The Complete Kingdom Trilogy

by Robert Low

  He did not add what he was doing, for he knew Bruce would work it out. The others had already done so, looked at the vanishing back of Dog Boy with envy while the warm summer’s morning turned cold as blade; yet their hands sweated on the shafts of the Jeddarts as they wheeled out like a flock of sparrows, into the view of the worming column.

  Addaf saw the horsemen at once across the far side of the field and threw up a hand to bring his men to a halt; they stood in the sea of calf-height green stalks, watching the faint morning breeze ruffle it in slow ripples, like waves.

  Light horse, Addaf saw without even narrowing his eyes much. Prickers, but Scotch ones and he had seen these kind before – more mounted foot than horsemen, though they could manage the latter at a pinch. Glancing quickly behind, he was pleased to see his men, quiet and calm in their ranks, standing hipshot and still as if paused on a pleasant stroll.

  Good men, mostly with around twenty summers on them, a few older – and one, Hwyel, colt-young and eager. It struck him, suddenly and for no reason, that he was the oldest one and that none of them had been with him more than a five-year.

  It would be the Scotch, he thought, bringing on such memories, for he had been leading men in the French wars for long enough and the last time he had been this far north had been the King’s campaign of’97 against Wallace. Christ – near ten years since, he realized.

  Not one of the men he had been with then were around now and most of them were dead of sickness and disease, the others gone home. He alone had survived and the Welsh band who had fought for Edward then had become a company hired out to the highest bidder and he, though he hated to think of it, had become that most reviled of men, a contract captain.

  Contracted, in this case, to de Valence, a retinue Addaf did not care to be in because he remembered de Valence riding down Welsh archers in that same campaign against Wallace. Drunk and quarrelsome Welsh, he admitted, but none that deserved death at the hands of English knights; King Edward had been fortunate that any of the Welsh archers had fought at all on the day and most had not out of spite, leaving most of the work to the Gascon crossbows.

  That was when Addaf had seen Scots like this, whirling in and out on their little, fast-gaited horses, hauling proud knights out of their saddles with hooks, stabbing and slashing them as they scrabbled on the ground.

  That was then and this was now; none of the ones he barked orders at cared who de Valence was, only that he paid on time and let them plunder. Obedient to Addaf’s instructions, the column turned smartly to the right, to become a loose-ranked block three-deep, facing the horsemen; there was a birdwing rustle as the bows came out of their bags.

  ‘Smart your sticks,’ Addaf called and his bowmen strung the weapons with swift, easy movements.

  Hal led his riders out at a fast walk, all spread out to look more threatening towards the flanks of the column. His plan was to keep just beyond the hurling range of these spear throwers and harass them with shouts and waving, pinning them in place with the idea that, if they turned to move off, the riders would fall on them. He saw another fat column, coming to an uncertain halt to one side and tried to watch it as well as the one in front. Slow them all down, he thought. Give Bruce time to fight the English heavy horse.

  The flicker in the middle of the three-deep column of spear throwers disturbed him a little, as did the determined, cool way it moved – unlike the second one, who were now waving spears like beetle-feelers and milling in an ungainly, uncertain mob.

  Closer still and his unease turned to a deeper chill; not one of these little javelinmen had a shield. Not one … the cold plunge in his belly coincided with the pungent curse from Sim Craw.

  ‘Virgin’s erse-cheeks – they are Welsh bowmen.’

  Bowmen. Welsh. The two words struck a gibbering panic into everyone and Hal had to fight himself for control. It wasn’t that they had better bows or more skill than the archers Hal knew from Selkirk and elsewhere – it was because the Welsh delivered death in steel sleet, all loosed together rather than the ragged shooting Hal was used to seeing, even from the vaunted Gascon crossbows.

  It was a rain of arrows that swept men down like sudden storm did summer wheat, flattening them to ruined stooks.

  ‘Turn. Away,’ he yelled and took his own advice, hearing the giant barndoor creak of drawing strings, then the Devil’s-breath rush of feathers in flight.

  Too late. Hal knew it even as he flogged the garron into a mad race for the far side of the field, half-stumbling through the fetlock-clinging barley. Too late. He heard the evil breath of it the way a night mouse hears the owl’s wing, an eyeblink before the talons close.

  There was a rising hiss and then the rain fell on them. He saw Jemmie o’ The Nook arch, heard the drumming thumps and the scream from him as his back turned to a hedgepig; the garron, stuck in rump and haunch, squealed, veered off and he was gone.

  Another garron went over its own nose, but the man on it was pinned to the saddle through the thigh and backbone and was plunged to the bloody greenery whether he cared or not.

  Hal’s horse leaped in the air, came down half on and half off the ragged bundle of him, then stumbled on for a stride or two until it stopped, head down, legs splayed. A great gout of blood and a groan came from it, then it started to fold and Hal kicked free of it, only seeing the strange sprout of feathered twig in one side. Into the lungs, he thought wildly; it missed my knee by a hair.

  Addaf was satisfied with the one shoot, for he would have to send men out to recover what arrows they could; they were in short supply and too crafted to waste. He watched the riders vanish into the treeline on the far side of the field, saw the riderless little horses, some running in mad circles, most limping painfully.

  A single man staggered and Addaf, tempted, started to nock an arrow – a long shot, but no longer than ones where he had put a big battle-arrow through a willow-wand …

  The sudden shouts distracted him and he turned to see the second column, now no more than a crowd, waving weapons and cheering.

  ‘An audience appreciates you,’ he said, nodding to them, and his men laughed.

  ‘We make them jig, we make them kick,’ yelled out the irrepressible Hywel, ‘with a feather shaft and a crooked stick.’

  All of them laughed aloud and, when Addaf remembered the limping man and looked for him, there was nothing to see. He frowned, unsmarted the bow and sent men out to fetch the arrows back, or dig out the valuable points for re-shafting.

  In the treeline, Hal sank down, sweating and panting, while others retched, spat and then examined each other and their mounts for unseen wounds.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Six,’ Sim Craw told him. ‘Five are gone down the brae, certes, and Hob o’ the Merse has a barb in his back and says he cannae feel his legs. Eight garrons down. God be praised.’

  ‘For ever and ever,’ Hal answered, then struggled up. ‘But not this day, I think. Mount and ride, double if you need – Sore Davey, I will climb ahint you, since you are lighter. Throw Hob over a saddle an’ bring him. There is a battle yet to be won.’

  He was wrong. There was no battle left to be won and they discovered the heart-sick lurch of truth when they came up on their old camp, into a confused, whirling affray of men in knots and struggling knuckles, fighting like dog-packs with no order or command.

  There were men on foot, formed in little rings half-armed and defiant, while others ran like fox-struck chooks in a coop, pursued by vengeful men in maille mounted on warhorses. Glancing over the shoulder of Sore Davey, to the left of where they had come up, Hal saw a huddle of riders, the bright blue and white stripes and red martlets of Aymer de Valence blazing from the horse barding of himself and his retinue.

  ‘The King …’ Sim Craw bellowed and pointed to the fist of riders surrounding a figure. He had no jupon, but the golden lion rampant shield was clear and he wore maille and a coif, but only a bascinet, the gold circlet on it gleaming in the sun. Beyond, half-sunk like some suga
rloaf in the rain, the striped confection of the royal panoply sagged and round the tangle of it came Dog Boy, his tired garron staggering after his flat-out run to warn the King.

  Isabel, Hal thought and slapped Sore Davey on one shoulder, even as he bawled out to the others to go right, towards the tents, away from de Valence. The Dog Boy saw them and turned the garron obediently to meet them, though he was thinking of Jamie Douglas somewhere in the chaos of blade and blood.

  They rode past three men, two of them on foot, the rider holding horses; Hal’s heart missed several beats at the sight of the woman struggling between them, but it was one he did not know and was grateful for it.

  Dog Boy did. He hauled the garron up short, which balked Sore Davey and Hal cursed him for it, sliding over the rump as he saw the armed men turn in shocked surprise; he shrugged his shield off his back to his arm and hauled out a blade, while Dog Boy, his face ugly with anger, forced the garron at the rider, roaring incoherently and striking out with the big Jeddart staff.

  Sim Craw saw the weave of it and brought his own mount to its haunches; two or three others followed and they whirled, flogging back to help; the rest rode on, oblivious so that the shrieks of the slung Hob, woken to a world of terror and agony, faded into the distance.

  Dog Boy rode the Jeddart at the serjeant, who cursed and ducked, letting the horses loose as he did so; the shaft slithered over his mailled shoulder, the hook caught in his jupon and Dog Boy, slamming briefly into one of the shocked and plunging horses, rode on, dragging the man out of the saddle. Whooping and roaring, Sim Craw and the handful of men with him rode over him, stabbing downwards.

  The woman went flying, discarded and forgotten in an instant while the men dragged out their weapons and turned with the desperate air of cornered rats. One of them saw Sim and the others and bolted away while the other stood in a half-crouch, head moving from Sim to Dog Boy and back to Hal.

  He glanced briefly at the shield, discarded in pursuit of the woman, then he made his mind up and charged at Hal, sword held in both hands.

  He was a wet-mouthed raver and Hal offered no finesse after the first blow scarred a new ruin on the shivering blue cross of his shield, the shock wave rattling his teeth; he put his shoulder down and launched himself forward, snarling. With a last mighty heave he took the shield in a swinging door slam that made the man grunt, yelp and stagger backwards to fall on his arse, legs and arms waving like an upturned beetle, the sword spilled from his grasp.

  In the next second, he found himself staring at a new world, shrunk down to the wicked point of Dog Boy’s Jeddart, which hovered over his face; behind, the abandoned garron snorted at the stink of blood and moved to join the riderless rounceys.

  ‘I yield,’ squeaked the man and there was a moment when he thought this snarling youth would kill him anyway, a shocking, bowel-loosening moment.

  Chirnside Rowan, still mounted, gave a grunt of derision.

  ‘Christ betimes,’ he growled. ‘No content wi’ dreaming of a rank ye can never have, ye think of being Roland at Roncesvalles, or Sir Galahad chasing the Grail.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sim Craw declared, coming up behind him, ‘our wee Dog Boy is a gentle parfait for sure. He holds the knightly vow that ye should nivver violet a lady.’

  Dog Boy turned to see the woman he’d rescued squatting by the serjeant’s corpse, rifling it expertly, and Hal was standing over her.

  ‘The Queen and her women?’ Hal was asking her urgently. ‘Where are they?’

  The woman hauled off a boot, turned it up and shook it, frowning when nothing fell out.

  ‘Rode away,’ she answered. She grinned up at Dog Boy.

  ‘Marthe,’ he said. ‘Are ye weel?’

  Marthe tore off the other boot and up-ended it; a double-edged dagger fell out and she took it, frowning when nothing followed it, then beamed back at Dog Boy.

  ‘Weel enow, thanks to yersel’ an’ yer freends,’ she declared and then winked lewdly at him. ‘I owe ye – whin it is convenient, I will rattle the teeth out of yer head.’

  Dog Boy’s face flamed as he looked at Hal.

  ‘Creishie Marthe,’ he explained. ‘Her man is a woodcutter from Selkirk …’

  ‘The Coontess,’ Hal growled and Creishie Marthe’s head came up, eyes narrowed in recognition.

  ‘Och – it is yersel’, yer honour.’

  She scambled up, bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘The blissin’ o’ Heaven on ye, yer honour,’ she went on calmly, ‘but the Coontess went aff some time since, wi’ loaded ponies an’ yon nice wee brother o’ the King, Niall.’

  Hal sagged with relief. Escaped – he almost laughed aloud, then Dog Boy brought him to his senses by growling and pointing to the ruin of blue and white tents nearby; in the depths of them, something stirred and cursed.

  In a moment, all the men were off their horses and closing in. Sore Davey slashed expertly and the sail canvas parted like ripe fruitskin – a figure rose out of it, flailing and cursing. There was a moment of raised blades and snarls – then they all recognized the figure and subsided like empty wineskins.

  ‘Kirkpatrick,’ Hal declared weakly. ‘In the name o’ God, man – what are ye up to now?’

  Kirkpatrick, his bruised face sweating red, hirpling still with his hurts, clutched a casket tight to him and managed a smile as he tapped it with a free hand.

  ‘Saving secrets,’ he announced. ‘The royal Rolls.’

  Hal knew it at once and raised an eyebrow – everyone had fled in such haste that they had left the list of those in service to the King, what they had brought as retinue and how much they were owed. In the hands of de Valence, it would provide all the evidence needed as to who the Bruce supporters were.

  ‘Not that they deserve it, mind,’ Kirkpatrick added bitterly. ‘Half our brave community of the realm stuffed their jupons under their saddles, covered their shields so as not to be recognized and ran like hunted roe.’

  Creishie Marthe had turned her attention to the yielded serjeant, and drawn a swift second smile under his chin with a dagger she’d taken. Ignoring the blood and the kicking, she was rifling under the hem of his maille for hidden wealth.

  ‘Bigod,’ said Chirnside admiringly to Dog Boy, ‘your choice in weemin’ is growin’ dangerous, my lad.’

  Kirkpatrick saw the ring when Marthe peeled back the man’s maille mittens; the knife flashed and the bloody finger was already vanishing inside her considerable bosom when Kirkpatrick caught her wrist.

  ‘Dinna even think o’ it,’ he hissed into her savage glare and flourished dirk and she saw the eyes on him, knew instantly who it was and whimpered, giving up the grisly prize and the ring on it.

  Hal saw it all and shot a quick look at Dog Boy to see if he had noticed that Creishie Marthe had been ‘violeted’ – but Dog Boy was staring blankly back at the whirling battle. Men sprinted past; a horseman galloped furiously further down and it was clear to everyone that the fighting was closing in on the royal tents. Creishie Marthe knew it and was already gathering her skirts and running off.

  ‘Jamie,’ Dog Boy muttered, gathering the reins of his garron, and Hal, half-way into the saddle of one of the patient rounceys, looked back to the black thundercloud of struggling men.

  ‘The King,’ he said, though he knew there was nothing that would make him drag the remains of his mesnie into that mess.

  The King was in trouble and he knew it. Truth was he had known it from the moment the messenger rode up, the one he recognized as Dog Boy. It had given him and the others enough time to struggle into maille hauberk, though he had thrown the awkward leggings to one side. He had a coif attached to the hauberk and long sleeves with mittens, and now blessed the one-piece garment he had roundly cursed in the past for its weight while trying to get it on.

  Dog Boy’s arrival had given him time to issue orders sending the Queen to safety, to have a palfrey saddled – his warhorses all went with the Queen, having just been fed and now useless for battle – and take
up the bascinet with the golden circlet.

  Balliol’s, of course, as was so much of his royal finery, though that king had never worn it. Truth was, it was a little loose for Bruce but he gave up on comfort for the advantage of being seen easily by his own side, who would take heart from their battling king.

  The other side of that spun coin, he thought to himself in the sweating, belly-clenching moments before the English knights closed on them, was that being tumbled off would rip the heart out of them.

  He thought of that in the eyeblink before the charging figure came down on him, featureless in his bucket helm, waving a battleaxe and trying to rein in the over-eager warhorse. Bruce danced to one side, slashed out with his sword and spun the palfrey as the warhorse went plunging mad, half its tail sheared off and all of its rump bloody and fired with agony; the knight sailed off and hit the ground with a clatter. The German Method …

  Bruce had little time to exult and none at all to see if the knight got up, for others were on him and his own mesnie closed in protectively. He realized at once that this was no battle and was lost whatever you called it – there was only a mêlée now and Bruce was master of that.

  He ducked a swinging blade, banged the man out of the saddle with his shield, cut right, cut left, took a blow that made him grunt and hope his maille was good and the sword blunt. A man plunged out, on foot, to grab the bridle of his horse, helmetless and roaring with triumph that he had taken the King.

  Bruce slashed down and the man shrieked and fell away, while the rouncey threw up its head and panicked at the grisly ornament of hand and wrist that dangled, clenched and bloody in the bridle. Bruce lost a foot from one stirrup and sat deep while the rouncey plunged itself to a trembling halt.

  The knight who had first attacked suddenly lurched from the other side, having thrown away his bucket helm and dragged out a sword. He was bleeding from a broken nose and snoring in desperate breaths, but he reached out a free hand and tried to grab Bruce by his leg, missed and grasped the free stirrup.

  ‘He is mine,’ he bellowed in a spray of blood. ‘Yield yerself sirra –aaaaah.’