The Complete Kingdom Trilogy: The Lion Wakes, The Lion at Bay, The Lion Rampant

He should not even have been riding the beast at all – no sensible knight used a warhorse except for battle and, besides, it was not his. As Isabel winsomely pointed out, cheerful as a singing wren, she had probably already ruined the beast by using it like a common palfrey and, because it had been stalled at Balmullo, which was hers in her own right, she could give permission and did so.

Hal viewed this last with a jaundiced eye, but could not resist the chance of it.

For all her cheer, the lady herself seemed clenched as a curled fern, full of brittle laughter and too-bright eyes, which only softened when she laid them on the Dog Boy – and there was a fondness they shared.

More than ever he reminded Hal of his dead son – yet each time, the memory of it seemed less of an ache just because the Dog Boy was there. Hal marvelled at the change in the lad in so short a time and could only speculate on what had tempered the steel in him, down in that dark hole, listening to Gib’s bones crunch. Hardly a friend, Gib, but even hearing a mortal enemy screaming his way out of the world would change you forever.

‘That and the dugs,’ Tod’s Wattie had said, in the grim firelit tale he had told the night he had arrived. ‘They died hard and sair, the dugs, and the only blessin’ of the lad being in the pit was that he was dragged from it senseless an’ so never saw them.’

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.

Then they were through the pack and Balius, who knew the business as well as Hal – better, Hal decided – was skidding on his haunches, iron hooves scoring ruts as he scrabbled to brake, spinning round even as he did so.

As suddenly as they had come, they were thundering back and Hal had time enough to see three men in the mud and a horse flailing on its back before he was plunged into the swirl of them once more, his breath rasping and his arm coming up, the maille-backed gauntlet full of bloody blade.

Balius shunted into a pony, which went backwards, but the huge horse lost momentum and was balked, so he reared and struck out, the fearsome hooves cracking the pony’s shoulder and a man’s knee.

Another rider had hauled out a wicked sword and was flogging an unhappy mount to get alongside and land a blow. On Hal’s other side, one rider flung an axe as he sped off, almost turned completely backwards on the running hobby; the weapon clattered off Hal’s shield.

Hal took the battering sword cut on the metal-bar vambrace on his right forearm, a homemade bar-iron cage from wrist to elbow, then found himself face to face with his attacker, a scarlet-mouthed screamer with a leather helmet, a mad beard the colour of old bone and angry slits for eyes.

He popped the fat wheel pommel of his sword between the slits and then cut viciously backwards as Balius took a mighty leap and shot out of the pack. He felt the blade tug, but did not know what he had hit.

Then they were back at the lead wagon and turning again, Balius blowing and snorting and stamping. Up in the sumpter wagon, Sim Craw levelled his crossbow and shot, but Hal did not see what he hit.

Then the riders were gone. There was a flurry of confusion and shouts from the cavalcade and the women would not stop screaming, but the attackers suddenly vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. Ahead, a horse limped off, trailing reins. Three bodies lay like bundles of old clothes.

Sim dropped from the wagon and walked to where Ill Made Jock sat, his arse wet and his arm wrenched.

‘A sair dunt, but not broken,’ he remarked to the ugly wee fighter. ‘All that’s damaged is your pride, for birlin’ off yer cuddy on to your arse.’

‘Moudiewart arse of a sway-backed stot,’ Jock agreed sourly, massaging his arm.

Sim clapped him the shoulder, which brought a wince from Jock and a laugh from Sim. A man crawled out from under the wagon, offered Sim a wan, bob-headed smile and scurried off like a wet rat looking for a hole, clutching a leather bag tight to him.

Hal had dismounted and was stroking Balius’s soft muzzle, the stiff hairs sparkling with the diamonds of his own hot breath; Hal led him, Sim on the other side, down to the bodies.

‘Imps from Satan’s nethers, right enough – what are they, d’ye think?’ Sim asked, stirring one with his foot. They were grim, filthy corpses, all yellow-brown snarls and hung about with bits and pieces of filched armour.

‘Unfriendly,’ Hal replied shortly and Sim agreed. In the end, both were decided that these had been some of Wallace’s raiders, out on the herschip and seeing what looked like an easy and profitable target.

There had been four killed – three women and Pecks the ostler. One of the women had been Ill Made Jock’s, so he was having a right bad day, as his friends were not slow to point out. Someone else asked about the man with the crutch, but no-one expected to see him again.

Hal rode to Isabel, who fought her wet skirts back over the wagon to where the Dog Boy, her devoted slave, waited to leg her up on to her horse again.

‘Are you well?’ Hal asked, suddenly anxious at her limp. Isabel turned, a poisonous spit of a reply already wetting her lips, when she saw the concern on his face and swallowed the bile, which left her flustered, as did the sudden leap inside her, a kick like she had always imagined would come from a child in the womb.

‘Bruised,’ she replied, ‘but only from riding, Sir Hal. Who were they?’

Hal was admiring of her acceptance of events and almost envied the Dog Boy his closeness to her when she got back into the sidesaddle.

‘Wallace men,’ Hal said, ‘the worst of them, if they are still Wallace men at all and not just trail baston, club men and brigands off on their own. There will be a deal of that from now on.’

‘As well The Bruce thought of sending me with yourself,’ Isabel replied. ‘You seem to have acquainted yourself well enough with a warhorse for a ploughman.’

Hal acknowledged the compliment and the implied truce, then carefully inspected Balius, relieved to find not a mark. He handed it to the care of Will Elliot and mounted Griff, then found the garron suddenly too low and too slow and wished he had never ridden the big warhorse at all.

They collected themselves, loaded the dead ostler on to a wagon, got Jock back on his horse, then slithered cautiously down the muddy road to the inn.

It was, as Hal had feared, burning, though the sodden timbers and thatch of it had conspired to reduce it from a conflagration to a slow-embered, sullen smoulder. There was a fat man at the entrance with his throat cut. A woman lay a little way away, stuck with arrows so deliberately that it was clear she had been used as sport.

‘Ach, that’s shite,’ declared Bangtail Hob, hauling off his leather arming cap and scrubbing his head with disgust.

‘What?’ demanded Will Elliott, but Hob simply turned away, unable even to speak at the loss of Lizzie. He had been rattling her silly only a few hours before and it did not seem right to be standing there seeing her like a hedgepig with arrows and the rain making tears in her open, sightless eyes.

Out on the road, Hal was of the same mind.

‘Well,’ he said grimly, ‘there is no shelter here, for sure. We will push on across the bridge to the town and politely inform the English commander here that he has Scots raiders on the road.’

Sim nodded and stood for a while, watching the caravan of wagons and horses and frightened people rushing past the inn and down the road after Hal and the unfurled Templar banner, the Beau Seant, held high by Tod’s Wattie in one massive fist.

Despite ‘baws’nt’, that fancy flag, Sim was sure they were sticking their heads in a noose the further north they stravaiged. He just wondered how tight the kinch of it would be.

Chapter Six

Edinburgh

Feast of St Giles – August 1297

The church of St Giles was muggy, blazing with candles and the fervour of the faithful. Hot breath drifted unseen into the incense-thick air, so that even the sound of bell and chant seemed muted, as if heard underwater. The wailing desperate of Edinburgh crowded in for their patron’s Mass, so that the lights fluttered, a heartbeat from dying, with their breathy prayers for intercession, for help, for hope. There were even some English from the garrison, though the castle had its own chapel.

The cloaked man slipped in from the market place, slithering between bodies, using an elbow now and then. In the nave, the ceiling so high and arched that it lost itself in the dark, the gasping tallow flickered great shadows on stone that had never seen sunlight since it had been laid and the unlit spaces seemed blacker than ever.

In the shade of them, folk gave lip-service to God and did deals in the dark, sharp-faced as foxes, while others, hot as salted wolves, sought out the whores willing to spread skinny shanks for a little coin and risk their souls by sweating, desperate and silent, in the blackest nooks.

‘O Lord,’ boomed the sonorous, sure voice, echoing in dying bounces, ‘we beseech you to let us find grace through the intercession of your blessed confessor St Giles.’

The incense swirled blue-grey as the robed priests moved, the silvered censers leprous in the heat. The cloaked man saw Bisset ahead.

‘May that what we cannot obtain through our merits be given us through his intercession. Through Christ our Lord. Amen. St Giles, pray for us. Christ be praised.’