The Complete Kingdom Trilogy

by Robert Low

  The only light came from the moon and the faintest of pale glows ahead, but Hal’s eyes were dark-adapted now and made out the shape of arch and doorway. Cellar, he thought. That was where Piculph had said the crew of the Bon Accord were kept, so he looked for a way that led downward.

  He scouted the edge of the room, slow and cat-wary, avoiding candlestand and statue, chair and bench, until he came to stairs leading down. Four steps and he was at a door, which yielded a fingerlength before the key-lock rattled it to a halt; a voice froze the blood in Hal.

  ‘Fit’s that thaur?’

  Pegy’s northern Braid, faint and muffled through the thick timber of the door, permitted Hal to breathe again. He told Pegy who he was and heard the excited rush of murmurs from the others, but found that the door was thick, stout and locked. According to Pegy, Doña Beatriz had the key. Fretting and sweating, he promised them he would return and slid back into the shadows.

  No guards; no sign of life. Perhaps, Hal thought, Piculph has done his work after all – there was a whirring sound and he ducked instinctively, throwing himself flat on the tiles. After a moment, when nothing else happened, he climbed back to a low crouch, heard a soft fluting call and perched, bewildered.

  Light flared like a blast of icy breath and bobbed through the open door, a torch held in Sim’s big hand, so that Hal, blinking blindly into it, knew he was caught in a half-crouch, sword ready.

  ‘Whit why are ye hunkered there?’ Sim boomed and Hal sprang up.

  ‘Whisht, you – I heard something.’

  Sim peered round, raising the sconce torch higher.

  ‘There is nobody …’ he began, then the whirr and the soft call came again, making Hal cry out.

  ‘Cooshie doos,’ Sim exclaimed with a bark of laughter. ‘Ye are hiding from the attentions o’ some cooshie doos.’

  Hal realized Sim was right and that the high-roofed place had doves in it, though the next thought that struck him was where had they come from? He was too embarrassed to mention that as he straightened up and gave Sim a vicious glance.

  ‘Yer arse back in order?’ he demanded and Sim scowled, angry and ashamed.

  ‘For the minute,’ he admitted, ‘though I am black-affronted.’

  ‘Black-behinded as well, I am sure.’

  Sim’s reply was interrupted by a dove which fluttered down, tame as a lap dog, and strutted into the torchlight in a hopeful search for food.

  ‘Cooshie doo,’ he declared with a triumphant grin. Hal scowled back. Doves did not fly in the dark normally, which he mentioned. Nor did they spontaneously bleed, which brought Sim’s head round to study the bird more carefully; it hopped and flapped up but there was time enough to see the pink staining on one wingtip.

  Then, in the lip of light expanded by Sim holding up the torch at arm’s length, they both saw the limp white hand beyond.

  Doña Beatriz had died quickly, struck from behind by a single blow from a blade that had sliced upwards off her shoulderblades and cracked open her skull; her hair lay like dead wet snakes in the spreading darkness of blood.

  ‘Backhand stroke wi’ a broadsword,’ Sim growled, waving away the flies greedy for gleet. ‘She was running, which spoiled the aim – planned to swipe her head off her neck but missed.’

  ‘Piculph?’ Hal suggested, bemused, but Sim had run out of knowledge and merely shrugged, winced and massaged his belly, trying not to look as Hal, swallowing his own spit hard, fumbled in the stiff, bloody ruin of the woman’s body.

  ‘No key,’ he declared finally, smearing the back of his clean hand across his sweat-moist lips.

  They moved towards the faint pale glow, unnerved enough now for Sim to stub out the torch on the tiles, pressing his boots on the embers, swift and silent, as a prudent man would who had known only rush floors and wood surrounds; the acrid stink of the smoke trailed them towards the light.

  There was a door, open just enough to let out the faintest of glows, an alarmed dove which flew off in a rattle of wings – and a faint, regular heartbeat of sound which paused them both and brought their heads together.

  ‘A wee fountain,’ Sim hissed, his breath foul in Hal’s face.

  ‘A horologe,’ Hal replied, having seen the ticking wonder of gears and cogs that had been mounted in Canterbury. Sim, who had only heard of such a thing, looked sceptical as they slid, fast and quiet, into the room.

  The light came from the moon, which was almost straight above and shining through a roof tight-slatted with wooden beams, but otherwise open – Hal realized they were inside the tower he had seen from the outside and that this view of it was as strange.

  The floor was earth and blue-tiled meandering paths, spattered with white splashes where it was not thick with exotic plants. A pool dominated the centre and the walls, all around, top to bottom, were pocked with regular square niches, as tall and wide as two fists one on top of the other; even as he stood and gaped, Hal heard the flute-note call that was now familiar.

  It was the sprung stones, girdling the entire thing at waist height like a belt, that finally clicked it into place for the pair of them.

  ‘A doocot,’ Sim marvelled. It was exactly that: the sprung stones to keep the rats from climbing up to the eggs and squabs; the slatted roof to keep the hawks from the same, while allowing the doves in and out. Yet something had killed a couple of birds, their bodies splayed like orchids veined with blood. The ticking was louder.

  ‘Water,’ Sim declared, pushing through the veil of blossoms to the pool.

  It was almost all blood, the pool, drained from the gently swinging nakedness of Piculph, hanging from the sorrowful bend of a willow-tree bough.

  He had been hard used so that death had come as a mercy to him, but not before he had suffered the shrieking terror of being whipped to a flayed ruin. Nor had he been dead long enough for all the life to have drained away; it fell, viscous and soft as cat’s paws, drop by ticking drop from the dangle of his arms and head.

  The slamming door whirled them round and Sim gave a sharp cry as something whirred like a dove wing through the air, curved round his neck and jerked him off his feet; he flew forward and was dragged, choking.

  Hal, with reflexes even he did not know he possessed, slashed out with the sword and the black, thin snake that seemed to have leaped out and grabbed Sim round the neck whipped away; there was a curse and Hal sprang to Sim’s side as the man rolled over, coughing and choking.

  He had time to see that it was no snake but the remains of a leather thong – a whip, he realized, remembering Piculph’s ruined body – and then a voice cut the air.

  ‘Quick, for an old man. You have spoiled my surprise – and I had spent a deal of time perfecting that lash; I did not know how many would come and needed an advantage.’

  De Grafton stepped into the moonlight like a verse in black and silver, the limp dangle of the whip in one hand, the flash of steel in the other. He wore black Templar robes and it seemed as if the dark had eaten him.

  ‘Two only? Then Piculph told it true.’

  He shrugged ruefully.

  ‘Pity. I did not believe him. I thought this Ruy Vaz would send his host at least – two old men is not a little insulting.’

  ‘Enough for you,’ Sim managed, but his voice was hoarse and the throat burn in it palpable.

  ‘Ruy Vaz and his men are on their way,’ Hal added, hoping it was true.

  De Grafton moved, sudden as an adder, the tongue of ruined whip flicked and a dove veered off and flew away, calling alarms. De Grafton frowned.

  ‘You have severed enough to ruin my aim,’ he said and tossed the whip away with disgust. It was that, more than anything so far, which drove a cold steel blade of determined hate into Hal, suddenly revolted by a man who had spent the long, hot afternoon practising his whip on an innocence of doves while his human victims marbled in the heat.

  ‘Wee birds and women,’ Hal answered, finding his voice at last. ‘This seems your strength, de Grafton.’

&nbs
p; He moved as he spoke, between the fronds of a palm, crushing the jade-pale stems and heads of some flowers, so that a cloying perfume rose up.

  ‘The lady? She believed this Piculph, thought to go with him and throw herself on the mercy of Ruy Vaz.’

  De Grafton’s lip curled with revulsion.

  ‘Thought to use her women’s ways’, he said, ‘to slither out from punishment and leave me to bear the brunt of wrath. I killed her as you would the snake in Eden and then found out what was needed from Piculph.’

  ‘Who was no great fighter,’ Hal answered, sidling closer.

  ‘A Serjeant of the Order of Alcántara,’ de Grafton sneered. ‘If they are all like that, the Moors will be in this port within the year.’

  ‘You will never ken,’ roared Sim, bulling up from the floor, even as Hal shouted at him to stay.

  De Grafton slid to one side, the sword flicked, fast as the whip, and there was a dull clang and a splash which curdled Hal’s blood; he sprang forward, but recoiled to a halt as the sword flicked out at him. From where he stood he could see Sim sprawled on the far side of the pool where the blow had flung him, half in and half out, covered in blood and not moving; Piculph’s disturbed body swung and turned while doves mourned in the moonlight.

  ‘You have a key I need,’ Hal said, trying not to look at Sim, while de Grafton cocked his head to one side like a curious bird.

  ‘I am charged with delaying you – preventing you entire if I can,’ he replied, almost sadly. ‘I gave my oath to my lord Percy and his English king, as a Poor Knight.’

  ‘The Poor Knights are no more and your oath is as worthless as your honour – you are long fallen from any grace,’ Hal replied, moving a bough of fragrant blossoms from in front of his face. ‘Piculph did not die because you wanted to know how many were coming here – he died because you wanted to know if Rossal was. Himself and the Templar writ he carries. Which you would take from his whipped body after he had revealed the secret word.’

  There was silence, broken only by the gory drip and the flutter of terrified doves.

  ‘Did you work out that you alone had not been party to the knowledge? They did not trust you, de Grafton, even though they could prove nothing. Yet Rossal knew – perhaps God told him.’

  He shifted slightly for advantage, poised and ready for a strike.

  ‘You can deny your oaths and cheat the Order enough to gull foolish men and silly women,’ he went on. ‘But God is watching, my lord.’

  There was a pause, and then the doves erupted in fragile terror as de Grafton launched into a snarling frenzy, seeing all his plans shredded at the last.

  He was fast and trained with all the honed skills of a Templar, so that Hal reeled away, a shock jolting through him at how slow he was, how far removed from his own old skills. Yet the same reflex that had cut the whip from Sim sprang the bough of blossoms from his hand and slapped its fragrance into de Grafton’s face, making him turn his head to avoid it; the scything blow hissed over Hal’s ducking shoulder like a bar of light.

  Then the clouds drifted over the moon and everything was sunk into darkness.

  There was silence, broken only by the frantic bird-sounds, which clouded Hal’s ears. There was nothing but scent and space and blackness – but it was the same for de Grafton, he thought, and fought to control the ragged rasp of his treacherous breathing.

  A flurry of thrashing came from his left – a bird had blundered into de Grafton and he had struck out, so Hal moved as swiftly as he dared and slashed left and right, then retreated without, it seemed, hitting anything.

  Birds whirred and slapped through the dark, flute-wailing their distress. Something splashed in the fountain and Hal wondered if de Grafton was there; the idea that he was finishing off a wounded Sim almost sprang him recklessly forward, but he fought the urge.

  Sweat trickled down him and he found himself in a half-crouch, as if the ground would open up a safe hole and let him crawl in; the scent of flowers and old blood drifted on the night breeze.

  The clouds slid off the moon; a silver and black shadow flitted across from his left and the blow almost tore the sword from Hal’s grip, forcing him to dance backwards. He parried once, twice, managed to block a low cut to the knee, and then was alone as de Grafton whirled away like a wraith.

  In a moment he was back; the swords clashed and sparks flew, the blades slid together to the hilt and, for an eyeblink, Hal was breath to fetid breath with de Grafton, feeling the sweat heat of him, seeing the mad eyes and the white grin; but then the Templar’s head bobbed like a fighting cock and Hal reeled back from the blow on his forehead. Something seemed to snag his arm and he knew he had been cut.

  De Grafton laughed softly.

  ‘Do you have the writ, I wonder? Or the secret word? Or both? I will cut you a little, then we will find out the truth.’

  The pain crept through and Hal felt blood slide, felt the grip of his hand on the hilt grow slack and reinforced it with the left. A bird called throatily and de Grafton was suddenly close, his blade beating down Hal’s own.

  ‘We will find out,’ he repeated and Hal knew the next strike would be to render him helpless, for de Grafton to truss up and question.

  ‘It will do you no good,’ Hal panted through the red swirls of pain. ‘The writ and the word are both gone to Ruy Vaz.’

  There was a pause and Hal cursed himself. Clever, he thought, gritting through the pain of his arm – give him no excuse to spare you. Yet he could only kneel like a drooping bullock at the slaughter and wait for it.

  There was a whirring thump – De Grafton screamed and arched, and then bowed at the waist with the agony of the steel arbalest prong driven like a pickaxe into the join of neck and shoulder; behind, the bloody apparition that was Sim bellowed like a rutting stag, his face sliding with gore.

  ‘Kill me, would ye? Ye bliddy wee limmer, I will maul the sod wi’ ye.’

  De Grafton, reeling and shrieking, gave up trying to reach the prong and started to swing round on the unarmed Sim – Hal’s desperate, lunging two-handed stroke tore his own sword from his weakened grasp, but not before it had cut the Templar from his wounded shoulder almost to his hip. He fell in two directions and his heels drummed.

  The birds whirled and called and the heels danced to stillness. Sim wiped the mess on his face into a horror mask of streaks and heaved in a breath; his teeth were bright in the moonlit scarlet of his cheeks.

  ‘Aye til the fore,’ he panted and Hal blinked from his numbness.

  ‘I thought he had killed you,’ he said and Sim scowled.

  ‘The blow hit the arbalest – look, his cut has ruined it entire.’

  He prised the weapon from the ruin of De Grafton and flourished it with disgust.

  ‘He has severed the string and put a bliddy great gash in the stem. I will never find another.’

  ‘Ye are all bloody,’ Hal managed to say and Sim wiped his gory face again.

  ‘From the pool – Piculph’s blood. Apart from a dunt on my back, I am unhurt – more than can be said for yerself.’

  Hal allowed himself to be led away from the corpses and the stink of blood and exotic blooms. Sim struck up a light, which made them blink, and presented Hal with his sword, worked free from de Grafton’s corpse. Then he examined the arm with a critical eye.

  ‘Nasty and deep, but the lacings in yer arm are intact, so ye will get the use of it back.’

  Hal tried not to let the pain wash him, concentrated on staring at the sword and wondering at the keen edge which had slashed de Grafton to ruin. Too fancy, Rossal had admitted when he had handed the sword over and now Hal saw the extent of it: the Templar cross in the pommel and letters etched down the blade and now outlined clearly in de Grafton’s blood: C+S+S+M+L. Across the hilt was N+D+S+M+L and Hal wondered if there was a Templar left who could tell him what they meant.

  Sim searched de Grafton for the key and vanished with it; not long afterwards the place was suddenly filled with the Bon Accord
sailors. Hal let Pegy have his head, listened dully to him sending Somhairl and some men to check on the ship while he sat, fired with the agony of his arm and trying not to move at all.

  The big Islesman was back all too soon; the ship was foundered and half-sunk at its moorings, the steering whipstaff cut.

  ‘Baistit,’ Pegy swore and kicked the bloody ruin of de Grafton so that the head lolled sickeningly. ‘He knew he had won afore ye arrived, Sir Hal.’

  Hal, crushed with the black dog of it, fell back to studying the sword, half-numbed, watching the gleet and blood crust into the grooves of the letters in a haar of weariness, until light and voices burst over him, driving him up and out of it, as if breaching from a dark pool.

  ‘Christ betimes,’ said a familiar voice, ‘what a charnel hoose.’

  It was an effort to raise his head and stare into the wide grin.

  ‘Kirkpatrick,’ Hal slurred like a drunk. ‘You are late.’

  ISABEL

  Thou deckest Thyself with light as if it were a garment and spreadest out the Heavens like a curtain. A sign, Lord, to silence my weeping and I thank You for it. I saw him, through the smoke, through the crowds howling at the shrieks of the burning woman, a dark and strange angel, hooded and careful but the only one not looking at the poor soul writhing on the pyre, but up at me. He knows I saw him, too. O Lord. Joy of joys – a sign. Matters are changing; winds are shifting.

  Dog Boy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Berwick Town, Berwick

  Ember Day, Feast of the Visitation, May 1314

  He should not have been there, in the thronged Marygate. He could hear Jamie say it even as he walked into the crowd of the place. You are not meant to be strolling inside Berwick town, Aleysandir. You are supposed to be observing the folk in it, their movements and their bought truce. You are supposed to be me, Aleysandir – so says the King – and I am too kent a face for you to be waving its like at the English in Berwick.

  I am supposed to be kin, Dog Boy answered himself, grimly exultant with the daring of it, though he would never say it to Jamie’s face. My blood is your blood, Jamie Douglas – and your blood would bring you here if you were in my boots.