by Robert Low
‘Kirkpatrick came,’ Sim said, frowning over his mug. ‘There was a stushie in Lunnon, it appears, where yon wee pardoner was killed dead an’ that hallirakus likkie-spinnie Bellejambe seems as good as. I would surmise so, since Kirkpatrick looked like a week-auld corpse himself and he the victor of the tourney atween them.’
So the pardoner was dead. Hal felt relief that it had happened, more that it had not been him who’d had to do the deed – and guilt at feeling both.
‘Christ be praised,’ he said.
‘For ever and ever,’ Sim replied, then cleared his throat.
‘Kirkpatrick is now away to Sir Henry at Roslin,’ he went on, ‘charged with pursuing “the other matter” – I jalouse this is the same matter Bangtail died for.’
Hal met his eye with one of his own, as hard as glass so that Sim’s eyebrows seemed suddenly to shoot up to avoid colliding into a frown. Curved as Saracen scimitars they stayed that way for a long moment, then he nodded.
‘Aye, weel,’ he growled. ‘I have had men out, making discreets and riskin’ nothing. Every spoor says that Wallace has gone to ground and his men scattered. He has not been seen since he arrived at Roslin a while back. Mayhap this is the end of him.’
‘Wallace is never ended,’ Hal replied tersely, then forced a smile.
‘Wallace came to Roslin?’ he asked and shook his head. ‘So even Sir Henry keeps secrets from me – is there any good news in this dish of grue?’
He paused apologetically, then waved a hand which encompassed Herdmanston and everything done to it.
‘Apart from all this, which is sweetening indeed – more power to you for it, Sim Craw.’
Sim, muttering pleased, waved a dismissive hand, then laid his leather mug down, slow and careful, a gesture Hal did not miss.
‘There is a last matter,’ Sim said, ‘but I leave it to yourself as to the good or bad news in it.’
Hal paused, then forced a smile.
‘Weel, I am sittin’, so the shock will no’ throw me on my back. Speak on.’
‘Sir Henry kept the news of it until now, when he thought you better suited to the receipt of it. Wallace brought the Coontess to Roslin and, if ye send word, she is almost certes headed here.’
Herdmanston Tower, Lothian
Midsummer Eve, June, 1305
He sent word, would have dragged Hermes from Olympus to deliver it faster if he could. Then he waited, limping up and down and fretting, leashed only by the certainty that, if he stormed over to Roslin, he would shatter something delicate as a glass web.
The days slid away, thunder-brassy and hot and still she did not come. Tansy’s Dan and Mouse lugged four of Herdmanston’s fat porkers to the barmkin green and cut their throats.
Then they, Ill-Made Jock, Dirleton Will, Sore Davey and others skinned and jointed them, cramming them into cauldrons for boiling while the grass grew greasy and red; Dog Boy whipped up a pig’s head and danced with it, rushing at the young bairns and roaring while they ran away with squeals of delight.
Tansy’s Dan strung entrails round him like ribbons and joined in, dancing barefoot with the Dog Boy on the blood-soaked grass, the pair of them shrieking with laughter, gore splashing them to the knees. For a time, the lust of it leaped from head to head like unseen lightning so that the knowledge of the feast to come and the peace to enjoy it and the dizzying freedom from work sent everyone giggling mad; they grabbed pig heads from one another, pretended to be charging boars, swung them by the ears and sprayed crimson everywhere.
Toddlers, sliding and slipping on unsteady legs, were blood-drenched head to toe. Young babes sucked on kidneys, their mums red-lipped as baobhan sith from eating liver.
And still she did not come.
Donachie, the Earl Patrick’s man, rode over with a black-eyebrowed scowl and a demand for owed tolts and scutage, but that was simply the Earl’s latest stirring of the byke he saw in Herdmanston; Hal sent him off home empty-handed and reminded him of the legality of matters.
The children promptly added scowling black eyebrows to their straw effigy and Father Thomas, though no Herdmanston man born and bred, preached a sermon in his rough-walled church about how Adam and Eve did not have to plough, sow or weed for any lord, then had to add enough embellishment to show how Sir Hal of Herdmanston was practically kin to Jesus and should be so served.
And still she did not come.
Then, in the dark of Midsummer Eve, the fire was lit, the straw man burned, the boiled and roasted pigs eaten and the ale drunk. Bet’s Meggy, in a green dress festooned with madder ribbons, pranced barefoot with the straw stallion mummer head in the Horse Dance, elegant and feral.
She led the procession of flaming brands into the fields, Father Thomas stumping determinedly after with his fiery crucifix, so that God was not forgotten in it; everyone was festooned with garlands of mugwort, vervain and yarrow, cheering and reeling and beaming, greasy-cheeked and red-faced.
Later still folk leaped the bonfire flames, or daringly rubbed fern seed on their eyelids in the hope of seeing the sidhean on this night when the veils between worlds were thinnest – with rue clenched in their fists to prevent them being pixie-led and never seen again.
And, finally, she came.
Slowly, up the steps from the hall, where a visiting Kirkpatrick greeted Sim Craw and others with a twisted smile and accepted strong drink, she climbed to the folly of the topmost room in the tower, her feet leaden and her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. She felt breathless and had to stop once for fear of fainting and wished she could loosen the barbette and goffered fillet on her head.
It was dim. There was a crusie flickering, but the light in the room was mainly the full, bright moon and the flare of the bonfire through the tall unshuttered folly of window, so that he was a stark shadow there and no more. She stopped then, one hand to her throat.
He saw her head come above the floor level, caught the flame glint in the russet of it so that his breathing stopped entirely for a moment and his heart, which had been thundering so loudly he was sure they could hear it outside, seemed to catch and cease.
‘Isabel,’ he said, his voice a rasp.
She backed away, not ready for this, not ready for any of it. Five years since she had been here … five years since she had even set eyes on him at all, or he on her; she smoothed her dress, touched her hair with an unconscious gesture.
She heard him move, then the crusie flared more brilliantly and he set it down on top of the kist at the end of the great canopied bed; new, she thought wildly. Not the one she remembered, though she remembered the nights in it. Could not move any further than the first step into the room.
He was thin, the fine perse tunic loose on him. His hair had more grey in it than she remembered and she touched her own again, as if to feel that the artifice that held it to its old colour still worked. His eyes, though, were the same grey-blue, but it seemed as if more ice had crept into them than before and they were fixed on her with an intensity that made her reach one hand to her throat.
He said nothing and they stood there, while the midsummer shrieks and laughter echoed faintly and the amber shadows danced.
‘Am I so changed?’ she managed at last and was irritated by the tremble in her voice, like some maid clutching St John’s Wort for the promise of a future lover.
There was silence, so long she felt the crush of it.
‘Lamb,’ he said eventually, soft as a lisp. ‘My wee lamb.’
It broke her, closed her throat, sprang tears. She did not know who moved, but she felt the strength of him, the wrap of his arms, the smell of sweat and wool, woodsmoke, vervain, leather and horse.
Then they were half-weeping, half-laughing, telling each other what they had missed, how they still loved, babbling into one another’s speech so that, in the end, the words themselves did not matter, but simply trilled like a stream of balm.
Like music, he thought, drenched and drowning. Like music.
They talked and
loved, laughing because the long, full gown had sleeves she had been sewn into and he had to cut them free, while the elaborate fillet which had taken so painstakingly long to arrange in her hair, was sloughed away like the years between them.
Later, she learned of Lamprecht and Bruce; he learned of her put-aside by Buchan. They swore never to be parted, even if the world went up in flames.
She found out his doings with Kirkpatrick, who had brought her here. He found out about her rescue from Elcho by Wallace; she saw the grim set of those iced eyes at the mention of his name and knew why.
‘Bangtail,’ she said and heard him grunt in the dark. Then she sparked life into a tallow and, by the guttering yellow of it, showed him the Apostles, six baleful red eyes staring back at them as they both huddled, half-naked and half-afraid in the flickering dim.
‘A generous gift,’ he admitted grudgingly, stirring the blood-drop rubies, ‘but against the life o’ Bangtail Hob, it weighs less than a cock feather in the pan.’
‘It was a hard thing for the Wallace to have done,’ she admitted, shivering in the fresh breeze that swept suddenly through the tall unshuttered windows, a relief from the leprous heat that, just as quickly, puckered skin to gooseflesh. ‘Yet there is good and honour in the man, as you know.’
He drew a bedspread tenderly round her shoulders.
‘Aye, lass, I ken it – God forbid I have ever to face Wallace in person, though it is what we are charged with, Kirkpatrick and I. Better us than men from English Edward.’
There was a long silence, broken only by the slough of wind and the sudden rattle of rain, bringing distant shrieks from those still hooching and wheeching round the dying midsummer bonfire.
Then she stirred, as if gentled to life by the wind itself.
‘I know where Wallace is,’ she said, almost sadly.
The thunder slammed a seal on her betrayal.
St Bartholomew’s Priory, Smoothfield, London
Feast of the Visitation, July, 1305
Red John Comyn stood hip-shot beside the elaborate tomb to Rahere, first Prior of St Bartholomew’s, tapping one high-heeled, booted foot impatiently. Around him were shadowed figures, far enough away not to overhear if voices were kept low, close enough to intervene if it became necessary.
It could easily become necessary. Ostensibly buying prime horseflesh at Smoothfield, one of the premier markets of Europe, Red John was here to meet Bruce – at his request. An elaborate ritual dance of exchanged messages, barely disguised hostages and the agreement of neutral ground had brought Red John here, beside the black-robed recumbent figure of Rahere, stone hands piously clasped.
There were no other folk here, kept away even during such an important feast day in one of the popular priories of London, which showed the power of the Comyn and Bruces. Plantagenet will hear of it, all the same, Red John thought, which is a risk worth taking to find out what happened.
Above all he wanted to know what had happened – Bellejambe had arrived back, staggering and broken, having dragged himself away from St Olave’s before the King’s men came down on it and found outraged priests and the dead body of a pardoner. Bellejambe did not know how the pardoner had died – or how Bruce’s man had survived – but what information Lamprecht had was now lost to them.
Which was an annoyance Red John thought with a sharp pang of bitterness. But at least droop-eyed Edward Longshanks knows nothing of any Comyn involvement in the matter – else I would not be here, he thought. There was annoyance, too, at how he had been left to pick up the pieces while the Earl of Buchan, ostensibly seeking out his wayward countess yet again, had used the lie of it to flee to his own lands, just in case.
There was a flurry, a clack of leather on smoothed flagstones; Red John’s men, bland in plain clothing, stiffened like scenting hounds.
Bruce had arrived.
He came up swiftly, with the air of a man with better things to be doing, but that was mummery – Bruce was swift because he wanted this dangerous liaison over with, for a whole ragman roll of reasons.
Yet there was savour in the moment, handed to him from the wreck of a bad day which had brought Kirkpatrick hirpling home with tales of riot and chase, brawl and murder – and a Templar, who had arrived in time to kill Lamprecht and save Kirkpatrick.
‘The Templar knight has the Rood and the contents of the pardoner’s scrip, gilt reliquary, Apostle jewels and all,’ Kirkpatrick had said, once James of Montaillou had finished tutting and treating and left them alone.
‘He tells me his name, which is Rossal de Bissot, and that he will bring the Rood when the time is right.’
He paused and eased himself gingerly in the chair; the sweat popped out on his forehead, fat drops that he dashed away with an irritated hand.
‘It seems the Templars are up to their neck in this.’
A neck on the block, beset by rumours of papal displeasure and French spies actively seeking proof of heresy, as Bruce pointed out. Which was no soothe to Kirkpatrick’s bruised pride and cracked ribs, Bruce saw. The taste of failure was bitter in the man’s voice; Bruce heard and it was best that he knew all was not lost – just the opposite, in fact.
‘Rossal de Bissot is clearly working for the safety of his Order,’ he informed the whey-faced Kirkpatrick. ‘Bissot is a much-revered name within the Poor Knights.’
‘Aye, weel – revered or not, he will not be backwards in coming forwards,’ Kirkpatrick answered sourly. ‘He will want advantage from handing you what you seek, my lord – it is not wise to mire yourself in the doings of the Poor Order.’
Bruce said nothing, merely stroked his injured cheek, perpetually hidden now under a plain hood. It was clear that this Rossal was holding Lamprecht’s loot; the Apostles were gone – save the one the pardoner had handed over in a loaf – and, worse still, the Rood was gone and it was little comfort that it lay in the hands of the Templars. Still, the Bruce involvement in all of it was safely locked up behind the kist of Lamprecht’s dead mouth.
Best of all, the Comyn had been left floundering and, shortly after speaking with Kirkpatrick, Bruce had sent out word for a meeting with that family – and then dispatched his brothers and Kirkpatrick back to Scotland.
He had also sent off Elizabeth and her women, which had been a more disagreeable task altogether; he had not even seen his wife, only Lady Bridget her tirewoman, who had informed him that her mistress was not inclined to leave the comfort of London for the cold north.
He had bitten down on his angry tongue, though enough anger spilled into his eyes to set the tirewoman back a step and pale her cheek. His quietly delivered ultimatum had been taken to his wife, and very soon he could hear the flurry of them packing – but the victory in it was a sour taste.
Now he clacked across the floor to Red John, leaving a suitable hem of his own mesnie at the fringes of Rahere’s tomb. He studied the frowning wee man with his red-gold curve of beard quivering as if he barely held some unseen force in check. He looked like a man in the wrong clothing, from the foppish hat on his close-cropped head down the silk and fine wool to his vainly-heeled boots – Bruce was wary; this was the man who had sprang at his throat before and the memory of it burned shame in him still.
‘Was he one of yours, the man killed in the riot in the Cheap?’ he asked and Red John curled his lip in something which might have been sneer or smile.
‘He was not. That was one of Buchan’s own, a fine man from Rattray who will be much mourned – how is your own man? I hear he was much battered about.’
‘He is in good health. More so, I understand, than your Bellejambe.’
Red John smiled, warmly this time.
‘Again, Buchan’s man – and he is sore hurt, but will survive with Heaven’s help and good broth.’
‘Christ be praised,’ Bruce replied laconically.
‘For ever and ever.’
‘I suspect God’s Hand will be withdrawn from him, all the same,’ Bruce went on, flat and vicious. ‘Failure is a p
oor option in Buchan lands.’
‘Go dtachta an diabhal thú,’ Comyn hissed, looking right and left.
‘If the Devil does choke me,’ Bruce answered, also in Gaelic, ‘it will be a Comyn hand he uses.’
Which was enough of a reminder of Red John’s previous throttling anger to bring the fiery lord of Badenoch to the balls of his feet; he sucked in a deep breath.
‘What do you wish in this matter?’ he demanded, still bristling like a ginger boar. ‘Why for did you call this meeting?’
They sibilated in Gaelic now, the better to confuse any passing monk who, consciously or accidentally, breached the glowering ring of faces and came close enough to hear; there was chanting somewhere, for the celebration of the Visitation, and monks scurried to and fro with little flaps of sound.
Bruce waved one hand and, despite himself, Red John followed it with his eyes until he saw it was empty of blade.
‘Longshanks is no fool and will have learned of what happened. It is enough for him to leave off wondering and descend on vigorous seeking of answers,’ Bruce replied viciously. ‘He will see where your thoughts run, my lord. The Comyn looking to foil the Bruce? He may not consider this another tourney in our personal quarrels – he may think one or either of us plot against him, which has ever been his way. I am loyalty writ large and gilded, my lord – but yourself and Buchan have been a single thorn to him not long since and he will consider you are about to fight him again.’
‘We were fighting for Scotland before you and will after you,’ Red John replied savagely, then slapped his silk-quilted chest. ‘Comyn and Balliol, my lord Carrick, holding true while you waver and turn whenever it suits you. Titim gan éirí ort.’
May you fall without rising – a good old Gaelic curse that Bruce recalled his mother uttering, so that the memory of it made him smile a little; the sight threw Red John off his course.
‘Aye, you have resisted Longshanks fiercely,’ Bruce agreed, ‘so that your wife will be no guard against his belief that you will do so again.’
Red John’s eyes flickered at that; his wife was Joan de Valence, sister to Aymer and daughter of the King’s own uncle. Red John Comyn must be a fretting annoyance to the de Valence family, Bruce thought – almost as much as he is to me.
