A Clash of Lions

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘That has always been my experience,’ the herald agreed. ‘As expected, I am going north myself for a while, and must bid you farewell. I may not return for a few weeks. Demoiselle, I am certain that you shall enjoy your time with Lady Mary.’

  Tiphaine pulled a face at him.

  ‘If you see my brother-in-law, keep an eye on him,’ said Lady Mary. ‘He’s just stupid enough to get into trouble, and not quite smart enough to get out of it.’

  II

  4

  Cawood, 19th of September, 1346

  Evening

  High clouds cast a veil over the sun. Summer’s heat was gone now, and the north wind hissing across the fens was full of autumn chill. Merrivale and his servants pulled their weary horses to a halt in the courtyard of the Archbishop of York’s palace, and grooms came running to take their bridles as they dismounted. A steward appeared, his tunic bearing the arms of the archbishop, white crossed keys on a field of red. ‘I seek an audience with his Grace,’ the herald said. ‘My name is Simon Merrivale.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You are expected.’

  Servants conducted him to a guest chamber, handsomely painted with a fire already lit on the brick hearth to keep out the damp. A narrow arched window looked out across the River Ouse and its marshes. A ship, a big North Sea cog, was moored next to a pier in the river and he could see men hard at work around the ship, loading it with a cargo of cut stone brought down from quarries further inland. Why the archbishop chose to reside in this bleak damp place rather than in the comforts of York a few miles north was a mystery.

  He stood and watched the work for a while, feeling weariness etch its way into his bones. It had been a hard ride from London, changing horses every few hours, wanting to stop and rest but knowing he was desperately short of time. His week in London had hardly provided much rest after the intense physical and mental strain of the six-week campaign in France. I thought a herald’s post would be a sinecure after ten years as a King’s Messenger, he thought with mild humour. It would seem I was wrong.

  Old memories stirred, fatigue releasing them from their bonds. He thought of other journeys in Savoy and Brittany, Spain and Florence, and of the good friends and comrades who had ridden with him. Very few were still alive now. He was not entirely certain how he himself had survived.

  He thought of Yolande, the woman who had once been his whole world. He wondered, as he did every day, where she was now and whether he would see her again. For both their sakes, he hoped not. But her loss was a pain that would not fade, a blood-red rose that bloomed and never died.

  * * *

  A servant brought him hot water and a towel, and he washed the dust of travel from his face and hands. Opening a bag he took out his glittering tabard, smoothing out the wrinkles and pulling it over his head. The steward knocked at the door. ‘His Grace will see you now, sir.’

  Crossing the courtyard, he followed the steward into the great hall where servants were clearing away the remains of dinner, and upstairs to a solar. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes lined the walls, and a coal fire burned in another grate. A reliquary cross on a polished oak side table was the only sign of religious devotion in the room.

  William de la Zouche was a tall man in his late forties, flecks of grey in his tonsured hair and a stubborn cast to his mouth and jaw. He and Merrivale knew each other slightly; their paths had crossed in London years ago, when Zouche was Lord Treasurer and Merrivale a King’s Messenger.

  ‘Let’s get to the point,’ he said bluntly as Merrivale bowed. ‘You are Queen Philippa’s watchdog.’

  ‘Her Grace has entrusted me with several commissions,’ Merrivale said. ‘Inquiring into the loyalty of the northern lords is one of them.’

  ‘Does the queen have reason to doubt their loyalty?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘Else I would not be here.’

  Zouche stared at him. ‘Am I one of the men she doubts?’

  Merrivale considered this for a moment. ‘Your Grace has been appointed Warden of the Marches, guardian of the frontier with Scotland. Does that not suggest that you are in high favour?’

  The archbishop snorted. ‘Hardly. The warden’s post is a poisoned chalice. I don’t have enough men or money to keep out the Scots, and when they come over the border and to burn and pillage again, it is me that will get the blame. Meanwhile, Percy and Neville are boiling over with resentment because they were wardens for years until the king snatched the post away from them. They’re just waiting for me to make a mistake so they can take it back again. I’m damned, whatever I do.’

  ‘And you will have to do something,’ Merrivale pointed out. ‘The truce expires in ten days’ time. The queen’s spies tell her the Scottish army is mustering at Perth. Do you know how many men?’

  ‘At least fourteen thousand. Possibly more.’

  Merrivale stared at him. ‘Fourteen thousand? Are you certain?’

  ‘The latest report came through from Rokeby yesterday. All of the mormaers and earls and barons have been called up. The fact that Moray, Menteith, Dunbar, Strathearn and the Lord of the Isles have all mustered tells you how large their army is. Moray is their war leader, a man whom the entire army respects. Sir William Douglas and the border reavers are also gathering at Jedburgh. The French have sent help too.’

  ‘Do you know how many men have come from France?’

  ‘Not many, but they have sent weapons and we hear of large sums of money. Their leader is David Bruce’s French cousin, Rollond de Brus. They mean business this time.’

  At the mention of Brus’s name, a cold finger ran down Merrivale’s spine. ‘This is not just a raiding campaign,’ he said. ‘This is an invasion.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zouche. ‘That is Sir Thomas Rokeby’s conclusion as well.’

  They faced each other for a moment in the lamplight. He looks exhausted, Merrivale thought, with bags under his eyes, and deep-etched lines in his forehead. His career had taken him straight from Oxford into the royal household, where he had served as Keeper of the Wardrobe, Lord Privy Seal, Lord Treasurer, Dean of York and now archbishop; it had not prepared him for this moment. He had absolutely no experience of military command.

  ‘Do we know what their objective is?’

  ‘Not yet. Rokeby’s spies are trying to find out. It’s likely to be either Carlisle or Berwick. Carlisle is the easier target; Douglas burned it just last year. But Berwick is the key to the border.’

  ‘What steps have you taken so far?’

  ‘I have called on all the northern barons to muster their men at Richmond.’

  Too far south, Merrivale thought. ‘How many men can they raise?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zouche said. ‘Quite frankly, Merrivale, your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it is, it’s probably not enough. The queen’s suspicions are correct. I don’t know which of the barons I can trust. If any.’

  The fire flickered. Tension crackled in the air. ‘Tell me,’ said the herald.

  ‘Percy and Neville are jealous of me, but there is more to it than that. Someone is working on them. I don’t know what they are being promised, but there is a strong rumour that when the Scots come over the border, Percy and Neville will stay on their own lands. And if they do, many other barons will follow their lead.’

  ‘They will protect their own,’ Merrivale said. ‘Especially if they don’t believe there is a chance of defeating the Scottish army in the field. What about the Disinherited?’

  ‘They are receiving special attention. David Bruce is trying to woo them over to the Scottish side. The word is that Umfraville has been promised restoration of all his Scottish lands, and the earldom of Angus. Lands and titles have been promised to the others as well.’

  ‘What about the ecclesiastical lords, and the towns?’

  Zouche shook his head. ‘I’m raising troops from my own estates, of course. But the priory of Durham has refused to help, and the towns are nearly as unreliable as the barons. The Scots are also working on some
of the merchants of Berwick and Newcastle, trying to persuade them to turn traitor. All of this is familiar, of course. We nearly lost Berwick last year when the Scots bribed some of the townsmen to open the gates. But this time the plot is more widespread, and more serious.’

  ‘Do we know who these merchants are?’

  ‘Not yet. Rokeby is investigating in Berwick, and I have asked William Blyth to do the same in Newcastle.’ The archbishop paused for a moment. ‘At least we some reliable men. Just not enough of them.’

  ‘And Durham? Have the Scots managed to influence the prior and his monks also?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know.’ The archbishop paused for a moment. ‘Something is strange, Merrivale. Very strange.’

  ‘What do you mean, your Grace?’

  ‘David Bruce is young and lacks experience. His nobles are hot-brained and ambitious, and apart from Patrick of Dunbar, none is particularly competent. Of late they have done little more than raid across the border and burn a few towns. But now Rokeby says they have a unity of purpose he has not seen before, not since old Robert Bruce died. Someone has pulled them together and stiffened their backs. Rokeby says it isn’t Dunbar. So who is it? Do you know?’

  ‘No,’ said Merrivale. ‘But I have heard the same thing from other sources. We need to find out who is behind this, and eliminate them.’

  ‘We don’t have a prayer,’ the archbishop said abruptly. ‘Unless our nobles stand together, the border is wide open and the Scots can walk in any time they wish. And there is not a damned thing we can do about it.’

  ‘I do have one possible line of inquiry,’ the herald said. ‘Are you aware that Sir Gilbert de Tracey has taken holy orders and entered the priory at Hexham?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him on his way north.’

  ‘He called here? May I ask why?’

  Zouche shook his head. ‘He lodged here for one night on his journey. We knew each other quite well once, when he first came to London and started lending to the king. I negotiated several loans with him.’ The archbishop paused. ‘Do you believe Gilbert was mixed up in his brother’s treason?’ The archbishop, of course, had his own sources of information at court.

  ‘I don’t know, yet. That is what I need to find out. What do you make of him? As a man?’

  Zouche considered. ‘He is likeable, if somewhat distant. His father was a wicked and cruel man, and his brother… Well, we know how he turned out. But Gilbert seemed an honest man. For a banker, that is.’

  ‘Do you know why he chose Hexham? He’s a Devon man, or at least he was. Northumberland is a foreign country to him.’

  ‘He told me he didn’t want to return to the scene of his father’s crimes. He wanted a place of peace, where no one knew him or his family, so he could dedicate his life to God’s service.’

  Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘Peace? Hexham is only a few miles from the frontier. A strange place to look for tranquillity.’

  ‘Perhaps God called him there,’ said the archbishop. ‘It does happen, you know. But there may also have been a family connection.’

  Merrivale raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Hugh de Tracey,’ Zouche said. ‘Gilbert’s uncle. He is an obedientiary at Durham Priory. Did you not know?’

  Although an ordained priest, Hugh de Tracey had worked hand-in-glove with his brother, Sir John de Tracey of Dunkeswell, during the anarchic final years of the old king’s reign. Proscribed along with his brother and nephews, like them he had been pardoned in 1332 when the young Edward III decided to wipe clean the slate of the past. ‘I knew he had taken monastic vows,’ Merrivale said, thinking hard. ‘I did not know where.’

  ‘Then your lot should have kept better track of him. He is treasurer of the priory now, and likely to be the next prior. With his fingers on the purse strings he controls the priory. And the priory controls the cathedral, and the cathedral controls the County Palatine of Durham. Brother Hugh and the priory have a great deal of power, and they recognise no master.’

  Merrivale stood silent for a moment, feeling the tension increase. Hugh de Tracey controlled Durham. His nephew Gilbert was a short distance away in Hexham. What if they too were following the orders of the man from the north?

  ‘What about the bishop?’ he asked. ‘Surely it is his cathedral.’

  Zouche snorted again. ‘The bishops of Durham are ciphers, little more. The last one, de Bury, spent more time with his books than he did on diocesan business. The present fellow, Hatfield, is interested only in his career at court.’

  ‘Why should there be any connection between Hugh de Tracey and his nephew? The monks at Durham are Benedictines, and the canons at Hexham are Augustinians. The two orders don’t have much to do with each other.’

  ‘Up here they do,’ Zouche said, a little grimly. ‘The religious orders are the largest landowners in the north of England. Even the estates of the biggest magnates like the Percys and Nevilles are tiny by comparison. And the orders ensure their domination by sticking to each other like glue. It’s not just land, either. Salt, coal, iron and lead, they have it all sewn up between them.’

  ‘So Hugh de Tracey may have procured a place for his nephew at Hexham. But why not Durham? A place could have been found in the priory there, surely.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the archbishop. ‘And on reflection I don’t really care. I have more important things to worry about. So, I suspect, do you.’

  Outside the sun was setting, a red ball over the marshes of the Ouse. Tendrils of mist were rising from the river. ‘Your Grace may well be right,’ Merrivale said. ‘I will take up no more of your time. With your leave, my servants and I will depart in the morning.’

  ‘You’re too late for dinner, of course. I’ll have food sent over to your lodging. Merrivale?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace?’

  ‘I’m glad the queen sent you,’ Zouche said abruptly. ‘I would rather she had sent a thousand men-at-arms, or a dozen companies of archers. But if she only sent one man, I’m glad it was you.’

  5

  Durham, 21st of September, 1346

  Afternoon

  The road north from York had been busy, clogged with wagons loaded with corn and pig iron, bordered by fields of stubble where wheat and flax had just been harvested. At Darlington the air smelled of linseed, and sheets of linen hanging in the air flapped in the wind like sails on a ship. It was after nones on the second day out of Cawood when they reached Neville’s Cross, the waymarker for pilgrims heading for Saint Cuthbert’s shrine at the cathedral rising above the River Wear. Turning their horses, they rode down to the river and across Framwellgate Bridge into the town. As they reached the busy marketplace, Merrivale turned to his servants.

  ‘Given all that has happened, I am unlikely to be made welcome at the priory. See that inn? Take rooms for us there and wait for me.’

  ‘You are going alone, señor?’ Mauro asked. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘I am a herald,’ Merrivale said. ‘No one will dare to harm me.’

  ‘He always says that,’ Mauro muttered as they watched their master ride up Fleshergate towards the cathedral.

  ‘So far, he has been mostly right,’ said Warin.

  ‘Sí. But one day, I think he will go too far.’

  Above the gatehouse the banner of the Bishopric of Durham, four silver lions on a crossed field of blue, rippled and snapped in the cold north wind. Merrivale looked up at the colossal bulk of the cathedral, its towers reaching towards the dark, wind-driven clouds. Compared to it, the bishop’s castle on the far side of Palace Green looked small and rather dowdy. That was almost certainly no accident, Merrivale thought.

  The porter, a black-robed monk standing outside the gatehouse, held a long wooden staff in a manner that suggested he knew how to use it. Another, a boy novitiate, stood hesitantly just inside the gate. ‘Who are you?’ the monk asked, looking at the herald’s tabard. ‘What is your business here?’

  He must have recognised the royal coat of arms, the yello
w embroidered leopards on a field of red blazing even in the dim light, but the challenge was also a statement: you have no authority here. By a quirk of history, the bishops of Durham held their lands not as tenants of the crown but as a palatine, independent of royal control. With the passage of time, their own authority had been eroded and the priory had seized power instead. As Zouche had said, the priors of Durham recognised no master.

  ‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales and personal envoy of her Grace the queen. My business is with Brother Hugh at the priory.’

  ‘Brother Hugh sees no one without an appointment.’

  ‘He will see me,’ Merrivale said. ‘I wish to speak to him about his nephew, Edward de Tracey.’

  The porter hesitated for a moment, then turned to the boy novitiate. ‘Run to Brother Hugh, and tell him he has a visitor. Quick now!’ he shouted, shaking his staff. The boy hitched up the skirts of his cassock and raced away towards the cathedral. The monk turned back to Merrivale. ‘Leave your horse here.’

  The vast interior space of the cathedral was flooded with light from the high windows and hundreds of lamps and candles reflecting off the painted walls and carved columns. The air was full of competing smells: incense, tallow, unwashed bodies. From a chantry chapel came the sound of voices reciting the mass. Pilgrims arrived in a quiet steady stream, uncovering their heads as they entered the church. Some were barefoot penitents with their hands clasped in prayer, others hobbled on crutches. Curious, Merrivale followed them towards the east end of the church.

  Behind the high altar lay the shrine of Saint Cuthbert, an immense gold reliquary lit by banks of flickering candles. Gemstones glowed with coloured flame, blood-red rubies and garnets, the eye-aching blue of lapis lazuli, emeralds green as spring grass and the purple fire of amethysts. At the centre of the shrine was an image of Cuthbert himself, black-robed, bearded and tonsured, holding a Bible and cross; above him was another, much larger image, Christ enthroned in majesty with blue robe and golden halo, and neat red stigmata on his feet and hands.