* * *
The board was cleared. Musicians came and bowed to the king and played, one of them singing in a fine silvery voice. The song was one Merrivale recognised; it was a song of the crusades, long ago, and he wondered who had chosen it. Guy of Béthune was watching him again, and this time he was smiling. Of course; Yolande’s father had been fond of this song.
Knights, you are the ones who have been chosen,
For it was to you that God first turned
When the Turks and Almoravids
Shamed Him so greatly by seizing Jerusalem.
And for this wrong, we now suffer
For this is the land where God was first served
And recognised as our Lord.
Those who journey now with King Louis
Will never fear hell again
Because their souls will ascend to Heaven
And dwell with the angels of our Lord.
Rohais is taken, hear now the sad news,
And the Christians there are in turmoil.
Monasteries burn and are deserted,
God is no longer celebrated there.
Oh knights, go forth from your homes and your loved ones,
You who are praised for your feats of arms,
Offer up your bodies to the One
Who gave his life for you on the cross.
High overhead a bell rang, tolling vespers; the end of Michaelmas. Out in the fields around the town a trumpet called, followed by the raw skirl of a bagpipe. A roar went up in the church, rebounding and echoing in the vaults. The king rose unsteadily to his feet, raising his wine goblet. His nobles and knights answered him, draining their cups and pounding their fists on the tables as they chanted. In the midst of the turmoil, Merrivale looked up and saw Rollond de Brus watching him too. The other man bowed, mocking him. The truce was over. The war had begun.
III
18
Berwick-upon-Tweed, 30th of September, 1346
Evening
‘I failed.’
‘At least you got out alive,’ said Rokeby. ‘That’s something.’
They were in Rokeby’s office once more, looking out over the dark river towards the flickering orange light on the horizon. All day the raiders had been at work, scorching the districts south of the Tweed, and the air during the ride back from Jedburgh had been full of ash and smoke.
He had not seen Yolande again. Nor had he seen Tiphaine. Instead, the Master of Kinross had entered his pavilion just before they departed. ‘I would like a word with you, Sir Herald. Alone, if I may.’
Merrivale nodded to Peter, who bowed and went out. ‘We don’t have much time,’ Kinross said. ‘Sir Roger is busy elsewhere in the camp, but he could return at any moment. My lady of Dunbar sends word. She will not see you again; she does not want to draw attention to any connection with you. But my lady bids me tell you that she is keeping the Demoiselle de Tesson by her side.’
Merrivale blinked. ‘Did she say why?’
‘The demoiselle knows the mind of the Seigneur de Brus better than anyone. The countess wants her advice on how to deal with him. Also, the demoiselle herself believes she can help gather more information about Brus’s intentions.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Merrivale said sharply. ‘That will put her in danger.’
‘It will. But you can count on my lady to protect her as far as she can.’
‘Really? If Brus spots Tiphaine and exposes her as a spy, will the Countess of Dunbar protect her?’
Kinross was silent. ‘Of course she won’t,’ Merrivale said. ‘She cannot risk exposure. Tiphaine will be thrown to the wolves, there will be no choice. The countess has no right to put this young woman in danger.’
‘I don’t think that’s how Agnes sees it,’ said Kinross. ‘As one proud, courageous woman who is ready to take risks for her country, she recognises a kindred spirit in the demoiselle.’
‘Body of Christ,’ the herald said in sudden anger. He looked at Kinross. ‘Is she genuine? The countess? Does she really want to undermine Brus?’
‘She is already doing so,’ said Kinross. ‘Through Mora of Islay’s influence, she has already persuaded Mac Dhòmhnuill, the Lord of the Isles, to withdraw his retainers, robbing the army of two thousand prime fighting men. She will do more if she can.’
Roger Heron had returned; his voice could be heard outside, marshalling his men. Kinross turned away abruptly. ‘Time to go,’ he said.
* * *
‘Did you see any sign of the Disinherited?’ Rokeby asked.
‘No,’ said Merrivale. ‘I was half-expecting them to ride into the Scottish camp as soon as the truce expired. Have you heard no word?’
‘Not of the leaders, but their retainers are on the move. Five hundred men rode out of Coquetdale yesterday, and as many more from Redesdale and Tynedale. They were heading west.’
‘Heading towards this secret meeting place,’ Merrivale said. ‘Where is it, do you think?’
‘God knows. You’ve seen that country, Simon. From Kielder Moor to the Bewcastle Wastes, it’s nothing but hills and crags and broken ground. They could be hiding an army there.’
‘That’s almost certainly what they are doing,’ Merrivale agreed. ‘What about the Percys, and the Nevilles?’
‘Mustering their men,’ Rokeby said. ‘But doing it slowly. They’re waiting to see which way the cat will jump.’
‘And the plotters here in Berwick?’
‘Still plotting,’ Rokeby said tiredly. ‘And there’s not a lot I can do about it. The Scots have been prowling around outside the walls all day. After fending them off and strengthening the guard on the gates, I don’t have enough men left over to search the town for traitors.’
His eyes searched the herald’s face. ‘What are your intentions?’
‘I think I can win the Percys around,’ Merrivale said slowly. ‘But there’s something I need to do in Berwick first. Have I your permission to remain for a couple of days?’
Rokeby smiled through the exhaustion in his face. ‘You’re the queen’s envoy,’ he said. ‘I can hardly throw you out. Do what you need to do, Simon. You have my blessing.’
* * *
Tired, the herald thought, we’re all tired, and we are only at the beginning of the war.
Kinross was suspicious of Heron, and it was more than just a Scot’s dislike of an Englishman. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
In his chamber in the Constable Tower, he called for Mauro and Warin. ‘Tomorrow, I want you to keep watch on Heron’s men, Nickson and Croser. If they leave the castle, follow them and tell me where they go.’
‘I can help too, sir,’ said Peter.
Merrivale looked doubtful.
‘I’ve tracked deer and wolves across the moor, sir,’ the boy persisted. ‘I know what to do.’
‘Very well,’ said the herald. ‘Consider it part of your training.’
Warin grinned at the boy. ‘We’ll look after him, sir.’
They departed. Peter is doing well, for one so young, the herald reflected. He has a talent for making people feel at ease around him, no matter what their station. My master the Prince of Wales is learning how to do this, but to Peter it comes naturally. Yes, he will do well.
He sat on his bed, listening to the restless tramp of sentries along the ramparts outside. So many pieces, he thought, like a broken mosaic, and I don’t know how to put them together. The Disinherited, the Percys, the plotters working in secret in Newcastle and Berwick. Agnes of Dunbar, the Knights of Saint John, the Augustinians. Rollond de Brus… Everything comes back to Brus; or does it? Where is the man from the north? Is he Brus’s master, or is there some other game in play?
Why did Gilbert de Tracey offer to intercede with King Edward? And why did his uncle Hugh at Durham refuse to join with the Augustinians? What game was he playing?
What was Guy of Béthune doing here, and why particularly had he brought his wife?
Merrivale stood up suddenly, his heart r
acing. He came to support the king, Yolande had said, and she had mentioned the death of his brother the Count of Flanders at Crécy. Louis of Flanders had been an ally and friend of John of Hainault, who in turn was a close friend and councillor of Philip of France. But Merrivale knew that Hainault was also a senior member of the conspiracy, and in league with the man from the north.
Which meant that Béthune was as well. Did he know Yolande had come to see him last night? Did he send her deliberately, to unsettle the herald, as he himself had tried to do next morning?
He remembered the sheet of tears on Yolande’s face. I cannot trust her, he thought. I cannot believe a word she says. And that is the hardest pain of all.
Berwick-upon-Tweed, 1st of October, 1346
Morning
‘They called on two merchants of the town, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘Nickson went to the house of a man named John Brotherton, and Croser called at another house not far away, owned by Henry Cheswick.’
‘Both are members of the Guild Merchant,’ said Peter. ‘Brotherton deals mostly in timber and corn, and is less important. Cheswick imports pepper and spices from Flanders. He is a leading member of the guild.’
‘What did they do next?’ asked Merrivale.
‘They returned to the castle, sir. We’re not sure what Nickson did next, but I saw Croser speaking to Sir Roger Heron just a few moments ago.’
‘We must talk to these merchants,’ Merrivale said. ‘Immediately.’
Down in the courtyard men were in motion, stepping into the saddle, grasping their lances and riding out with a clatter of iron-shod hooves. From the ramparts came the twanging thud of a ballista launching an iron bolt. The herald saw John Coupland and waved a hand. ‘What is happening?’
‘The Scots are getting a little too close. We’re going out to make sure they keep their distance.’
‘Have they come in force?’
‘No, only a couple of hundred, so far. There’s no sign of the main army. This lot are here to tweak our noses and keep us busy.’
‘Either that, or they are waiting for something,’ Merrivale said.
‘Could be.’ Coupland closed his visor and rode away after his men, horseshoes striking sparks from the cobbles. Merrivale followed him, his three attendants at his heels, passing through the gatehouse and crossing the drawbridge. On the far side of the fosse they met young Tom Rokeby, fully armed and headed the other way. Merrivale hailed him.
‘Tom, I need your help.’ He explained briefly what had happened, and the younger man frowned.
‘The Scots are very close to the walls, sir.’
‘Coupland has just ridden out to drive them off. This won’t take long, Tom.’
‘All right. I can spare a few minutes.’
It had rained overnight, and the cobbled streets of the town were slippery. Cheswick’s house on Marygate was a fine one, with ornamental foliage carved around its windows and doors. A terrified maidservant admitted them and pointed in the direction of the master’s solar. Tom Rokeby charged upstairs, followed by Merrivale, but they were too late; one of the solar windows was open and they could see footprints in the muddy lane beneath. Merrivale scooped up a handful of parchment sheets and rolls, handing them to Peter. ‘We’ll go through these later,’ he said. ‘Let’s find Brotherton.’
John Brotherton’s house was on Ravensden in the east side of the town. ‘There’s no rear exit,’ Rokeby said. ‘If he comes out, it will be through the main door or the kitchen entrance.’
‘Mauro and Warin will watch the kitchen,’ said Merrivale. ‘Let’s go.’
Forewarned by whatever means, Brotherton was already trying to make his escape. Rokeby, Merrivale and Peter had barely set foot in the hall when they heard shouting in the courtyard and ran outside to find the merchant struggling while Warin pinned his arms behind his back. The herald stopped in front of him.
‘I do not have time to waste,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything about the conspiracy, and I will spare your life. If not, you will be drawn and quartered before this day is over. Make your choice, now.’
* * *
After a short violent fight through the ruins of Bondington, the Scots had retreated over the horizon, leaving only a few scouts. Coupland’s men came trotting back to the castle, waving bloody lances in the air. Merrivale found Roger Heron up on the battlements, watching them. ‘We have won the day, it seems,’ the herald observed.
‘Temporarily,’ Heron said. ‘They’ll be back, you can depend on it.’
‘But this victory will lift the men’s spirits and give them heart. Is there any word of the main army?’
‘They’re shifting south-west, towards Hawick. Rokeby reckons their first target is Carlisle. This lot are here to pin us down and keep us from sending men to join the archbishop’s army.’
‘Possibly,’ said Merrivale. ‘Sir Roger, might I have a word in private?’
Heron looked at him. ‘Of course.’
They walked around the walls to the southern rampart, overlooking the steep bank down to the river. The guards were fewer in number here and they found a quiet place on the wall-walk between two strong towers. Little pools of water stood here and there from last night’s rain. Smoke hung in the air, and fires flickered on the horizon.
‘John Brotherton has made a full confession,’ Merrivale said. ‘He is in the town gaol at the moment. Henry Cheswick has escaped, but we have seized his account rolls. There is clear evidence of treason. It is equally clear that both men are connected to you.’
He saw Heron’s face turn pale. ‘You disappeared for a while yesterday morning, before we left Jedburgh,’ said Merrivale. ‘I presume you were meeting with the Seigneur de Brus, to receive your final instructions. This morning, you sent Nickson and Croser to pass on those instructions to your confederates. The Scots are here, Sir Roger, because they are waiting for you, Brotherton and Cheswick to open the gates for them.’
Heron opened his mouth to speak. ‘Don’t,’ said Merrivale, raising a hand. ‘Don’t tell me this is all a mistake, or that you can explain everything, or that Brotherton must be lying. I have all the evidence I need to send you to the scaffold. I will extend mercy to you, but only if you cooperate. Brus intends to seize both Berwick and Newcastle by stealth. He has promised them both to Lord Percy, but he has also promised Berwick to the Countess of Dunbar. What is his real intention?’
‘Go to the devil,’ Heron said, drawing his sword, and he swung the gleaming blade with all his force at Merrivale’s head.
But the herald had already read the intention in the other man’s eyes, and he ducked under the whistling blow and then slammed hard into Heron, throwing him back against the stone rampart and pinning him there. His hand closed on Heron’s wrist and twisted it savagely. Heron yelped with pain and dropped the sword with a clatter. His other hand was already reaching for his dagger but Merrivale plucked it out of his grasp and threw it over the wall, and then transferred his hands to Heron’s neck in a throttling grip, bending him back through an embrasure in the rampart until the upper half of his body was over the edge, suspended in space above the drop towards the river. Heron clutched at his arms, but off-balance he did not have enough strength to break the grip. He tried to kick Merrivale but his boots slipped, scrabbling on the wet stone, and he nearly went over the edge.
‘Brus intends to keep both towns for himself, doesn’t he?’ the herald said. ‘Along with the church lands he wants to seize, and the estates of the Knights of Saint John he is buying up. Brus is building an empire.’
‘God damn you,’ Heron gasped.
Merrivale tightened his grip. The other man’s face turned red and he started to choke. ‘Brus intends to betray the Percys. How?’
There was no answer. ‘I can save you,’ Merrivale said. ‘I, and I alone, can ensure you do not go to the scaffold. But you must tell me.’
‘Lord Percy… and his son will be invited to Berwick… to receive the keys of the city,’ Heron said, gagging. ‘Onc
e inside the walls… they will be trapped and killed.’
‘By you,’ the herald said.
‘Those are my orders.’
Merrivale pushed harder, forcing more of the other man’s weight over the rampart. ‘You also had orders to kill me. You would have done so on the ride to Jedburgh, but Rokeby forestalled you by picking the escort himself. Kinross was suspicious of you too. He thought you had planted Nickson and Croser to assassinate me.’
‘Yes,’ Heron said. ‘For God’s sake… let me up. My back is breaking.’
‘One more question. What was your reward to be? What did Brus promise you?’
‘Land. Money, lots of money. Anything I wanted.’
‘He lied to you, like he lied to the Percys,’ Merrivale said. ‘Once you had served your purpose, you would be killed and your body left for the crows. You will come with me to Sir Thomas Rokeby, where you will make a full and formal confession. Do you understand?’
Half-strangled though he was, Roger Heron had not lost his spirit. He nodded in agreement, and in the same moment with a superhuman effort managed to tear one of Merrivale’s hands from his neck. His knee came up, driving towards the herald’s groin, but his other foot slipped again and his body tipped over the edge of the rampart. Letting go of his throat, Merrivale grabbed instead for his sword belt, trying to haul him back, but the buckle snapped and the belt came away in Merrivale’s hands. Silently, Heron’s body fell thirty feet to the ground and then tumbled loose-limbed and broken down the bank, finally coming to rest at the water’s edge.
‘That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ the herald said under his breath.
Men were running towards him, eyes wide with astonishment under the rims of their helmets. Merrivale turned to them. ‘Fetch Sir Roger. If he is still alive, treat his wounds and then put him in the gaol. If he is dead, call a priest.’
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