by Robert Low
The little Italian opened and closed his mouth, the words so crowding his mouth, like gulls falling on abandoned fish, that he could not get a single one out. Taking advantage, Aymer waved one metal-gloved hand.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘These are Welsh, from the distant mountains of my lord’s kingdom and only recently gathered unto God’s blessing, for all that priests like yourself have waved censors and crosses and prayers over their peaks and forests for centuries. It is hardly surprising that they have … odd practices.’
‘Odd!’
It was a shriek now, so loud that it brought the heads of the Welsh round and de Valence closed his eyes and hoped they would not be offended. He felt the wolf stare of the one called Addaf fall on him and offered a prayer; if that one started in to be outraged, there would be a blood-bath and, though he had no doubt he and his handful of knights would kill them, it would certainly mean an end to the service of all his Welsh. The smoke of the badly-burning fire cloaked over them like a vile benediction.
Mark you, Aymer said to himself, ‘odd’ was perhaps the wrong choice of words for what was happening in the clearing a little way away.
In it was a piled heap of damp faggots that the Welsh were trying to fan into life. In the centre of it, staked fore and aft, was a mercifully dead horse – a fine destrier, Aymer noted wistfully, that had deserved a better fate than to be throat-slit and then staked upright, as if still alive. And one, he added viciously to himself, that a supposed Poor Knight should never have been riding.
The Poor Knight was riding it still, lashed to the dead animal in his armour, bucket helmet on, broken arms fitted with shield and a lance bound to his shattered fingers. Fully armed and mailled, the Templar sat the horse, his mouth gagged under the helmet, still alive and waiting to burn.
If the Welsh could ever get the fire lit.
A stocky, cadaverous man wearing a studded jack and a green hood shouted instructions and the Welsh obeyed Addaf, fetching more wood, more lit torches, fanning the flames while the pyre sputtered and smoked; the edifice rocked a little as the desperate knight struggled.
The Welshman and the abbot from Rome had bristled and scowled at each other when they had met, one making warding signs as well as the cross with string-calloused fingers, the other crossing himself and offering a clasp-handed prayer. Like barely leashed mastiffs, de Valence thought wearily; my money is still on Addaf, the Welsh archer they called Mydr ap Mydvydd – Aim the Aimer.
‘Madness,’ Abbot Alberto spat. ‘This is madness. The Pope shall hear of it.’
‘The Pope shall hear of the mischief of the Order,’ de Valence retorted, irritated now. ‘Besides – if you find the evidence you seek, what will become of those Templars Holy Mother Church finds guilty?’
There was silence, no-one wanting to admit, of course, that they would burn, no differently from what the Welsh were doing now.
‘You may have the other one when we capture him,’ de Valence added in a conciliatory fashion. ‘One Rossal de Bissot by name. Once the King’s justice has finished with him.’
‘They should not be party to secular justice,’ the abbot persisted. ‘They are of the Church and only the Pope may punish them. He will hear of this.’
‘You have mentioned that once already,’ de Valence spat back, then leaned forward a little in the saddle. ‘Be assured, dear Abbot, that the Pope may be deafened to complaints by all the accusations against the Order. That and the sound of victory over his excommunicated enemies, which forgives all sins.’
‘The end does not always justify the means,’ intoned the abbot, drawing himself up. Behind him, a coterie of monks and clerics nodded and clasped pious hands.
Go home, Aymer wanted to say. Go home and help Galeazzo and all the other Viscontis dominate Milan and the Pope. Leave the serious business of the day to fighting men, who can see the madness in this and in everything to do with war yet persist in it, like a peasant ploughing a stony field.
The madness was necessary, too. Lamberton had given in at Scotland as well – but not before he had sent off all the men he could to Bruce – while the siege of Cupar had secured that arch-priest of dissent, Lucifer’s Own secretary Bishop Wishart.
Resplendent in maille and helm, the recalcitrant old dog had dared plead the safety of his Holy Vestements, in an irony that would not be missed by anyone there, especially those who knew that the siege engines he had used to capture Cupar in the first place had been made by timbers sent by King Edward himself for the repair of Glasgow’s cathedral.
There was no time for the qualms of an abbot, whether he be a Visconti, papal spy or Christ’s Own Right Hand, for it was doubtful if King Edward would allow that to interfere with his own form of burning vengeance. Let the little Visconti pick the irony out of that, Aymer thought savagely.
A sudden high yell slashed through the stream of his thoughts, followed by cheers; the coterie of clerics crossed themselves and muttered prayers as de Valence stared into the furious eyes of the abbot, as burning as the sudden leap of flame from the pyre.
‘Justified or not,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘We have, it seems, reached the end.’
He closed the visor of his new-style bascinet and hauled the surprised horse round, then set off at a frantic pace, almost blind and only eager to move, to course blood into him and all thoughts out.
Up on a hill, belly flat and peering through wet fronds, Hal, Sim and Jamie Douglas looked at the smoke-stained wood and the figures round it. De Valence was easily seen, in his blue and white striped mantle decorated with a ring of red birds – barry of twelve argent and azure, an orle of ten martlets gules Hal translated to himself.
The others were less easy to work out – a lot of arguing prelates, a host of ill-dressed Welsh rabble trying to light a huge fire and a wary knot of serjeants, who galloped off after de Valence. Hal had no idea what was going on.
‘I could have shot yon aff his fancy stot,’ Sim muttered, moody at having been told to hold his fire by Hal, who gave him a sour sidelong glance.
‘Which would have had us all looking like hedgepigs,’ he grunted. ‘Yon are Welsh bowmen – they have stacked their bagged weapons in shelter while they hunt dry wood for their fire.’
Sim’s eyebrows went up and he looked, then nodded admiringly.
‘Full price to ye – I missed that. Bigod, it is lucky for us they are so frowning over makin’ a heat for themselves. Not that it is chill, as anyone can tell …’
‘We should take a look,’ Jamie Douglas declared eagerly. ‘There are only a brace o’ them left – see there.’
He was right – the Welsh were straggling off after de Valence and their leader, the tall one in the jack fitted with little metal-leaf plates, had barked at two of them to stay behind. Hal could not understand why and said so.
‘Guarding their meal,’ Sim said with firm conviction based on nothing at all. Jamie and Hal looked at each other and did not have to put voice to it – it was a gey muckle fire for a meal, even for as many Welsh as that.
‘An entire coo at least,’ Sim agreed cheerfully and licked meaningful lips. It was a point fairly made – Hal and his men, with Jamie Douglas in tow ‘for the learnin g in it’, had been sent by Bruce to scout Cupar, last known position of the English. It had been a long, hard, meandering ride in the warm damp of summer, plagued by a host of flies and a lack of decent food.
Yet, for all the promise of beef, Hal was uneasy and sour at the coiled strike that was Jamie Douglas, envying his youth and how all was adventure to him, while annoyed that he was prepared to put everything at risk for it.
He and Dog Boy were a pair, he noted, padding round as if leashed to each other – even now, Dog Boy held the garrons no more than a hidden score of yards away. As Sim had remarked, the pair of them were like the brace of deerhounds Hal had once owned, with Jamie the fawning one with a streak of vicious savagery you did not want to unleash and Dog Boy as the solid, relentless, reliable partner at the hinter end.
Hal did not like remembering those dogs, the pride of their handler, Tod’s Wattie. Malise Bellejambe had poisoned the dogs and, not long after, red murdered Wattie in the back with a knife. What was worse, nothing had been done about that in the half score of years since.
‘Well?’
The challenge was in French and Hal turned into the cocked head and grin of Jamie Douglas. He wants to be a leader this one, Hal noted.
‘We can capture at least one,’ Jamie went on. ‘Valuable information for the King.’
‘Ach weel,’ interrupted Sim in a quiet whisper as he peered through the fronds, ‘where is that wee mannie headed now?’
They looked; one of the Welsh had started off into the trees, away from the other.
‘Bigod,’ said Sim, with a beam of realization, ‘he is away to do his business. Now’s oor chance …’
They were out and away before Hal could decide, Sim half-crouched like a lumbering bear, Jamie moving like a gazehound. They came circling round, to where they could just see the figure, unlacing his braies and studying the ground for stinging nettles.
‘Now,’ Jamie hissed and felt the clamp of Sim’s hand, turning into the quiet shake of the shaggy grey head.
‘Wait.’
The Welshman squatted, grunted, let loose a long, sonorous fart.
‘Now, while he is engaged,’ Jamie hissed, excitement making him break into French, forgetting Sim did not understand it – but Sim understood enough.
‘Wait.’
The man strained and fretted, then let loose a long sigh. He sought out a handful of leaves, reaching round to wipe himself; Jamie was in agonies of trying to contain himself, but Sim was a rock, grim and silent and implacable.
‘He will be gone in another wipe,’ Jamie whispered bitterly, but Sim merely smiled. The man stood, hauling up his braies to his knees – and turned.
Jamie saw it at last. The thing every man would do – he had done it himself – was to look at what he had created, a slow, almost proud examination. Now, with his back to them and braies half-way to his knees was the time, as Sim said with a hard nudge in Jamie’s ribs.
The youth was out and across the distance between them in the time it took the man to nod, as if happy with the steaming pile – then something smacked him hard in the back, an arm snaked round his neck and cut off his breathing and shouts.
They fell, as Sim knew they would, Jamie on top and driving the breath from the Welsh archer so that, when Sim lumbered up, the man was already weak and flopping; a swift dunt with the hilt of his dagger settled the matter and now Jamie became aware of the learning in this.
‘Christ’s Bones, Sim,’ he spat, looking at the smears, evil-smelling and fetid, on his clothes and hands, where they had rolled in the fresh pile. Sim Craw, who had known exactly what would happen, only smiled.
‘It is in yer hair a wee bittie,’ he pointed out helpfully. ‘Since ye are already besmeared, ye may as well take the shittiest end for cartin’ him back. Speedy now and we’ll be away, sleekit and brawlie.’
It was then that they became aware of a new smell cutting through the stench of shit, a rich, sweet smell of cooking meat that Sim knew well. From where he crouched he could see the pyre, shifting and shedding sparks as it collapsed and, revealing clear in it, the horror of a blackened horse and the man on it; even allowing for the soot and scorch, the shield fastened to one arm still bore the crude slash, a mocking red cross of the Templars smeared in blood.
‘Christ be praised,’ he whispered and Jamie, looking up in time to see it, crossed himself.
‘For ever and ever.’
They scampered from the place, half-dragging the man while his comrade sat on, oblivious, in the reek from the burning knight.
When they had reached their own camp, dumped the Welshman and told their tale, there were dark looks flung at the archer; as Gib’s Peggie said, even if it was a Templar steeped in sin it was not the Welsh who should be burning him but the Holy Mother Church and after guilt had been established.
Few, Hal noted, had ever liked the Templars, the supposed Poor Knights who arrogantly flaunted their wealth and power. No-one now questioned that these same knights were steeped in sin and he wondered how long it would be before the Inquisition writ stretched to nobiles who bore any semblance of the Templar cross, or had connection to them. The shivering blue cross of his own shield glowed like an accusation when he glanced at it.
The Auld Templar of Roslin, he added to himself, was well out of it these days but he had foreseen the ruin the Order had brought on itself the day they charged down Wallace at Falkirk, led by a brace of venal Masters who thought more of Longshanks’ favour than their vows.
Most disturbing of all, of course, was the fact that it threw a harsh light on all men of God – for if the Templars, who were priests when all said and done, could be so condemned, what of the wee friar? The bishop, the cardinal and – God forgive the thought – the Pope?
More pressing problems drove such thoughts away with the flies. The English, it had been noted, were on the move, north and east towards Perth. Hal wanted away from here, to where the Scots army was assembling; the archer would be missed soon enough and Hal did not want to be near when the searching commenced – but there was time for a swallow of small beer and a bite of bread.
Good bread, but not as good as the stuff in France, as Jamie loftily pointed out.
‘They make it with cheese in. Shaped in a ring and mair pastry than dough. Gougere, they call it an’ it is a recipe from angels themselves, you would swear.’
The others nudged each other and Sore Davey cleared his throat.
‘Is that the way of it right enough, Sir Jamie?’ he asked, bland and innocent as a nun at prayer. ‘Bigod, you are the one for style in France. Is it there you learned to comb shite in yer hair?’
The laughter was long and loud, so that Jamie, dark and bristling, looked on the point of exploding – until he saw Dog Boy’s grin and subsided with a rueful one of his own.
‘Lesson learned,’ he said to Sim, who nodded and handed him a leather flask of water, then helped him clean his curling hair, though a deal of lovelock had to be roughly hacked off with a knife, with much expression of disgust, which added to the chuckles.
Hal watched the Welshman, bound and afraid and miserably smeared with his own shite, which no-one offered to clean. Not that it would have mattered – after an hour, everyone mounted and moved off, the prisoner half-trotting, half-dragged behind Wynking Wull; each time Hal looked guiltily at the Welshman’s bruised face and bloody flayed elbows and knees, the smell of the burning knight came back to him, driving all mercy out.
They followed the English army for an hour or more, tracking them by cart ruts and the ordure, horse and human, which slimed their trail. There were sick and runaways, too, most of whom fled at the approach of a band of riders; those who were too weak or stupid were ridden down and killed by men with the stink of burned flesh still cloyed in their nostrils.
It was a fair-sized force of several long hundreds, Hal thought – but no King Edward in it. Satan has sent his lesser imp, de Valence to pitchfork us back to order.
Another hour convinced Hal the English were headed for Perth and he decided to break off following them, cut away with their prisoner to Scone, where he hoped the Scots were still assembling. He was growing wary with the approach of night, sure that the English would have heard of their dogged presence and be taking steps against it with their own light horse, the prickers and hobilars Hal did not want to meet.
They came up over a small rise, with the last of the day breathing itself out into a muggy dusk of insect whine and zip and halted, the garrons fretting, flicking tails and tossing their heads against the vicious bites.
Dirleton Will, scouting ahead, suddenly appeared, flogging his garron in a dead run into the pack of them, pointing behind him.
‘Horse … three prickers chasing a lone man,’ he panted. ‘They will be on us in an ey
eblink.’
There was a flurry of panic and scowls, brandished weapons and a few shouts but they had barely sorted themselves when the lone rider bounded up over the brackened lip of the rise, checked a little at the sight of them, then plunged down like a grateful bird to a nest.
The three hobilars who rode after him, closing in like harrying wolves, suddenly found they had charged into a pack of hunting dogs. Jamie Douglas, Dirleton Will and Mouse led the rush on them and there was a moment of squealing, flailing and blood which Hal tried to ignore as he faced the lone rider.
Browns and muted greens made the man a shadow in the shadows, the worn patch of him at odds with the way he carried himself and the voice he used to greet them; the way he moved was as slow and careful as a strange dog.
‘God be praised,’ he said.
‘For ever and ever.’
The tension slackened a little because men had weapons ready and Sim’s big latchbow, spanned and quarrelled, was level, though it weaved and wavered with the irritated movement of his horse.
‘Unsmart that monster,’ the stranger said with a foreign lilt to his voice that Hal knew was French, ‘for if it goes off now, the dance of it is as likely to hit yourself as me.’
Sim scowled, though he lowered it and the stranger brought his arms carefully in, resting both hands lightly on the front of his saddle. Jamie Douglas plunged up on his excited, bouncing garron, grinning and waving a bloody sword.
‘All dead,’ he declared in French. ‘English hobilars … is this who they were chasing?’
Hal was suddenly irritated by the young lord of Douglas, but he managed a smile.
‘My lord James of Douglas,’ he said to the saturnine rider, trying to be elegant in French himself. ‘I am …’
‘Sir Hal, the lord of Herdmanston and friend of the King,’ the man declared with a twist of smile.
‘I know you. My name is Rossal de Bissot,’ he added and Hal’s eyebrows went up at that, for he knew the name well, suddenly saw the face more clearly.
