by Robert Low
Bruce, panting and wild-eyed, watched him suck and spit, then chuckle, his grey beard splitting in a smile.
‘Now ye ken what it is like when some enemy aims to kill ye. Now here is what ye do to thwart him.’
He remembered it all in the time it took Fulk to flick out the dagger from the small of his back and bring it round in a wicked snake-strike aimed at Bruce’s throat.
Kirkpatrick called out, sharp and high, but Bruce did not shy away from the stroke; the Auld Templar’s lessons were strong in him and he stepped forward into the attack as smooth as dancing and slammed his armoured forehead into Fulk’s face. The Gascon dagger ground off the rim of Bruce’s bascinet helmet and hissed harmlessly over the maille aventail.
The Gascon, with no maille or helmet, went reeling away, spitting blood and pungent curses. The man with the banner started forward only to stop short, as if leashed by Sim’s great bellow. He paused, half-crouched and scowling, looking at the great, spanned crossbow pointed at him.
‘At this range, chiel, it will rip ye a new hole in your arse,’ Sim declared, smiling amiably, even though he knew it was unlikely the man understood him.
Fulk struggled like a beetle, finally righted himself and sat up; his men were milling, seeing their leader go down and shouting out, collecting weapons.
‘That was well done,’ Fulk said, climbing to his feet, a lopsided bloody smile on his face. He spread his arms in apology. ‘I had to try. You are a fair ransom and we are mercenaries, when all said and done. I would not have lasted long as leader if I had passed up this chance. Now, of course, matters are worse for me.’
‘You are a fool,’ Bruce said and Hal saw that rage had switched him to French. ‘I have a writ from the lord who pays you – if you had succeeded, he would have hanged you. There was no reason for blood to be spilled here. There still is not – walk away.’
Kirkpatrick had reined round and was galloping off, but Bruce did not turn at the sound, though Fulk did, knowing the man was going to fetch more men. It had been a bad day, dumped on his nethers like a child in front of his hard men. There was only one way back from that
…
He drew his sword and Bruce sighed.
‘My lord…’ Hal said, concerned that an earl was putting his life at risk in a brawl. Sim kept the crossbow levelled at the banner-carrier, while the Dog Boy sat his mount, eyes wide, mouth open.
Fulk came forward, all at a rush, so that Bruce barely had time to clear his scabbard and parry the brief flurry of strokes. That had been the mercenary’s best chance, though he did not know it at the time. What followed, Hal saw, was a lesson in fighting.
Fulk was powerful and skilled, fought like a mercenary, without finesse and out to finish matters as swiftly as possible. He cut left, right, feinted, slashed at the legs, and Bruce, stepping backwards, weight on the back foot, met each one; blades clanged, sparks flew.
The Gascon paused then, breathing heavily, realising he faced a different temper of opponent than usual. Yet the man was an earl, a Tourney fighter, unused to the real world…
He started on a new series of cuts and slashes, found himself, shockingly, face to face with Bruce, who had stepped inside the arc of the sword. A hand took his wrist; Bruce spat in his eyes and stabbed downward with his own weapon, so that the fine-honed point went into the instep of Fulk’s left foot.
Blinded, the agony a shriek that went all the way to the groin and belly of him, Fulk staggered away, flailing wildly though he could not do much since his swordhand was gripped in what seemed like a forge vice. Bruce followed, jerked savagely and tore the sword from the Gascon’s grip as the man dragged screaming pain across his face, raking his own nose and forehead with his maille-backed gauntlet in an attempt to get Bruce’s spit out of his eyes.
He cleared them, but had time only to see Bruce’s sword go up and shied away from it. His own, in Bruce’s left hand, came up in a whirling stroke, wet and ugly, that took him under the armpit, cut the arm, half the chest and all life bloodily away.
The Gascons growled and started forward – then stopped. Kirkpatrick came pounding up with a score of riders behind him, Bangtail and others to the fore with their wicked Jeddart staffs waving.
‘We are leaving,’ Bruce said to the banner bearer. ‘You may have this offal when we are gone.’
He wiped Fulk’s blade clean on the man’s own jupon, smearing a red slick through the three green larks. Then he drove it into the ground, sheathed his own, mounted and rode off, his back to the Gascons in as pointed a gesture of scorn as anyone had seen.
‘By Christ, he can fight, though,’ Sim said admiringly as they caught up with each other, trailing in his wake and surrounded by the warm, safe, leather and horse stink of their own men. Bruce heard it and half turned, smiling wryly.
‘The German Method,’ he said and saw their bemused looks. Then he laughed and spurred ahead, so that only Kirkpatrick saw the tremble in the hands that held the reins so lightly, for he knew The Bruce as he knew his own hands, knew the fears in him were the same as other men and that the greatest one was not the Curse of Malachy, but failing to be anything less than best.
Kirkpatrick also knew that Bruce, for all he treated his henchman like a loyal dog, had long since relied on the skill, discretion and care Kirkpatrick lavished. Bruce thought he knew why the Closeburn noble did this and would have been surprised to find that Kirkpatrick, though he had once thought the same, was no longer as sure that it was only for advancement.
That night, with the fires sprouted like red flowers in the dark, Bruce came down to where Hal sat with the rest of the Herdmanston men. That itself was strange, for he had a panoply to shelter in, a great affair of blue and white with ropes as complex as ship rigging and a whole bed frame in it – he was a belted earl of the realm and used to the style of it.
Yet he arrived into the middle of the Herdmanston clutter, so that the chat died like a smothered candle.
‘I would share fire and a cup, if you have it,’ he said in careful English and with a lopsided smile, then waved a leather bottle in one hand so that it sloshed. ‘In case the cup is empty, I brought something to fill it.’
‘Welcome and doubled,’ Hal answered, realising Bruce was drunk. Since there was little else to do but be polite, he smiled and offered the earl his own seat by the fire. Yet Bangtail and the rest sat, awkward and silent, even when they shoved out their horn cups to have the contents of the bottle splashed waveringly in it.
‘Is Fitzwarin not joining us?’ Hal asked politely and Bruce, his face pure as a priest’s underclothes, announced that the Lord Fitzwarin was playing chess with Kirkpatrick. Hal did not say more; he knew already – as did everyone – that the haughty and annoying Fitzwarin, forever harping on about his kinship with De Warenne himself, grated on Bruce. No-one would be sorry to see the arse of him vanish over a horizon.
That ended conversation, all the same, and folk shifted uneasily, unable to speak.
‘What is the German Method?’
It came, fluted as a bell, from the Dog Boy and cracked the strain of the moment like a stone thrown on an iced pool. Men chuckled.
‘Aye,’ Lang Tam Loudon enthused, the dam in him burst and spilling words. ‘I heard your lordship say that about fighting yon Gascon. I am right sorry I missed it, too, for I am told it was a bonnie affair, as good as watching quines dance…’
He broke off, suddenly aware he was babbling, then stared, embarrassed, at his feet and finally buried his nose in his cup and slurped.
‘The German Method,’ Bruce said slowly to the Dog Boy, ‘is how knights fight. One way. A Tourney way of fighting, though not much used, in preference to the French Method, which everyone seems to be at these days.’
He stopped, seeing the rapt, bewildered face of the Dog Boy, fixed on the words but understanding nothing.
‘There are two ways of fighting for knights,’ he went on, drunken careful, speaking only to the Dog Boy though Hal saw every eye was on him
. ‘One is to train man and horse to charge straight at anything and bowl them over even if you miss with the lance. There are those who say that such a knight, on a proper horse, could burst his way through a castle wall.’
There were murmurs, half fearful, half admiring, from those who had seen heavy horse like this.
‘That is called the French Method,’ Bruce went on. ‘The German Method is to ride a lighter horse, training it to avoid contact with the other mount. To skip to one side. To dance. Once your enemy has passed you, you ride after him and, before he can turn his great beast, you strike him from where he least expects it.’
There was a collective ‘aaah’ of understanding and folk nodded to one another.
‘Like you did with the Gascon,’ the Dog Boy added.
‘Aye,’ Bruce answered. ‘I was trained that way by the Auld Templar. But the German Method is one for war, not the Tourney. So it is not much used now, because Tourneys do not like it. Not chivalric. They only call it “German” as an insult to those folk, because the real name should be “Saracen”. Those are the folk who taught it to the knights of Christendom, and an expensive lesson it was, too, though only a few took it to heart, the Auld Templar of Roslin being one. Not the way a knight is supposed to fight – the gentilhomme prefers the French way, simply because it is French. Lane du commun est toujours le plus mal bate,
The peasant donkey is almost always badly saddled – Hal wondered if he should translate it, but drink was creating a common tongue.
‘Wallace doesn’t fight like a Frenchie,’ said a voice from the dark, and the others laughed.
‘Sir William,’ Bruce said, choosing his words as if he fished in a purse to find whole coins that were not pollards, ‘is lately come to the nobiles. It is to be hoped he learns the ways of a knight well enough – but not the French Method.’
‘Is it hard to be a knight?’ demanded the Dog Boy and there were a few chuckles as this, from those who only saw a boy asking endless questions. Bruce felt himself dragged in by those dark, liquid eyes, as if pulled towards some centre far away; he felt a sudden fear and thrill mixed, as if he was a fledgling on a high place, teetering on flight’s edge.
‘Have ye plans to be a knight?’ demanded Will Elliott and, though the question dripped with ripe sarcasm, everyone was surprised when the Dog Boy shook his head vehemently.
‘No. I leave that to Jamie. I will be a spearman. They are the lads who win fights.’
‘From the mouth of a babe,’ Sim declared portentously.
‘Jamie?’ Bruce asked and Hal told him. Bruce nodded owlishly.
‘Young James Douglas in France, with Bishop Lamberton. He is now the lord of Douglas, though he is not of an age yet and Clifford now holds his lands.’
‘Jamie will get them back,’ the Dog Boy declared firmly. ‘When he is a knight. Is it hard to be a knight, lord?’
‘Hard enough, though the training for it is not the hardest part,’ Bruce answered and found he was amazing himself with what he was saying. ‘The hardest part is attending to the vows of it.’
‘What vows, maister?’
The question arrived with the inevitability of a rock rolling downhill. Hal was on the point of interrupting, seeing the strange, half-stunned look on Bruce’s face, when the earl spoke.
‘What vows would you have a knight take?’ he asked and everyone was silent, watching the Dog Boy intently, sensing there was something happening but not aware of what it was.
‘Speak up,’ Bruce demanded, staring round. ‘Jamais chat emmitoufle ne prit souris.’
The mice were safe enough, since all these cats remained muffled. Save one.
‘To never lie,’ the Dog Boy answered, screwing up his young face and remembering all the ones that had gone before – the one his ma had told him when she led him through the gate of Douglas Castle. ‘Just for a wee while’, she had said. ‘I will be back.’
Men nodded and chuckled their approval, though they did not know the boy’s reasons for the choice.
‘To not pizen dugs,’ the Dog Boy said and the murmurs were angrier, for all of the men knew his reasons for that one.
‘To nivver violet a lady,’ the Dog Boy declared, half remembering something Jamie had told him and suddenly, confusingly, aware of Agnes when Malise had come for her – and the Countess Isabel. There was a moment, a flash, of Agnes’s foot bobbing, with the Countess’s slipper trembling on the edge of falling.
‘Nivver violet a lady,’ echoed Bangtail and laughed. ‘Is that the same as makin’ yin a scarlet wummin?’
‘Even proper said that’s not a vow ye could hold to, Bangtail,’ Will Elliott chimed and everyone laughed. Hal saw the Dog Boy scowl, not realising what he had said and thinking they were laughing at him. To his surprise, he saw Bruce had noted the same and reached out to lay a hand on the boy’s hunching shoulder.
‘To fear God and maintain His Church,’ the earl declared, speaking to the Dog Boy and almost as much to himself. ‘To serve the liege lord in valour and faith. To protect the weak and defenceless. To give succour to widows and orphans. To refrain from the wanton giving of offence. To live by honour and for glory. To despise pecuniary reward. To fight for the welfare of all. To obey those placed in authority. To guard the honour of fellow knights. To eschew unfairness, meanness and deceit. To keep faith. At all times to speak the truth. To persevere to the end in any enterprise begun. To respect the honour of women. Never to refuse a challenge from an equal. Never to turn your back upon a foe.’
He stopped; the silence was a cloak.
‘This we vow,’ he ended, almost in a whisper, for the image of the Auld Templar swam in him and the face was his father’s and he felt unmanned by the brimming of tears.
‘Aye,’ said Sim, bustling into the moment like a bull elbowing through a herd. ‘Noted more in the breach than the observance these days, your lordship.’
‘Sma’ wonder only Wallace can lead us,’ added Lang Tam Loudon sharply, ‘if all the grand gentilhommes of the realm struggle to joogle that in the air daily.’
Hal said a sharp warning word and Lang Tam subsided, but Bruce had heard and Hal waited for the thrust of that truculent lip. Instead, he got a face, raised up from looking at the ground and as despairing as a thirsting flower in a desert.
‘Aye,’ Bruce agreed. ‘It is to the shame of this realm that those charged with its protection have to lie and foreswear their vows to maintain their station and hold to the defence of it. And even that is sacrificed on occasion.’
He paused and raked them with a sudden glare and the wine-slack seemed to have fallen from him.
‘Mark me,’ he said. ‘There will come a day when the knights of this kingdom find their vows. Then our enemies had best look to their lives.’
There was a pause, then a low burr of approval, a small growl of sound that left Hal as amazed as he was at Bruce’s vehemence. Here was a Carrick he had not seen before…
‘You should never lie,’ the Dog Boy persisted and brought loud laughs that made him glare.
‘Aye,’ Bangtail declared, ‘ye are young yet to appreciate the need for a good lie, wee yin.’
‘Tell us,’ Bruce invited and Bangtail frowned, wondering if he was being cozened. But Bruce’s face was open and smiling, his eyes bright with wine and the moment.
‘Ach, yer grace – have ye never had a wummin come to ye with the ribbons ye bought her bound in her hair? Or a wee bit fancy cloth shawl? And she asks – how do I look in this?’
Everyone was nodding; even Bruce, whose smile was broader than ever.
‘Well,’ Bangtail went on, ‘d’ye risk the quim and tell her she will be a fat milcher even with a sack on her curly pow, but she is the only wummin for miles willing to part one leg from the other? No. Ye tell her she looks fine, or ye temper your honour and remark on how nice the colour is and how is suits her – even if the plain truth is that it would gag a sow.’
The laughter was loud and long now.
‘Now
we ken why ye are named Bangtail,’ Ill Made Jock shouted from the fringes of the fire.
‘A glance at yer face,’ Bangtail countered, swift and vicious, ‘and we are in no doubt why ye are called Ill Made.’
‘Bangtail counts cunny more than honour,’ Sim declared, ‘which everyone kens. This is his excuse for a lie – but it is still an excuse.’
‘Ach, Sim,’ Bangtail said, ‘the world is not as divided, like the border atween this Kingdom and the English, where ye can declare “here we are and there you are and we are different from you”. When it comes to the bit, though, ye cannae tell an English Dodd from a Scots yin, or a Kerr in Hexham from another in Roxburgh.’
‘Ye can always tell a Kerr,’ growled Sim, ‘since all that breed are left-handed.’
Bangtail leaned forward, his sharp, fox face guttering with shadows and light from the flames. Hal saw that Bruce was fascinated, listening intently.
‘Let me spier ye this, Sim Craw,’ Bangtail went on. ‘Is it good to misguide your enemy? To make him think, maybes, that ye are weaker than ye are, so that he makes a bad fist of attacking ye?’
Sim nodded, reluctantly.
‘So it is fine to lie to an enemy,’ Bangtail ended triumphantly and Bruce slapped one hand against the other with delight at Sim’s scowl.
‘By God’s Grace,’ he roared in English, ‘I am truly sorry I never sat with Herdmanston men before this, for the entertainment in it is finer than a tumbler and juggling act.’
‘Aye, weel, so ye say, your lordship,’ Bangtail responded, preening, and Hal could not resist leaping in.
‘Thanks to his lordship, we have learned a deal this night,’ he declared, nodding deferentially to Bruce, who acknowledged it with an elegant, slightly mocking, one of his own.
‘We have learned,’ he went on smoothly, ‘that Bangtail cannot judge which leg of a wummin is finer, the left or the right.’
Hal paused and let the puzzled frown of the man in question squeak on his forehead for a heartbeat.
‘The truth of it for him is somewhere atween, of course,’ he added and there was laughter at that.
