‘Yes, señor,’ said Mauro. ‘Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville has called up his men, and Harkness has gone to join him. They are mustering at a place called Harbottle, in Coquetdale.’
‘Then that is where we shall go tomorrow. Master Peter, do you know the way?’
‘Yes, sir. It is very near the frontier.’
‘Then let us hope the truce continues to hold. All of you, get some rest. We shall depart as soon as the town gates open in the morning.’
But the truce did not hold. The messenger who arrived next morning, just as their horses were being saddled, bore no badge and did not give his name. Handing over the letter, he turned his lathered horse and rode away. Merrivale broke the plain blob of wax that sealed the letter and read the neat, light script inside.
Brus is schooling the Disinherited, preparing to bend them to his will. Douglas and Carrick are marching to attack them. Their force is already in motion.
11
Harbottle, 25th of September, 1346
Evening
The first part of the journey was easy, cantering up the Great North Road with occasional pauses to water and rest the horses. At Felton Bridge they turned and rode west into the hills, and thereafter the track became rougher and in places steep and stony, rutted by the wheels of wagons. Peter led the way, his knowledge of the land as sure as his memory for coats of arms, while Merrivale watched the hillsides for signs of ambush, expecting at any moment to see smoke boiling up to join the thickening clouds.
He hoped he had made the right choice. The note had not said when and where the Scots would attack, only that they would come soon. Chipchase was an obvious target, but from what de Lisle had said, Brus and his allies would probably disregard him on account of his age and infirmity. He suggested this to Peter, and with surprising maturity the boy agreed. ‘My father’s memory lives in legend, but the true leader now is Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville. He is the one the others follow.’ And that meant Harbottle was the enemy’s most likely objective.
‘Where we are going could be dangerous,’ he said. ‘If some of the Disinherited are in league with the Scots, they are likely to regard me as an enemy.’ He smiled. ‘Is this how you imagined a herald’s life?’
‘I know there is more to it than just coats and armorial bearings, sir,’ came the calm reply. ‘A herald is an officer of the crown, a messenger and ambassador, and sometimes that service can be dangerous. Had I followed in my father’s footsteps, the risks would have been the same.’
Merrivale smiled again. ‘True,’ he said.
‘May I ask a question, sir? Why do heralds not carry weapons, or wear armour? Surely they need protection just like other men.’
The herald touched his embroidered tabard. ‘This is your protection,’ he said. ‘It is the only armour you will ever need. So long as men obey the laws of war, this tabard will be respected.’
The boy glanced at him. ‘And what happens when men break those laws?’
‘Things become… a bit difficult,’ Merrivale said.
The valley narrowed, the hills rising steeply up to harsh stone crags, black silhouettes against the fading light. The clouds were thick overhead now. The air was absolutely still and seemed to crackle with electricity. Thunder grumbled in the distance. Harbottle came into view, a big stone castle on a steep hill overlooking a bend in the river; a small village huddled on the slopes below it, and farms stretched into the distance up the valley. Not for the first time, the herald wondered what possessed people to settle in these desolate places.
The castle gates were open but guarded, and Merrivale saw archers on the wall-walks. The guards saluted his tabard and ushered them into a courtyard busy with men and horses. The castle steward appeared and took them upstairs to the great hall. A matronly woman in a plain brown kirtle met them at the top of the stairs. ‘Sir Herald! We were not expecting you!’
‘My apologies for arriving unannounced,’ Merrivale said, bowing. ‘But I have urgent news for Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville.’
‘I am Lady Joan, his wife. I shall take you to him.’
A cluster of men around the high table looked up sharply as they entered the hall. They fell silent when they saw the herald’s tabard. Merrivale recognised some of them from his time as a King’s Messenger; Wake of Liddell, broad-shouldered with a massive, shaggy head, his hair now turning grey; Walter Selby, tall and lantern-jawed; Umfraville himself, face tanned by the summer sun with an aquiline nose and dark hair receding in a widow’s peak. Thomas Clennell was there too, and he alone of the group was smiling. ‘We meet again, Sir Herald,’ he said.
‘I will come straight to the point,’ said Merrivale. ‘The Scots have broken the truce. A force under Douglas of Liddesdale and Bruce of Carrick is on its way to the border. Indeed, they may have crossed by now. I do not know how many men they have, but I believe their destination is Harbottle and the lands around it.’
‘How do you know this?’ demanded Wake.
‘It does not matter. Believe me, my lord, this information is true and genuine. You must act upon it.’
‘Why attack Harbottle?’ asked Umfraville. His wife’s face had gone pale.
‘The Scots are sending you a message,’ said Merrivale. ‘Agree to their demands, or face destruction. This is a demonstration of their power, gentlemen, before the negotiations begin in Berwick.’
Thunder boomed among the hills. The men in the room stared at the herald. Clennell’s fists clenched. ‘How do you know about Berwick?’ he asked.
Wake slammed his fist down on the table. ‘For the love of God!’ he said violently. ‘Are we to stand here asking questions all night? The Scots are on the way, gentlemen. We must move!’
They snapped out of their trance then. Lady Joan sent the servants running down to the village to alert the people, while the men mounted their horses and rode out into the valley to bring the farm folk and their livestock to a place of safety. Umfraville and Wake rode up the valley towards the border, the place of greatest danger, and Merrivale rode with them, fitful flashes of lightning flickering off his tabard. Peter de Lisle was behind him and once, turning in the saddle, Merrivale saw the chevrons and crescent of Harkness not far away.
Mercifully, there was as yet no sign of the Scots. Umfraville directed his men, sending them to each farm as they pressed on into the heart of the hills to rouse the people and help them get away, while Wake’s men scouted forward, looking for the enemy. Lighting flashed raw around the rugged hilltops and thunder boomed. The Coquet roared, flooding over boulders as it plunged down from the high country by the border. Reaching the tiny hamlet of Barrow Burn, Merrivale rode forward and dismounted, knocking at the door of the first cottage he came to. ‘I have come from Harbottle,’ he said to the frightened man who opened the door. ‘The Scots are on their way. We are here to take you to safety.’
Without waiting for a reply he moved on to the next cottage and the next, and then moved through the crowd while the men armed themselves and the women collected their moveable belongings, some of them wailing with fear, panicky children screaming at the thunder and cattle bellowing in confusion. Quietly, he guided them towards the road that led to Harbottle. When one elderly woman was helped out of her cottage by two men, the herald led his mount forward and helped the men lift her onto the back of the horse. He was pleased to see Peter immediately following his example, giving up his saddle to a man who was struggling to walk.
Gradually the thunder faded, replaced by a cold streaming drizzle. Torches flared in the mist, guiding people and animals through a darkness split by the whinnying of nervous horses and the constant, continuous lowing of cattle. A river of livestock flowed down the valley towards Harbottle, and after it came the people, men on horseback with the jacks and lances that every borderer kept close to hand, the women and children on ponies. Umfraville and Wake and their men came last of all, shielding the people from Scottish attack should it come. At the castle the stream divided, animals flowing into the walled barmek
in, people into the courtyard of the castle itself where fires burned to keep them warm and ward off the night terrors. A woman crooned to her restless child, words she had probably heard herself when young,
Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye
The Black Douglas shall not get ye
Eventually the drizzle stopped. A wind sprang up from the north, fluttering the torches. The barmekin was crammed with livestock now, cattle bellowing in confusion. ‘That’s the last of them,’ called Clennell, riding in through the gate and dismounting. He also had lands nearby, and brought his tenants and their beasts to Harbottle.
‘Good,’ said Umfraville. ‘Close the gates, keep those fires burning and double the watch. Davy,’ he said to Harkness, ‘you are captain of the guard. If so much as a shadow moves, sound the alarm.’
‘You can rely on me,’ Harkness said.
Umfraville clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Always,’ he said.
Wake turned to Merrivale. ‘I can guess why you are really here. We need to talk.’
Harbottle, 25th of September, 1346
Midnight
They gathered in the great hall, where the fire had been made up and logs blazed in the hearth. Peter sat beside Merrivale, drooping with fatigue but determined to stay by his master. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ Umfraville said to him. ‘This is a poor welcome we have shown you. How is your father?’
‘As well as can be expected, sir,’ said Peter. ‘He can no longer ride very far, which makes him unhappy. But his mind is sound and sharp as ever.’
‘I can attest to that,’ said Clennell, smiling. ‘I called on him at Chipchase a month ago, and brought him a book of those lais of Marie de France that he admires so much. He read a page once, and then recited every line back to me perfectly. He has the mind of a scholar, and yet what a warrior he once was.’
Walter Selby stood warming his hands by the fire, steam rising from his wet tunic. ‘He saved my life once, during that dismal campaign in ’28. I owe him a debt greater than I can ever repay.’
‘And we could use his wisdom to guide us now,’ Wake said heavily. He looked at Merrivale. ‘I take it you discussed the present situation with him?’
‘I wanted to know where he stood,’ Merrivale said. ‘I am aware that the name of de Lisle still carries a great deal of weight in the borders. He told me had made his own decision to refuse the offer, but he would not advise others. Each man must make his own decision, he said.’
He paused for a moment, looking at them in turn; Clennell uncomfortable and frowning, Selby staring into the fire, Wake looking at his hands, Umfraville inscrutable. ‘It is no secret that David Bruce’s agents have offered you restoration of your lost lands and titles in Scotland,’ the herald said. ‘The court in London knows it, so does Archbishop de la Zouche. What they do not know, not for certain, is that you are considering taking up the offer.’
‘What makes you think we are?’ asked Wake.
‘The fact that you are gathered here, for a start. It is hardly a coincidence that you decided to meet the day before you were summoned to Berwick. You were in the middle of your conference when I arrived, were you not? Trying to decide what answer to give?’
‘Yes, of course we were,’ Selby said shortly. ‘There is no point in denying it.’
‘And have you decided on your response?’ In the silence that followed, Merrivale said, ‘I ask this in the queen’s name, gentlemen.’
‘I don’t believe for a moment that the Scots will keep their promises,’ Selby said angrily. ‘This meeting in Berwick is a deception, to draw us away so they can raid our lands while our backs are turned.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘The meeting in Berwick is real,’ he said. ‘You are all commanded to attend. Tonight is a persuader, a demonstration of what they will do if you fail to comply. A foretaste of things to come, if you like.’
He looked around the room again. ‘Well? When the raiders come, will you fight them?’
‘I will fight anyone who attacks my lands,’ said Umfraville. ‘I always have done, and I always will.’
Heads nodded. ‘I am with Selby on this,’ said Clennell. ‘The Scots are dangling bait before our eyes. The moment we reach for it, they will snatch it away.’ He looked at Merrivale. ‘You may assure the queen of my loyalty.’
‘And mine,’ said Wake.
Umfraville nodded. ‘Tell them in London that the Disinherited stand by their allegiance.’
‘All of you?’ said Merrivale. ‘I think there is at least one whose loyalty is doubtful, to say the least. I am speaking, gentlemen, of David Harkness of Blackfell.’
A moment of silence and Clennell exploded. ‘Harkness? What in hell’s name are you talking about?’
‘As you will remember, Sir Thomas, a party of armed men waylaid my servants and myself on our way north. Those men were hired by David Harkness.’
The others stared at him. Even Peter was open-mouthed with surprise. ‘Impossible,’ Clennell said shortly.
Merrivale looked at Umfraville. ‘Tell me about him. When did he come into your service?’
‘About two years ago,’ Umfraville said. ‘Before that he was part of Sir Robert de Lisle’s retinue. Robert released him when he retired from active service, and Davy came to join me.’
‘What are his antecedents?’
‘His father was from Nithsdale in Galloway and was an adherent of the Balliols. He lost his lands when the Bruces conquered the region. His mother was English. He inherited a manor in the County Palatine through her, and a couple of properties in Newcastle.’
‘Davy is more than just an ordinary man-at-arms,’ Clennell said. ‘The king intended to knight him back in ’38, but he didn’t have enough money to support the dignity. It was a damned shame, though. He’s a good soldier and would have made an excellent administrator. He just needs more land.’
The herald nodded. ‘Send for him, if you please.’
Harkness was in his forties, about the same age as Umfraville and Clennell. He had that same hard-hewn look that so many border men had, the product of many long and weary weeks in the saddle in all weathers. He bowed to the herald. ‘I am glad to see you in good health, sir.’
Merrivale studied him for moment. ‘You hired the men who attacked me on the road near Chester-le-Street.’
Harkness looked at Clennell, then back at Merrivale. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘My servants found witnesses in Newcastle who can attest to this,’ Merrivale continued. ‘Of course, you also gave orders that my servants and I were not to be hurt. The entire affair was staged, including your hunting party galloping to the rescue.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ demanded Clennell. ‘I saw them, for God’s sake! Those men were about to kill you!’
‘No,’ said the herald, watching Harkness’s face. ‘If they had wanted to kill me, I would be dead. The question is, what was Master Harkness hoping to achieve? You all know, I am certain, that attacking a royal herald and envoy is a crime equivalent to treason.’
Harkness stood his ground. ‘I know nothing of what you are talking about, sir. We were out hunting when we saw a group of bandits attack you, and we rode to the rescue. That’s all there is, sir.’
‘And I think you are being damned ungrateful by throwing out accusations like this,’ Clennell said sharply. ‘Davy Harkness is as true a man as you’ll find on the borders. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘You own an inn on Pilgrim Street in Newcastle,’ Merrivale said to Harkness.
‘Yes, sir. What of it?’
‘Three days ago, a French spy went to the inn and remained there for some time. It seems likely he was meeting someone. Was it you?’
‘I have been at my manor of Blackfell for some time, sir, making everything ready before coming north to join Sir Gilbert, according to the terms of my indenture.’
‘He arrived yesterday,’ Umfr
aville confirmed.
‘The man of whom I speak is Rollond, Seigneur de Brus,’ Merrivale said. ‘The same man who is urging you to change your allegiance, and who has instructed you to meet him in Berwick. The same man who has also ordered Douglas and Niall Bruce to raid your lands, Sir Gilbert. So you see, when you say blithely that the Disinherited are loyal, and yet at the same time one of your own retinue stages an attack on me, and offers his property as a safe haven for an enemy spy, I am left with doubts. What should I believe?’
‘It’s an inn, for Christ’s sake,’ said Clennell. ‘People come and go all the time.’
‘It is one of many inns on Pilgrim Street. Why did Brus choose the one owned by a member of the Disinherited?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Harkness said helplessly. ‘I wasn’t there. I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Let me ask you a question in turn,’ Umfraville said to the herald. ‘You claim this attack on you was staged. Why? What would Davy, or myself, or any of us have to gain by this?’
‘I don’t know, yet,’ Merrivale said. ‘But I intend to find out.’
Lord Wake rose to his feet. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Sir Herald, if you find proof against David Harkness, bring it to us and we will consider the matter again. For now, the discussion is closed. Get some rest, all of you. Tomorrow will bring its own trials.’
‘Do you think they will fight?’ Merrivale asked Peter de Lisle when they were alone.
‘I am certain they will, sir. They’re proud people, and they don’t like invaders on their land.’
Including me, Merrivale thought. He saw Peter hesitate. ‘What is it?’
‘Davy Harkness, sir. I knew him well when he served my father. When I was small he used to pick me up and give me a lift on his shoulders, and later he made me a wooden sword and taught me to fence with it. My father thought the world of him. Can he really be a traitor, sir?’
Somewhere in the castle a baby was crying, and the unhappy cattle continued their clamour in the barmekin. At least Peter had asked the question, Merrivale thought, rather than denying everything as Umfraville and the others had done.
A Clash of Lions Page 12