Simon Merrivale, heraldus
Sealing the parchment, the herald sent Mauro to find Sir John Stryvelyn the keeper and ask him to send it to London by the next courier. Leaving Peter still asleep, he went in search of Rokeby and found him in his office, conferring with Heron the deputy keeper about patrols.
‘Good morning,’ said Rokeby said, pointing to a steaming jug of hippocras on a side table. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ Merrivale poured a small glass, looking through the windows out over the Tweed and the fields beyond. The clouds had lifted a little and he could see the high hills of the Cheviots rising towards the sky. ‘Any sign of the Disinherited?’
‘None. I’m afraid we have to consider them as fugitives.’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘That is what I have just written to her Grace.’
‘They may be making for Jedburgh,’ Heron said. ‘According to our spies, the Scottish army will arrive there today.’
‘Is it as big as we feared?’
‘Not quite. The Lord of the Isles has fallen out with some of the other barons, and has taken his men back home. But that still leaves them with about twelve thousand, once you count the border contingents.’
Something stirred in the herald’s mind. ‘Isn’t there some connection between the Lord of the Isles and the Countess of Dunbar?’
Heron looked surprised. ‘I don’t know, to be honest. Of course, she is the Lady of Mann, and there is an old connection between Mann and the Western Isles. So, yes, it is possible.’
Rokeby looked at the herald. ‘Is it important?’
‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said slowly. ‘It might be.’
The sense of futility he had felt last night was growing again. He pushed it away sharply. ‘We are sitting here waiting for the axe to fall,’ he said. ‘We must do something, take some action ourselves.’
‘We have too few men,’ said Rokeby. ‘And the archbishop’s army is at Richmond, a hundred miles away.’
‘And he doesn’t have enough men either,’ Heron said gloomily.
‘Then if we can’t fight, let us try to negotiate,’ said the herald. ‘Let’s send an emissary to David Bruce and see if we can agree an extension of the truce. Even a few weeks would give us more time to prepare.’
‘We’ve had plenty of time,’ Rokeby said. ‘The problem is, we’ve nothing to prepare with. It’s men and money we have lacked, not time.’ He paused. ‘But I see what you mean. A month or three weeks of grace could be a godsend. Anything can happen in a month.’
‘And it would give me a chance to find out more about what plot Rollond de Brus is preparing. If I can do that, I should be able to win the Percys and Nevilles back, and maybe even the Disinherited. The odds will still be against us, but not quite so long.’
He looked at Rokeby. ‘I don’t have the authority to negotiate on my own. As the king’s captain on the borders, you do.’
Rokeby turned to Heron. ‘What do you think, Roger?’
Heron looked worried, the herald thought. ‘I doubt if they’re in any mood to listen. They’re just as likely to send back your head in a sack.’
Merrivale smiled. ‘That is a hazard of my occupation. We have to trust that the Scots will obey the laws of war.’
Rokeby nodded. ‘Very well, I will authorise this. I’ll give you safe conducts and provide you with an escort. I will also write to the Scottish captain at Roxburgh, the nearest post to Berwick, and ask him to put you under his protection.’
‘I was hoping to start at once,’ said Merrivale. In the back of his mind was the thought that if Rollond de Brus had gone to join the Scots army at Jedburgh, Tiphaine might have followed him there.
‘No,’ said Rokeby. ‘You clearly need some rest, and another day won’t matter. Remain here until we have a reply from Roxburgh.’
Heron departed to make the arrangements to send a courier under a flag of truce to Roxburgh. ‘You spoke to the Disinherited,’ said Rokeby. ‘What do you think they intend to do?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Merrivale. ‘They pulled the wool over my eyes, quite thoroughly. But I got the impression that Selby in particular is hostile to any idea of collaboration with the Scots. Reflecting on what he said, I think his anger was genuine.’
‘Will he break ranks with the others?’ Rokeby asked.
‘Possibly. It depends on what pressure is put on him.’
Rokeby watched him for a while. ‘You are carrying a great deal of weight on your shoulders, Simon,’ he said. ‘But then, you always did.’
‘It is a habit I seem to have formed,’ Merrivale acknowledged.
‘Do you ever think about giving it all up? Finding a nice woman to settle down with, buying a manor, keeping chickens, watching the seasons go past?’
‘Do you?’
Rokeby laughed. ‘It’s a fair point. We’re two of a kind, you and I.’ His smile faded a little. ‘At least I wasn’t in Savoy.’
‘No,’ said Merrivale. ‘You have that to be thankful for, I think.’
Peter was waiting for him in the courtyard. ‘You should have woken me, master,’ the boy said reproachfully.
‘You needed the rest. Come, walk with me for a while. I need to clear my head.’
They walked towards the keep and the gateway leading to the town. ‘I am learning that a herald needs to know about many things,’ Peter said. ‘Not just armorial devices but also politics and government and diplomacy. There is so much to learn, I don’t know where to begin.’
Merrivale began to feel old again. ‘Learning takes time,’ he said. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry, you have plenty of time ahead of you. How good is your Latin?’
‘I read it perfectly,’ the boy said proudly. ‘You may test me if you wish.’
‘There is no need.’ Sir Robert de Lisle was an educated man, and would have seen his son educated as well. ‘There are some books you need to read, John of Salisbury’s Policraticus, the Treasure of Brunetto Latini, Giles of Rome’s De Regimine Principum. There are some commentaries on Aristotle that might be helpful too. When we return to London, I will lend them to you.’
They reached the gatehouse and started through the passage under the tower. ‘I think you will be a wonderful teacher,’ Peter said.
‘Don’t speak too soon.’
‘Oh, sir. You must not make jokes about—’
A sound like wood creaking under strain made them both stop. The noise had come from above. Seizing Peter’s arm, Merrivale started to run forward, but he had barely taken a stride when chains overhead rattled and roared through their blocks. The portcullis slammed down onto the cobbles, so close that one of the spikes on the bottom snagged the tail of his cloak and he stumbled and fell headlong. The stones vibrated with force.
For a moment there was a shocked silence. Peter helped Merrivale to his feet. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
Merrivale dusted himself down. ‘I am in need of a new cloak, but otherwise none the worse.’ People were running towards them, attracted by the noise. One of the first to arrive was Roger Heron, pop-eyed with shock. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘It appears the brake on the portcullis crank has failed,’ Merrivale said. ‘You might wish to summon your carpenter.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Heron looked at the portcullis. ‘You could have been killed!’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.’ The portcullis was made of oak and bolted with iron; if it had hit either himself or Peter, it would have broken them like eggshells. Heron snapped orders at his men, and slowly the portcullis was winched back up again. ‘I am so sorry,’ Heron said. ‘This really is a most unfortunate accident.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Merrivale. ‘These things happen.’
Brushing another spot of dust off his cloak, he walked out onto the causeway leading across the moat that separated the town from the castle. ‘That was very unlucky,’ Peter said. ‘That we should be walking under the portcullis just as the crank
failed.’
‘Yes,’ said the herald. ‘Wasn’t it just?’
Jedburgh, 27th of September, 1346
Late afternoon
Tiphaine and Mora had walked along the north bank of the Tweed for a couple of hours until Mora was satisfied they were not being followed. An abandoned barn with a few remnants of last year’s straw gave them shelter for the night, and in the morning they walked into the little town of Kelso, a huddle of houses in the shadow of an immense abbey church. Here they found food and a ride on the back of a purveyor’s wagon taking the winding road up through Teviotdale towards Jedburgh. There were actually two towns called Jedburgh, Mora said, several miles apart, and to make matters more confusing the locals called both of them Jeddart. Tiphaine was too tired to care.
The town of Jedburgh lay between another big abbey and a rather tumbledown castle. Everywhere Tiphaine looked she saw the scars of war. The monastery showed signs of building, or rebuilding, and most of the roofs in the town looked new. The castle’s gatehouse bore the black scorch marks of fire.
All round the town and in the meadows stretching along the river, the Scottish army was making camp. Some contingents were still riding in from the north, but wagons stood parked in the fields and tents and pavilions were going up, the larger ones decorated with bright coats of arms. The army was smaller than the French one she had seen back in the summer, but there was no mistaking its purpose and determination. She had thought the walls of Newcastle and Berwick were strong, but how could they resist a force such as this?
A little dazed with exhaustion, she realised Mora was leading her towards a large pavilion in the abbey park, painted with white lions on a field of red and white borders decorated with red cinquefoils. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I am taking you to meet my mistress,’ Mora said. ‘If anyone can help you, she can.’
A big man-at-arms stood in front of the entrance to the pavilion, in a red surcoat with a strange device of three conjoined legs. Mora raised a hand in greeting. ‘Beannachdan, Somairle. A bheil a ’bhan-iarla an seo?’
‘Fàilte, Mora. Tha ia ’feitheamh riut.’ The big man held the canvas door open and ushered them inside.
Agnes of Dunbar sat before a small table, writing a letter with a wooden pen. The evening sunlight coming through the painted canvas struck red glints off her curling hair and painted her brown skin with ruddy highlights. She looked up and smiled when she saw them. ‘Mora. My faithful servant returns. Give me your report.’
Mora told her, ending with the events since she and Tiphaine left Warkworth. ‘Brus has done his work thoroughly,’ she said. ‘The Percys and Nevilles are remaining on their lands, and the Disinherited are bowing to his will. The English are crippled even before the campaign begins.’
‘We shall see,’ said Agnes. She turned her attention to Tiphaine. ‘Why have you brought a nun with you?’
Tiphaine pulled back her hood. ‘The Demoiselle Tiphaine de Tesson, daughter of the Sire de la Roche Tesson in Normandy,’ Mora intoned. ‘I brought her here to keep her out of trouble. She wants to kill Rollond de Brus.’
‘Does she now? Why?’
‘The feeling is mutual,’ Tiphaine said. ‘We both want to kill each other.’
‘I see.’ Agnes considered her for a moment, and Tiphaine realised what a mouse must feel like when a hawk is circling overhead.
‘Have the Disinherited come here?’ Mora asked.
‘No, but Brus has,’ the countess said. ‘He is at the castle now, closeted with Douglas and Niall Bruce of Carrick. They joined us yesterday, Carrick looking like he had just lost a fight with a gargoyle. I have never seen so many bruises on one man’s face. To make it worse, his injuries were inflicted by an unarmed herald.’
Tiphaine’s heart jumped in her chest. ‘A herald? Simon of Merrivale?’
‘The very same. Do you know him? Ah, I see from your eyes that you do. Things begin to make sense now.’
The countess turned to Mora. ‘You did well to let Brus think I support his scheme. Send word to him, Mora. Tell him I have heard your story of what happened at Berwick, and wish to congratulate him myself.’
She looked at Tiphaine, pointing to a curtain. ‘Remain there in silence, and listen. We will talk again after Brus departs.’
Tiphaine sat behind the curtain. The air in the pavilion was cool; a raw autumn wind was blowing outside, and she drew the heavy woollen habit more closely around her. Simon is alive, she thought, and she felt some of her tension drain away. She realised that she had never really believed he was dead, despite Rollond’s words at South Shields; if any man knew how to survive an ambush, it was Simon Merrivale. Besides, she thought, if he really was dead, I would have known.
She checked at this. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself sternly. How would I have known? It’s not as if—
Brus’s voice could be heard outside the pavilion. Some of the tension returned, and she hugged herself even more tightly than before, forcing herself to be calm and listen. She heard his footsteps entering the pavilion, followed by someone else whom she guessed was Mora.
‘My lord of Brus!’ Agnes said. ‘Welcome back among us. I hear your journeys have been most fruitful.’
‘No more so than expected.’
The sound of his voice made Tiphaine go cold with memories. ‘Indeed,’ said the countess. ‘The captains of the Disinherited are in the hands of Scotland. The king will rejoice when he hears the news.’
‘I have already told him,’ Brus said. ‘How may I serve you, my lady?’
‘I wish to talk with you about the Disinherited. Sit down. I see your wound still pains you.’
‘It will pass,’ Brus said.
‘Your courage does you credit. The king has promised that the Disinherited will be given title to all the lands they claim in Scotland, without exception. Of course, as you know this poses a small problem. Many of those lands are already in the hands of someone else. My husband, for example, has possession of the Lordship of Selkirk, which is claimed by Sir Thomas Clennell. If we are expected to give up these lands, what will we receive in return?’
‘That is for the king to decide,’ said Brus.
‘Oh, come now, my lord,’ said Agnes. ‘We both know the king listens to you in these matters. This entire plan to woo the Disinherited was yours. It must have occurred to you that forcing the king’s loyal servants to give up their lands to those who have been regarded as traitors will breed discontent. Victory against England will be meaningless if the king then faces opposition at home.’
To Tiphaine sitting behind her curtain, the silence seemed to go on for a very long time. ‘Are you threatening rebellion?’ asked Brus.
‘You know perfectly well what I am saying,’ said the countess. ‘We are prepared to back your schemes, but we must also protect our own interests. We will hand over Selkirk to Clennell, but we will have something in exchange.’
‘What is it?’
‘Berwick,’ said Agnes.
Another silence, and Tiphaine could almost see the wheels of Brus’s mind turning. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘You shall have it.’
‘Berwick,’ Agnes repeated, ‘but to hold in our own right, not as a vassal of the king. Berwick shall be a palatine, where we alone are sovereign. That is our condition.’
‘The king will never agree.’
‘Then we shall not surrender Selkirk,’ Agnes said matter-of-factly. ‘And when the Disinherited hear you cannot keep your promises, they will betray you. I do not know what role you have planned for them in this campaign but it must be important, given the amount of time and money you have expended on them. It would be a shame if your plan were to go awry at the last minute.’
‘The Disinherited will not know any of this until the campaign is over.’
‘They will if I tell them.’
‘How can you tell them? You don’t even know where they are.’
Mora of Islay cleared her throat. ‘Do not be t
oo certain of that,’ she said.
‘We are wasting opportunities,’ Agnes said before Brus could speak. ‘Each of us desires something, and the other has the power to give it. You have a plan to take Berwick, of course; you would never overlook a town of such strategic importance. Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ said Brus.
‘Of course I am. When you have Berwick in your hands, we will trade it for Selkirk. Everyone will be happy.’
‘And why should I wish to see you happy?’ asked Brus.
The words were a slap in the face, but Agnes answered calmly. ‘Because it will remove an obstacle from your path. It is no secret that I have opposed your plans before now. But your skill and ingenuity have brought us to this point, poised on the brink of a great victory. I cannot deny that. Give us Berwick, my lord, and you shall have not only Selkirk but an end to the discord between us. We will no longer stand in your way.’
‘Then Berwick you shall have,’ said Brus. ‘But do not play me false.’
Tiphaine heard him leave the pavilion. ‘You may come out now,’ Agnes said quietly.
She rose, and walked out into the main chamber. The countess still sat before her desk; Mora stood to one side, arms crossed over her mail tunic. ‘What did you think?’ Agnes asked.
‘He gave in very quickly,’ said Tiphaine.
‘Yes. Underneath the arrogance, I think he is nervous. Having come this far, he fears that something will go wrong and his plot will break down. He agreed to my proposal to get me out of the way.’
‘You cannot trust him,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Believe me, my lady. He betrayed me, he betrayed his master the Count of Alençon, he betrayed the king of France to whom he swore fealty. He will betray your king too, and you, and probably the Disinherited as well.’
‘I am sure he will,’ said Agnes. ‘The question is, how?’
She looked at Mora. ‘You were bluffing, I assume.’
‘Yes,’ said Mora, nodding at Tiphaine. ‘I could not follow them, as I was too busy looking after this one. My guess is that they will be up in the hills along the border, some wild place where men do not ordinarily go.’
A Clash of Lions Page 16