‘You could search for them,’ said Tiphaine.
Agnes shook her head. ‘No. Brus would learn that we were searching, and realise we did not know after all.’
‘Watch and wait,’ said Mora. ‘They will reveal themselves in time.’
Yes, thought Tiphaine, but by then it might be too late. ‘What about Brother Oswald?’ she asked. ‘He was at the meeting, he might know.’
‘Something tells me Oswald is keen to stay out of Brus’s way for a while,’ said Mora. ‘I expect he has gone back to his other employer at Durham. With luck, we won’t see the wretch again.’
‘That would be too much to hope for,’ said Tiphaine.
A horse pulled up outside the pavilion, the rider’s voice asking for the Countess of Dunbar. Somairle entered a moment later, bearing a sealed letter. ‘A message from Kelso, my lady.’
Agnes broke the seal and read the letter. ‘It is from the Master of Kinross,’ she said. She looked at Tiphaine. ‘The English want to negotiate. They are sending the herald, Simon Merrivale.’
Mora grinned under her helmet. ‘The lord of Carrick will not be pleased to see him.’
‘The lord of Carrick needs a muzzle and a leash.’ Agnes frowned. ‘Somairle, tell the messenger. When the herald arrives, before he sees the king and court, bring him first to me.’
15
Jedburgh, 28th of September, 1346
Evening
Heron had insisted on commanding Merrivale’s escort himself, and Stryvelyn the keeper of Berwick agreed he could be released from his duties for a few days. He had intended to use men from his own retinue for the escort, but Rokeby overruled him and hand-picked a troop of twenty from the castle garrison. ‘I don’t want to face the queen if anything happens to her envoy,’ he said.
Heron did secure the services of two of his own hobelars to act as scouts. This pair, Eckies Nickson and Jack Croser, known to his comrades as Kalewater Jack, were seasoned veterans of border warfare. Merrivale was mildly surprised to learn they were both Scots, at least by birth; Croser came from the wild country south of Kelso, and Nickson was a Hawick man who had fled to England after killing a man from another family with whom the Nicksons were at feud. ‘The border is a fluid sort of place,’ Heron said. ‘People move back and forth. It’s a different country out here, you see. By and large, the Scottish and English clans have more in common with each other than they do with London or Edinburgh.’
‘That doesn’t stop them feuding with each other,’ Merrivale observed. ‘Do the border clans ever stop fighting?’
‘No,’ was the morose reply. ‘We rub along well with the rest of the world. It’s ourselves we can’t stand.’
Crossing the Tweed, they had ridden down the south bank of the river past the castle of Norham where the bishop’s banner, four silver lions on a crossed field of blue, flapped in the wind. The castle itself was silent. The lands around Norham had been left untouched, but soon after they found the first signs of destruction: burned-out houses and barns, a pele tower blackened and roofless. Douglas’s raiders had been thorough; even the granaries had been burned. When the people who lived on these farms returned home, they would have little to eat during the coming winter.
Another big castle, Wark, loomed up over the trees and Nickson came cantering back. ‘There’s a party of Scots waiting for us, sir. The leader’s badge is a silver rose on blue.’
‘The Master of Kinross,’ Heron said. ‘The royal captain in Kelso. He has come himself, which is interesting. He’s also an ally of Agnes of Dunbar.’
Another coincidence? Merrivale wondered. They found the Scots ten minutes later, a compact, disciplined party of horsemen with lances raised upright. Their leader, immaculate in burnished armour and chainmail, rode forward as Heron’s party approached. His visor was raised, revealing a pleasant face with brown eyes and a humorous mouth. ‘Well met, Roger. I wasn’t expecting you in person.’
‘Likewise,’ said Heron. ‘I think we both have a vested interest in keeping this gentleman safe. James, may I present Simon Merrivale, herald and envoy? Sir Herald, this is the Master of Kinross.’
‘I believe I met your father, the Earl of Kinross, when I served in Scotland,’ Merrivale said. ‘I hope he is well?’
‘Sadly, no. He rarely leaves his bed now. A lifetime of fighting his king’s wars has taken its toll.’
‘As it does on all of us,’ said Merrivale, thinking of Sir Robert de Lisle alone at his house at Chipchase.
‘Indeed so. Shall we depart, gentlemen?’
They rode on, following the long curving valley of the Tweed, hills rising to their left, the brown grass slopes blistered with purple patches of heather. Here there had been no burning; it had been some time since the English, their forces pared to the bone by the demands of the war with France, had dared to raid across the frontier. Eckies Nickson and Kalewater Jack were recalled to the main party and Kinross put out scouts of his own, which surprised Merrivale, for the Scots were in friendly territory. But Kinross was clearly a man who did not believe in taking chances.
The journey to Kelso and onward to Jedburgh passed without incident. Beside Merrivale, Peter was quivering with excitement; he had never been to Scotland, having been too young to accompany his father to the wars. When the Scottish camp came into sight he stood up in the stirrups, surveying the bright banners and coats of arms displayed on the painted pavilions.
‘Blue and white checks, three gold scallops on a bar of black; that’s the Earl of Menteith. Two red chevrons on gold, the Earl of Strathearn. Three red diamonds and a red border on gold, the Earl of Moray. Three gold stars on red, the Earl of Sutherland. Three red shields on white, that’s the Lord High Constable. White with a red upper band and three gold pallets, the Great Marischal. There’s the Douglas heart, and the red lion on gold of Bruce… That red saltire on gold, I don’t know that one.’
‘That is the Seigneur de Brus,’ the herald said quietly.
‘And there is another I don’t recognise. Three gold diamonds and a gold bar on blue. Is that also a French coat?’
He had seen the coat before, on other journeys and other battlefields, but even so the sight of it was like a punch in the stomach. ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘That is Guy de Dampierre, the Count of Béthune and Lord of Hamilton.’
They halted outside the Dunbar pavilion, the earl’s white lion banner snapping overhead in the wind. Heron looked around in puzzlement. ‘Where is your king?’
‘At the abbey,’ Kinross said. ‘He has taken his lodgings there. My lady desires to see the herald first.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No,’ said Kinross. ‘She does not need to. Come this way, Sir Herald, if you please.’
* * *
Wrapped in a red robe trimmed with sable, the Countess of Dunbar received Merrivale in her chamber inside the big pavilion. With her were a tall, long-nosed man-at-arms in mail tunic and helmet, and Tiphaine in a white Cistercian habit, which made him blink. ‘You’re still alive,’ she said.
‘So far. Aren’t you supposed to be in Newcastle with Lady Mary?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I’m not. Just as you’re not dead. The countess wants to talk to you about Brus.’
Kinross, who had ushered Merrivale into the chamber, started to withdraw. Agnes held up a hand. ‘Stay, James, if you please. I may have need of you.’
Kinross bowed. The countess looked at Merrivale. ‘This is the Lady Mora of Islay, my shieldmaiden,’ she said, pointing to the figure in mail.
‘Sometimes also known as Murdo,’ the herald said.
The woman inclined her head. ‘It is a useful alias. I have several others.’
‘You may trust Lady Mora and the Master of Kinross as you trust me,’ said Agnes. She paused. ‘Assuming, of course, that you trust me at all.’
The herald considered this. ‘Is there any reason why I should not?’
‘I was not as forthcoming as I might have been at our last meeting.’
>
‘No. But then, neither was I. It was only our first chess game, after all.’
‘I needed time to think. What you told me about Brus was disquieting, but I confess not wholly unexpected. Your demoiselle has given me more details about him.’
‘She is not my demoiselle,’ Merrivale said. Tiphaine rolled her eyes.
‘This conspiracy you spoke of. Who was its leader? Brus?’
‘No. There were several ringleaders, two of whom were English. One was the knight Sir Edward de Tracey. We do not know the identity of the other, only that he comes from the north of England. Brus was a relatively minor player, or so we thought.’
‘What were this conspiracy’s aims?’
‘Initially, to overthrow the thrones of England and France and to bring about civil war in both realms. But the plot stretched far beyond those kingdoms. Bohemia was involved, as were the papal court and Genoa, and the Knights of Saint John.’
‘The Knights of Saint John,’ she repeated slowly. ‘That interests me… Do you think Brus could be preparing to do the same in Scotland? Bring down the kingdom and start a civil war?’
‘He could be,’ said Merrivale. ‘But he is also still meddling in English affairs as well, and I am convinced that he is using English money to pay for armies and bribes. As I said, the French treasury barely has two écus to rub together. What is not clear to me is whether Brus is acting on orders – and if so, whose orders – or if this is a freelance plot he has dreamed up himself.’
‘You mean, the original conspiracy could still be active,’ she said. ‘Is that why you are here?’
‘Yes. If I can persuade your king to extend the truce, I can discover more about what Brus is planning and lay evidence against him.’
The Master of Kinross shook his head. ‘The king will never agree. He and my lady’s brother and the whole war party are in thrall to the Frenchman.’
‘And it is in Brus’s interests to prosecute the war swiftly, so he can carry out his designs,’ said Lady Mora.
Agnes of Dunbar looked at the herald. ‘You did not answer my question. Do you trust me?’
‘If you were working with Rollond de Brus, you would not have sent word about Coquetdale. And I would have fulfilled the demoiselle’s predictions, and be dead. What are you offering me?’
‘Mora is right. This war is not Brus’s sole aim. It is a step along the road towards his own ambitions. Do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale.
‘Then I am offering you a pact,’ the countess said. ‘This man threatens both our kingdoms. Let us put aside our differences, and join forces to make an end to him.’
‘How?’ asked Kinross. ‘Assassination?’
The countess shook her head. ‘He is too powerful. We shall have to be more subtle.’ She stared at Merrivale. ‘That is where you come in.’
‘Thank you,’ Merrivale said dryly. ‘I suspect you are right, and your king will refuse to extend the truce. I shall negotiate anyway. I might learn something useful.’
‘It may be too late,’ Mora warned. ‘The Disinherited have come over to our side, the Percys and their friends are considering whether to follow them. There is very little now to prevent Brus from achieving his ends.’
Merrivale rubbed his chin. ‘The Percys,’ he said finally. ‘I made a mistake there. I thought they could be won around easily, and concentrated on the Disinherited. I was wrong on both counts. I confess I was not expecting Lord Percy to be bribed so easily.’
‘What was he offered?’ asked the countess.
‘Berwick,’ said Merrivale. ‘And Newcastle, both to be held as their personal property.’
Tiphaine’s breath hissed. Agnes and Mora looked at each other. ‘Now that is intriguing,’ said the countess. ‘Because twenty-four hours ago, he promised Berwick to me.’
From outside came the sound of a man’s voice, harshly ordering people out of his way. Tiphaine ducked behind a curtain at the back of the chamber, and a moment later Rollond de Brus pushed his way into the room. ‘Sir Herald,’ he said in a voice full of venom. ‘You are late. The king is calling for you. You will accompany me into his presence at once, or your embassy will be terminated. You too, my lady,’ he said to the countess. ‘You also are summoned.’
* * *
The abbey church of Saint Mary the Virgin was a massive building, a deliberate statement of power by an earlier king of Scotland. Time and war had left their marks; the timber roof was new, and the glass in the three high storeys was plain and clear, filling the nave with pale evening light.
David Bruce sat on a high-backed wooden chair in front of the rood screen, wrapped in a yellow robe decorated with red lions. The herald saw a man in his early twenties, with a narrow face, sharp nose and slightly receding chin. Rings decorated his long fingers, which tapped restlessly on the arm of his chair as he watched the herald walk towards him.
A crowd stood around him, men in coats bright with heraldry, women in silk kirtles and sleeveless surcoats, a few black-robed canons from the abbey; the grey-bearded man was probably the abbot, John of Eskdale. Niall Brus of Carrick stood beside his half-brother, his face dark with bruises and his eyes narrowed. Those bruises are spectacular, Merrivale thought. I only hit him once. He must have got the rest falling into the river… William Douglas of Liddesdale stood just behind him.
Agnes of Dunbar moved forward to join a handsome, silver-haired man who Merrivale guessed was her husband. Kinross followed her. The red diamonds of the Earl of Moray were visible on the far side of the nave; John Randolph had fairer skin than his sister, but the same curling dark hair. A man in a tabard like his own, gold with a single embroidered red lion rampant, stood beside the king; Archibald Graham, Lyon Herald, the royal herald of Scotland. Behind Graham was a tall man wearing the red cloak and white eight-pointed cross of the Knights of Saint John, and a finger of unease drifted down the herald’s spine; he remembered the last time he had seen that cross, on bodies riddled with arrows in the streets of Saint-Riquier.
Brus bowed to the king and went to stand beside another man, dark-haired, wearing the device of gold diamonds and bar on blue; Guy of Béthune. He saw the anger in the other man’s eyes and gazed back at him, his own eyes blank. Then he saw the woman standing beside Béthune. The shock was like walking into a wall. He took an iron grip on his will and looked away from her, gazing steadily at the king as he walked up the nave. Stopping the prescribed three paces away, he bowed deeply, quelling the sick churning sensation in his stomach.
‘In the name of Queen Philippa of England,’ he said formally, ‘I give your Grace greeting.’
David looked both surprised and amused. ‘Your Grace? King Edward still refuses to recognise me as the rightful king of Scotland. Does his wife take a different view?’
Merrivale could feel her gaze burning into his skin. He forced himself to concentrate. ‘To be honest, I never asked,’ he said. ‘But I was taught to be polite to my hosts.’
The king laughed. ‘Simon Merrivale. I have heard of you. They did not tell me you had a sense of humour. Very well, state your business.’
‘As you know, sire, the truce between England and Scotland expires at sundown tomorrow. I have come to request an extension for another month, to All Saints’ Day.’
‘You are right, your Grace,’ said Niall Bruce of Carrick. ‘He has a sense of humour.’
Laughter rippled around the nave, echoing in the timber vault. Merrivale did not move. ‘My embassy is to the king, not his fool,’ he said. ‘Your Grace, we stand poised on the brink of war, but there is still time to step back. Another month gives us time to agree terms for a lasting peace.’
‘Only a beaten foe asks for peace,’ said Rollond de Brus. ‘All we have to do is walk into England and collect the spoils.’
His eyes were malevolent, but Merrivale saw the confidence and arrogance there too. All his plans are in place, the herald thought. He is sure he has won.
He looked back at the king. ‘En
gland is hardly beaten, your Grace. The Seigneur de Brus saw the power of England first-hand at Crécy. Trial by combat is risky, and no one can foresee its outcome. Should we not decide our destinies for ourselves, rather than leaving it to fortune?’
David pursed his lips. ‘You are asking us to abandon all our endeavours, disband our troops and send them home? This army was assembled and equipped at vast expense, herald. It would be a shame for it to all go to waste.’
‘Even more of a waste to see all your fine army stretched dead on the battlefield,’ the herald said. ‘Ask the Seigneur de Brus. He can tell you what that looks like.’
Brus started to speak, but the Earl of Moray stepped forward, pointing a finger at Merrivale. ‘Why are we listening to this?’ he demanded. ‘England has no intention of making peace, it never has and it never will. This is just an attempt to delay us. And this man is no true ambassador. He should be whipped as an impostor and sent bleeding back to his masters.’
‘Cut his tongue out first,’ someone else suggested.
‘Hold fast,’ said Agnes of Dunbar. ‘This man is a royal herald. By all our laws, you may not harm him.’
Moray turned on her. ‘Do not lecture us on laws, bitch! Keep your foul mouth shut, or by Christ I’ll cut your tongue out as well!’
The Earl of Dunbar clenched his fists, but his wife put a hand on his shoulder. Merrivale looked at the king, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are things always like this?’ he asked.
He saw the glimmer of amusement in the king’s eyes, but Niall Bruce stepped forward, bruised face darker than ever with anger. ‘You will show respect,’ he said harshly. ‘Or by God, herald or no, we will teach you manners.’
The herald turned to him. ‘And who is going to teach me, my lord? Certainly not you. From my experience, you fight like a child.’
Bruce of Carrick reached for his sword. ‘Hold him,’ the king commanded, and Douglas of Liddesdale grabbed Carrick’s arms, pinning them behind his back.
‘Why stop him?’ Rollond de Brus asked. ‘Kill him, now. It will send a signal to the English.’
A Clash of Lions Page 17