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

‘Bologna?’

‘Buchan no doubt hoped I would find humility, but I was gulling him. I said he was a priest from Rome.’

She broke off, sighed and shook her head.

‘I have treated Buchan poorly and have sympathy for the man,’ she added bleakly, ‘but only to the point when he goes red in the face and punishes me, one way or another. Yet I have treated him as ill, in my way.’

‘Does this excuse beatings?’ Hal growled. ‘A knight is supposed to protect a lady.’

Isabel smiled sadly.

‘Ah, would it not be nice if the world was Camelot,’ she answered. ‘It is not, of course, so I cheated him to get this Master Schiatti from Bologna, for the best medical teachers are there at the University. What in the name of God and all His Saints I thought to do with what he taught I do not know -but I learned, among other matters, that even the most recalcitrant can be persuaded, for a price, to teach some of their art to a woman. Some of it was valuable, other aspects less so. I was good with the astrology, but mediocre with pigs at best.’

‘Pigs?’ asked Hal. Talking to this woman was like learning to skate on thin ice.

‘Nearest to humans in anatomy and skin and bone,’ Isabel replied. ‘In Bologna, real corpses are kept for examinations and most everyday work is done on pigs. Strangled, burned, poisoned and buried for a day, a week, longer. Bologna is a dangerous place to be a pig, sir Hal.’

‘If I ever take sim Craw to the Italies, I will bear it in mind,’ Hal said laconically, ‘since his manners clearly endanger him with dissection. Mark you – it seems Balmullo is no place to root for acorns either.’

she looked at him sideways a little.

‘You are not fond of physickers?’

Hal started to deny it, unwilling to annoy this woman, but the truth choked him. The ague was a pest which began as innocent as a shiver on a warm day, as if some sudden unseen breeze had caressed the spine. In three days or less, the shiverers were rattling their teeth on a rack of sweat-soaked bedding, the air in their chest wheezing like leaky forge bellows. They complained of the cold and burned away to a greasy husk before your eyes.

Others got it, too – from the vapours of the fetid, warm marshes according to the physickers and lazar priests – and some of them died swiftly, while others were abandoned even by their fearful priests and died of neglect.

One, the lovely young Mary of the saltoun Mill, crawled from her sickbed and slipped into the river, drawing the cool water over her like a balming coverlet. After they found her, the same saltoun priests who had abandoned her refused her consecrated burial, since she had taken her own life.

Not that they were any use when they found the courage to remain with their charges. Rosemary and onions, wormwood and cloves, vinegar and lemons, all mixed with henshit like some bad pudding or capon stuffing and smeared on the forehead and under the arms.

A live toad, fastened to the head. A live pullet, cut in two and held, bleeding and squawking, to anything that looked like a sore – though sores were no part of the ague that took Hal’s wife and son, only a shaking sickness that boiled them away to wasted sweat, to where death was a merciful release.

She listened to him in silence, feeling the bile, the venom pus of it. When he had finished, she laid a hand on his arm and he felt strange and light-headed.

Another scream echoed and he saw her leap up, then waver uncertainly before recovering.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked and she stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.

‘Well, if you provide the wine, I will provide some oatcakes and a little cheese,’ he said with forced cheer.

She didn’t argue, so that they sat in a makeshift House of God and ate.

‘Cygnets’ Hal said, rinsing the cling of oatcake from the roof of his mouth.

‘What?’

‘Cygnets,’ Hal repeated. ‘A teem of cygnets. The game you like to play.’

He saw her face flame and her head lower. The oatcake turned to ash in his mouth.

‘Pardon,’ he stuttered. ‘I thought …’

It tailed off into silence and he sat, mouth thick with oats he could neither spit nor swallow.

‘It was a silly game for lovers,’ Isabel said at last and raised her head defiantly, staring him in the face. ‘To see who would be horse and who the rider.’

Hal forced the lump down his throat, remembering as he gagged, the high table at Douglas and her triumphant shout as she beat Bruce with her blush of boys. Ha, she had declared. I come out on top.

He found her hand thrust at him and a cup in it.

‘You will choke,’ she said and he forced a smile.

‘Water,’ said Hal with certainty, ‘has fish dung in it.’

Then raised the cup in salute and drank.

‘Which is as good a reason as any to avoid it and keep to wine.’

‘That is Communion wine,’ Isabel said wryly and Hal spluttered, then put the cup down carefully, as if would bite him. Isabel chuckled.

‘You have already swallowed enough to be allowed to sit at the feet of Christ Himself,’ she said and Hal found himself grinning. They could both be ducked, or even burned at the stake for what they did here, drinking Holy wine and laughing blasphemously, her unchaperoned.

‘shrews,’ she said suddenly and Hal blinked. The silence stretched and then she raised her head and looked into his grey eyes.

‘A rebel of shrews,’ she declared and added softly, ‘I win.’

The thunder of blood in his ears drowned the sudden arrival, so that only the blast of air snapped the lock of their gaze. Like the opening of a chill larder door, the man crashed in on them.

‘Ah might have weel kent ye would find the cosiest nook,’ growled the voice. ‘Wine and weemin – I taught ye well, it appears.’

Hal whirled, as if caught fondling himself in the stable, stared up into the fierce, grey-bearded hatchet face.

‘Father,’ he said weakly.

The Abbey Craig, Stirling

Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity – August 11, 1297

They came to him just before dawn, as the sky lightened in a sour-milk smear, two earnest men already accoutred for war and clacking as they walked. Thweng watched them, seeing the grim eagerness in their hard young eyes, flicking over the blazons that let him know who they were. In the midst of their differing heraldry, a little badge in common – st Michael with flaming sword.

‘The Wise Angels request a boon,’ one of them said, bowing, and Thweng sighed, trying not to let it out of him in a weary puff. Mummery. Chivalric posturing from folk gripped by Arthur and the Round Table – yet, beneath it, the very real courage and skill that might win the day. So he forced himself. ‘Speak, Angel.’

‘The Wise Angels request to be your boon companions in the Van this day, lord.’

‘How many angels ride at my shoulder?’

‘Twenty, lord. Sworn under Christ.’

‘Welcome, Angels.’

He watched the men clack happily away. The Wise Angels were one of many little companies of knights who swore oaths to do great deeds of bravery on the eve of battle, although Thweng knew these were one of the better ones, composed of tournament-hardened knights. They had come to him, one of the foremost fighters on the circuit – and commander of the Van horse.

They had taken their name after Christ’s rebuke to Paul when men arrived to arrest them and Paul wished to fight. ‘Do you not think,’ Christ had said, ‘that, if I had asked, my Father in Heaven would not send me a legion of wise angels, against whom no man will stand?’

Today, a legion of twenty Wise Angels, against whom no man will stand, would ride at Thweng’s shoulder, swelling the numbers of barded horse under his command. The Fore-Battle, the Van, would be led by Cressingham, around two thousand foot and Thweng’s one hundred and fifty heavy horse designed to plant themselves firmly on the far side of the long brig and allow the Main and Rear battles, another two hundred knights and sergeants and four and a half thousand spearmen and archers, to form up under Barons Latimer and Huntercombe.

After that, it would simply be a matter of shooting the Scots to ruin and then riding the remnants into the dust.

It would have been simpler still if half the army had not melted away on the road up from Roxburgh and most of the rest sent home by the Treasurer on grounds of cost. Now the forces arrayed opposite each other were roughly equal, though Thweng knew the heavy barded horse and their lances would be the deciding factor. All the same, there were far fewer than he would have liked and Cressingham bore the blame for that.

Thweng heard the low, beast-grumbling groan of the army surfacing into the day, saw the spark of hasty fires in an attempt by some to get warmth in their bellies. Somewhere across the slow, ponderous loops of the river, he heard bells pealing. It is the Sabbath, he remembered suddenly.

Across the looped river Scots knelt while the wind ruffled through them as if in a forest. The Abbot from Cambuskenneth and his coterie of solemn priests walked the length of the humble horde, the pike blocks kneeling in ranks a hundred wide, six deep to be blessed. Men who had been cursing and wheeching carelessly in the night, hunting out the oblivion of women and drink in the baggage camp, now faced the cold silver of the day, shivering and crossing themselves as they begged forgiveness, knowing there was no time for everyone to take the abbot’s pyx.

The wee Abbot would be less even-handed with the wafer, Hal thought, if he knew that Wallace would burn him out in an eyeblink to get at his sanctuary sparrow once this bloody affair was concluded satisfactorily. A Wallace, buoyed by such a victory, would want to get at the truth of why a master mason was murdered – and whether a Bruce or a Comyn had done it. That knowledge would be a weapon of considerable sharpness.

The last censer swung away in a trail of dissipating smoke and Hal got to his feet and faced his father.

‘You should not be here,’ he said accusingly, raking the coals of the argument that had heated them both the previous night. ‘I left you safe, harvesting in Herdmanston.’

His father squinted a glare back at him, his iron-grey hair wisping in the breeze. Sir John Sientcler – The Auld Sire of Herdmanston, they called him, and he had been the capstone of that place for longer than the world itself, or so it seemed to Hal.

‘We ploughed that rigg last night,’ he growled back. ‘For my part, I thought you would be back long since. I sent ye to Douglas a terce of months ago an’ now find ye gallivantin’ about with rebels and another man’s wife.’

‘Ye … I …’

His father chuckled and laid a steel hand on Hal’s forearm.

‘Do not gawp like a raw orb,’ he chided gently. ‘We have shouted at yin another and there is an end to it, for this cannot now be undone.’

Which was a truth Hal did not care for, since it wrapped himself, his father and his men in the coils of that Trojan serpent. The Auld Templar, back at Roslin to see to his great-grandweans, had told Hal’s father what his son was about. Worse than that and unable to thole not being a part of any strike against the English, he had sent Roslin men to join Wallace – and stayed at home himself.

That last scorched Hal with a banked fire of fury. Stayed in Roslin and sent his steward – and the Auld Sire of Herdmanston. Who was no younger, Hal thought savagely, but a sight more honourable, so that he would not wriggle his way out of it with pleadings of old age, or that he was the only one to look to Herdmanston’s safety.

‘I have no fine warhorse and so cannot ride like a nobile this day,’ his father declared suddenly, bland as a wimple.

‘Balius is not mine. He is the Earl of Buchan’s and I am charged with taking him back, hale and hearty,’ Hal retorted, seeing the sly look the old man shot him. His father stroked his ragged beard and nodded.

‘Aye, aye, so I heard. Stallion and mare both back to the Comyn – the young Bruce is feeling generous. Pity, though, for I would have liked to have ridden as a knight proper in a great battle, just the yin time.’

‘It is a young man’s sport,’ Hal said, ignoring the wistful longing. Concern made him brutal. ‘That will be why the Auld Templar bided at home and sent his steward in his place. Sense would tell ye that is where you should be. You will note also the absence of a single chiel belonging to the Earl of Buchan, who still sits on his fence – or to Bruce, who is supposed to be on the English side. Save for us, who are in the wrong God-damned place.’

‘Weesht,’ he father chided softly. ‘The Auld Templar bides in Roslin because he cannot be seen involvin’ the Order in this stushie. And yourself is free to go – only I am sent to fight in this affair.’

He glanced at the outraged face of his son, already gasping out protest about how he was unable to leave his own da to certain death.

‘Certain death, is it?’ answered his father, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Bigod, ye set little store by my abilities these days. Besides – there was never a thought about yer auld faither when you were clatterin’ about with a coontess and a mystery. Ye have contrived to tangle yerself in the doings of Bruce, the Balliol and Comyn an’ this Wallace chiel. As if there was nothing left for you at home but a wee bit stane cross.’

Then his father relaxed and paced a little.

‘I ken why ye do it, boy,’ he said more softly and shook his head. ‘I miss them too. Grief is right and proper but what you are doing is … unhealthy.’

He stopped. Hal had nothing he could say that would not bring argument and anger, so he stayed silent – in the core of him he felt shame at what he had abandoned for grief and a sense that, like some chill cloud, it was lifting off him. His father waved a metal hand into his silence.

‘There’s sense in silence. No point in blowing away like a steamy pot,’ he said. ‘I have got myself dressed in all this iron at the behest of our liege lord, who seems determined to put Sientclers in harm’s way, God bless the silly auld fool. So I have come here to this field to dance, not hold a rush light on the side. I do not have a warhorse, but I will have a wee wheen of Roslin pike to order so it is not all bad. What we should be discussing is this mystery of the Savoyard and who you should be unravellin’ it to.’

‘Wallace …’ Hal said uncertainly and his father nodded, pursing lips so that his moustache ends stuck out like icicles.

‘He has asked you to look at it, certes. But a Bruce or a Comyn is involved in it, for sure … so trust nobody.’

He looked at his son steadily, his eyes firm in the middle of their pouched flesh.

‘Tak’ tent – trust no man. Not even the Auld Templar.’

‘What does that mean?’ Hal demanded and his father rolled his eyes and flung his hands up.

‘Christ’s Balls – may God forgive me – do ye listen or not? Trust no man – Sir William asks me a deal about this affair for a casual aside. A man has been red murdered already and whoever did it is no chivalrous knight. I ken Sir William is our kin in Roslin, but he is sleekit in this, so – trust no man.’

He looked at his son, a hard look filled with a desperation that stitched Hal’s arguments behind his lips.

‘Whoever did such a kill will come at you sideways, like a cock fighting on a dungheap,’ his father went on bleakly. ‘Even from the dark.’

He clasped his son by both forearms and drew him into a sudden, swift embrace, the maille of his shoulder cold, the aillette with its shivering cross rasping on Hal’s cheek. Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, almost thrusting Hal away from him.

‘There,’ he declared huskily. ‘I will see you on the far side of this affair.’

Hal stared, wanting to speak, dumbed and numbed. He watched the armoured figure stump away into the throng, felt a presence on his shoulder and turned into Sim’s big squint.

‘Is Sir John fechtin’ then?’ he demanded and Hal could only nod. Sim shook his head.

‘Silly auld fool,’ he declared, then added hastily. ‘No slight intended.’

‘None ta’en,’ Hal answered, finding his voice. Then, more firmly, he added, ‘He will be fine, for we will be guarding his back. Seek young John Fenton, the steward of Roslin – that’s where father is, and so we will be.’

‘Good enough,’ Sim declared, glad to have some sort of plan for the day. Then he jerked a grimy thumb at lurking figures behind him; Hal realised, slowly, that they were Tod’s Wattie, Bangtail Hob and the rest, their faces shifty and eyes lowered. His heart sank.

‘Ye let the Savoyard get away,’ he said softly.

‘Aye and no,’ Tod’s Wattie began and Bangtail shushed him, stepping forward.

‘The Abbot came this morn,’ he said, ‘to tell us that a man arrived in the night and put the fear of God and the De’il both into the Savoyard. This stranger never got near our man, the Abbot says, but the Savoyard took fright and went out the infirmary drain.’

‘The what?’

Tod’s Wattie nodded, his eyes bright with the terror of it.

‘Aye. Show’s how desperate the chiel was. The spital drain, man …’

He left the rest unsaid and everyone regarded the horror for a silent moment. The infirmary drain was where every plague, every foulness from the sick lurked. For a man to risk himself to that, plootering like a humfy-backit rat through a slurry of ague, plague and worse …

‘Who arrived in the night?’ Hal demanded, suddenly remembering Bangtail’s words. Bangtail twisted his hands and cursed.

‘I saw him,’ he declared in a pained voice. ‘But ye said to keep folk from leaving, not to stop them getting in. If I had known who it was …’

‘Malise,’ Tod’s Wattie said, his voice like two turning querns. ‘Malise Bellejambe, who pizened the dugs. He is in there now, claimin’ the same sanctuary from us that the Savoyard did, for he kens what will happen whin I get my fists on him.’

‘I have sent men to find which way the Savoyard went,’ Sim added and Hal nodded slowly. Malise was on the trail of the Savoyard, which meant Buchan and the Comyn were involved.

Nothing more to be done with it on this, of all days. On the other side of it, God willing, he could start thinking matters through again.

Cressingham was a ranting, red-faced roarer, which did no good to his dignity with the troops he was supposed to be leading, Addaf thought. Mind you, the man is after having some reason.

The reason trailed behind him, coming back over the brig they had just crossed, led by the fat man bouncing badly on the back of his prancer of a horse so that the swans on his belly jumped.

‘I am thinking folk do not know their own minds, mark you,’ Heydin Captain declared, able to be loud and sour in Welsh, as they crowded back across the brig and sorted themselves out. Addaf saw the long-faced lord, Thweng, turn his mournful hound gaze back to where the Fore Battle straggled.

Cressingham scrambled off his horse and, already stiff and sore, stumped furiously up to the knot of men surrounding the magnificently accoutred Earl of Surrey, who stood deep in conversation with two men. One was the Scots lord, Lundie, the other was Brother Jacobus, his face quivering with outrage and white against his black robes.

‘He dismissed us, my lord. As if we were children. Said he had not come here to submit and would prove as much in our beards.’

Men growled and Lundie waved a dismissive hand.

‘Aye, Wallace has a way of speaking, has he not?’ he said, mockingly. ‘But Moray’s is the voice to listen to, my lords, and he will have some plan to take advantage of having to cross this narrow brig, my lord. You have seen how it is -two riders side by side can scarce find room to move. There is a ford further up. Give me some men and I will flank him – it will take me the best part of this day and you can cross in perfect safety tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ bellowed Cressingham, forcing everyone to turn and look at him. The Earl of Surrey saw the red pig-faced scowl of him and sighed.

‘Treasurer,’ he said mildly. ‘You have something to add?’

‘Add? Add?’ Cressingham spluttered and his mouth worked, loose and wet for a moment. Then he sucked in breath.

‘Aye, I have something to add,’ he growled and pointed a shaking, gauntleted hand at De Warenne. ‘Why in the name of God and all his Saints am I marching back and forth across this bloody bridge? Answer me that, eh?’

The Earl of Surrey felt men stir at the insulting way Cressingham was speaking, but quelled his own anger; besides, he felt tired and his belly griped. Deus juva me, he thought as the pain lanced him, even the crowfoot powder no longer works.

‘Because, Treasurer,’ he answered slowly, ‘I did not order any movement.’

Cressingham blinked and his face turned an unhealthy colour of purple. He will explode like a quince in a metal fist, De Warenne thought.

‘I ordered it,’ the Treasurer exclaimed, his voice so high it was nearly a squeak. ‘I ordered it.’

‘Do you command here?’ De Warenne responded mildly.

‘I do when you are still asleep and half the day of battle wasted,’ roared Cressingham and folk started make little protesting noises now.

‘Have a care,’ someone muttered.

‘Indeed,’ De Warenne agreed sternly. ‘I will have my due from you, Treasurer. Remember your place.’

Cressingham thrust his great broad face into the Earl of Surrey’s indignantly quivering beard. Sweat sheened the Treasurer’s cheeks and trembled in drips along jowls the colour of plums.

‘My place,’ he snarled, ‘is to make sure you do the king’s bidding. My place is to get this army, gathered at great expense, to do the job it is supposed to and destroy this rabble of Scots rebels. My place is to explain to the king why the Earl of Surrey seems determined not to do this without spending the entire Exchequer. If you wish to stand in my place before the king himself, my lord earl, please feel free.’

He stopped, breathing like a mating bull; the coterie waited, watching the Earl of Surrey, who closed his eyes briefly against the hot wind of Cressingham’s breathing.

He wanted to slap this fat upstart down with a cutting phrase, but he knew the Treasurer was correct; the king wanted this business done as quickly and cheaply as possible and the last thing De Warenne wanted was to have to face the towering menace of Edward Plantagenet with a monstrous bill in one hand and failure in the other. He gathered the shreds of himself and turned to the Scot.

‘As you see, Sir Richard,’ he declared, mild as milk, ‘the ink-fingered clerks will not permit delay. I am afraid your war-winning strategy will have to be foregone in favour of Cressingham’s crushing delivery.’

Then he turned to Cressingham, his poached-egg eyes wide, white brows raising, as if surprised that the scowling Treasurer was still present. He waved a languid hand.

‘You may proceed across the river.’

***

Hal stood to the left of the little pike square, the front ranks heavy with padded, studded gambesons and iron-rimmed hats, the back ones filled with bare heads and bare feet, trembling, grim men in brown and grey.

A hundred paces in front of him was a long, thin scattering of bowmen, right along the front to right and left and for all Hal knew there were some four hundred of them, it looked like a long thread of nothing at all.

There were shouts; a horseman thundered past and sprayed up clods so that everyone cursed him. He waved gaily and shouted back, but it was whipped away by the wind and he disappeared, waving his sword.

‘Bull-horned, belli-hoolin’ arse,’ Sim growled, but the rider was simply the herald for Wallace and Moray. Hal saw the cavalcade, the blue, white-crossed banners and then the great red and gold lion rampant, with Moray’s white stars on blue flapping beside it. Wallace, Hal saw, wore a knight’s harness and a jupon, red with a white lion on it. He also rode a warhorse that Hal knew well and he gaped; Sim let out a burst of laughter.