, the endless problem since armies had started marching. De Warenne felt the crushing weariness of it all – the whole business of this pestilential country was a clear message that Longshanks had displeased God and He had turned His Wrath on them. More to the point, De Warenne thought sourly, Longshanks has displeased the likes of me and, one day soon, I will turn my wrath on him, together with all the other lords fretting under the divine right.

Yet the king was not the throne and De Warenne, Earl of Surrey would defend that to the death. His grandfather had been uncle to the Lionheart himself, his father had been Warden of the Cinque Ports and every De Warenne had been a bulwark against the foes of God, for whoever attacked the throne of England assaulted God Himself. John De Warenne, Earl of Surrey, Warden of Scotland, would hold His Fortress against all the rebel scum of the earth.

The thought drew him up a little, even as a cold wind curled the length of the hall, stirring the smoke into swirls and eddies.

Strike north. Find this Wallace and cut him down shorter than Longshanks, so that the king would be pleased with his earl at that. The thought made De Warenne bark out a laugh.

‘Then there are the Welsh,’ Cressingham declared and De Warenne looked at him with a curled lip. Like a fly, he thought, buzz-buzzing in the ear. One good slap …

‘What of the Welsh?’ Sir Marmaduke asked and watched as Cressingham fussily arranged his blue robe – bad choice of colour for a pasty man, Thweng thought – and imperiously waved at some distant servant. An instant later a man slouched through the far door from the kitchen and across the floor to be eyed up and down. He studied them back from a face dark as an underground dwarf, black-eyed and challenging.

A fist of a face, the beard on it cropped to stubble, but with a great gristle of moustache, as if some giant black caterpillar had crawled under his nose. Cheekbones like knobs and a single scowl of eyebrow – typical Welsh, Sir Marmadule thought, from the south, where the archers are, for the north are mainly spearmen. He said so and De Warenne nodded. Cressingham pouted and scowled.

‘Look at him,’ he said, quivering. ‘Look at what he is wearing.’

Not much, Sir Marmaduke thought – a ragged linen tunic in a distant memory of red, a great shock of dark hair like a sprout of bush on a rock. Nothing on his legs but his bare feet, though there were shoes hung round his neck. He had a leather bracer on one arm, a bow the same size as himself in a bag of some strange-looking leather and a soft bag of the same hanging from one side of a belt, a long, wicked-looking sheathed knife from the other.

In the bag at his hip were arrows, though they were all neatly separated by leather to keep the fletchings from fouling, and the way the bag swung told Sir Marmaduke that it had damp clay shaped to the bottom of it, to prevent the points bursting through.

Across the powerful shoulders, one humped slightly as if he was deformed, hung a long roll and fall of rough wool fabric which had been russet-brown once and was now just dark.

‘A Welsh archer,’ Sir Marmaduke said, ‘with bow, a dozen good arrows and a knife. The thing round his shoulders is a called a brychan if I am not mistaken. Serves as cloak and bed both.’

‘Well, you would know that, certes,’ Cressingham declared with a sneer, ‘since you have spent a deal of your life fighting such. No help in present cirumstances, mark me.’

‘Is there a point to this, Treasurer?’ De Warenne sighed. Cressingham made a show of plucking a paper from Frixco’s fingers.

‘Item,’ he said. ‘Welsh archer, cap-a-pied, with a warbow of yew, one dozen goose-fletched arrows, a sword and a dagger.’

He thrust the paper back at Frixco.

‘This is what is being paid for from the Exchequer,’ he declared triumphantly. ‘And this is what I expect for the price. Cap-a-pied. Which means one hat of iron, one coat of war, either maille or a leather jack, studded for preference. One sword. One yew bow and a dozen finest shafts. That is what is being paid for and that is what we do not have. This man is a ragged-arsed peasant with stick and string, no more.’

Addaf had followed a deal of it, despite their being English, for that tongue was now heard more and more in Wales and it was a sensible man who learned it and spoke it well. Then, he thought, they turn round and speak an even stranger tongue, the French, which wasn’t even their own but belonged to the people they were fighting. Among others.

He had listened quietly, too, for it was also a sensible man who realised that fighting against these folk was now old and done, though the defeat in it was still a raw wound no more than a handful of years gone. Yet taking their money to fight with them was almost as good a revenge for Builth and the loss of Llewellyn and better than starving in the ruin war had made of the valleys.

Yet peasant was too hard for a man of those same valleys to bear.

‘I am Addaf ap Dafydd ap Math y Mab Lloit Irbengam,’ he growled in English, ‘and no peasant with an arse of rags.’

He saw the look on them, the same as the look on folk’s faces when they had seen the two-headed calf at the fair the year he had left. The fat one looked bemused.

‘Do. You. Speak. English?’ this one demanded, leaning forward and talking as if Addaf was a child. The tall one with the long face, the one pointed out as having fought Welsh once, twitched the mourn of his moustaches into a brief smile.

‘You are annoying a Welshman, Treasurer,’ he said, ‘for English is what he is already speaking.’

Addaf saw the fat one bristle like an old boar sow.

‘His name,’ Sir Marmaduke explained, speaking English, both clear and slow, Addaf noted, so that everyone would understand, ‘means Addaf son of David, son of Madog, though the last part confuses me a little – The Brown Lad With The Wrong Head?’

He knew the Welsh – Addaf took to this Sir Marmaduke at once, for he had once been a bold adversary and he knew the Welsh a little and the English as spoken by True People; Addaf heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Dark and stubborn, I am after believing it is in your own tongue,’ he said and added ‘Lord,’ because it did no harm to mark the trail of matters politely.

‘I am from the gwely of Cilybebyll,’ he explained earnestly, so that these folk would know with whom they dealt. ‘I have a cow and enough grazing land to feed eight goats for a year. I am a free man of the True People, by the grace of God, sharing an ox, a goad, a halter and a ploughshare with three others in common. I am not a serf with ragged arse.’

‘Did you understand any of that?’ Cressingham demanded waspishly. Sir Marmaduke turned slowly to him.

‘You have offended him, it appears. In my experience, Cressingham, it does no good to offend a Welshman. Particularly bowmen – see you the shoulder? That hump is pulling muscle, Treasurer. Addaf here has some twenty-odd summers on him and I’ll warrant at least seventeen of them have been used to train with that bow until he can pull the string on one taller than a well-made man and thick as a boy’s wrist, all the way back to his ear. The arrows, I will avow, are an ell at least and are fletched, not with goose, but with peacock, which means they are his finest. This man can put such a shaft through an oak church door at a hundred paces and then another ten or so of its cousins within the minute. If he does his job aright, he will not need iron hat or studded jack or maille – all his enemies will be dead in front of him.’

He broke off and stared fixedly at Cressingham, who did not like the look of him nor of the scowling black-faced Welshman.

‘Christ be praised,’ murmured Brother Jacobus and crossed himself into the twist of Addaf’s smile.

‘For ever and ever,’ they intoned – Addaf louder than the rest, just so the crow of a priest would get the point.

‘I would take our Welshman as is, Treasurer,’ Sir Marmaduke added gently, ‘and be glad of it.’

‘Just so,’ De Warenne added and thumped the table. ‘Now, Treasurer, you can carry on doing what you do best – scribbling and tallying up how to get my army, well fed and in good humour, to where I can meet this Wallace Ogre and defeat him.’

Sir Marmaduke watched Addaf the Welshman slap barefoot back across the flags, dismissed with barely controlled fury by Cressingham, who now closed his head with the Black Friar and his ink-fingered clerk. De Warenne, hugging himself in his cloak, fell back on complaint.

It was bad enough, Sir Marmaduke thought wearily, that the pair of them were in charge of this battue without there being a Wallace at the other end of it.

Blind Tarn’s tavern, near Bothwell

Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ, August 1297

He came down on the road on a tired horse, hood up and cloak swaddling him. The horse was being nagged on and did not like it much, balking now and then, tugging Malise’s arm and stumbling. It was no wise thing to be out on the roads alone at the best of times and certainly not now.

Even so, Malise was half-asleep and daydreaming of himself on one of the Buchan’s great warhorses, or a captured stallion of The Bruce, all fire and rearing, a stiff prick with iron hooves. He was riding down fleeing men and closing in on a woman, who ran screaming, until he got close and found himself, suddenly, off the powerful horse and staring at her. She lay helpless, bosom heaving after the running – but gave him a knowing smile and a look, then put one finger between her impossibly red lips and sucked it. She was Isabel and he had his hands on her thighs …

The sudden clatter startled him and he jerked awake, in time to see a man duck out of a sacking-covered doorway, unlacing his front and cursing as he stumbled over a discarded bucket. He gave Malise the merest bleary glance, then directed a stream of steaming relief on the dungheap, farted noisily and stared with unfocused eyes at the wattle-and-daub wall of what Malise realised was not a stable for the tavern, but the man’s home.

Malise blinked once or twice and forced the tired mount down the length of road where buildings straggled, separated by drunken fencing and strips of bare, turned-earth plots. Ahead lay the great ramshackle arrangement of an inn, two storeys high and timber-framed on stone; the smell of food flooded Malise.

A woman appeared from one of the houses, driving a cow to be staked on a small patch of communal grass. It dropped dung with a splatter and, without breaking stride, she scooped it up in a basket and went on, looking briefly at Malise, who glared back from under his hood until she dropped her eyes.

She might well have been pretty once – her dress had the memory of bright colour in it somewhere – but she was long severed from cleanliness or good manners, with a face roughened by wind and weather, yet pasty and pinched under the windchape. Malise slithered off the horse at the tether pole, hearing movement inside the inn and a burst of laughter; the horse sagged, hipshot and relieved.

The inn was dim inside and the moment of stepping from light to dark left Malise disorientated, so that he panicked and fumbled for the hilt of his dagger. Then the stink hit him – thick air, old food, spilled drink, farts, shit, vomit and, with a thrill that made him grunt, the thin, acrid stink of old sex. The place was also a brothel.

When his eyes adjusted, he was in a large room with a beaten earth floor and roughcast walls laced with timber. There were rushes strewn on the floor between the tables and benches, but it was clear they had not been changed in some time. Two great metal lanterns with horn panels hung on chains from the main rafters, together with tray-pulleys, for hauling drink and food to the gallery that went all round the square of the place. Up there, Malise reckoned, were sleeping rooms and the stair to them was behind the earthen oven and the slab of wood that served as a worktop. It was altogether a fine inn.

A girl was wearily slopping water on the slab of wood and raking it back and forth with a cloth; she looked up as he stood blinking, his hood still up. She was dirty, the ingrained dirt of a long time of neglect and her eyes were dull, her hair lank, lusterless – yet it was tawny somewhere in the depths of it and those dead eyes had sparkled blue as water once.

‘We are not open,’ she said and, when he did not respond, looked up and said it again.

‘Please yourself,’ she added with a shrug when he stood there with his mouth open. He almost started towards her with a fist clenched, then remembered what he was after and stopped, smiling. Honey rather than Hell.

‘What have we here, then?’ demanded a loud voice and a shape bulked out a door at the far end of the room. Naked from the waist, the man was a huge-bellied apparition, hairy as a boar, with the remnants of a moustache straggling greasily through many chins, though the hair on his head was cropped to iron-grey stubble. He was lacing up braies under the flop of the belly and beaming in what he fondly imagined was genial goodwill.

Malise was appalled and repelled. The man looked like a great troll, yet the swinging cross on his chest belied that. ‘Tam,’ he announced.

‘You don’t look blind to me,’ Malise managed and the man chuckled throatily.

‘My auld granda,’ he declared proudly, ‘dead and dead these score of years. A father-to-son wee business this.’

‘Sit,’ he said, then slapped the dull-eyed girl on the arm. ‘Stir yourself – start the fire.’

Malise sat.

‘Come from far?’ Tam rumbled, scratching the hairs on his belly. ‘Not many travel up this road since the Troubles.’

‘Douglas,’ Malise lied, for he had actually travelled in from Edinburgh, where he had spent a fruitless time searching out the Countess after the events at Douglas. He had missed her there, tracked her to Irvine and knew she was headed for The Bruce, the hot wee hoor. But he had missed her there, too, and the money the earl had given him was all but run out; soon, he would have to return north and admit his failure. He did not relish the idea of admitting failure to the Earl of Buchan, even less admitting that the bloody wee hoor of a Countess had not only outwitted him by escaping, but continued to do so.

‘A long journey,’ Tam said jovially. ‘You’ll bide here the night.’

Then his brows closed into a single lintel over the embers of his eyes and he added, ‘You’ll have siller, sure, and will not mind showin’ the colour of it.’

Malise fished out coin enough to satisfy him, then had to seethe silently as it was inspected carefully. Finally, Tam grinned a gap of brown and gum, got up and fetched a flask and two wooden cups.

‘Fine wine for a fine gentle,’ he declared expansively, splashing it into the cups. ‘So the road is safe? Folk are travelling on it?’

He would be interested in the trade, of course. Malise shrugged.

‘What is safe?’ he replied mournfully, graciously accepting the cup of wine. ‘A man must make a living.’

Tam nodded, then called out to the girl to fetch him a shirt, which she did, dusting her hands of ash. Malise drank, though he did not like the thin, bitter taste.

‘What is your business?’ Tam demanded, licking his lips.

‘I negotiate contracts,’ Malise said, ‘for the Earl of Buchan.’

Tam’s eyebrows went up at that.

‘Contracts, is it? For what?’

Malise shrugged diffidently.

‘Grain, timber, wool,’ he answered, then glanced sideways at the man, watching the chins of him wobble as he calculated how much he could dun and how much profit there was to be had out of this meeting. Malise handed him an opportunity.

‘I also look out for his wife,’ he said carefully. ‘When she is travellin’ up and doon the roads, like, on the business of Buchan.’

Tam said nothing.

‘I was thinking, perchance, ye had heard if she’d passed this way,’ Malise persisted. ‘A Coontess. Ye would know her in an instant – she rides a warhorse.’

Tam turned the cheap red earthenware round and round, pretending to think and studying Malise. A weasel, he decided, with a tait of terrier there. No contract scribbler this – a rache, huntin’ the scent of some poor soul. A Coontess, he added to himself, my arse. Alone? On a warhorse? My arse.

Malise grew tired of the silence eventually and spread his hands, choosing his words carefully.

‘If the road keeps clear and the garrison at Bothwell chases away its enemies, ye might get a customer or two.’

‘God preserve the king,’ Tam said, almost by rote and leaving Malise to wonder which king he was speaking of. Malise was about to start placing coins on the table when a frightening apparition appeared at the head of the staircase.

The face had once been pretty, but was puffed and reddened by late nights and too much drink. Malise saw a body made shapeless by a loose shift, but a breast lolled free, darkened by a bruise.

‘What a stramash,’ she whined, combing straggles of hair from her face. ‘Can a quine not get sleep here?’

She saw Malise and made an attempt at a winning smile, then gave up and stumbled down to slump on a bench.

‘Where’s your light o’ love?’ demanded Tam sarcastically.

‘Snoring his filthy head off – Tam, a cup?’

Tam grunted and poured.

‘Just the single Lizzie, my sweet. I want you at the work the day.’

‘What for is wrong with that bitch upstairs?’ Lizzie whined and Tam grinned, lopsided and lewd.

‘You ken the way of it. It is your affair if you stick yer legs in the air when you should be sleepin’, but this is your day for the work.’

Lizzie’s teeth clacked on the cup and she drank, coughed, wiped her mouth, then drank again.

‘Ye have to have rules,’ Tam said imperiously to Malise, ‘to run a business in these times. This place will be stappit with sojers the night, seeking out a wee cock of the finger an’ a bit of fine quim.’

He nudged Lizzie, who forced a winsome smile, then looked at Malise, sparked to curiosity now that wine was flooding her.

‘What are you selling – face paints and oils?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Seeking, not selling,’ Malise answered and the whore pouted and lost interest.

‘So,’ said Tam expansively, sliding into the shirt which had been brought to him at last. ‘Ye were sayin’. About a Coontess.’

‘The road is clear,’ Malise answered. ‘though few travel. Too many sojers of the English, who are just as bad as Wallace’s rebels.’

‘Never speak of him,’ Tam spat, thinking moodily of wagon drivers bringing stone for the completion of the castle, their thirsty helpers, the woolmen and drovers and pardoners and tinkers, all the trade he was not getting.

‘The road would be clear save for they bastits, God strike them,’ he added. ‘They’ll not come here, though, so close to the castle.’

‘I heard it was not completed,’ Malise mused.

‘The walls are big enough,’ Tam retorted, wondering if this stranger was a spy and regretting what he had said about Wallace. Then the stranger wondered out loud if the Countess had gone there.

‘Coontess?’ Lizzie declared before Tam could speak. ‘No Coontess has rested here. No decent wummin since the Flood.’

She shot Tam a miserable look and he parried it with a glare, seeing his chance at money vanish. If he had planned to inflict more on her, it was lost in a clatter and a curse from upstairs.

‘So he’s up,’ muttered the whore, glancing upwards. ‘A malison on his prick.’

‘To speak the De’il’s name is to summon him,’ chuckled Tam as a second figure appeared at the top of the stairs, took two steps, stumbled and slithered down another four, then managed to make it to the table, whey-faced and with a beard losing its neat trim. He had a fleshily handsome face, dark hair fading to smoke and spilling in greasy curls to his ears, a stocky body and wore shirt, boots and not much else – but Malise saw the bone knife-handle peep from the boot top.

He did not see the face until the man spilled down the steps and into the sour, dappled light dancing wearily through the shutters.

His heart juddered in him; he knew the man. Hob, or Rob – one of the men from Douglas who had been with the Sientcler from Lothian. His mouth went dry; if he was here, then the other one might also be, the one called Tod’s Wattie, and he had fingers at his throat, massaging the memory of the gripping iron hand before he realised it and stopped.

‘Lizzie, my wee queen,’ Bangtail Hob said thickly, ‘pour me some of that.’

‘If you can pay, there is another flask,’ Tam declared and the man nodded wobblingly, then fished a purse from under his armpit and counted out coins. Malise fought to control his shaking, to stop glancing behind him, as if to find Tod’s Wattie there.

‘Ah, God take my pain,’ Bangtail said, holding his head. The wine arrived, the man poured, swallowed, puffed, blew and shuddered, then drank again. Finally, he looked at Malise.

‘I ken you, do I not?’ he asked and Malise could not speak at all, but wondered, wildly, if he could get to the dagger through the tangle of his clothes and under the table.

Bangtail drank deeply again and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand as his brain caught up with his mouth and he regretted admitting he knew this man. In Bangtail’s experience, almost all the half-remembered men he knew were husbands or sweethearts of the quim he was stealing from them; he did not not want to press this in case memory returned for both of them.

‘See men?’ he asked, swallowing more wine. ‘Carts. Horses. Men on the road ye came up?’

Malise swallowed, found words and croaked them out, nodding.

‘Took the turn for Elderslie,’ he lied and saw Bangtail jerk his head up.

‘Ach, no. Away. Ye are jestin’, certes.’

Malise shook his head and then had to fight to stop shaking it. Bangtail Hob cursed and slammed away from the table, heading for the stairs.

‘You told me they would be here the day,’ Tam yelled truculently to the vanishing back of Hob. ‘A wheen of sojers an’ a knight, you said, needin’ lodgin. I have been sair put out to accommodate them.’

‘Away,’ scoffed Lizzie, slack smiled and bathing in warm pools with the drink. ‘Ye have had no visitors at all, ken.’

Tam’s hand smacked her in the mouth, just as the cup was rising towards it. The cup and the wine went one way, Lizzie went the other and she lay for a moment, dazed. Then, slowly, she climbed back to her knees and then feet.

‘Any further lip from you, my lass …’ Tam added warningly.

Malise sat still as rock. He could not have moved if he had wanted to and all the time he ached to turn round and yet did not dare, for fear of seeing Tod’s Wattie and the face on him for what had been done to the dogs. Not pleasant, Malise admitted. Henbane, realgar and hermadotalis, better known as Snake’s Head iris, was a vicious poison on man or beast and they did not die peacefully.

Hob clattered back down the stairs, this time dressed in boots and braies and shirt, with a studded leather jack, a long knife and a sword at his waist and a round-rimmed iron helmet in one hand. He shouted for his horse to be got ready and Tam jerked a sullen head at Lizzie to tell the ostler.

Hob paused at the table and snatched up the flask he had paid for, grinning from his broad-chinned face.

‘Elderslie, ye say,’ he said, then frowned and shook his head. ‘Bastits. They were to come this way. No man tells me a thing.’

Malise smiled nervously back at him and the man swept out. There was a pause, then the sound of hooves, speeding away. Malise forced himself on to unsteady legs and, as soon as he was up and moving, he was almost in a panic to be gone. The tavern keeper looked moodily at him.

‘God speed,’ he said sourly, ‘for it appears ye are no decent luck for business.’

Malise would have slit him for his attitude on another day. This day, though, he only wanted distance between him and the Sientclers from Lothian and was so gripped and blinded by it that he never saw the flitting figures in the trees as he whipped the staggeringly exhausted horse out on to the muddy road.

He did not know that they had let him by as too small a prize when there was an inn to be plundered.

Bangtail Hob was not a happy man, as he kept telling everybody out of the sour scowl of his face. It did not help that it had rained on his ride from a warm, comfortable inn and that he had left his cloak behind.

‘When I find yon arse who swore he had come up this road and saw ye turn for Elderslie,’ he growled for the umpteenth time, ‘I will hand him a lick such as to dunt his head from his neck.’

‘She was a rare piece, then, this quine ye climbed off?’ demanded Will Elliott, who was licking his lips in anticipation of the delights of the inn Bangtail Hob had described.

‘She was,’ Hob enthused, then blackened his face with a new scowl. ‘Now we will be lucky to get a whiff, when these lads reach it. Elderslie road – the serpent-tongued hoor-slip.’

‘Enow, ye midden,’ Sim growled and nodded towards the palfrey, approaching at a posting trot, the Countess riding as easily as was possible on a sidesaddle. Hal and Sim Craw looked at each other, though there was only mild amusement in it for the entire affair was, as Sim put it when they’d set out, a guddle of nae good.

‘Master Hob,’ the Countess called and Bangtail turned obediently, smiling his most winsome.

‘You are certain of the description of this man? That it was Malise Bellejambe?’

‘I am, Lady,’ Bangtail replied firmly. ‘I kent his face, but he flustered me with his falsehoods and it was only when I reached here that I minded him. Malise, for sure. It is not a face I will forget again, mark me.’

‘He seeks me,’ she said and Hal heard the catch in her voice.

‘You’re safe with us,’ he said firmly and she shook herself, as if a goose had walked over her grave.

‘I am in no danger from him,’ she replied. ‘He would have the skin taken off his back by my husband if he as much as bruised me. That privilege belongs to Buchan.’

Hal blinked at the bleakness of the last words and Isabel came out of the dark place she had gone, blinked and forced a new smile.

‘But he is not … pleasant,’ she said. ‘And he may do harm to others.’

‘I would worry about Tod’s Wattie if I were he, lady,’ piped a new voice and they looked at the Dog Boy, hovering round Isabel’s stirrup. ‘Tod’s Wattie loved they baists and yon man killed them with evil potions.’

Sim studied the Dog Boy, seeing the pinch of his face, the bruised eyes. Seeing what Hal saw, that wavering faint image of wee dead Johnnie. God alone knew what had gone through this lad’s mind while he had been in the moatbridge pit but it had only been the grace of Our Lady that it had not been the moat weight itself. Yet the lad had had to listen to it crush Gib to bloody fragments and the Lord alone knew what that had done to him.

The Dog Boy felt the eyes on him and grinned at Sim before turning back into Isabel’s fond stare. He was not sure what it was he felt for this high-born woman but he wanted, at one and the same time, to put his head on her breast and have his forehead stroked – and his hands on those same breasts. The combined raggle of these feelings frequently left him flustered, tight in chest and groin.

Hal caught Bangtail’s eye and sent him off down the column. Twenty riders and four wagons had set off from Annick Water three days ago, following the arrival of Tod’s Wattie just as peace broke out and everyone went their way. Hal and his small mesnie were headed north, first to Stirling, then on into Buchan lands. Delivering, Hal thought, like a mercantile carter.

Not all the men at Annick had traipsed homeward and the roads were shadowed with folk gone back to brigandry, either in the name of Wallace, or King John – or just themselves. Now there were at least a dozen carts and wagons, upwards of seventy folk, all trailing after for the protection of the armed men and despite Hal’s protests, cajoling and even threats.

Travellers all, they were latched on for safety and with their own reasons for getting down this road; one even hirpled along on a crutch refusing all invites to be taken into a cart, since he had sworn to walk to the Priory of Scone, in penance and surety of a miraculous cure. Each day they left him behind, each evening, he hobbled painfully in to the nearest fire and Hal wondered if the Priory had recovered enough from the scouring of no more than a few weeks ago to offer him succour.

Then there was the Countess. Hal sighed. Bruce had been almost wheedling, but it was Sir William who had finally persuaded Hal to escort the Countess back to her husband.

‘It has to be done and it were best done by someone unlike to be seen grinning at the husband’s cuckoldin’,’ the Auld Templar had said, then handed Hal a folded white square of fine linen with a thick black bar across the top.

‘That is a Templar gonfanon, he said. ‘Though you are not strictly a Poor Knight, ye are being asked to serve yin, namely masel’, so such a banner will keep ye safe frae both sides. Naebody with sense will want to irritate the Templars, even an earl havin’ his wayward wife returned by them.’

Hal could not find a good reason for refusing the man who had come to their rescue at the bridge and, besides, Hal had had another request that sent him in the same direction and the irony of where that had come from did not pass him by. It seemed Sir William knew something of it, too, since he asked, polite and innocent, about the fat wee man, Bisset, who had arrived looking for Henry Sientcler and no-one else.

‘A wee relic from Douglas, Sir William,’ Hal declared, shrugging lightly. ‘Wallace promised to hunt the man – he was scrivener or somesuch to Ormsby at Scone and it was thought he might ken something about the murder of yon mason.’

Sir William stroked his grizzled chin and nodded, only half listening.

‘Oh aye? And does he?’

Hal shrugged.

‘Nothin’ helpful,’ he said and wondered then why he lied. Sir William grunted and patted Hal on the shoulder, a gesture that brought a memory of his father so sharp it nearly made Hal grunt. He wanted to get back to Herdmanston, to put the confusion of Bruce and Wallace and Buchan and Englishmen far away from him, and said as much.

‘Aye, well,’ Sir William said thoughtfully. ‘Deliver the Coontess and yer done with Bruce – though I would seriously consider where yer future lies. Wallace is off to Dunkeld, I hear. Or to besiege Dundee. Or Stirling. Ye see the way of it – his rabble flit like wee midgies and clegs here and there and everywhere. He is not the man to tak’ on the English in the field, no matter what Wishart thinks.’

He patted Hal again.

‘Anyhow – not your problem. Let that flea stick to the wall,’ he said. ‘Tak’ yon wayward wummin home and be done with matters until Bruce or myself send word. Send that wee scribbler Bisset away as well and forget about dead masons – Christ’s Bones, Hal, there are corpses enow in every ditch from here to Berwick.’

It was sound advice and Hal was determined to follow it and praise God for having slid out from under the threat of Longshanks so easily. Yet the nag of the mystery stuck him like a stone in his shoe every now and then – when ‘yon wayward wummin’ gave it a chance.

The Countess of Buchan, Hal thought miserably, was both an irritation and a delight. She was wearing her only dress, a fitted green affair whose sleeves flapped loose because she had no tirewoman to sew her into them. She wore the same battered riding boots Hal had seen at Douglas. Yet now she affected a barbette under her chin and a neat wee hat to go with it, a smile that never reached her eyes and a sidesaddle on a palfrey – handing Hal the bold Balius.

‘It is,’ she had declared winsomely, ‘not seemly for me to be returned astraddle a warhorse, according to the Earl of Carrick and Sir William Sientcler and every other one of the community of the realm who passes and seems to have an opinion on it.’

She clicked her teeth closed, biting off more and widening the smile.

‘So, as a knight, you had better take the beast home to the Earl of Buchan’s stables.’

Hal had stammered some platitude about treating the beast like silk and gold, but the truth was he felt a long way from the ground after Griff and felt the raw power of it in every step.

He should not even have been riding the beast at all – no sensible knight used a warhorse except for battle and, besides, it was not his. As Isabel winsomely pointed out, cheerful as a singing wren, she had probably already ruined the beast by using it like a common palfrey and, because it had been stalled at Balmullo, which was hers in her own right, she could give permission and did so.

Hal viewed this last with a jaundiced eye, but could not resist the chance of it.

For all her cheer, the lady herself seemed clenched as a curled fern, full of brittle laughter and too-bright eyes, which only softened when she laid them on the Dog Boy – and there was a fondness they shared.

More than ever he reminded Hal of his dead son – yet each time, the memory of it seemed less of an ache just because the Dog Boy was there. Hal marvelled at the change in the lad in so short a time and could only speculate on what had tempered the steel in him, down in that dark hole, listening to Gib’s bones crunch. Hardly a friend, Gib, but even hearing a mortal enemy screaming his way out of the world would change you forever.

‘That and the dugs,’ Tod’s Wattie had said, in the grim firelit tale he had told the night he had arrived. ‘They died hard and sair, the dugs, and the only blessin’ of the lad being in the pit was that he was dragged from it senseless an’ so never saw them.’

Hal knew, from the unfocused eyes and the hard set of him, that Tod’s Wattie had watched them die and that had altered him, too. The mere mention of Malise Bellejambe sent him coldly murderous and Hal saw him now, hunched aboard his garron, his face a dark brooding of furrow and brow.

It was a sorry cavalcade, he thought. He had sent Bangtail ahead, to secure the inn and warn them that a cavalcade was coming down the road, because Bangtail had some sense about him and could handle an encounter with suspicious English from the Bothwell garrison. Not that Hal thought many of them would venture out so far from the safety of the half-finished castle, but it was was better to be prudent; besides, Bangtail swore he spoke French, though Hal was sure it was just enough to order another ale or get his face slapped by any well-spoken woman.

Then there was Bisset. The man jounced on a cart like a half-filled sack of grain, since the insides of his thighs had been rubbed raw on the journey to Annick and he could no longer ride. He was going as far as Linlithgow and would then go south to Edinburgh, while Hal went north.

Fussy, precise and complaining, Bisset was also, Hal realised, brave and a man of his word. He had promised Wallace to deliver information and he did. He had promised to deliver Wallace’s request to pursue the matter and he did that, too, though Hal wished he had laced his lip on that part.

‘The dead man was Gozelo de Grood,’ Bisset had told Hal and Sim, quiet and head to head. ‘Almost certes. He disappeared from Scone in the summer of last year. Stabbed the once and a killing stroke, very expertly done. Not robbed.’

‘Apart from his name,’ Sim growled, ‘we are no better informed.’

Bisset offered a sharp-toothed mouse of a smile.

‘Ah, but he had a close friend who is also missing,’ he declared, and that raised eyebrows, much to the secretary’s delight. He liked the possession of secrets, did Bartholomew – liked better revealing them to those who would marvel.

‘Manon de Faucigny,’ Bisset declared, like a mountebank producing coloured squares from his sleeve. ‘A Savoyard and a stone carver. A good one, too, brought over by Gozelo to do the intricate work.’

‘Where is he?’ demanded Hal and Bisset nodded, smiling.

‘Just what Master Wallace asked,’ he declared and pouted. ‘He went either south or north, two weeks after Gozelo de Grood left Scone.’

‘Helpful,’ Sim growled and Bisset, ignoring him, leaned into the tallow light.

‘It is my surmising,’ he said softly, ‘that this Manon fled when it became apparent that Gozelo was not returning when he had said he would. Gozelo left, telling the Savoyard it was for a week and no more, then did not return because he was killed, we know. This Manon fled – I know this because he took only his easily portable tools and no craftsman would leave the others except under extreme duress. He told folk he was going to Edinburgh, to meet Gozelo, but it is my belief that this was mummery …’

‘And he was trying to send someone in the opposite direction from the one he travelled,’ Hal finished. ‘Who?’

‘Wallace’s second question,’ Bisset declared delightedly. ‘He said your wits were sharp, Sir Hal. I give you the answer I gave him – I do not know. But Manon de Faucigny expected person or persons to be searching for him and expected also no good to come of it. So he fled. To Stirling, or Dundee. He will, I am sure, be thinking of hiding and trying not to do the obvious – run to the Flemish Red Hall in Berwick and be got away to safety.’

The Red Hall, Hal knew, was the Flemish guild hall in Berwick and he doubted it would be of any use, since the Flemings had defended it to the last man when the English sacked the town last year and around thirty had been burned alive in it. Now it was no more than charred timbers – though the Flemings were still in Berwick.

‘Why would person or persons want the man dead?’ demanded Sim.

‘For the same reason they wanted the mason killed,’ Bisset replied primly. ‘To stop his mouth. They both hold a secret, good sirs, but now only de Faucigny can tell it – and Master Wallace offers you this as promised. He said to say you would know what to do with it.’

Forget it. That was the sensible choice, but even as he turned the coin of that over in his mind, he knew it had never been a possibility. A pollard, he thought wryly. Just as refusing Bruce was a crockard. He had been summoned into the service of Bruce and, suddenly, had become part of the kingdom’s cause. Now, just as suddenly, he was part of the forces dedicated to crushing that cause – and, he realised, bound now to oppose Wallace if he encountered him. Yet he had regard for Wallace, the man still fighting when everyone else had scrambled to bow the knee. Because he has nothing to lose, Hal thought, unlike myself and others.

Hal felt trapped – like yon Trojan crushed by the coils of sea-serpent, he thought and wished he had spent more time actually listening to the dominie his father had hired to ‘put some poalish oan the boy’.

The men with him were the last of the loyal – all the others had gone off with Wallace, for the plunder in it. Sim, Bangtail, Tod’s Wattie and Will Elliott were Herdmanston men – Red Cloak had been the fifth and his death lay heavy on them all. The rest, some fifteen, were local Marchers some of whom trusted Hal more than anyone and knew a cousin, or some kin who had ridden with him before and profited from it. A few – and even this number astonished Hal – came for the belief in the realm and imagined Hal would know the right path to take when the time came.

‘Farthing for them.’

The voice licked round him like the Trojan’s snake and led him back to the present, the wet road, the August drizzle licking under his collar. He thought of the stone cross at Herdmanston, the woman and bairn buried underneath it – and how far away it seemed.

He turned into her smiling face. Hair had straggled free from under her hat and barbette; there was nothing, it seemed to Hal, that could keep the wild freedom in the woman contained for long.

‘Not worth that much,’ he responded. ‘You’ll have clippings back, even from a mite like a bonnie new siller fairthing.’

‘You are not half as country witless as you aspire to, Sir Henry,’ she said, the lilt of her robbing it of sting, ‘so I wish you would not speak as if you followed the plough.’

He looked at her. They had been together long enough for him to already know her moods by the way she held herself – anger stiffened her body, which actually enticed Hal, even if he knew the lash that would accompany it.

‘I have followed the plough,’ he said, remembering the days when, as a boy, he had trotted after the brace of oxen driven by Ox Davey, walking in that straddle-legged way ploughman do, one foot on weed, one foot on soil and a valley, deep as a hand, between. Davey had been Red Cloak’s da, he remembered suddenly.

Sim himself – older and stronger, as it seemed he had been all through Hal’s life – had showed him what to do with the worms. They would carefully pick the wrigglers, exposed by the scart of the plough, heel a hole in the soil, drop the worm in and say, like a ritual, ‘There ye be, ya bugger. Work’

Isabel was not surprised by the statement; it came to her that nothing this man did would surprise her.

‘You have not followed the plough for a while,’ she replied, smiling, and he looked at her, stern as an old priest, which did not suit him and almost made her laugh.

‘When I became a man, I put aside childish things,’ he said and, because he was perched on the back of Balius, was able to look down his nose at her.

‘And took up the pompous, it appears,’ she answered tartly. ‘I take the hint that I should also put away the childish, but have no fears – I imagine my husband has a lesson or two prepared, while the De’il, as anyone will tell you, has a special room made ready for my imminent arrival.’

She reined the palfrey hard, so that it protested as its head was wrenched.

‘It is hard to decide which is worse,’ she called out as she turned away from him, ‘though the De’il, I am thinking, will be less vicious than the Earl of Buchan – and less tedious than a ploughman from Herdmanston.’

Cursing, Hal half turned, looking for words of apology and racking himself for his stupidity – what in the name of God had made him sound like some crabbed auld beldame?

The great warhorse grunted and leaned on the reins, testing the limits of the rider. Hal, though he was still getting used to the distance from the ground, had ridden a warhorse like this before – Great Leckie, his father’s destrier – to learn the ways of fighting with lance and sword. Leckie had been a lesser radiance than this Balius, though just as expensive to keep.

Hal saw Pecks, the ostler released by Bruce to make sure Balius reached Buchan in pristine condition, sitting sullenly on the cart solely committed to the oats, peas and beans for the beast’s fodder. It was moot, Hal thought moodily, whether Bruce was more concerned about returning a glossy Balius or a glossy wife to the Earl of Buchan.

He slewed back round to face front – and stiffened. Black, greasy, sullen as raven feathers, the smoke trails drifted wearily into the leaden sky and he reined in Balius, feeling the gathered power of the beast, which always seemed on the point of exploding. Pecks, lurching with the bounce of the cart in the ruts, stood up a little and craned to see.

‘Are we biding yonder?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘I see they have the fires stoked. Hot commons and warm beddin’ the night, is it yer honour?’

Hal growled and spat and Pecks, who was used to working for better than his master’s discarded leman and a supposed knight with the ways of a dog, looked at Hal with some disgust; these Lothians were filthy as pigs, with manners to match and the finest thing about their leader, this so-called Sir from Herdmanston, was the horse that was not his own and which he should not be riding.

The blow on his chest reeled him backwards and he gawped at the arrow. Then the world sped towards him, big and black, and he jerked instinctively, but something seemed to hit him in the face. Alarmed, he then felt a crashing blow on his shoulder and the side of his head and, at last, realised that they were attacked and tried to get off the bed of the cart.

Around the time he found out the crash on shoulder and head had been his falling off the cart to the road, the arrow that had gone through his eye and into his brain finally killed him.

Hal saw the ostler hit, saw the brief astonished look, then the second arrow took the man in the eye and he went down. An arrow whacked into Hal’s chest – but he was wearing an arming jack and a coat of plates and a cloak, all sodden, so the shaft bounced, caught and hung pathetically, snagged to the cloth of his coat. The hard blow of it, even cushioned by padding, rocked him backwards and rattled his back teeth.

Then Hal saw the men pelting out of the trees and the entrance to the inn, yipping with little bird-like cries. Behind, he heard more high-pitched screeches and the screams of the attacked.

Screwing round in the saddle, he yelled for Sim Craw, then bellowed out one word. ‘Coontess.’

Sim spurred forward and grabbed the waist of the bewildered woman, hauling her out of her sidesaddle and half-throwing her into a sumpter wagon, as running figures, the unlucky followers, tried to crash away from the flicking arrows and tangled themselves up with Hal’s horsemen. Swearing and yelling, the riders lashed out with the butts of Jeddart staffs and Ill Made Jock, turning into the path of a stampeding pack horse, was thrown to the ground with a harsh cry.

Cursing, Hal faced front again. Horsemen had appeared, spear-armed and wearing leather – three of them, yelling instructions to the men milling and circling, clearly blocking the head of the column, while the ones behind prevented it from retreating. God-fucking kerns and caterans from north of The Mounth, hooching and wheeching like mad imps – yet as classic an ambush as any you would read in Vegetius, he noted, with that part of his mind not involved in wildly trying to work out what to do now.

Balius solved it.

His father had given Hal the garron, Griff, claiming it as a by-blow of Great Leckie, and had added, ‘Gryphon will see you through well enough if you dinna do anythin’ fancy.’ If he had been on Griff, Hal would not even have considered doing anything fancy – certainly not what Balius clearly thought was inevitable.

This was what the big warhorse had been bred and trained for and now he stamped his iron-shod trencher hooves and bunched the great muscles of his flanks. Hal felt it, swallowed a little and drew his sword, then settled his bascinet tighter on his head with a tap of the wheel pommel and slung his shield from his back down to his left arm with a twitch. He had never liked the combination of maille coif, metal bascinet and the full-face great helm – like many others, he preferred to do without the latter and tourney knights sported scars like badges from Grand Melee fights. Now, as arrows wheeped and hissed, he was pricklingly aware of his exposed face.

Balius felt the bang of the shield on Hal’s leg and the change of tension on the rein and started to bait, huge hooves stamping as he trotted on the spot; twin plumes shot hot and misted grey from his flared nostrils. Hal took a breath, let the rein loose and then spun the sword up, forward and back with a flick of his wrist.

The bright flash of the blade appearing on one side of him was all the signal the warhorse needed; he gave a snorting squeal, then plunged forward, his great feet kicking up the mud and wet of the road in fountains. The knot of yelling horsemen, waving their spears, grew closer and an arrow buzzed past Hal’s ear like a mad wasp.

A little late, the riders realised this huge beast was not about to stop or turn sideways. Balius plunged into the core of them, snapping right and left with his big yellow teeth. Hal, trailing his swordhand down almost on the horse’s flank, brought it up in a whirling cut that caused a rider to shriek, but there was only a slight tug and Hal kept going, bringing the sword up alongside the beast’s head, then up and over to the far side. Then he back-cut the other way and someone else screamed.

The destrier, the bright blade-flashes at the corner of his eye urging him on, slammed into one of the enemy ponies and it bounced away, all four legs off the ground. Crashing heavily and squealing with terror, it threw the rider into the mud and then rolled on him, flailing wild hooves.

Then they were through the pack and Balius, who knew the business as well as Hal – better, Hal decided – was skidding on his haunches, iron hooves scoring ruts as he scrabbled to brake, spinning round even as he did so.

As suddenly as they had come, they were thundering back and Hal had time enough to see three men in the mud and a horse flailing on its back before he was plunged into the swirl of them once more, his breath rasping and his arm coming up, the maille-backed gauntlet full of bloody blade.

Balius shunted into a pony, which went backwards, but the huge horse lost momentum and was balked, so he reared and struck out, the fearsome hooves cracking the pony’s shoulder and a man’s knee.

Another rider had hauled out a wicked sword and was flogging an unhappy mount to get alongside and land a blow. On Hal’s other side, one rider flung an axe as he sped off, almost turned completely backwards on the running hobby; the weapon clattered off Hal’s shield.

Hal took the battering sword cut on the metal-bar vambrace on his right forearm, a homemade bar-iron cage from wrist to elbow, then found himself face to face with his attacker, a scarlet-mouthed screamer with a leather helmet, a mad beard the colour of old bone and angry slits for eyes.

He popped the fat wheel pommel of his sword between the slits and then cut viciously backwards as Balius took a mighty leap and shot out of the pack. He felt the blade tug, but did not know what he had hit.

Then they were back at the lead wagon and turning again, Balius blowing and snorting and stamping. Up in the sumpter wagon, Sim Craw levelled his crossbow and shot, but Hal did not see what he hit.

Then the riders were gone. There was a flurry of confusion and shouts from the cavalcade and the women would not stop screaming, but the attackers suddenly vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. Ahead, a horse limped off, trailing reins. Three bodies lay like bundles of old clothes.

Sim dropped from the wagon and walked to where Ill Made Jock sat, his arse wet and his arm wrenched.

‘A sair dunt, but not broken,’ he remarked to the ugly wee fighter. ‘All that’s damaged is your pride, for birlin’ off yer cuddy on to your arse.’

‘Moudiewart arse of a sway-backed stot,’ Jock agreed sourly, massaging his arm.

Sim clapped him the shoulder, which brought a wince from Jock and a laugh from Sim. A man crawled out from under the wagon, offered Sim a wan, bob-headed smile and scurried off like a wet rat looking for a hole, clutching a leather bag tight to him.

Hal had dismounted and was stroking Balius’s soft muzzle, the stiff hairs sparkling with the diamonds of his own hot breath; Hal led him, Sim on the other side, down to the bodies.

‘Imps from Satan’s nethers, right enough – what are they, d’ye think?’ Sim asked, stirring one with his foot. They were grim, filthy corpses, all yellow-brown snarls and hung about with bits and pieces of filched armour.

‘Unfriendly,’ Hal replied shortly and Sim agreed. In the end, both were decided that these had been some of Wallace’s raiders, out on the herschip and seeing what looked like an easy and profitable target.

There had been four killed – three women and Pecks the ostler. One of the women had been Ill Made Jock’s, so he was having a right bad day, as his friends were not slow to point out. Someone else asked about the man with the crutch, but no-one expected to see him again.

Hal rode to Isabel, who fought her wet skirts back over the wagon to where the Dog Boy, her devoted slave, waited to leg her up on to her horse again.

‘Are you well?’ Hal asked, suddenly anxious at her limp. Isabel turned, a poisonous spit of a reply already wetting her lips, when she saw the concern on his face and swallowed the bile, which left her flustered, as did the sudden leap inside her, a kick like she had always imagined would come from a child in the womb.

‘Bruised,’ she replied, ‘but only from riding, Sir Hal. Who were they?’

Hal was admiring of her acceptance of events and almost envied the Dog Boy his closeness to her when she got back into the sidesaddle.

‘Wallace men,’ Hal said, ‘the worst of them, if they are still Wallace men at all and not just trail baston, club men and brigands off on their own. There will be a deal of that from now on.’

‘As well The Bruce thought of sending me with yourself,’ Isabel replied. ‘You seem to have acquainted yourself well enough with a warhorse for a ploughman.’

Hal acknowledged the compliment and the implied truce, then carefully inspected Balius, relieved to find not a mark. He handed it to the care of Will Elliot and mounted Griff, then found the garron suddenly too low and too slow and wished he had never ridden the big warhorse at all.

They collected themselves, loaded the dead ostler on to a wagon, got Jock back on his horse, then slithered cautiously down the muddy road to the inn.

It was, as Hal had feared, burning, though the sodden timbers and thatch of it had conspired to reduce it from a conflagration to a slow-embered, sullen smoulder. There was a fat man at the entrance with his throat cut. A woman lay a little way away, stuck with arrows so deliberately that it was clear she had been used as sport.

‘Ach, that’s shite,’ declared Bangtail Hob, hauling off his leather arming cap and scrubbing his head with disgust.

‘What?’ demanded Will Elliott, but Hob simply turned away, unable even to speak at the loss of Lizzie. He had been rattling her silly only a few hours before and it did not seem right to be standing there seeing her like a hedgepig with arrows and the rain making tears in her open, sightless eyes.

Out on the road, Hal was of the same mind.

‘Well,’ he said grimly, ‘there is no shelter here, for sure. We will push on across the bridge to the town and politely inform the English commander here that he has Scots raiders on the road.’

Sim nodded and stood for a while, watching the caravan of wagons and horses and frightened people rushing past the inn and down the road after Hal and the unfurled Templar banner, the Beau Seant, held high by Tod’s Wattie in one massive fist.

Despite ‘baws’nt’, that fancy flag, Sim was sure they were sticking their heads in a noose the further north they stravaiged. He just wondered how tight the kinch of it would be.