by Robert Low
‘Ach, yer grace – have ye never had a wummin come to ye with the ribbons ye bought her bound in her hair? Or a wee bit fancy cloth shawl? And she asks – how do I look in this?’
Everyone was nodding; even Bruce, whose smile was broader than ever.
‘Well,’ Bangtail went on, ‘d’ye risk the quim and tell her she will be a fat milcher even with a sack on her curly pow, but she is the only wummin for miles willing to part one leg from the other? No. Ye tell her she looks fine, or ye temper your honour and remark on how nice the colour is and how is suits her – even if the plain truth is that it would gag a sow.’
The laughter was loud and long now.
‘Now we ken why ye are named Bangtail,’ Ill Made Jock shouted from the fringes of the fire.
‘A glance at yer face,’ Bangtail countered, swift and vicious, ‘and we are in no doubt why ye are called Ill Made.’
‘Bangtail counts cunny more than honour,’ Sim declared, ‘which everyone kens. This is his excuse for a lie – but it is still an excuse.’
‘Ach, Sim,’ Bangtail said, ‘the world is not as divided, like the border atween this Kingdom and the English, where ye can declare “here we are and there you are and we are different from you”. When it comes to the bit, though, ye cannae tell an English Dodd from a Scots yin, or a Kerr in Hexham from another in Roxburgh.’
‘Ye can always tell a Kerr,’ growled Sim, ‘since all that breed are left-handed.’
Bangtail leaned forward, his sharp, fox face guttering with shadows and light from the flames. Hal saw that Bruce was fascinated, listening intently.
‘Let me spier ye this, Sim Craw,’ Bangtail went on. ‘Is it good to misguide your enemy? To make him think, maybes, that ye are weaker than ye are, so that he makes a bad fist of attacking ye?’
Sim nodded, reluctantly.
‘So it is fine to lie to an enemy,’ Bangtail ended triumphantly and Bruce slapped one hand against the other with delight at Sim’s scowl.
‘By God’s Grace,’ he roared in English, ‘I am truly sorry I never sat with Herdmanston men before this, for the entertainment in it is finer than a tumbler and juggling act.’
‘Aye, weel, so ye say, your lordship,’ Bangtail responded, preening, and Hal could not resist leaping in.
‘Thanks to his lordship, we have learned a deal this night,’ he declared, nodding deferentially to Bruce, who acknowledged it with an elegant, slightly mocking, one of his own.
‘We have learned,’ he went on smoothly, ‘that Bangtail cannot judge which leg of a wummin is finer, the left or the right.’
Hal paused and let the puzzled frown of the man in question squeak on his forehead for a heartbeat.
‘The truth of it for him is somewhere atween, of course,’ he added and there was laughter at that.
‘Abune all, there is the truth about lies,’ Hal went on, warming to matters now and aware that Bruce was watching him closely. Never harms to stamp the mark of who leads Herdmanston, like a firm seal impress in warm wax, Hal thought.
‘As I jalouse the workings of it, from his lordship and Bangtail here,’ he continued, ‘it seems that if a pig-faced friend appears with some pretty ribbons, ye crack their heart with the truth. If a pig-faced enemy appears with some pretty ribbons, ye tell them how wonderfully fine they look – an’ strike from behind as they preen.’
Above all, Sim Craw thought as the laughter roared and circled like the wind round the fires, we have learned that young Bruce is also a man who can win the hearts of hard men of no station – the commonality of the kingdom who, until now, Sim believed to be the province of Wallace alone.
Here was a new thing, to find a man who was a powerful gentilhomme of the kingdom, yet who could share a cup, in companionable friendship, with a boy who did not even own a proper name.
Hexham Priory, Northumberland
Feast of St Donan the Martyr of Eigg, April 1298
Hal came up whooping and streaming water, dashed it from his eyes and dried his face on his serk, the sun warm on his back and a breeze with enough chill in it to remind him that this was the north in April.
He blinked back into the garth at Hexham, to the walls with their unpleasant stone the colour of dried blood, blackened here and there by fires set the year before – even Wallace had not been able to prevent the Galloway men’s looting and arson, though he had hanged a few afterwards.
Hal saw Kirkpatrick staring at him intensely, a needle glare that almost made him recoil. Even when he stared back, the man’s gaze did not shift and Hal grew irritated, both at the rudeness and the lick of fear the man’s eyes smeared on him.
‘If ye bring ribbons an’ some decent wine ye might have a chance,’ he snarled. ‘Though I would not put much store by your supposed charm.’
Kirkpatrick blinked and flushed to the roots of his hair at the implication.
‘Yon bauble,’ he muttered. ‘Round yer neck. Looked mighty fine, that is all. Where did ye come by it?’
Hal glanced down at the ring on the cord round his neck, a little surprised. Still flustered, he scowled back at Kirkpatrick.
‘No doing of yours where this came from,’ he harshed out and Kirkpatrick’s face darkened even further, the eyes narrowing. Hal cursed; his weapons lay three steps away . . . but a loud burst of shouting snapped the moment away and they both turned.
Fitzwarin, his face thick with flush, came storming out of the priory guesthouse, waving his arms and bellowing incoherently. Behind him came a flustered man-at-arms, making little bleats of protest, and, after that, Bruce himself, frowning darkly.
‘Gone,’ Fitzwarin roared, then strode on before the man-at-arms could reply. Then he stopped, whirling on the man as he trotted up, forcing him to skid to a halt.
‘Gone,’ he repeated and waved his arms wildly. ‘To bloody Berwick. Are you entirely in your mind?’
‘He is on parole, my lord,’ the man-at-arms bleated. ‘I sent two men with him – but if he wants to go to Berwick, there is little I can do save protect his person.’
Fitzwarin gave a final pungent curse and strode away, leaving the man-at-arms floundering in his wake, turning with a pathetic, appealing look to Bruce. The Earl of Carrick merely looked at him, shrugged and walked across to where Kirkpatrick and Hal stood, the latter climbing into his sweat-yellowed serk, aware of a sudden chill breeze.
‘Sir Henry has taken himself to Berwick,’ Bruce explained, his languid delivery belied by the grit of his teeth. ‘Fitzwarin is less than pleased to be kept drumming his fingers here.’
‘Berwick?’ Hal demanded, bewildered. ‘Why for?’
‘A message, lord,’ said the man-at-arms coming up to join them, his face anguished. ‘I tried to tell the Lord Fitzwarin, but he would not listen.’
The man-at-arms was a captain from the braid in his belt and, in the next bobbing and deferential second Hal learned that he was Walter Elton, charged by Norfolk to bring Sir Henry Sientcler of Roslin to Hexham for the exchange.
‘Then he had a message,’ Elton went on. ‘From a pardoner.’
‘Message?’ Hal demanded.
‘Pardoner?’ said Bruce at the same time and the captain’s frantic eyes whipped between the two, then worked out that Bruce was an Earl and Hal of little account.
‘By name Lamprecht,’ he answered. ‘Has a strange way of speaking, as if all tongues were used at once. French and Latin, I heard in it. Some of the Italies, too, by the sound and even words I do not know, though they might be from the Holy Land, which he has visited.’
‘Lingua franca,’ Kirkpatrick mused, ‘which at least proves he has journeyed the lands round the Middle Sea, if nothing else.’
As have you, Hal suddenly saw and added a new dimension to the figure of the Bruce henchman.
‘Oh, he is from the Holy Land,’ enthused Elton. ‘Has the shell to prove it and lots of relics and wondrous objects -here, look, noble sirs.’
He fumbled out a cord from round his neck to reveal a stamped lead m
edallion, a quatrefoil on one side and a fish on the other.
‘Proof against evil spirits and wandering demons.’
No-one wanted to gainsay it, for demons existed, as everyone knew. Only last year one had been caught in the Tweed, a nasty black, snarling imp tangled in the salmon nets and beaten with sticks by the brave fishermen until it finally burst free and fled, shrieking laughter all the way back to the water. A bishop had written of it, so it must be true.
‘Message?’ Hal repeated and Elton blinked.
‘Aye, sir. Came looking for Sir Henry by name. Said he had a message for him to get to the spital in Berwick. Life and death, he said.’
‘Life and death?’ repeated Kirkpatrick slowly, then curled his lip in a savage smile.
‘Death, certes – the only spital I know of in Berwick is a leper house.’
‘Christ be praised,’ muttered Bruce, crossing himself.
‘For ever and ever,’ intoned the others and did the same.
‘What could a leper house want with Sir Henry?’ Bruce added, half to himself.
‘A Savoyard,’ declared Elton, nodding and admiring his lead amulet. It took a moment for him to realise the air had frosted and he looked up to see haar-harsh faces looking back at him and then each other.
‘Savoyard,’ repeated Hal in a voice full of tomb dust and echoes. Elton nodded uncertainly, the throat suddenly constrained.
‘You are sure of this name?’
Again the nod. Kirkpatrick shifted and gave a grunt.
‘Life and death,’ he muttered.
Hal snapped from the moment and glared at him, all his suspicions flooding up in a rush.
‘Aye, right enow – death for the Savoyard if ye get yer hand on him.’
Kirkpatrick’s curse was pungent and the hand that flew to his dagger hilt was white at the knuckles. Elton gave a sharp cry and stepped back, fumbling for his own weapon – then Bruce slapped Kirkpatrick hard on the shoulder.
‘Enough.’
He turned to Elton and thanked him for his information, then waited, saying nothing, until the captain took the hint and scuttled off, muttering. Bruce turned to where Hal and Kirkpatrick glared at each other like poorly leashed dogs.
‘Sir Henry is in danger,’ he said and Hal rounded on him, ruffed up and snarling, sure now that he was right, that Bruce and Kirkpatrick were responsible for the death of the master mason and that they done it to hide some other sin.
‘Not him alone – d’ye kill us all, my lord earl, to keep your secret?’
‘Hist,’ said Bruce warningly, then let his glare dampen. ‘Time ye were told some matters.’
‘My lord,’ Kirkpatrick said warningly and Bruce waved his hand dismissively.
‘Christ’s Bones, what does it matter now?’ he declared savagely, resorting to French. Taking the hint, Kirkpatrick shrugged and fell silent.
Bruce looked around; they stood as a little knot out of earshot of everyone else. It was a sun-dappled garth, drenched with morning birdsong and bursting with budding life. Not the place for this, he thought to himself. This should be delivered in a tight-locked room of shadows and a guttering candle. He took a breath.
‘When it was clear what Longshanks intended for John Balliol and this kingdom,’ he began, ‘myself and Bishop Wishart decided to forestall him. Edward planned to strip King John Balliol and the realm of its kingship and he managed the first well enough – so well that King John, shamed wee man that he is, never wants to return here even if we conquered the English tomorrow.’
You would wish, Hal thought. Better still if King John Balliol melted away like haar in sunshine, rather than hag-haunt the throne you want for yourself. He said nothing, simply tried not to tremble with excitement and apprehension while watching Bruce scowl and search for suitable words.
‘Longshanks took the regalia of the realm,’ Bruce went on, ‘the Stone and the Rood and vestements for coronation. He broke the Seal into pieces.’
‘We all saw it,’ Hal declared, bleared with the sudden misery of remembrance. ‘A harsh day for the kingdom.’
‘Aye, well,’ Bruce declared. ‘He did not get the Stone.’
Hal blinked. Everyone had seen it, cowped off its twin plinths and sweated on to a cart to be taken south to Westminster. They had built a throne round it he had heard, so that every time Edward put his arse on the seat, he consecrated himself anew as Scotland’s rightful king.
‘You saw another stone,’ Bruce declared and his face was bright with triumph. Hal felt Kirkpatrick’s eyes burn on him, a clear threat; he preferred not to look into them.
‘Wishart had the idea from the Auld Templar,’ Bruce went on, ‘who knew this master mason, a Fleming who had been overseeing work at Roslin until matters brought it to a halt. The mason went to work at Scone to wait and see if Roslin’s ransoms left enough to resume rebuilding and was glad of the interest of a Bishop – glad, too of the promised purse, just for choosing a stone that looked the same as the one Longshanks planned to take. Then he used his Savoyard carver to make some of the marks expected and they switched it with the real one.’
‘This worked?’ Hal declared, astonished and Bruce’s chin came truculently up.
‘Why not? Few have seen the Stone up close and none of the English who took charge of it. They saw what they expected to see – a block of sandstone, with strange wee weathered and worn marks here and there, sitting where it was supposed to be.’
Right enough, Hal thought, his excitement rising. Which of those who knew would have risked speaking out?
‘The master mason, Gozelo,’ Bruce declared as if in answer, then continued: ‘He, in company with Kirkpatrick here, took the stone to the Auld Templar at Roslin, where it would be secreted away until the day it was needed.’
The day you sat on it, Hal realised, seeing Bruce’s face. The day you would need as much of the kingdom’s regalia as you could recover, to make you legitimate, especially if John Balliol still lived, sulking in the protective shadow of the Pope. By God’s Wounds, Hal marvelled, you had to admire the mountain of the man’s ambition and the length of his plans – he would not even be eligible to be crowned until his own father died.
Then he went cold. The mason, Gozelo, had been killed; Bruce saw the look and transferred it, with a brief glance, to Kirkpatrick, who had the grace to flush slightly.
‘The mason ran,’ Kirkpatrick growled. ‘An hour or two from Roslin, he panicked and ran. He did not wait for any promised purse.’
‘No doubt he thought you would pay him in steel,’ Hal snapped, reverting to Scots.
‘I had no such plans,’ Kirkpatrick snarled back. Bruce soothed them both like a berner with hounds.
‘No matter what was thought,’ he added, ‘the mason fled. Kirkpatrick had to take the Stone on to Roslin himself, where the Auld Templar and John Fenton took charge of it – the less folk involved, the easier the secret of it could be kept.’
‘The Auld Templar gave me a horse and told me to go after Gozelo,’ Kirkpatrick added sullenly. ‘He pointed out – rightly, for sure – that once he thought he was safe away, the mason would look to recompense himself and the only way to do that was get reward from the English by telling them how they had been duped.’
The Auld Templar – had he persuaded Kirkpatrick to red murder, or had that been Kirkpatrick’s own idea? Hal saw the truth of it, bleak as a wet dog, and remembered his father’s advice on the day of the battle at Stirling’s Brig: do not trust anyone, he had said. Not even the Auld Templar, who is ower sleekit on this matter.
Kirkpatrick saw the bleakness and shrugged.
‘Mak’ siccar, the Auld Templar said. So I did.’
Make sure. Hal glanced at the dagger hanging at Kirkpatrick’s waist; fluted, thin and sharp.
‘I took that ring from him,’ Kirkpatrick went on, his stropped razor of a face pale. ‘Took it back to the Auld Templar as proof the deed was done. He asked for such proof in particular.’
Hal glanced to w
here Kirkpatrick looked. The ring round his neck was Gozelo’s own, plucked from his dead finger and returned to Roslin. An auld sin . . .
‘Now you ken my interest in it,’ Kirkpatrick added wryly. ‘Rather than your dubious charms.’
‘The mason is to be regretted,’ Bruce broke in, frowning. ‘He was never meant to be found either, yet up he popped, like a fart at a feast, on a day’s hunting at Douglas.’
And there was the Curse of Saint Malachy at work, he added to himself, tangling my sin up with my own reins, to be hauled out for the world to witness.
Hal saw the Earl’s face and wanted to believe the shame and regret he saw there. Regretted only because he did not stay decently hidden, Hal thought bitterly, rather than because you had to red murder him. Hal remembered the hunt where Gozelo had surfaced – recalled, too, where the body had been taken and marvelled anew at the width and breadth of Bruce.
‘You persuaded Wallace to attack Scone, so you could go there and destroy the evidence,’ he said, half in a breathy hiss of wonder. ‘That’s what Kirkpatrick was up to in Ormsby’s room – but how will you persuade folk that the Stone you have hidden is the real one?’
Bruce nodded, as if he had expected the question.
‘It does not matter – folk will believe it when the time comes. Will want to believe it – it only remains to ensure the secret of it is kept until that moment comes.’
Until you need to sit on it, Hal thought. To be crowned.
‘Burning Ormsby’s investigations should have been the end of it,’ Bruce added bitterly. ‘Save for the Savoyard stone carver we forgot about, because he was of no account.’
‘And Wallace,’ Hal added pointedly, ‘who did not trust you. Does not still.’
Bruce shrugged.
‘That is of no matter. Wallace is a brigand, for all his elevation. If he finds out, he will approve, in the end.’
Which might have been true enough once, Hal thought coldly, though while Wallace has changed the Kingdom, it has changed him, too. Wee Bisset and a Savoyard were two deaths that might not sit well with the new knight that was Sir William Wallace growing into his estate as Guardian. He said as much and saw Bruce stroke his chin and admit it grudgingly.