Kingdom 01 - The Lion Wakes (23 page)

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.