‘No,’ said Merrivale. ‘And for what it is worth, brother, I suspect that traitors like Nanteuil intend to harm your Order as well. Perhaps even bring it down, just as they brought down the Knights Templar.’
‘That is what the grand master fears also,’ said Seton. ‘Thank you, Sir Herald, for seeing me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘If I learn anything useful, where should I send word?’
‘There are two men I trust,’ Merrivale said. ‘Sir Thomas Rokeby in Berwick, and William Blyth of Newcastle. Send word to either of them, and I will do likewise to your priory.’
Seton sketched a cross in the air between them. ‘May God watch over us both,’ he said.
17
Jedburgh, 29th of September, 1346
Late morning
Michaelmas. The last day of peace; unless, somehow, he could work a miracle.
‘Good day to you, Sir Herald,’ said Guy of Dampierre, Count of Béthune.
Merrivale looked at the other man. His voice was genial, but his face was full of malice. ‘It is a fine morning,’ the count said.
It was; earlier the valley had been full of fog, but that was clearing and the sun shone on the hills overlooking the town and abbey. ‘How may I be of service, my lord?’ the herald asked, his voice neutral. His head ached from the tension of the previous night and he had not slept for more than a few minutes at a time, but his manner was calm.
‘Oh, I merely called to pay my respects. Are you going to the abbey? Yes, the king has summoned you to discuss the truce. Allow me to walk with you.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
They walked across the pavilions in the park towards the abbey, the last skeins of mist drifting around its towers. ‘You had a visitor last night,’ Béthune said.
Merrivale’s pace did not falter. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘A touching reunion, I have no doubt.’
‘Not particularly,’ said Merrivale. ‘Your lady wife assured herself that I was well, and I did likewise. After that, she took her leave.’ He glanced at the other man. ‘You may rest assured that nothing improper passed between us, if that is what’s troubling you.’
‘Nothing is troubling me,’ said Béthune. ‘I trust Yolande, she is a dutiful wife who knows her place. I am more interested in you. Was it very painful, seeing her again after all these years?’
‘No,’ said Merrivale.
‘Oh, come now. You had high aspirations once, didn’t you? She was a king’s daughter, you were a base-born rogue who charmed his way into royal service. You were never destined to succeed, but you knew that all along.’
‘Allow me to correct you, my lord. I am not base-born. My father’s family were gentlemen, who owned lands on Dartmoor for centuries.’
‘Ah, but then your father lost them. I seem to recall some story about his wife and daughters starving to death because he was too poor and base to feed them. And you became Simon Lack-lands. To tilt your lance at a king’s daughter…’ Béthune shook his head. ‘I suppose I should admire your audacity, but I can’t bring myself to do so. Still, it all ended well. You were taught your place.’
‘I have always known my place,’ Merrivale said.
‘Oh! Do I detect an edge in your voice? Is the weasel daring to show its teeth? I do find it amusing when the lower orders attempt to show spirit. They do it so badly.’ Béthune draped an arm around the herald’s neck. ‘It gives me such pleasure to know that I have won,’ he said. ‘And to know that I have bested you, and that you are still suffering and in pain because of my victory; that makes the dish taste even sweeter.’
Merrivale took the other man’s arm and flung it off with a force that made Béthune wince. ‘Enjoy your triumph,’ the herald said in a voice taut with anger. ‘Long may it continue to satisfy you.’
‘Oh, it will,’ said Béthune, rubbing his wrist. ‘I wish you good fortune with your negotiations, Sir Herald. Somehow, though, I do not think they will go well.’
* * *
The negotiations did not go well.
Waiting with the king in the abbey’s painted chapter house were the senior nobles, the constable and marshal and the earls. Dunbar was among them, silver-haired and patrician; until seeing him at close range, Merrivale had not realised how much older Patrick of Dunbar was than his wife. Inevitably, Bruce of Carrick, Douglas of Liddesdale and Rollond de Brus were beside the king; the herald’s opposite number, Archibald Graham the Lyon Herald, stood to one side. He smiled in greeting when Merrivale entered. ‘Welcome among us, sir. Will you take a glass of wine?’
‘Thank you, sir, but no.’
The king poured himself a healthy measure and downed it at a gulp. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Calmly, Merrivale repeated his request; that the truce should be extended by a month to All Saints’ Day, to allow time for a formal peace treaty to be drafted and discussed. The others listened in silence. Bruce of Carrick’s bruised face was flushed with anger, but he kept his peace. Rollond de Brus did not look at the herald at all, but kept his eyes fixed on the king.
‘And what is England willing to offer to secure such a peace?’ the king asked.
‘I have no authority to make a formal offer at this time,’ Merrivale said. ‘I propose that each side appoints negotiators to discuss the matter further over the coming month.’
‘I am puzzled by one thing,’ said the king. ‘Why now? Why not offer a permanent peace back in the summer, when this truce was first arranged, or even a few weeks ago when we were mustering at Perth. Why wait until the last moment, when your backs are against the wall?’
‘Because the English know they are weak,’ said Brus. ‘They cannot trust their own nobles. The Disinherited have deserted and others are preparing to follow suit. We can march into northern England virtually without opposition. This is just a desperate attempt to postpone the inevitable.’
‘I agree the offer should have been made earlier,’ said Merrivale. ‘But please believe me, your Grace, that late though the offer is, it is absolutely genuine.’
He looked around the room. ‘It is fifty years since this war began,’ he said. ‘In those fifty years, how many lives have been lost? How much treasure has been expended? And for what, my lords? All that has changed is that Berwick is in the hands of the English. Otherwise, the border is exactly as it was at the start of this conflict. The Scottish crown has never been more secure; oh, London plays lip service to the notion that Balliol is king, but they will abandon him in a heartbeat if it suits them to do so. Balliol’s own closest followers have rejected and abandoned him. He is a spent force.
‘So then, what do we do, my lords? Do we carry on fighting for another fifty years, or a hundred, until no one can remember why the war began? Why? Why persist? England and Scotland are locked in an eternal wheel of violence, but it makes no sense. As nations, we have our differences, but those things we have in common – our trade, our language, our heritage – these are far greater than the things that divide us.’
Merrivale looked at the king. ‘Peace is in your gift, sire. You can bring this to an end, you can halt this wheel. In times to come, the chroniclers will praise you as the man who brought peace between nations. You have but to say the word, now, and it is done.’
Silence fell. Patrick of Dunbar leaned back in his chair. ‘He speaks fairly, sire.’
‘Yes,’ said the Earl of Menteith, frowning. ‘But how do we know the English will keep their word? They have broken it often enough in the past.’
‘So, in fairness, have we Scots,’ said the Earl of Sutherland. ‘At some point, if we are to bring this war to an end, we shall all have to start trusting each other.’
‘I would sooner trust a pig,’ the Earl of Moray said violently. ‘There is only one way to have peace with the English. Smash them on the battlefield, rip their northern counties away, burn and pillage everything as far south as the Humber, and then dictate peace terms at the point of a sword.’
‘We tri
ed that, back in the reign of the first King David,’ Dunbar said. ‘We failed, and nearly wrecked our own kingdom in the process.’
‘But this time, we will not fail,’ said Brus. ‘This time we will make a new kingdom, stronger than ever. Scotland will reign supreme in these islands now, not England.’
Rising from his seat, Brus walked around to stand in front of the king. ‘Complete the work of your father, sire, and make Scotland a great nation once more. That is the task you were born for. That is your destiny.’
David looked at the herald. ‘You have surprised me once more. You spoke with an eloquence and a passion I had not expected. I admire your words and the manner in which you have delivered them. But I have spent much of my life in exile, unable to return home while the English ravaged my country. Now, it is time to redress the balance. My army awaits. I have not come this far to turn back.’
‘You would rather seek battle,’ said Merrivale. ‘And roll the dice.’
‘Say rather that we will seek battle and trust in God,’ said the king. He smiled. ‘And in any case, the Seigneur de Brus assures me that the dice are loaded in our favour. This is a game of hazard that I fancy we will win. Thank you for your embassy, Sir Herald, and you shall continue to enjoy our protection. But at sunset today the truce will expire, and the war will begin.’
* * *
Smoke rose from a hundred fires in the park and fields around the town as the army prepared its Michaelmas feast. Inside the abbey the king and his nobles gathered, brilliantly robed and glittering with jewels. Merrivale watched them, seeing some faces anxious, others exuberant. He wondered how many would still be alive by the time this campaign was over.
Lyon Herald clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you again, Sim. A herald, now! Congratulations on your promotion.’
‘Thank you, Archie. You’re looking well. The years have been kind to you.’
‘Oh, aye. My hair’s a wee bit thinner and there’s a bit of lard around my waist, but I get by. How is Andrew Clarenceux? The clack is you’ll take over his job when he retires.’
Clarenceux was the king’s herald, the man who had trained Merrivale. ‘He doesn’t appear ready to retire just yet,’ Merrivale said smiling.
‘Give him my warm regards. Come and eat, laddie. It’s the last decent meal we’ll see for a while, so let’s make the most of it. We’ll be on salt cod and pottage once the campaign starts.’
The invitation to the feast had extended to himself only; Peter, despite being the son of a knight, had been left to eat with the servants. The boy had made no complaint; he never did. He had taken a shine to Mauro, and spent much of his time asking about life in Spain and how many Spanish coats of arms the latter could remember. Tables ran down the length of the nave, and Merrivale and Graham took seats on a bench with one of the black-robed canons, a cheerful red-cheeked man with a shock of grey hair and a barely perceptible tonsure who introduced himself as the almoner of the abbey. ‘You made a brave attempt at peace, Sir Herald. I salute you.’
‘Nevertheless, I failed,’ Merrivale said.
‘You’re not to blame for that,’ said Graham. ‘The king gave you a hearing, which is more than I expected he’d do, but his mind was already made up. Or rather, Brus and Carrick had made it up for him.’
Rather undiplomatic language for a herald, Merrivale thought, or perhaps Archie Graham was just trying to make him feel better. They had both been messengers for their respective kings when Merrivale first served on the Scottish frontier, and had collided as often as they had collaborated, but respect and friendship had developed between them.
The almoner looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. ‘I confess to some disappointment that the king would not listen,’ he said quietly. ‘He is young, and wishes to prove his worth in the eyes of his nobles. But he has no experience of leading men into battle.’
‘He thinks he doesn’t need it,’ said Merrivale. ‘He is putting his trust in God.’
Lyon Herald snorted. ‘Good luck to him. In my experience, God doesn’t much like battlefields. He steers well clear of them, and lets the hand of man do its work.’
‘Or the hand of the devil,’ suggested the almoner.
‘The devil would make a better job of it,’ said Graham. ‘Battles are fractured, broken, chaotic things that usually leave matters unfinished. The devil likes things tidy, and wraps up his loose ends.’ He winked at Merrivale. ‘Or so I’m told.’
Lamps and candles flamed in the painted nave of the church. Servants brought in platters of food, roast venison, salmon pie with sage and ginger, eels in parsley sauce, pigeons stewed with garlic and saffron, sausages with fennel, stuffed capons, tarts with plums, cloves and cinnamon, and a pickled cabbage the king was particularly fond of. Merrivale ate without appetite. He glanced around the church, but could see no sign of Yolande. She had been as good as her word.
The brutal shock of seeing her in the flesh, and speaking to her for the first time in eight years, had been hard enough. Coming on top of that was Seton’s news, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Seton was genuine. It was entirely possible that Nanteuil and his companions had been plotting against the Order of Saint John, and that the grand master had got wind of this and asked one of his officers to investigate.
Why he had asked Seton and not Philip de Thame, the prior of the Order in England, was also a question. Someone close to the king had tried to persuade Gilbert de Tracey to join the Knights of Saint John. Was this the man from the north? He thought about the northerners whom the king trusted most. Lord Rowton, the king’s councillor, held lands in Cheshire and Lancashire; Michael Northburgh the royal secretary was also a Lancashire man; Thomas Hatfield, the bishop of Durham, hailed from Yorkshire. But Rowton was one of the king’s most trusted friends, at his side that wild night back in 1330 when the king stormed through Nottingham castle to arrest his mother and her lover and seize control of England for himself. His loyalty was absolute. Northburgh was an old friend of Merrivale, who owed his position to the king’s patronage and had never shown even a hint of disloyalty. Hatfield…
Hatfield, now. He was an ambitious man, who had entered royal service in his mid-twenties and risen like a comet to become bishop of Durham at the age of thirty-five. Unlike Zouche, who was most comfortable in the council chambers and law courts, Hatfield fancied himself as a warrior bishop; during the campaign last summer he had commanded the rearguard of the English army, albeit with a group of seasoned professional captains to hold his hand. Was it possible that he desired more?
Another thought occurred. Was it also possible that he had mended fences with the all-powerful priory of Durham? Was he the recipient of the wealth that the treasurer, Hugh de Tracey, was so carefully amassing?
God knows, Merrivale thought, and I can’t find out while I am sitting here, watching the King of Scotland get drunk and gloat with his friends over the victories he is about to win. It was a fool’s errand coming here… But he knew that was not true. He had two allies now, both sitting far up the table and ignoring his presence; the Countess of Dunbar and the preceptor of the Knights of Saint John. Only two, and neither of them in favour at the moment, but it was better than nothing.
Seton was talking with Guy of Béthune. The count looked up once and met Merrivale’s gaze, his eyes cold. Merrivale bowed a little and turned away.
He realised he had drifted away from the conversation. The almoner was speaking of the lands Jedburgh Abbey still owned in Northumberland. ‘Several fine manors north of Newcastle, along the coast. They produce coal and salt and fish as well as corn. Father Abbot has been pleading his case ever since the king arrived.’
‘His case?’ Merrivale asked.
‘There’s a rumour that when the king takes Northumberland he intends to seize all church lands, whether held by English houses or Scottish ones.’ The almoner nodded towards the high table, where Brus sat next to the king. ‘Yon Norman wants the est
ates, it seems. He’s grabbing lands wherever he can get them.’
‘I expect he wants them so he can reward his followers,’ Lyon Herald suggested.
‘I don’t care why he wants them, but he needs to keep his grubby hands off the church lands. We’ve warned our friends at Lanercost and Hexham.’
Lanercost Priory in Cumberland, like Hexham and Jedburgh, was an Augustinian house. For the religious orders, the border between England and Scotland barely existed; their estates on either side of the border were sacrosanct, or were supposed to be. Now, under threat, they were uniting against a common enemy. ‘Father Abbot and the English priors have all signed a letter to King David and another to King Edward, asking that our lands be respected,’ the almoner said. ‘We asked the priory at Durham to join us, but they refused.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Merrivale. ‘They won’t get involved in secular affairs.’
‘That’s their excuse, anyway,’ said the almoner. ‘Aye, well, what can you expect from Benedictines? They’ve no sense of solidarity with their fellow religious houses, never have had. Conceited bastards.’
‘You’re letting your prejudices show, Willie,’ Lyon Herald reproved. ‘Have you had a response to your letters?’
‘Nothing from London, yet. King David’s secretary wrote to say the king had promised to think about it. Father Abbot chewed his ear again this morning, but got no further. Our English friends are just as worried as we are. One of the brothers at Hexham has offered to intercede personally with King Edward.’
‘Who was that?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Father John, the prior?’
‘No,’ said the almoner. ‘A new man, Brother Gilbert. You may have heard of him, he used to be the king’s banker. Then there was some sort of family trouble.’
Merrivale laid down his eating knife. ‘Brother Gilbert offered to contact the king to help preserve the priory’s lands?’
‘Aye,’ said the almoner. ‘It was generous of him. Let’s hope your king remembers his friends.’
A Clash of Lions Page 19