‘That was Brus.’
‘Yes. Sometimes, I feel like I have lived forever, Mary, and yet for no time at all. I went from a convent school to a dungeon. I spent two years in a prison cell with no one but rats for company. I don’t really understand anything about life. As for Simon… his past enfolds him like a tapestry, scene after scene re-enacting itself, over and over again. He cannot escape it.’
‘But you are not part of his past,’ said Lady Mary. ‘Perhaps that is a good thing.’
‘Good for whom? For him, for me? How can I tell? I am not as wise as you, Mary.’
The other woman smiled. ‘How my family would laugh to hear you call me wise. But I don’t want to see you miss an opportunity for happiness.’
Shortly after midday the towers of Warkworth came into sight, and Lady Mary turned again to her companion. ‘I hope this won’t be too dreary for you. I’m afraid there are going to be a lot of discussions about treachery and family politics.’
‘I am from Normandy,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I am used to both.’
‘Yes, but in a much more subtle and gentlemanly fashion, I suspect. The Percys are about as subtle as the Nibelungs.’
In fact their welcome could not have been more pleasant. Warkworth Castle, surrounded on three sides by the river, looked austere from the outside but the great hall, set against the curtain wall in the bailey and overlooked by a circular keep, was warm and comfortable. The furniture was rather battered, as one would expect in a household full of boisterous young people and dogs – as Tiphaine was ushered to a bench seat, she looked down to see a puppy sprawled on its back, chewing on the table leg – but the wall hangings were rich and bright with colour and the wine cups were made of silver. The wine was good, too. The household was overseen by Lady Idonia, Lord Percy’s wife, who managed servants, guests and husband with well-oiled ease. In the unlikely event that I ever become a chatelaine, Tiphaine thought, I shall apply to her for lessons.
Lord Percy was a gruff man of about fifty with a face carved out of the stone of his own castle, but he treated Lady Mary with respect and was surprisingly tender towards herself; it turned out that Sir Harry had told him something of her history. Sir Harry was there too, along with various other members of the household whose names Tiphaine heard and promptly forgot.
They talked border politics in English, belatedly switching to French when they realised she was struggling. She gathered that the Scottish army had completed its muster at Perth and was now moving down to Edinburgh; it was expected on the borders within a few days. Opinion was divided on which way it would come next. The Scots might strike in the east, attacking heavily defended Berwick, or they might move to the less well-protected west; only a castle called Liddel Strength could be expected to put up much resistance. The border clans were already moving, Harry said, and Douglas of Liddesdale was mustering his followers at his castle, the Hermitage. Niall Bruce of Carrick was with him.
Although everyone talked calmly, there was an undercurrent of unease around the table. It was not hard to guess why. At one point Lord Percy and his son broke off into a side conversation of their own, speaking so quietly Tiphaine could not hear, but they watched Lady Mary as they spoke.
Dinner ended and the board was cleared. Lady Mary looked at her father-in-law. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘may I have a word with you? And Sir Harry also?’
Recognising her cue, Lady Idonia rose. ‘I have some sewing to attend to,’ she said. ‘You are welcome to join me, demoiselle, or there is a garden below the keep where you may take some air. The pinks are quite heavenly at the moment. And help yourself to damsons, we have far more than we can eat.’
‘Thank you,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I think I will take a little air.’
The rest of the household rose and went out. Lady Mary waited until the door had closed behind them, and then rose to her feet and stood looking down at her husband’s father and brother.
‘The first rule of treachery is this,’ she said. ‘If you are going to betray your country, do it properly. Plan carefully, make thorough preparations, and above all keep it secret. Don’t wander around like headless geese drawing attention to yourselves, like you are doing now.’
Sunlight shone through the high windows, painting stripes across the table and the rush mats. The men looked at her in shock. ‘Treachery is a harsh word,’ Harry Percy said sharply.
‘Yes,’ said Lady Mary. ‘Isn’t it? And yet, it is exactly the word they are using in London. I heard it myself from the queen’s lips, when discussing whether the northern barons would remain loyal to the crown. She knows the Scots are in correspondence with the Nevilles and the Percys. She knows they are attempting to seduce you from your loyalty. And what is more, she knows you are considering their offer.’
‘How does she know?’ asked Lord Percy.
‘Because she is a highly astute woman who keeps her ear to the ground,’ Lady Mary said. ‘Look, both of you. If you want to drag yourselves down to ruin, that is your affair. But if the Percy family turns traitor you will drag my husband down too, and very possibly me and my own family with you. And there, I draw the line.’
‘Harry is right. You need to temper your language, my lady,’ said Lord Percy. ‘No treason has been committed. But we have to be realistic.’
Lady Mary’s fine eyes opened wide. ‘Realistic? Is that what we are being? Very well, then. Show me some realism.’
‘The facts are plain. The Scots have mustered fourteen thousand men at Perth. At the utmost, after reinforcing the garrisons of our own towns and castles, we can put half that many into the field. On top of which, the king has seen fit to appoint the Archbishop of York as Warden of the Marches. A quill sharpener, a clerk who has never commanded men in the field, to go up against battle-hardened captains like Moray and Douglas. He doesn’t stand a chance.’
‘He might,’ said Lady Mary, ‘if he had you and Lord Neville alongside him. If your men are there to stiffen the archbishop’s army, then there is a chance of victory.’
‘We have to be realistic,’ Lord Percy repeated. ‘This is the largest army the Scots have put in the field for a generation. Northumberland and Cumberland are wide open to invasion. We must protect our own lands, our own tenants. We have a duty to them.’
‘A duty,’ Lady Mary said, as if she were having trouble believing her ears. ‘Your duty to your queen, I suppose, is a matter of only passing relevance. Very well. May I see the letter? The one delivered by the friar?’
Harry Percy looked apprehensive. ‘How do you know about that?’ Lord Percy asked after a moment.
‘Never mind.’ She held out her hand. ‘Show it to me, please.’
Lord Percy took a small parchment roll from his purse and handed it to her. She read the script, and a shiver ran down her spine.
To the esteemed and noble Henry, Baron Percy, and to his son Henry Percy, miles, greeting. On Michaelmas day, the truce between England and Scotland will expire, and war harsh and cruel will once again engulf your land. The armies of Scotland will lay your estates waste, and spread fire and sword from the Tweed to the Tyne and beyond. Those who are our friends will be spared, and their lands and manors and castles will not suffer the fires of war. But those who resist us will be devastated utterly, their houses and fields burned, their crops destroyed, their trees cut down, their cattle slain, their people annihilated. Even the elderly and the children shall perish, and we will strip their land bare and plough their fields with salt so that nothing may grow or prosper there again. Our enemies and their families can expect no mercy from us. We will cast our enemies down into a pit of fire, but to our friends we will extend the hand of welcome. The choice is upon you now. Make your allegiance known to the bearer of this letter, so that we may be clear where you stand.
‘When did this arrive?’ Lady Mary asked.
‘About an hour before you did,’ Harry said. ‘It is not the first.’
‘No,’ said Lord Percy. ‘We have had other threats. We have als
o been promised rewards if we do not resist.’
‘What rewards?’
Lord Percy was silent. ‘Lands in both England and Scotland,’ Harry said finally. ‘The towns of Berwick and Newcastle to hold as fiefs in our own right. And six thousand marks of silver.’
‘Six thousand marks? Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Never mind your cheap talk of duty, this is what you mean by realism.’
‘Mary, listen to me,’ Lord Percy said. ‘London cannot defend us, or will not. The Scots have an open door into England. They can walk in, any time they like, and take our lands from us.’
‘Whereas if you pledge allegiance to King David, they will pat you on the head and make you rich,’ Lady Mary said. ‘What answer did you make to the friar?’
‘We temporised,’ Lord Percy said finally. ‘We want guarantees that the Scots will keep their promises.’
She waved the parchment at them. ‘They won’t. The man who wrote this letter is a Frenchman named Rollond de Brus, and he is a conspirator and traitor even to his own people. He is the kind of man who burns young women to death for sport. He will swear any oath, make any promise in order to bend you to his will, and then betray you. If you join forces with this man, you are as good as dead.’
The men looked at each other. ‘How do you know about this Frenchman?’ Harry asked.
‘Simon Merrivale, the prince’s herald, knows all about him. He is part of a plot to bring down the thrones of both England and France, and he is using you as cat’s paws to do his work for him. My lord, I beg you, do not give in to this man. No matter how fair his words, he will destroy you, and the country too if he can.’
‘Can you prove this?’ asked Lord Percy.
‘As we speak, the herald is attempting to do exactly that. Give him time, and he will expose whatever treachery Brus is plotting.’
‘There isn’t much time,’ Harry warned.
‘No,’ said Lord Percy. He looked hard at Lady Mary. ‘I appreciate the danger, and I thank you for warning us. We will muster our men and make ready. But for the moment, we must continue to temporise. Let the herald bring proof that Brus intends to betray us. If he does, we will fight. If not…’ He spread his hands. ‘If not, then we must decide the best course for ourselves.’
‘And for your six thousand marks,’ she said, her voice sharp with anger. ‘Don’t forget your pieces of silver.’
There was a long silence. ‘Because you are young, and my son’s wife, I will overlook your words,’ Lord Percy said. ‘Do not judge us too harshly, Mary. Try to imagine what you would do, if you were in our shoes.’
The door opened before she could reply and one of Lady Idonia’s maids hurried in. Her eyes were wide with alarm. ‘The Demoiselle de Tesson!’ she said. ‘She is gone!’
Mary stared at her. ‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘She went to the garden, but then she disappeared. One of the men-at-arms is missing too, and they have taken two horses.’
‘Get after them,’ Lord Percy snapped. ‘Harry, see to it.’
The younger Percy ran from the hall. A moment later horsemen thundered over the drawbridge, fanning out across the country. But although they searched into the evening, they found no sign of Tiphaine or the man-at-arms.
* * *
Sunlight shone on the grey stone of the old keep and the green banks of the motte. Tiphaine found the garden and let herself in, walking slowly past the banks of sage and parsley and rue, admiring the pinks and taking a purple damson from the tree as bidden. A stone stair led her up to the battlements and she stood there for a moment, eating the fruit and flicking the stone over the wall into the moat. The east wind was blowing hard; gulls whimpered in the turbulent air and she could hear the distant murmur of the sea. She turned and looked down into the courtyard.
A groom appeared, leading out a horse. Following him came a portly, tonsured man in a black cloak. His face was not fully visible, but there was no mistaking the bandage on his hand.
By the time she reached the courtyard he was already cantering out of the gate and riding away to the west. She had only one thought; to get a horse and go after him. Brus had disappeared, but if she followed Brother Oswald the friar might lead her to him. She hurried into the stables calling for a groom, but a man-at-arms in a mail tunic and helmet with a nose guard stepped out and faced her, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Who are you?’
The accent was peculiar, with a rough edge but at the same time slightly sibilant. ‘My name is Tiphaine de Tesson,’ she said quickly. ‘I am a companion of Lady Mary. Did you see the man who just departed? I need to follow him.’
‘Brother Oswald? Why?’
‘Because he is spying for the enemy. I saw him meet a French agent in Newcastle, two days ago. I must go after him.’
The man-at-arms looked at her. ‘Are you certain of this?’
‘On my life. I need a horse, now.’
The man turned to the groom. ‘Saddle two horses, at once. It is too dangerous for you to ride alone,’ he said to Tiphaine. ‘I am coming with you.’
‘Are you allowed to leave your duties?’
‘I know what my duties are,’ the man said cryptically. The two horses were led out and he boosted Tiphaine up into the saddle, mounting his own while she rearranged her skirts. ‘You can tell me more as we go. Now, come. I know where Oswald is going.’
‘Where?’
‘Berwick,’ said the man-at-arms. ‘He is on his way to meet the Disinherited.’
Newcastle, 24th of September, 1346
Evening
‘Welcome,’ William Blyth said, smiling. ‘I trust your journey was a good one?’
‘It had its moments of interest,’ said Merrivale. ‘May I present Master Peter de Lisle? He has joined my household.’
‘Then he is welcome here. You will have learned, I believe, that Lady Mary and the demoiselle have departed for Warkworth.’
Merrivale had already read Tiphaine’s brief note. ‘Yes, thank you. Master Blyth, I need a favour. I’m afraid it is rather complicated, but this is on the queen’s service.’
Blyth came alert. ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘When trading overseas, do you ever do business with a banker from Bruges, Oppicius Adornes?’
‘Occasionally, yes. Pretty much anyone trading in Bruges deals with Adornes at some time or other.’
‘Gilbert de Tracey claims he deposited his money with Adornes. Is there any way of confirming if this is true?’
Blyth rubbed his chin. ‘Adornes won’t tell us himself. Bankers tend to be strict about confidentiality, especially where large sums are concerned. But… One of my contacts in Bruges did mention some big transactions, bills of exchange but specie as well. I can ask for more information, but it will take time.’
‘I would be grateful if you would. And if you hear anything more, please let me know.’
* * *
‘The fellow who hired the men who attacked us didn’t cover his trail very well, sir,’ Warin said. ‘We asked around the docks, bought a few drinks in taverns, and got the same story every time. Someone recruited men to attack a party on the road between here and Durham. Silver paid in advance. They were to meet at Blackfell, where they would receive their orders.’
‘Where is Blackfell?’
‘Just outside Washington, sir, not far off the road we travelled. The manor is owned by a man-at-arms named David Harkness. His father was Scottish, a Galwegian, but he himself is in the retinue of Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville.’
‘Harkness is one of the Disinherited,’ said Merrivale. ‘As is Clennell.’
‘Yes, sir. We don’t know Harkness’s colours.’
Merrivale turned to Peter de Lisle, standing bright and eager beside him. ‘Two gold chevrons on blue, the lower chevron bearing a red crescent upturned,’ he said immediately.
Mauro and Warin looked at each other. ‘He was there, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘He was with Sir Thomas Clennell.’
‘Yes, I saw h
im. So it was play-acting. Harkness paid those men to attack us, then staged the rescue.’
‘There is something else, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘Before she departed, the Demoiselle Tiphaine asked us to find out who the Seigneur de Brus was meeting at the inn. We were unable to do so, but we did discover who owns the inn. It is the same man. David Harkness.’
Merrivale pondered the implications of this. He picked up Tiphaine’s letter, and read again what happened at South Shields. ‘What about this friar she mentions? Brother Oswald?’
‘He is called Oswald of Halton, sir,’ said Warin. ‘That is about all we have been able to discover.’
Peter looked up. ‘Oswald of Halton? From the Dominican order?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘Do you know of him?’
‘He has a terrible reputation, sir. He is a very great rogue, who does not obey the rule of his order and ignores the master of his house. Some say he is a thief, and others claim he is a spy. Sir, I hate to say this about a man of God, but he does terrible things to women.’
‘He may well be a spy,’ Merrivale said. ‘The demoiselle says he is carrying messages for Rollond de Brus to Lord Percy and the Disinherited.’
He paused for a moment, feeling another wave of weariness wash over him. Reading of Tiphaine’s encounter with Brus had left him feeling sick with nerves; a condition to which he was not accustomed. All around him, there was a sense of events spinning out of control. The pieces were all there: Tracey, Brus, the Percys, Harkness and the Disinherited, Agnes of Dunbar. But what pattern linked them? Where was the piece he could take out of the game, to break the pattern and bring the whole plot tumbling down? He didn’t know and couldn’t see; and meanwhile, the sand in the hourglass was running out.
‘What next, sir?’ asked Warin.
‘Lady Mary has gone to see the Percys. I wish her luck… It is time we tackled the Disinherited, and in particular David Harkness. Let us see what he has to say for himself. Do we know where he is?’
A Clash of Lions Page 11