The Lion at Bay

CHAPTER FOUR

Lincoln

Nativity of Christ (Christ’s Mass Day), 1304

Steam from horses and riders blended with the fine gruel of churned up mud and snow in a sluggish mist that was filled with shouts and grunts and clashes of steel so that the men behind Bruce shifted on their horses.

‘Wait,’ he commanded and he felt them settle — all but brother Edward, of course, who muttered and fretted on his right.

Bruce looked at the wild, swirling melee, men hammering one another with blunted weapons, howling with glee, breaking off to bring their blowing horses round in a tight circle and hurl themselves back into the mad knotted tangle of fighting.

‘Now,’ Edward growled impatiently. ‘There he is…’

‘Wait.’

Beyond the mud-frothed field loomed the great, dark snow-patched bulk of the castle, where the ladies of the court watched from the comfort of a high tower, surrounded by charcoal braziers, swaddled in comforting furs and gloved, so that their applause would sound like the pat of mouse feet.

‘Now,’ Edward repeated, his voice rising slightly.

‘Wait.’

‘Aaah.’

Bruce heard the long, frustrated growl, saw the surge of the powerful destrier and cursed his brother even as he signalled the others to follow the spray of kicked-up mud. With a great howl of release, Bruce’s mesnie burst from the cover of the copse of trees and fell on the struggling mass.

Too soon, Bruce realized. Far too soon — the target saw Edward descend, the trail of riders behind him, and broke from the fight to face them, howling from underneath the bucket helm for his own men to help him. De Valence, he bellowed. De Valence.

Edward’s light, unarmoured horse balked and swerved as de Valence’s powerful warhorse reared and flailed with lethal hooves, the blue and white, mud-stained caparison flapping. Coming in on the other side, Bruce leaned and grabbed a handful of de Valence’s surcoat, took a smashing blow on his mailed arm which numbed it, causing him to lose his grip.

De Valence, off balance on the plunging destrier, gave a sharp, muffled cry and fell sideways, raking one spur along the caparisoned back of the warhorse. It screamed and bolted; de Valence, his other foot caught, bounced off behind it, yelling once as he carved a rut through the mud and into the dangerous, prancing pack.

‘Him,’ yelled Edward and his brother screwed round in the saddle as a figure — the one who had hit him, he realized — tried to get away from the Bruce men. ‘Rab — get him.’

Bruce reacted like a stoat on a rabbit, without thinking, seizing the man round the waist and hauling him bodily out of the saddle ignoring the curses and kicks and flails. He carried the man out of the maelstrom melee and dumped him like a sack of metal pots.

Malenfaunt, dazed and bruised, felt rough hands on him; someone tried to tear off the bucket helm, but it was laced to his shoulders. Then a voice, rough as a badger’s rear-end, bellowed into the breathing holes for him to yield. He waved one hand, sore and sick with the knowledge of what this might cost him — and at the hands of the Bruces, whom he already hated. Even the satisfaction of having saved de Valence from capture did not balm it much.

Bruce saw the man’s device, knew the man for Malenfaunt and rounded on his grinning brother.

‘We struck for an eagle,’ he said bitterly, ‘but ended with a chick.’

Edward scowled; the friendly scramble of tourney continued to whirl like the mad scrapping of dogs, to celebrate the birthday of Christ.

Abbey of Evesham, Worcester

The same night

Kirkpatrick slid to Hal’s side.

‘Gone to London,’ he grunted softly out of the side of his mouth, rubbing his hands at the flames of the great fire and not looking at Hal. He hawked, then spat in the fire so that the sizzle made those nearest growl at his bad manners. Kirkpatrick’s grin back at them — travellers and pilgrims all — was feral, as befitted his pose as a hireling soldier, rough as a forge-file and not to be trifled with.

‘Had that from three of his kind, bone-hunting wee shites like himself. Heading for Compostella, says one o’ them.’

‘They ken it is him?’ Hal demanded and Kirkpatrick nodded.

‘Aye,’ he said in a whisper. ‘An ugly dung-drop who speaks strangely and is named Lamprecht? Not hard to find even if he keeps his name hidden. Besides, he was a known face to the wee priests here.’

Hal stared moodily at the fire, while the wind howled and battered. There was snow in that wind and the travel next day would be hard and slow — they would probably have to lead their horses for most of it, so there was another curse to lay at the door of the wee pardoner, whose cunning had robbed an earl and almost led Hal and Kirkpatrick and others to their death. Hal shifted and winced; the cut under his ribs was still scabbed and leaking.

‘Should have watched him closer in the first place,’ Kirkpatrick said, as if in answer. ‘Should have dealt with him and Jop both in that night.’

Hal turned brooding eyes on him.

‘Easy as that, is it? Killed then or killed soon,’ he replied bitterly. ‘Scarce makes a difference — murder is murder.’

‘Weesht,’ hissed Kirkpatrick, looking right and left. ‘Keep that sort o’ speech laced.’

He leaned forward, so that his lips were closer, his breath tickling the hair in Hal’s ear.

‘That bell did not ring itself and it was clear that was what wee by-blow Lamprecht came for, not any Rood or rubies. He rang it out and set us in the path o’ the English garrison for revenge and now he has the power to do the Bruce a bad turn, for the Earl has revealed himself in his desire for the Rood, as plain as if he had nailed his claim to the crown to the door of St Giles. And if the Bruce suffers, we suffer.’

‘Jop is beyond us. Lamprecht is a creishy wee fox,’ Hal replied, ‘who has contrived to get us killed and failed. He is running and will want to take his ill-gotten goods away. We should let him.’

Kirkpatrick made a head gesture to say perhaps, perhaps not. There was merit in the Herdmanston lord’s appreciation of matters — the wee pardoner was certainly headed south, from monastery to abbey, priory to chapel, all places where he was sure of a free meal and a safe bed for the night. But the wee bastard had the Rood and Bruce, for all that pursuing it was a danger to him — and so all those round him — could not see it pass him by and do nothing.

Returning to London was certainly not safe for Lamprecht, Kirkpatrick thought, so it may be that Hal has it right and Lamprecht was planning to carry on to the coast and a ship to France. Back to the eastern Middle Sea, where his riches could be sold with no questions asked and where his way of speaking would not mark him.

‘He was daft to try what he did,’ Hal muttered. ‘He must hold a hard hate for what we did to him that night in the leper house of Berwick.’

Kirkpatrick flapped a hand, keeping his voice low as he hissed a reply.

‘We did nothing much — showed him a blade and slapped him once or twice. He was fortunate — for his partnering of that moudiwart bastard Malise Bellejambe he should have been throat-cut there and then.’

‘Your answer to all,’ Hal replied tersely and Kirkpatrick looked back at him from under lowered brows.

‘That way we would not now be dealing with a nursed flame that will not be put out as easily as spit on a spark,’ he said. ‘Our saving grace is that the wee pardoner is stupid enough to try and play intrigue with the nobiles, whose lives entire are spent in makin’ and breakin’ plots and plans more cunning than any Lamprecht may devise.’

‘Like Buchan?’

Kirkpatrick nodded grimly.

‘Throw a Comyn in the air and ye discover a wee man thumbin’ his neb at a Bruce when he lands. Buchan has sent yon Malise in pursuit of Lamprecht, to find out what he has that the Bruce chases.’

‘Death for the wee pardoner, then,’ Hal growled sullenly, ‘no matter who reaches him first.’

Kirkpatrick, swaddling himself in cloak, surged with irritation.

‘Christ, man, ye are a pot o’ cold gruel,’ he spat in a sibilant hiss. ‘Make your mind to it — the wee pardoner is a killed man and ye had better buckle to the bit if it is yourself has to do it. Else it will be us killed. As well that Jop is cold — as yon wee Riccarton priest should be betimes.’

‘Yon priest kens nothin’,’ Hal muttered bitterly, ‘though Jop might have explained what Lamprecht intended, had he been allowed to live a wee while longer.’

‘Aye weel,’ Kirkpatrick growled, aware that he had been hasty with the knife — but Christ’s Bones, the man was coming at him. The wee priest, on the other hand, was neither here nor there. For certes, Kirkpatrick said to himself with grim humour, he will, by now, wish he is no longer here — and explained to Hal, patient as a mother, why it would have been better if he had died.

‘The wee priest kens folk were spyin’ Jop out. He kens the name Lamprecht, which was spoke out for all to hear,’ he whispered, flat and cold. ‘That name has already reached Comyn ears, which is why Malise is sent out. It will, for certes, be whispered in Longshanks’ own by now.’

Hal said nothing, for the truth of it was a cold burn, like the wound along his ribs. Jop was better dead, if only for his own sake; the King’s questioners would not have stinted on their store of agony — for all Edward Longshanks proudly pontificated about there being no torture in his realm — and the priest would be telling all he knew to anyone who would listen.

The more Hal thought on it, the more he wondered about what might have been inadvertently revealed that night. His dreams were cold-sweated with what the priest might be saying, but Hal knew he would have been hard put to kill the man for it. Nor was he sure he could kill Lamprecht as coldly.

Yet the nagging why of it was a skelf in the finger. Why had Lamprecht come back to the north in the first place, after all that had happened to him? Just to risk himself for the chance of revenge on those who had wronged him, as he saw it? It was possible, as Kirkpatrick put it, that he nursed a flame of hate. And Buchan would be interested because a Bruce was involved in it.

‘Aye, weel,’ Kirkpatrick said in answer to the last, a short chuckle saucing his bitter growl, ‘as to that last, you underestimate the sour charm you exert on that earl — he might be spying the chance of vengeance on you himself. The bright shine on this is that Buchan, who can never resist the charms of seeing Bruce or yourself discomfited has sent Malise Bellejambe after Lamprecht and so he is let loose from being the chain-dog o’ your light of love.’

‘A perfect chance for me to rescue her,’ Hal replied laconically, ‘save that I am here.’

And five years lie between us like a moat, he added to himself; she may not even welcome a gallant knight’s rescue, never mind a worn lover with blood on his hands.

‘Besides,’ he added, bitter with the memory, ‘Buchan has already had vengeance on me. Why would he suddenly want more?’

Kirkpatrick, shuffling himself comfortable in the middle of a snoring, growling pack of other pilgrims, did not say what he thought — that perhaps, even now, the Earl’s bold countess had mentioned Hal’s hated name aloud. Worse yet, cried it out when her husband broke into her, as Kirkpatrick heard he was wont to do, like a drover earmarking a prize heifer.

It would be enough, he thought, to drive the Earl to visit some final judgement on the man who so cuckolded him. Christ’s Bones, if it were mine I would be so driven.

Yet it was not only the lord of Herdmanston that Buchan pursued, but Bruce. The wee Lothian knight was simply a hurdle in the way of that, for the Comyn would do all they could to bring down a Bruce. And the same reversed.

Somewhere, the monks began a chanting singsong litany and a bell rang.

‘No rest for any this night,’ he muttered in French.

‘It is the Christ Mass,’ Hal answered him, with a chide in the tone of it.

‘Aye, weel,’ Kirkpatrick growled back, ‘like most weans, He benefited from the peace o’ silence in the cradle. A good observance for these times, I am thinking.’

‘Yer a black sinner,’ Hal replied, with a twist of smile robbing the poison of it.

‘Ye are a dogged besom o’ righteousness, Hal o’ Herdmanston,’ Kirkpatrick answered, ‘but ye are mainly for sense, save ower that wummin.’

‘Christ,’ Hal growled back at him, ‘enough hagging me with that. If you had a wummin you cared an ounce for yourself, man, you would know the sense in what I feel for Isabel of Mar.’

Kirkpatrick laughed, though there was little warmth in it.

‘You once asked me as to what I wanted from serving the Bruce,’ he said suddenly. ‘So I ask you in return, Hal of Herdmanston — what is it keeps you here, if you carp at the work Bruce has for us? Siller? Your fortalice restored? Yon wee coontess?’

I miss Herdmanston, thought Hal. And Bangtail and Dog Boy, sent out to chase after Wallace and neither of them up to the task of it. And Sim, who oversees Herdmanston’s rebuilding. And women to talk to rather than swive in a sweaty, meaningless rattle. And bairns laughing, with sticky faces. And men building rather than tearing apart. And an end of folk the likes of Malise — aye, and Kirkpatrick himself.

Above all, there was her and the music of laughing she had returned to his life, a music that had ended when his wife and son slipped out of the world. A music that, for five years, he had lived without, with no prospect of it in the black void that was today, would be tomorrow and would be still the next God-damned year. That’s what he wanted back, what he hoped Bruce would somehow help him achieve.

‘Music,’ he said to Kirkpatrick and left the man arrowing frowns on his face.

Music?

In the end, sleep stole Kirkpatrick away from making sense of it.

Lincoln

The same night

Music flared loud as light, half-drowned by talk in the Great Hall, where banners wafted like sails and the sconces jigged in the rising haze. Sweating servants scurried in the sea of people, bright finery and roaring chatter while the musicians strummed and blew and rapped out Douce Dame Jolie as if Machaut himself were there to hear played what he had written.

Sir Aymer de Valence, limping and lush with glee, told the tale — yet again — of his daring escape from the clutches of Bruce by the mad expedient of hurling himself from his own horse into the middle of the melee. All the gilded coterie, the King’s close friends and those who wanted to be, applauded, laughing — all save Malenfaunt, bruised and furious that the sacrifice he had made for de Valence was no part of the tale.

‘Turned the German Method back on you,’ de Valence yelled across and Bruce raised his goblet in smiling acknowledgement of the feat, all the while studying the ones around the bright-faced young heir to the earldom of Pembroke.

Had de Valence paid Malenfaunt’s hefty ransom? Bruce pondered it; though his mother held the Pembroke lands, de Valence had the family holdings in France and so could well afford it.

If not him, then who? It was certes Malenfaunt himself did not have such coin, nor any call on someone rich enough, for all he was part of the mesnie of de Valence. Yet he had ransomed himself and his horse and his harness, which had not been cheap.

The music shrilled; dancers, circling in a sweaty estampie, bobbed and weaved and laughed. The slow drumbeat thump-thump, insistent as nagging, finally silenced the players; one by one the last of the half-drunk dancers stopped stamping, blearily ashamed. Heads turned to where the Lincoln steward stood with his iron-tipped staff rapping a steady beat and, behind him, the King.

He looked every inch regal, too, Bruce thought. He stood with one mottled hand on a dagger hilt of narwhal ivory and jacinth, coiffed and silvered, prinked and rouged, brilliant in murreyed Samite and orphrey bands, but draped in a fine blue-wool cloak — no Provence perse here, of course, but good English wool; even in dress, Edward was politic.

He had good reason to look pleased with himself, too and the lavish Swan Feast was simply the statement of it, fit for the monarch of two realms. With the French king humbled to peace and with his Gascony lands secured, Edward straddled a sovereignty over the island nation that none before him had ever enjoyed.

He was sixty-six years old — less than half a year would take him past the point of being the longest-lived king England had known. Nor, Bruce added moodily to himself, was he showing any signs of ailing anytime soon — it was clear to everyone that his young queen was pregnant again.

The Plantagenet voice was equally firm and ringing loud when he spoke, of discordance made harmony, of lambs returned to the fold. Bruce watched some of the lambs — Buchan and the recently freed Lord of Badenoch for two, smiling wolves in fine wool clothing, watching him in return and offering their lying, polite nods across the rushed floor.

Then there was Wishart, wrapped in prelate purple as rich as his complexion, and Sir John Moubray with his lowered scorn of brow. My ox team, Bruce thought to himself, the three of us shackled to Longshanks to bring the Kingdom — no, the land — of the Scots to order for his nephew, John of Brittany, to rule as governor. That was a platform Bruce had a use for.

Yet even now the Comyn were exerting themselves, insidious as serpent coils, and Bruce could feel them undermining him with an inclusion of extra ‘assistance’ on this concordat of nobiles. Like mice, he thought, eating the cake from the inside out.

One by one, the summoned Scots lords came forward, knelt and swore their fealty in return for the favour of the silvered king and the restoration of their lands with only hefty fines as punishment. Bruce was last of all; once he would have bridled at this affront to his honour and dignity — he had once before, signing the Ragman Roll — but he had been younger and more foolish then.

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 a 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 a 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 melee. 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 melee, 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 a 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.

Bruce half-turned to where Elizabeth sat, raised the lance in salute, seeing his squires scatter from him. The handing of the lance was the last allowable contact from human hands that either would receive until matters were over.

He took his helm from his saddle bow and slid it over his head, plunging himself into the dark cave of it, split only by the framed rectangle of view from the slit. His breath, magnified, wheezed in and out and he tried to slow it, feeling the end of his nose rasp against the metal. Opposite, the inhuman steel face of Malenfaunt stared blankly back at him.

From now on, Bruce thought, we are alone in this. Save for God.

Woods at Pittenweem

The Feast of St John the Evangelist, December, 1304

If it was not for the bad luck, Bangtail thought to himself, I would have no luck at all. It was bad enough having lost the cast of a dice to the Dog Boy without having the sour memory of losing the last of his dignity to the chiel as well.

Now Dog Boy was riding back to the comfort of Edinburgh and on to Sim at Herdmanston while Bangtail Hob, once the Dog Boy’s better in every way, followed the guide up a muddy trail in the freezing cold.

Once, but no longer. The memory of it burned him with shame and loss. He had woken, warm and languorous in the tangled bed under the eaves of Mariotta’s Howf in Kinghorn only this morning. A glorious, roaring night it had been, him and the Dog Boy both; Mariotta’s was a favourite of Bangtail’s and had been for years after Mariotta herself had gone to the worms.

He had woken in time to hear the rhythmic beat and grunt and squeal, in time to see the quine from last night sit up and stretch and yawn, her body white and marked here and there with ingrained dirt and the bruising of too-rough hands, but lithe still. She turned, smiling with a deal of teeth left, as he grunted upright and rubbed his eyes. The bed shook.

‘Sorry to have been sae much trouble,’ Bangtail growled, nodding at her bruises. The bed rattled and the squeals grew louder but Bangtail could not see behind the quine.

‘Och,’ she said gently, patting him like a dog, ‘ye were no bother, Bangtail — ye nivver are. It is the youngster ye brought that is loosening all our teeth.’

And there it was, laid out like bad road for Bangtail to glower on. Dog Boy, still ploughing exultantly and Bangtail who was ‘nivver any trouble’. His years whirled up like leaves and crashed on him like anvils; he had aches and the thinning hair on him was less straw and more silvered. He had to roll out of his bed most nights to piss.

He was old.

So it came as no surprise when the throw of dice — to see who would go with the Wallace guide, for only one was permitted — went against him. Grinning, Dog Boy saddled the garron and rode off back to Herdmanston, leaving Bangtail sour and scowling into his ale.

An hour later the Wallace guide had arrived, sleekit and slinking — as well ye might, Bangtail thought, wi’ half the country huntin’ ye like a staig. He went out, saddled the garron and rode to where the guide had hissed to meet him, then watched the man wraithing from cover, twitched as a coney in the open.

The man had no horse and started to run ahead, a long, loping wolf-run born of long use — and that was the measure of how far Wallace’s band had sunk. Without horses, they could no longer strike hard and fast and vanish. Without horses they were mere outlaws, locked to a place and easy to track.

The running man, in hodden wool with more stain than colour, said little, which suited Bangtail, brooding on his lot and the new reality of his life. Deliver the message from the Bruce, he said to himself, then get back to Herdmanston and begin huntin’ a new life, that included his own ingle-nook and a good wummin. The thought of dying, alone and cold and old, made him shiver. The thought of a wife made him shiver, too and he did not know which one was worse.

The guide vanished. Bangtail stopped the garron and sat it for a moment, staring at the hole where he had been and then, in the trees to his left, the shadows merged, edged themselves, took shape and stepped from the gloom; Bangtail’s mouth went dry.

Dark with the long grime of old dirt, wearing worn cloth, odd tanned hides, strips of fur, raggles of rusted maille and metal, they had skin the colour of old bog water, where you could see it through the tangle of hair and beard. They had spears and axes and round shields — one or two carried the shields of knights and Bangtail knew where they had come from. Some of them were women, he saw suddenly and swallowed hard at their eyes.

‘Christ be praised,’ Bangtail whispered.

‘For ever and ever,’ answered a cheerful voice and one man stepped from the others. His nose was broken and he was taller than the others, but he was not Wallace.

‘Noo ye ken we are not bogles,’ this one said in a broad growl of Braid and the others laughed, a sound like whetting steel with no mirth in it at all. Then Broken Nose gave a signal and Bangtail obeyed it, climbing off the garron, seeing the others close in on it with feverish eyes. He did not think he would get it back, nor the pack with his spare clothes, nor the weapons they took from him and the thought made him uneasy.

Wallace was easy enough to recognize when Bangtail arrived in his presence — head and shoulders taller than the others, dressed no differently save for the hand-and-a-half slung carelessly from one shoulder. Yet he was etched like a blade, elbows and knees knobbed on too-thin flesh, the muscle on him corded.

‘Ye are Bangtail Hob,’ Wallace said and had a nod in reply.

‘Ye are seekin’ me, it seems. Whit why — to join us?’

‘God, naw.’

The cry was out before Bangtail could smother it and he heard the growl from them, saw the cold-eyed, curled-lip gleam and started to back out of the hole he had walked himself into.

‘I have done my fighting with ye,’ he answered, trying to make amends and having to drown the spear in his throat with swallowed spit. ‘At Cambuskenneth and again in the trees at Callendar.’

‘Ye were there?’ Wallace remarked and Bangtail bridled at the mild sneer in it.

‘With lord Henry o’ Herdmanston. We saved yer skin yon day,’ he answered harshly.

Now Wallace remembered and the cold stone of what had to be done sat in his belly even deeper. He remembered the day and how the brace of Templar knights had almost ridden him down save for the skill and courage of Hal of Herdmanston and another — Sim Craw, that was it. Sim and his big latchbow.

And this one, or so he claimed. Wallace tried to see this Bangtail’s face on a man that day but could not make it work.

‘So — ye do not wish to stand with us, wee man,’ he said lightly. ‘Why, then, are ye here?’

Bangtail breathed in.

‘The Earl of Carrick bids ye friendship and his regard and offers what help ye might need to quit the realm for your own safety for there are those who would do you harm and give you in to the English.’

It was delivered all of a piece and Bangtail could not get the words out of his mouth fast enough. There were growls and it was not Bangtail’s feverish imagination that heard dissent. Wallace was silent for a time, then shifted.

‘Well, ye have delivered Bruce’s message. He has gave me it afore, but refuses to listen to any of my answers. Mayhap he will listen to this one.’

Bangtail’s skin crawled when Wallace said no more and the man with the broken nose grinned, wolf sharp and evil.

‘I came here thinkin’ this to be a perjink well-conducted meet,’ he hoarsed out. ‘Held by an honourable chiel.’

Wallace nodded, almost sadly. Men grabbed Bangtail’s arms and he struggled briefly, his heart pounding. He could not believe this was happening.

‘Ye thought wrang-wisely,’ Wallace said, gentle, bitter and sad, a note that chilled Bangtail to his belly. ‘We are trailbaston. Outlaws. You see how it is — we need time here an’ if I let ye loose, we will have to be on the move. Besides — yer master needs my answer.’

‘I will say not one thing about your presence here,’ Bangtail protested and was appalled at the whine that had appeared in his voice.

‘So you say,’ Wallace replied flatly, ‘but there was a man with ye and there may be more. I have others to think on besides my own self.’

‘I fought for you!’ Bangtail howled, seeing it now and struggling, far too late. Broken-Nose, grinning, started to unsheath a dagger and Wallace laid a hand on his wrist. For a moment, hope leaped like a salmon in Bangtail.

‘No,’ Wallace said firmly, then drew his own. ‘He deserves this at least.’

The blow drove the air from Bangtail and he sat, released from the arms, trying to suck in a breath and leaking snot and tears. Then the burn of it hit him. Then the pain. He found himself on his back, staring through the latticed trees, feeling a wry laugh bubble in him at the thought of how this had come about. Two threes instead of two fives and here he was in his worst nightmare — dying alone, cold and old…

‘Hang him from yon tree near Mariotta’s place,’ Wallace ordered Long Jack, feeling as if he had been slimed with someone’s sick.

‘You were not always as hard,’ said Jinnet’s Jean, starting to strip Bangtail of his welcome clothes and boots. Wallace said nothing, though he wanted to snarl that he did it for them, though it choked him.

Freedom, he thought. This is what it feels like.