by Robert Low
The Lothian lord, he had decided, noticed nothing at all, as if some veil had dropped between him and the world. As if – and Duncan shivered at the thought – he is moving with unseen sidhean, who are lifting him quietly out of the midst of us and into their timeless kingdom.
He took comfort from the quiet murmur, the men sitting crosslegged or lolling round the flames, attending to a blackened pot and wiping smoke tears from their eyes. Somewhere, an owl screeched and Duncan lay back, tasting the woodsmoked night and letting his eyes close.
Tomorrow they would be at Kilmory, loading this southron matter on to the galleys and away from this place of faerie shadows.
When it came, the next day, the working of the sidhean was harsh and sudden.
Hal was stumbling along in the ruts of a cart which seemed to be his own particular curse, a wheeled imp of Satan which stuck more times than it rolled. He was enjoying the roll of it now, the fresh breeze on the sweated bruise of his face and the piping of peewits, while quietly marvelling at the bulging calf muscles of the bare-legged man ahead, the one called Duncan.
I find it hard enough to walk in serk and braies, burdened only by a baldric and sword, he thought, yet this one carries his own weight on his back.
The man, wearing only a sweat-darkened saffron tunic, belted so that a dirk could be thrust through a ring on it, hefted the waterproofed burden a little higher on his back and strode on. Then he gave a yelp, a stumble and fell over.
Hal moved to him, thinking he had tripped, bending to help him to his feet; the flick of the shaft over his head was like the crack of a whip and he knew the sound well, felt the clench and sickening plunge of his belly as he flung himself to the ground beside Duncan. The arrow that had felled the man was now clearly revealed, buried deep an inch below the man’s collarbone.
More arrows flew and men tumbled and yelped.
‘Sluggorm. Sluggorm.’
The call echoed, the bundles flew away as the Campbells went for their weapons and Hal, raising his head, saw the arrows had been only the heralds of a leaping mass of shrieking men, wild-haired, wet-mouthed and armed: the MacDougalls.
Kirkpatrick, a few carts down from the fallen Hal, heard the cries of ‘sluagh-ghairm’, the gathering cry. Campbell of Craignish hauled out a hand-a-half, waved it in a circle above his head and bellowed ‘Cruachan’; men flocked to him like a pack of wolves. He looked right and left to see how many he had, grinned at Kirkpatrick and then plunged exultantly forward. Wearily, cursing, Kirkpatrick was dragged in his wake.
Hal was half-crouched and rising when the wave of MacDougalls fell on him and the snarling Campbells round him, though Hal could not tell one from the other and did not care when faced with an armed man wanting to poke sharp metal in him.
The first one tried to spear him, clumsy and running, so that Hal only had to bat the shaft to one side, dip a shoulder and let the man run on to it; braced, he knocked the man off his feet and drove the wind out of him, so that the sword stroke that took him in the neck barely managed a last squeak from him.
Hal barely heard, half turned for the next rushing man, ducked the flail of a spear slash and cut back so that the man stumbled past, bewildered as to why his stomach was emptying out and tangling his ankles.
They were desperate with fear, Hal realized, too few and relying on speed and rush to overwhelm. They should not have done it at all, he thought wildly, but they were madmen from beyond the Mounth, as strange as two-headed calves. The saving Grace of God in all of this was that he was fighting alongside equally mad men, who had recovered from the shock of attack and flung themselves forward with eldritch screeching and a sheen of ecstasy.
Hal cut and parried and made a space round him – but then there was a sudden flurry and a new rush of men, so that Hal spun and slashed to keep the swordlength of space until, through the bewildering whirligig of faces and bodies, he saw one he knew.
Kirkpatrick held up his hands and Hal, sucking in breath in ragged gasps, let the swordpoint drop; gore slid greasily from it and pooled round the tip.
Christ betimes, Kirkpatrick thought, he can still find a fight in him, can the wee lord from Herdmanston. He said as much and had back a pouch-eyed stare from the yellow-blue side of Hal’s face.
‘Aye til the fore,’ he growled and then stopped, for it was not Sim he spoke to, would never be Sim again.
‘If it is like this all the way to Stirling,’ Kirkpatrick growled, watching the lamb-leaping, blood-howling Campbells pursue their hated enemies over the bracken and heather, ‘we will deserve earldoms at the least.’
Hal did not answer and, when Kirkpatrick turned, he saw the lord bend, then crouch down amid the spilled litter of pack which had burst from dead Duncan’s back. He peered and saw, with a sudden shock of poignancy, what Hal had found.
Wrapped and stowed when the stuff was packed, Sim’s ruined, scarred arbalest winked back into the light, carefully laid up for the day it could be repaired.
Kirkpatrick politely turned away from the sound of weeping.
St Mungo’s Kirk, Polwarth
Feast of Sts Marcus and Marcellianus, June 1314
The Hainaulters were drunk, which they claimed was a pious celebration of the martyrs whose day it was, even though most would not know the first thing about them. Addaf was betting sure that they would embrace the holiness of the next saint’s day as piously as this.
They were, as a result, a red-eyed, stumbling uselessness against the kirk, though they formed up raggedly enough, weaving in rough ranks, the spearshafts clacking like tree branches in a high wind.
‘Get it done,’ the old Berkeley had thundered to his son and Sir Maurice, red and tight-lipped, with his own smirking boys at his back, had snapped the same to Addaf. And all because some cont gwirion had shot off a bolt from the kirk; it had hit a horse in the flank and set it to plunging in the trace, upsetting a two-wheeled cart.
It would have been nothing at all, Addaf thought sourly. The coc oen who had done it as the English, still damp from fording the Tweed at Wark and straggling past the chapel door, could have been found, bruised a little and sent back to his monk’s cell with a kick up his arse.
Save for the fact that the cart held the royal banners, great folds of rich silk and brocade in the long hundreds. And the King was close enough to witness it, rounding on the Earl of Pembroke to ask, bland as frumenty: ‘Has this place not been secured, my lord?’
De Valence had spoken harshly to old Sir Thomas Berkeley, who was still smarting over the return of his own bloodied and torn banner, lost by Addaf and brought back by that gloomy walrus Thweng as a sneering gift from the Bruce. And so the chain of scowls came down to the Welsh and the drunken Hainault spearmen.
Addaf was already exhausted and the maille hung heavy on him. His arms ached and the sun was too hot in a day that stank of leather and sweat, dung and horse piss. His face, to the waiting archers, was haggard, dark shadows drawn round his eyes, his iron-grey hair plastered to his skull.
‘Smart yer bows,’ he called and there was a flutter of sound as the men nocked arrows. Addaf gripped his sword and wished it was a bow, but he was the captain here and his rank was marked by a sword. His Hainault counterpart, swaying a little, belched.
‘My men will cover your advance,’ Addaf said. ‘Break the bloody door down and be done with the business.’
The Hainaulter nodded and licked dry lips; Addaf was not sure he had been understood, but both men were old hands at this and the Hainault men were seasoned in long battles against the Flemings and knew the way of matters well enough.
‘Wait, wait – I beg you, in the name of Heaven.’
The voice brought them round, the big Hainaulter frowning in a slow, blinking way at the unshaven desperation of face looking up at him from the kneeling monk.
‘The man who shot the bolt was our reeve, a foolish man. There are only two monks within, old Fathers who could not find it in themselves to leave this place. They have been here th
irty years and more.’
‘You are?’ Addaf demanded.
‘Father John,’ the man answered. ‘I also live here, but fled. Now God has brought me back to plead for the lives of those in His house. I beg the blessing of Heaven on you, your honour – let me go to them. Spare all this blood, I beg you.’
Addaf considered it. The Hainaulter shrugged, belched again and wiped the ale-sweat from his fleshy face; he didn’t understand all the English in it, but he knew what the little monk was doing.
‘Door vill opened be,’ he said and he made a good point; Addaf nodded.
Father John scuttled off. There was a hammering sound and everyone waited in the afternoon heat, filled with the creak and grind and shuffle of the edge of the army, passing up Dere Strete and headed for the pass through the Lammermuirs. Anxious about it, too, because this road was the only practical one for the great long trail of wagons and they expected the Scots to spring some surprise.
God curse it, Addaf thought, the train of wagons must stretch for leagues, filled with all manner of stupidity; he had seen a score of them full of the furnishing for a chamber and hall and eight score, no less, were packed with nothing but poultry. Wine and wax and saddlery, dancing slippers and candle-holders – the English were going not to war but a revel, Addaf thought. There was even a mangy old lion in a cage.
He had 104 archers under his command, with 126 horses and three carts – one for the men’s baggage, one for the saddlery, a firebox forge and anvil and one for fodder. And that was three too many as far as Addaf was concerned, for if you could not ride and fight with what you had in, around or under your saddle, you were of little use.
He glanced at them, this rough family, feeling the sweat run down the grooves etched on either side of his nose, filtering itchily into the grey of his beard.
They were relaxed, chaffering each other and the big oxen Hainault spearmen, who broiled in their leather and wool. One or two of the Welsh had dug out strips of dried beef and venison from under their saddles, where they had been marinading to softness with the animal’s sweat; they chewed with relish and fell into the old argument of whether gelding, mare or stallion sweat made the meat tastier.
Y Crach, as always, was poised like a trembling gazehound. He will hang these with his own hand, Addaf thought sourly, as his own offering to God; Addaf did not care to be reminded that there were too many who would stand with Y Crach.
Others, Addaf was pleased to see, were squinting at the distant riders on a hill. They were Scots, certes, trailing the army like ticks on sheep, but as long as they kept their distance that was fine. Their own prickers on their fast hobs might chase them off, or simply keep them at a distance – and if the rebels closed in on the debris of sick, halt, lame, camp-followers and plain deserters lurking at the rear, it was no great loss to the English army.
The church door opened and the Father, with a relieved and triumphant look back at Addaf, ushered out the rebels: two tottering priests holding one another up – an edgy defiance in grey wool and hodden hood.
‘There,’ said Father John, wiping his sweating face. ‘No harm done, no blood spilled – God be praised.’
‘For ever and ever,’ Addaf replied piously and heard the sound of hooves like a knell, turning into the black, hot scowl of Sir Maurice Berkeley, his two sons like pillars on either side.
‘Is the work done?’ he demanded and Addaf nodded, indicating the little crowd. Berkeley, still scowling, reined his mount round to ride off.
‘Not before time, Centenar Addaf,’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Now hang them all and muster on me – the horse forges ahead.’
There was a pause and then Father John looked wildly from Addaf to the retreating back of Sir Maurice.
‘Your honour …’ he began and Addaf felt the cold stone of it settle in his belly. He had done this from Gascony to here and all points in between, knew there was no arguing with it; he was aware, at the edges of his vision, of Y Crach’s fevered grin of triumph.
The big Hainault captain saw the Welshman’s mourn of face and foraged his mouth with a grimy finger, found the annoying scrap and examined it before flicking it away.
‘Leaf viss us,’ he offered, grinning brownly. ‘Ve fix.’
Addaf hestitated. The Hainaulters wanted the plunder from the church – well, that was fair enough. Let them do the deed; Addaf turned abruptly away from the disbelief on the face of Father John, swept his gaze over Y Crach and his scowl and bellowed at his men to move out, trying to drown the little priest’s screechings.
God serves him badly, Addaf thought sourly, blocking the frantic protests from his ears. Stupid little priest, look you. He should have stayed away when he had the chance.
Up on the hill, Dog Boy and the Black sat at ease, one leg hooked across the saddle, with a mesnie of riders on either side. They watched the archers mount up and ride off, while the big red-faced sweaters flung rope over the graveyard elm; some moved into the church and began to splinter wood in their search for loot.
‘I am sure those are the Welsh we had stushie with,’ the Black offered. ‘The wee flag they carry is the same one we took – the King gave it back as a gift.’
Dog Boy could not deny it, watching as the priest who had been most animated and loud was hauled up in a fury of flailing ankles, two big men in metal-leafed jacks pulling on a leg each until his kicking stopped; one cursed when the priest’s dying bowels opened.
The other two monks, white-haired and patient, sat like old stones and waited to die, while the pungent, heady scent of yellow-blazing gorse drew in buzzing life all round them.
It was not right and Dog Boy said so. The Black, who had already hanged his share of priests, said nothing; if he thought of what he had done it was with the deep, banked burn of everything the English had taken from him. Even having the Cliffords scoured from Douglas and the promise of restoration to the slighted fortress was not nearly revenge enough.
The sight of the English was a stun to the senses, all the same, spread out round a backbone of carts that stretched for miles, hazed in a shroud of dust from thousands of hooves. Behind was a snail-trail of dung-churned morass, where the detritus of the army stumbled. Ahead, and forging ever faster, the horse and the mounted infantry – like the archers – shifted further from the foot.
‘They are in a hurry,’ the Black noted.
‘Even so,’ Dog Boy pointed out, ‘they will be hard put to make Stirling by midsummer – they have at least twenty good Scots miles to reach Edinburgh.’
Closer to twenty-five, James Douglas thought, and capable of making no more than twelve in a day’s march. By the time they get to Edinburgh, it will have been burned and scorched of any easy way of landing supplies from ships, and that will cost them dearly.
That would put them close to midsummer, so that they would have to push to reach the vicinity of Stirling’s fortress in time to claim the siege as lifted. With luck, they would arrive panting and dragging their arses in the dust and Dog Boy, grinning back as the Black voiced this, agreed with a nod.
Patrick, seeing these twin firedogs, marvelled at how they looked nothing at all, no more than dark, good-looking, pleasant youths who could be planning a night of revelry in Edinburgh instead of mayhem on an invading host.
The two old priests hardly kicked at all when the spearmen hauled them up. Parcy Dodd leaned forward on his horse at the sight and shook his head.
‘Ach well,’ he said, ‘let us hope they find a better welcome than auld Brother Cedric.’
‘I am hesitating to ask,’ the Black answered laconically. Parcy grinned, a farrago of gums and gap.
‘Brother Cedric died old and venerated. Upon entering St Peter’s Gate, there was another man in front, waiting to go into Heaven. St Peter asked the man who he was and what he had accomplished in his life and the man revealed that he was Blind Tam, ship’s steersman, who had spent his life on a vessel taking pilgrims to the Holy Land. St Peter handed him a silk robe and a go
lden sceptre, inviting him to walk in the streets of Our Lord.’
There was a sound of distant, frantic hooves which brought heads up. Parcy, unperturbed, shifted his weight on the horse a little.
‘St Peter’, he went on, ‘asked the same question of Brother Cedric, who tells him he has devoted the entire threescore span of his years to the Lord – and he is given a plain wool robe and wooden staff. Certes, he questions this – in a polite, Christianly way of course – and St Peter lets him know the truth. “While you preached, everyone slept,” he said. “But while Blind Tam steered, everyone prayed.”’
Yabbing Andra arrived in a flurry of foam-flecked horse and dust.
‘Prickers,’ he said and the Black unhooked his leg from the saddle.
‘Bigod, Parcy Dodd,’ he said, as they broke into a fast canter away from the threat, ‘you tell it better than a priest at a sermon.’
Everyone who had heard such heckled sermons laughed, but Patrick shook a mock-sorrowful head.
‘There is an inglenook of Hell’s bad fire set aside just for you, Parcy.’
Dog Boy, who had seen the great swooping banners, the sea of men and horses and power moving like a relentless tide towards Stirling, was sure that Parcy and everyone else would find out where they sat in Hell soon enough.
The Pele, Linlithgow
Feast of St Alban, June 1314
He had not stopped for the banners of St Cuthbert and St John of Beverley, nor visited the shrines; he knew he had avoided that campaign ritual simply because his father had done it before him and Edward knew, too, that such avoidance had been a mistake from the mutters and solemn headshaking of his knights.
They were worse than any wattled beldame, Edward thought moodily as he chewed on the fish and enjoyed the sweet of the sauce. Christ betimes, he had banners aplenty – a whole cartload of them – and holy help from a slew of abbots and bishops. He was even eating fish, as any Christian knight would do in order to show his purity of body and soul. What was one flapping cloth more or less?