The Complete Kingdom Trilogy (58 page)

Smiling, a beneficent old uncle, Longshanks raised him up pointedly, so others would see the favour – Bruce saw the silk and velvet Caernarvon scowl as Gaveston whispered something in his ear; Gaveston was a mistake, Bruce saw, and not the bettering influence Edward had hoped for his son.

The music returned, the talk, the bellowed laughter and the mingling. It was then that Edward sprang the steel trap, signalling Wishart and Moubray and Bruce close to the high seat. In front of him was a wrapped bundle, which he twitched open with a small flourish.

Bruce's heart faltered a beat, then started to run at the sight of the battered gilt. The rubies had been removed, but the Rood reliquary, blackened and charred still glowed with gilt; Jop's half, Bruce thought, trying to gather the wild scatter of his thoughts.

‘Taken from Riccarton, my lords,' Edward growled, his drooping eye baleful, ‘which was a Wallace holding in the lands of the Scotch.'

Behind him, the prince and others craned curiously to see better and it was a mark of things that Edward let them.

‘Indeed?' Wishart replied, frowning, his voice innocent. ‘That looks greatly like the cover for the Black Rood, which Your Grace took to the safety of the minster.'

‘It is the same,' snapped Edward, then waved one hand dismissively. ‘Removed by thieves last year. Now it seems likely your Scotch were responsible, my lords. A chapel was left in flames at Riccarton and a man murdered, a certain Gilbert of Beverley also known as Jop; a search of his belongings discovered this. A miracle it was not consumed by flame, my lords.'

‘Christ be praised,' intoned Wishart.

‘For ever and ever.'

‘Gilbert of Beverley,' Moubray pointed out sourly, ‘is an Englishman.'

The drooping eye raked him.

‘Kin to the Wallace.'

The King presented the fact significantly, like a lawyer ending his case.

‘Has Your Grace made enquiries?' Wishart asked blandly and the King's drooping eye twitched a little as he considered if the bishop's innocence was real. In the end, he made a small flicking gesture of dismissal.

‘The local priest claimed only to be witness to the invasion and torching of the house of God. He might have said more than he did, save that God gathered him to His Bosom. His heart gave out.'

‘Aye,' sighed Wishart with beatific sadness, ‘the Question will do that to a man.'

The King looked hard at him.

‘There is no torture permitted in this realm,' he declared. ‘Only the rule of Law.'

No-one spoke and the lie hung there.

Bruce remained silent, trying not to let the relief that flooded him rise up and swamp his face, wondering wildly how long the priest's heart had lasted before it had stopped the mouth. What had the priest told Longshanks, Bruce wondered? Not enough, certes, or I would not be standing here, watching that eye droop like a closing shutter …

In the end, Edward was forced to continue.

‘Find the rest of this reliquary and the relic that was in it,' he demanded. ‘Find Wallace – mark this, my lords, the Scotch who wish to return fully to my grace, who wish remittance of their fines and full return of their lands, have until forty days from now to hand Wallace over. They will be watched to see how they do.'

‘There are Scots loyal to you,' Wishart declared, which was stepping carefully with words, Bruce thought. Then a voice crashed in like a stone in a pool.

‘All Scotch are thieves.'

Eyes turned and Malenfaunt, leaning through the huddle around the prince, drew back a little – but his eyes were fixed firmly on Bruce. The King, about to storm the man into the rushes and out of the castle for his impudence, paused.

He had heard rumours about the lord of Annandale, of course, but whispered by Bruce's enemies … still, it might pay to let this hound run a little. Besides, his wayward son and that bastard of a serpent, Gaveston, were watching, so a lesson in kingship might be timely.

‘You have something to say, sirra?' he rasped and Bruce saw Malenfaunt quail a little, lick his lips and flick one snake-tongue glance sideways. Bruce followed the glance and came into the sardonic face of John the Red Comyn.

‘I merely insist, Your Grace, that all Scotch are thieves,' Malenfaunt said, almost desperately. He was not so sure as he had been concerning this. Bruce, he had been told, was no true knight, preferring the German Method of fighting, and his reputation as the second best knight in Christendom was badly earned. Malenfaunt had seen for himself the tactics used and paid for them. Or Badenoch had, since the ransom Bruce had demanded was beyond the means of any Malenfaunt.

‘All Scots, my lord?' Bruce answered softly, with a wry smile and Malenfaunt felt the surge of anger in him, the flaring rage against the man who had cozened him out of the Countess of Buchan years before, who had laid him in the mud yesterday with a foul trick. It was the sneering smile on Bruce that angered Malenfaunt and anger was as good as courage for what he had been set to do.

‘Some more than others,' he replied. ‘Thieves of honour especially, who swear one thing and do another at the expense of their better's mercy.'

That was clear enough and even Wishart's warning hand on his arm did no good. Bruce shook it off and any sense with it.

‘You will defend that, of course, before God,' he replied and Malenfaunt felt the cold, sick slide of fear in his belly. Bruce did not seem afraid at all, for a man who could not fight like a true knight …

‘In your beard,' he spat back. ‘God defend the right.'

‘Swef, swef,' Wishart demanded, attempting to patch the tearing hole of this. ‘The King forbids such combats
à l'outrance
…'

‘Usually,' the King replied and staved in the hull of Wishart's hopes. Usually. The King had not meant matters to go this far, yet he had recently removed Bruce from the sheriffdoms of Ayr and Lanark because of the whispers, seeing the dangers in handing too much power to the man.

He felt a sharp pang of annoyance and sadness; he did not want to lose Bruce to his own foolish ambition, so perhaps a humbling would be good for him. It was clear this Malenfaunt creature had been set to the task by Bruce's enemies, but he could be leashed by a king. He would have a word with both men, make it clear that, despite the use of edged weapons, death was not the finale here – though defeat in the sight of God would be humbling enough for either of them.

Afterwards, reeling with the surprise of it, Bruce was still wondering how he had landed in such a mire. Wishart was sure of how – and why.

‘You lost yer head, my lord,' he declared bitterly and Bruce had to admit that was true enough, cursing himself for it.

‘A family trait,' he managed lightly. ‘I thought my brother Edward had stolen most of it for himself, mark you.'

‘No laughing matter,' Wishart spat back. ‘It is clear who has put this Malenfaunt up to it – Badenoch and Buchan both gave him the siller that ransomed him from his tourney loss. Now he is in debt to that pair and flung in like a dog in a pitfight.'

‘They must rate him highly, then,' Bruce replied sourly, ‘if they think to humble me using such poor fare.'

Wishart waved an impatient hand and broke fluidly into French without missing a heartbeat.

‘They win, no matter the outcome. If you beat Malenfaunt, then Buchan and Badenoch have revenge on the man who captured the Countess of Buchan and held her to ransom. If you are defeated, they have humbled you. Better still for Badenoch if you were killed in such a combat – and those will be Malenfaunt's instructions, mark me.'

He broke off and shook his head sorrowfully.

‘And The Plantagenet, of course, permits it in the hope of bringing you tumbling, my lord earl,' he added. ‘Mark me, the King will send word soon that you are not to kill. He will send the same to Malenfaunt – though that one may ignore it. But a defeat over such a matter will ruin your honour, leave you ostracized at court, denied the peace of God and so left at the mercy of the royal favour.'

‘If he defeats me,' Bruce declared, then frowned and shook his head. ‘Malenfaunt is a brave man, for all that, to put himself, with no great reputation as a knight, against me.'

Wishart snorted. In times of stress, Bruce noted wryly, he reverts to his roots and the lisping French was banished like mist.

‘Think yersel' all silk and siller? Aye, mayhap – second-best knight in Christendom after the German emperor? When was the last time ye jousted
à l'outrance
, my lord earl? Using the French Method and bound to it?'

Bruce thought and the sudden, thin sliver of fear speared him. A long time, he had to admit. The French Method – charging home on a warhorse trained to bowl a man over – was one he had used as a youth on the tourney circuit.

Then he had learned the German Method – riding a lighter horse, avoiding the mad rushes of French Method knights and attacking from behind or the side in the
mêlée
. It was called ‘German' as a sneer by the French, for everyone knew it was a Saracen trick learned by crusading German knights of the Empire and brought back by them. Better for prizes and sensible in war, it was not considered honourable for the
nobiles
of the civilized world to the west. Worse even than that, it was not French.

Acceptable – barely – in the whirl of the
mêlée
, it was not permitted in that perfect contest of skill and bravery, the joust, which was the epitome of the French Method, preferred by the young and daring.

This joust was
à l'outrance
and there was no German Method permitted at the edge of extremity.

For God was watching.

Lincoln

The day after – The Feast of St John the Evangelist, December, 1304

It was cold, so that the King was ushered to a seat with heated cushions and swathed in warm furs alongside his wife. In the striped pavilion, with the horse gently steaming and two coal braziers smouldering, Bruce saw the leprous sheen on his maille as the trembling squire helped him into the jupon emblazoned with his arms.

The horse shifted, clattered bit metal and champed froth. Bruce eyed the beast, which had been given to him by his brother since he had no decent warhorse for a joust like this. Castillians his were, fine, fast and strong but no match in a stand-up fight with something like this terror, all muscle and vein like an erect prick, with heavy legs and hindquarters. A Lombard, crossed with Germans, his brother had told him – black as the De'il's face and called, with bitter irony, Phoebus.

Somewhere outside, Malenfaunt stood with his own horse in a similar pavilion; custom decreed that neither should see each other once the processions and oaths and mummery of it all had been concluded, save at the very moment of combat. The mummery, Bruce thought to himself wryly, had possibly been the worst part of the affair.

The King had processed, the witnesses and bishops and officials of the tourney had processed, the ladies of the court had processed – including the stiff, disapproving Elizabeth. When presented with the news of the affair from her husband, she had raised one scornful eyebrow, and had spoken not one word to him in all the hours since. He could scarcely blame her – her honour was braided with his own and if he fell from grace, so did she.

Speeches had been exchanged, blessings given, oaths made regarding the anathema of using weapons forged by spells, or with spells placed on them. Lances had been measured, so that neither had an advantage and, for the same reason, agreement had been reached over the number and type of weapons carried – it was, as always, three lances, the same axe each, their own sword and a dagger or estoc of their choice.

After those had been exhausted or broken, it would be fists and teeth, Bruce thought grimly.

The rules regarding the conduct of squires and the hundreds who thronged to watch had been read out – no-one horsed on pain of death, no-one else armed on pain of death or loss of property – for this was no raucous entertainment, but a solemnity of chivalry to decide which knight was favoured by Heaven. It was decreed by custom and Law and, therefore, by God.

Bruce, moving stiffly and talking in single words, was aware that all the procession and pomp and conspicuous legality was because, when all else was done, there were no rules at all in that rectangle of tilt field.

Outside his tented pavilion was a low hum like a disturbed byke; they were removing the altar, crucifix and prayer book on which each man had sworn to defend the right of his honour before God. Bruce nodded for the squire to leg him up on to Phoebus and the horse, knowing what was expected of him, trembled a little, baiting on the spot so that the splendid drape of his covering flapped. Bruce settled himself with a creaking of new leather.

‘
Faites vos devoirs
,' a voice called and the squire handed Bruce up his helmet.

‘
Faites vos devoirs
.'

The squires dragged back and fastened the flaps of the pavilion and the crowd spotted him, swelling up to a roar of approval, drowning the final ritual call for both men to ‘do their duty'.

The two caparisoned beasts moved out, led and flanked by squires, on to a tiltyard cleared of snow and laboriously sanded. The Tourney Marshal waited with one white glove in his raised hand. He paused; the crowd fell silent.

At least this is the last act of ribaldry, Bruce thought, and glanced at Malenfaunt, seeing how pale he was and how his face, framed in maille coif, seemed clenched like a fist. He wondered if his own was as stiff and tight and if the reason for appearing unhelmed was less to do with making sure the combatants were who they were supposed to be than for each of them to savour the fear of the other.

‘
Laissez-les aller
,' the Marshal said, dropping the glove. Let them go. The squires bustled, handing up shield and lance; the first was slid through two straps on the left arm, the latter rammed firmly into the fewter attached to the stirrup.