The Lion Wakes k-1

by Robert Low

  Furneval reined round, knowing it had been a perfect stroke and hoping de Ridre had been watching. He reached up and hauled off the full-face helm, feeling the cool blast of damp wind on his sweating face, then half turned in the saddle, stiff-necked with maille, to see what his men were doing.

  He heard a bellowing, as if there had been a bull among the cows – then the second bolt from the roaring fury that was Sim took him in the centre of his bascinet-framed face, a sudden huge hissing black approach that drove life from him in an instant and shot him sideways off the horse in a great whirl of pearl sky and wet bracken that dropped him into darkness.

  Sim’s great bellow of triumph was swallowed in the crashing tide of men, four wide and infinitely deep, it seemed, who rolled up to the hedge of Jeddart staffs and clashed into it, so that it rocked and slid a little before bracing on all those bared right feet. Mindless as some beast, the ranks piled on, those in front unable to move or do much more than waggle their too-long lances.

  Bangtail Hob and Hal stabbed and cut. Will Elliot and Red Cloak Thom slashed and hooked, while Sim spanned his bow and shot between their heads into the packed ranks, where he could not miss. Men screamed; curses went up and the front four men, the sense crushed out of them, lost the use of their limbs and suddenly vanished as if sucked under a bog. Four more were crushed forward; the wooden archway splintered and rocked.

  Red Cloak Thom’s staff snapped and he threw it away with a curse and whipped out his bollock dagger. He parried a thrust that would have skewered him, missed another and took it in the throat, went over gurgling and drowning in his own blood. Hal leaped, shrieking, to Thom’s slumped, twisting, gasping corpse, heedless of the blindly stabbing lance points. A huge figure moved forward, as if wading into a hip-deep stream, and a man went backwards with the bolt of a crossbow in the face.

  Hal felt a hand grip and pull him free, then he was staring up into Sim’s scowl.

  ‘No more of that, ye sou’s arse,’ he growled. ‘Yer father would take ill of it if I was to let ye be killed dead here.’

  ‘Never fash yourself,’ Hal managed and then grinned, ashamed at his stupidity and knowing Red Cloak was dead from the moment his throat had been opened.

  ‘I am a lad of parts, me’ he added. ‘Such bravery is auld cloots and gruel to the likes of me.’

  The archway lurched and the bell clanged. Cries and grunts and shrieks splintered their conversation and Sim dropped the crossbow and dragged out his sword, the blade of it dark with old stains and notched as a wolf’s jaw, the end honed to a point thin enough to get between the slits of a barrelled heaume.

  ‘A Sientcler,’ he bellowed and leaped in long enough to stab and slash before losing his balance in the slither of it all and stumbling out again

  ‘The bell,’ said Hal, hearing it clang as the arch swayed. The English weight shoved the Scots back, their bared feet scoring ruts in the mud; they were almost at the sumpter cart now, almost pushed away from the narrow part of the bridge. Once that happened, the English would spill out right and left and numbers would do it.

  The English sensed victory and the men in the rear ranks pushed relentlessly and started to sing, while the ones in front, crushed even of breath, lost consciousness and slid under the feet of the next rank.

  Hal was aware of the sea of helmets and snarls, the great bristle of spears, as if some massive, maddened hedgepig was trying to crush itself under the arch – then he felt a hot burn in his calf, slipped to one knee and felt himself falling backwards, slashed wildly with the spear. Lying on the wet, smelling the fresh-turned earth like ploughland round Herdmanston, he saw the forest of straining legs and feet and the last splinters of wood uncurl slowly as the arch buckled.

  Then the bell fell, smashing the front ranks of the battering English spearmen. The great, hollow boom of it drowned their screams.

  There was a pause then, while thoughts and rain whirled with the dying echoes of the tolling bell. Hal, deafened and stunned like everyone else, felt himself hauled out and up, stared, mouth open, trying to make sense of the screaming and the dying, while the ranks of men washed away from where the bell had fallen.

  Gloria, Hal saw and laughed like a grim wolf, for he knew what Bangtail Hob had seen – Gloria In Excelsis Deo, lovingly engraved along the slowly rocking bell’s rim, now fluted with rivulets of blood and crushed bone.

  ‘Deus lo vultV

  They all heard it and turned, fearing the worst. Up behind them came a rider, mailled top to toe, the pointed Templar cross blood-bright on a billowing white camilis, streaming behind him like a snow wind, another gracing the linen purity of the horse barding. Behind him came a handful of men on foot, grim in black tunics and hose and porridge-coloured, rust-streaked gambesons. Their rimmed iron hats were painted black, with white on the crown and the black cross of Christ on the front.

  Deus lo vultV the knight bellowed, the words crushed and muffled inside the great, flat-topped barrel heaume. He thundered up past Hal and his pillar of Sim, while men scattered away from him. He circled his wrist with quick flick, so that the hammer in his armoured gauntlet, an elegance of gleaming steel with a fluted head and a pick on the other side, glittered like ice.

  The great warhorse hardly balked at the splintered wreckage and the bell, leaping delicately over the first and round the second; a wounded man screamed as an iron hoof cracked his shins, others tried to scramble from underneath the delicately stepping beast.

  The ranks on the bridge broke like a dropped mirror. They turned and ran and the knight rode them down, while the handful of men he brought charged, red mouths open, faces twisted in savage triumph. Bodies flew over the parapet of the bridge and crashed into the stream, others were bounced into the splintered planks and mashed with iron hooves, and, all the time, the arcing gleam of hammer swung right to left and back again; with every swing a head cracked like an egg.

  Deus lo vult. God wills it, the cry from the time Jerusalem fell, a potage of vulgar Latin and French and Italian, the lingua franca everyone used to make themselves understood on crusade.

  ‘Sir William,’ Hal said dazedly.

  ‘Blessed be his curly auld Templar pow,’ Sim muttered and they looked at each other, heads down, hands on knees. Will Elliot was throwing up and Thom was dead; in the river, Dand turned and floated like a bloated sheep, while John the Lamb hauled himself, dripping, out of the other side. A cow bawled plaintively.

  ‘Aye til the fore, then,’ Sim said and Hal could only nod. Still alive. God had willed it. They almost laughed, but the great white knight reappeared, his horse high-prancing delicately over the debris and blood, the great helm tucked under his shielded arm, offering them a salute with the gore-clotted silver hammer.

  His snowy robes and the horse’s barding were spattered red, so that even the small cross over his heart seemed like a splash of gore; his face, framed by maille coif and the steel of a bascinet, was as blood-bright as the cross and sheened with sweat.

  ‘I am thinking,’ he said, as if remarking on the rain, ‘that if ye shift, ye can gather up some of they kine and drive them across the bridge. I am thinking that the Templars of the Ton deserve a whole coo to themselves.’

  Then he grinned out of the scarlet, streaming, grey-bearded face

  ‘Best no stand like a set mill,’ Sir William Sientcler added, ‘for it is my opinion that this brig can no longer be held.’

  ‘I am standing beside you there, Sir Will,’ Sim declared and went off to fetch the sumpter horse. Hal stood on wobbling legs and looked up at the Templar knight.

  ‘Timely,’ he declared, then sagged. ‘More than timely…’

  ‘Ach,’ Sir William said, his voice clearly alarmed that Hal was about to unman himself. ‘I had a fancy to some beef.’

  Beef, Hal thought, watching men sort out the mess, picking their way back over the litter of corpses and blood-stained timbers, guddling in viscous muck for what they could plunder. All this was just for something to eat. He said
as much aloud.

  ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena,’ Sim declared cheerfully, backing the horse between the cartshafts. ‘And may the Lord God help us when all this starts to get serious.’

  They left the bloody-wrapped body of Red Cloak Thom to be buried at Temple Ton, whose quiet, grim-faced warrior monks went about the gentle business of piously collecting, washing and burying the English they had so recently fought. Everyone, especially John the Lamb, was painfully aware that Dand had drifted far down the Annick, but took some comfort from the assurances that he would be found and decently buried.

  ‘You will be in a peck of trouble for riding the Temple against King Edward,’ Hal said to Sir William and the Master, a man in a black robe and the soft hat of a monk, with the hard eyes beneath hinting at how he had been a wet-mouthed, spear-wielding screamer not long before.

  ‘We defended our Temple,’ the Master declared. ‘Crossing the bridge placed you on Commanderie ground and in our hospitality, so they have no-one to blame but themselves for attacking those under the protection of the Order.’

  The soft-voiced Master, iron-grey beard like wool, bowed his neck to Sir William.

  ‘It was fortunate that the Gonfanonier was present,’ he said, and Hal heard the respect in his voice for the presence of one of the Order’s Standard-Bearers.

  ‘I will send money for the relief of Thom’s soul,’ Hal said awkwardly, but the Master shook his head.

  ‘No need. We are entitled to the escheat of the slain, though we will restrict this to weapons and equipment, so that the personal items of these poor souls can be returned. Likewise the body of their leader – Sir John Furneval, was it? He shall be returned with all possessions, save for the warhorse.’

  The Master smiled, a complex rearrangment of reluctant muscles; it never quite made it to his eyes.

  ‘For two Poor Knights to ride,’ he added and Hal thought it a jest and almost laughed; then he saw Sir William’s sober, long-moustached face and swallowed the chuckle.

  ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena,’ Sir William said.

  ‘Christ be praised,’ answered the Master and blessed them both as they intoned, ‘For ever and ever.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Sir William declared when he and Hal were moving out into the mirr again, ‘all this is moot – I was coming to find ye, to let ye know that terms have been agreed.’

  ‘Terms?’ Hal muttered, only half-listening. He had seen the body of the English knight being lugged in, four men sweating with the weight of the man in his sodden clothing and armour. The face was a fretwork of shattered bone and flesh, fine as clergy lace.

  ‘Aye,’ Sir William went on cheerfully. ‘Bruce and the rest are welcomed back into the community of the realm, lands intact – though Bruce is charged to appear at Berwick and Wishart stands surety for him. Douglas is taken into custody so that his wife and weans are not taken as hostage, though Bruce is still debating as to whether he will allow his wee daughter, Marjorie, to be held at the king’s pleasure and surety for his future behaviour.’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘As well he might. Wee mite is awfy young to be so caught up in this, so you can see the point of his arguing against it.’

  Hal blinked. Terms.

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘Three… nay, I lie, four days since,’ Sir William said, scowling at the bloodstains on his white robes.

  Three or four days ago. This bloody mess had been pointless; the war was over.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Sir William said when Hal spat this out, bitter as bile, ‘not quite, young Hal. Wallace is not included and is warmin’ the ears of English from Brechin to Dundee and beyond. Bands of riders skite from the hills and woods, two or three long hundreds a time. They climb off their nags and proceed to the herschip with a will.’

  The herschip Hal knew well enough – he had taken part in his share of those swift, burning raids for plunder and profit – but it seemed now that the army of the noble cause was inflicting it on the very people it was supposed to defend.

  ‘This is true war,’ Sir William said, pulling Hal round by the arm to stare into his face with watery-blue eyes, his grey-white beard twitching like a squirrel tail. ‘Red war, Hal. Forget yer notions of chivalry – Wallace does what we did in the Holy Land against the heathen; ye scorch them, Hal. Ye leave them nothin’ and then, when they are gaspin’ with their tongues lollin’ like hot wolves, their belts notched to the backbone, ye ride out and smack them into the dust.’

  ‘You lost,’ Hal answered savagely and Sir William blinked.

  ‘To our shame and everlastin’ stain, aye. Outremer’s finest were too high and chivalric by hauf and the Saracen were fuller of guile,’ he answered morosely. ‘There will be another crusade, though, mark me.’

  Until then there is here and there is Wallace – Hal said it aloud and Sir William shot him a look from under the snowed lintel of his brows.

  ‘I am a Templar,’ he replied piously, with a lopsided, hypocritical grin, ‘and so cannot be involved.’

  God help us if it gets serious, Sim had said. Hal shook his head. It was already past that and, despite having been negotiated back to land and grace, he could not feel sure that the stones of it were settled firmly.

  Annick Water

  Feast of St Swithun, July 1297

  The fires were small, but a welcome warmth to the long hundreds of Scots huddled under rough shelters listening to the rain drift. In the dying light of a summer’s day which had never been graced by much sun, the shadows brought chill and the men huddled, enduring and mournful, waiting for the moment when they could all go home, trailing after the lords who had finally agreed on a peace.

  Bangtail Hob was more furious than mournful, for the bodies he had plundered the day before had turned out to have cheated him.

  ‘Bloody hoor’s by-blows, the lot,’ he muttered again, a litany which those nearest now endured with an extra sink of the shoulders, as if hunching into more rain.

  ‘Bloody crockards. Pollards.’

  Hal and Sim exchanged looks and wry smiles. Soon Sim would have to have words with Bangtail before he rasped everyone raw, but there was a deal of sympathy for man stuck with crockards and pollards, debased foreign coinage now flooding the country thanks to English reforms a decade since. Silver light, they looked like sterling English money until you brought them close.

  It was yet another layer of misery to spread on the death of Dand and Red Cloak Thom the day before and the gratitude of hungry men for beef only went a little way as salve. The army, if you could call it that, was now all Carrick men, for the other nobles had taken their forces and gone their separate ways, having promised to turn up at this or that English-held place and bring their sons, daughters or wives as surety for their future good conduct.

  Douglas men were trailing homeward, fretted and furious at having seen The Hardy taken off. That was bad enough, Hal thought, but he had been told by those who witnessed it that Percy had insisted on chains and The Hardy had been bound in them, kicking and snarling; it had not been a pleasant sight.

  Even Wishart had gone, leaving Bruce to argue out the last hard-wrung details with Percy, who had already sent triumphal messages south to King Edward and his grandfather, De Warenne, that the rebellion had been dealt with. Yet Clifford’s forces were fumbling northwards, trying to bring Wallace to bay and having no luck.

  Hal would leave, too, he had decided. Tomorrow, he said to himself. I have had enough of the community of the realm – let them kick spurs at each other like cocks battling for a dung-hill…

  ‘Forty bloody days,’ Bangtail announced bitterly, which was different enough to bring some heads up.

  ‘Forty days?’ John the Lamb repeated. ‘Is that how long yon crockards and pollards last before turnin’ into powrie mist?’

  Men groaned; they had hoped to hear no more about the contents of Bangtail’s dull-clinking purse.

  ‘Rain,’ Bangtail spat back scathingly.

  ‘St Swithun’s day if t
hou dost rain; for forty days it will remain,’ he intoned.

  ‘Christ’s Bones,’ said Red Rowan, scrubbing his autumn bracken head, ‘you are a bowl of soor grue, man.’

  ‘Aye, weel,’ Bangtail muttered back sourly. ‘I was thinkin’ of Tod’s Wattie, warm and fed and dry an’ rattlin’ the hot arse off that wee Agnes. I had some hopes for that quim, save that we were untimely torn apert.’

  ‘Man, man,’ said Will Elliot admiringly, ‘Untimely… it is just like yon tale of the Knight and the Faerie. Ye ken – the yin where the Knight…’

  ‘O God, who adorned the precious death of our most holy Father, Saint Benedict, with so many and so great privileges,’ declared a sonorous voice in good English; it brought all heads round to where the silver-grey figure moved.

  ‘Grant, we beseech You, that at our departure hence, we may be defended from the snares of the enemy by the blessed presence of him whose memory we celebrate. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ men muttered, crossing themselves.

  ‘Christ be praised,’ Sim offered.

  ‘For ever and ever,’ they all repeated.

  The monk squatted by the fire and took his hands from the sleeves of the rough, grey-white habit. His cadaverous face, flooded with firelight, became a death’s head of shadows.

  ‘We have some meat,’ Hal offered and the monk showed some teeth in a bearded smile.

  ‘This is a meatless day, my son. I came to offer both blessing and advice.’

  ‘The blessing is welcome,’ Hal answered warily, expecting a sermon on the defilement of a meatless day; the rich smell of the roasting beef wafted betrayingly. The monk laughed softly from the depths of his cowl.

  ‘The advice is this – the picket guard is one Fergus the Beetle,’ the monk said. ‘He is not one of God’s sharpest tools, but honest and diligent. I fear, though, he is out of his depth with the visitors who have arrived at his post. He can understand only that your name was mentioned.’

  He put his hands back in his sleeves and moved off, seeming to drift between the men, who crossed themselves humbly as he passed and tried to hide marrow bones. Sighing, Hal got up, looked at Sim and the pair of them went to find Fergus, the picket guard.