Logs crackled in the fireplace, suffusing the room with welcome warmth. Outside, sunset was a wet pink glow over the western hills. Lady Mary looked at the herald. ‘Where is she?’
Merrivale glanced around the room. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘But walls have ears. All I can say is she was well when I left her.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Mary in despair. ‘I should never have let her out of my sight.’
‘You must not blame yourself.’
‘Of course I blame myself. I promised to look after her. Well, I’m not going back south again until I know she is safe and sound.’
He knew better by now than to argue with her. She leaned forward a little, her white wimple reflecting the firelight. ‘Master Blyth said he had done precious little,’ she said, her voice quiet. ‘From what I have seen over the past few days, I would agree with him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, for all his protestations of devoted service to the crown, he spends most of every day in his office, going through his account rolls. He hardly ever goes out.’
‘Account rolls can be an excellent source of intelligence,’ Merrivale said. ‘I learned as much from the Chancery clerks in London. They can follow a trail for miles through the parchments, checking and matching numbers.’
‘I expect you are right. I just prefer more direct methods. What do you think about this man Tielt?’
‘He is a possibility. I will call on him myself tomorrow.’
‘Let me come with you. I can help.’
The herald shook his head. ‘Thank you. But it is better I do this alone.’
Her lips compressed a little. ‘That’s your motto, isn’t it? It is better I do this alone. No wonder Tiphaine gets angry with you.’
‘Does she? Why?’
‘Because you shut her out. You keep her at arm’s length, even when you are… never mind,’ she said hastily, seeing Peter listening with rapt attention. ‘You wear that tabard like a suit of armour. Take off your harness sometimes, let your guard down, show her you are human.’
‘She knows I am human,’ the herald said. ‘What is this about, my lady?’
‘Honestly, men are so blind sometimes… Look, I know this is none of my business. I only met her a few weeks ago, but now that I know her, and know something of her history, I have come to care for her. I want to see her happy.’
‘Yes,’ said the herald. ‘Believe me, my lady, that is my devout wish also.’
* * *
Later that night Peter knocked at the door of the herald’s chamber. ‘I hope I am not disturbing you, sir.’
‘Of course not. Come in.’
Peter entered the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Will the demoiselle be safe, sir?’
‘As safe as any of us can be,’ Merrivale said.
As a statement, it existed somewhere in the half-realm between truth and lies, and he suspected Peter knew it. The boy nodded. ‘I am beginning to realise what a complex profession this is, sir.’
‘It could be worse. I am protected by the laws of war, and I am paid well enough to afford servants and good wine. It is a better living than salt-panning, or raking coal from the sea.’
Peter smiled. ‘I do enjoy your jests, sir. May I ask a question? What drew you down this path? Why did you become a herald?’
Merrivale paused for a moment. ‘I never intended it,’ he said. ‘My family had lands on Dartmoor, but they lost them after the Great Famine. My mother and my sisters died then, and my father was left a broken man. A family friend took me into his household and managed to procure me a post at court. I became a King’s Messenger, and served in that role for ten years.’
‘That sounds exciting,’ the boy said.
‘A bit too exciting at times,’ Merrivale said dryly. ‘Unlike heralds, messengers aren’t protected. The enemy regard us as fair game. I’d probably have continued as a messenger, but the Earl of Lancaster was going on a mission to Spain and asked if I would serve as his herald. Unlike you, I hadn’t studied heraldry properly, so I had to learn quickly. Then, back at the start of the year, the king decided to appoint a herald to his son’s household, and I was chosen.’
He looked at the boy. ‘Now that you’ve seen what the job entails, do you still want it?’
‘More than ever,’ the boy said soberly. ‘I’ll be honest with you, sir, when I joined I thought being a herald was just a matter of knowing about coats and badges. I didn’t realise what a service it was, nor what an honour it is to serve.’
‘It is not always an honour,’ Merrivale said.
Peter shook his head. ‘I cannot agree with that, sir. To serve you will always be an honour, and a pleasure.’
Merrivale looked at his hands. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said finally.
‘You don’t have to say anything, sir. I like to think I’m doing what my father would have done, had his health remained. I don’t mean he would have become a herald, but he would have served, like I’m doing now. I want to make him proud of me, and I want to make you proud of me. That’s all I ask.’
Merrivale smiled. ‘I am proud of you,’ he said. ‘I owe you my life. And I’m damned sure your father is proud of you too. Go to bed, lad. Get some rest. God only knows what tomorrow will bring.’
Saughtree, 4th of October, 1346
Night
The rain had stopped in Liddesdale too, and a waning moon shone fitfully through gaps in the cloud, lighting the barren hills above the valley. Watchfires flickered along the banks of Liddel Water where the Scottish army lay camped. Lamps glowed in the pavilions of the nobles. Wrapped in a dark cloak with a hood covering her hair, Tiphaine crouched in the shadows behind a wagon, listening to the conversation in the nearest pavilion.
‘The patrols have returned,’ Brus was saying. ‘Apart from Liddel Strength, which is defended, there is no other English force in sight. And Sir Walter Selby has orders to surrender Liddel Strength. The way to Carlisle is open.’
‘Do we burn the town?’ asked Douglas. They were speaking in French, the Scots with burred accents that would not have sounded out of place in Normandy.
Brus laughed. ‘You did that last year, remember? They haven’t even finished rebuilding yet. Let the townspeople pay a ransom and we will leave them in peace… for now. You’ll have plenty of chances to squeeze them dry later, when you are lord of Cumberland.’
A third voice spoke, and she recognised Niall Bruce of Carrick. ‘What about the Disinherited? Where are they now?’
‘Safely hidden away where no one will find them. They’re the surprise we’ll spring later, when we confront Zouche and his little army.’
‘Are you certain you can trust them? I’m still dubious about Umfraville and Wake. They have always been loyal to their king.’
‘They won’t have a king for much longer,’ Brus said. ‘My friends will see to that.’
‘Your friends tried before and failed, you recall. I’ll ask the question again. Can we trust Umfraville and Wake?’
‘Body of Christ,’ Brus said impatiently. ‘Haven’t you been listening, Carrick? One of the leaders of the Disinherited is also one of us. He’s been at the centre of the plot, right from the beginning. He’ll bring the others along.’
In the shadows, Tiphaine felt her heart beat a little more quickly. The herald had said there were five leaders of the Disinherited: Umfraville, Wake, Selby, Clennell and de Lisle. Robert de Lisle was infirm, and besides he had sent his son to join Merrivale. But one of the other four was part of the larger conspiracy, and was in league with the man from the north. And Walter Selby had promised to betray an English castle to the Scots; at least, she had heard Brus demand it of him, that night at Berwick, and he had not refused.
She had to get away and report this. She rose to her feet and turned, and almost collided with another woman walking past the wagon. In the wash of moonlight she caught a glimpse of a pale face framed by the hood of a fur-trimmed cloak, and she turned to run. She was to
o late; the other woman caught her by the wrist and held her. ‘You, girl! What are you doing here?’
‘Let me go,’ Tiphaine hissed and she tried to pull free but another woman, a tirewoman, hurried up and seized her other arm. Grimly, Tiphaine prepared to fight them, but then to her horror she heard Brus’s voice close at hand. ‘What is going on here?’
‘This servant girl was loitering outside your pavilion, my lord,’ said the first woman.
‘Was she, by God?’ Brus took a long step towards Tiphaine and ripped the hood back from her face. She looked up, and saw the moonlit face of her former lover and betrayer.
The next moment she doubled up in agony as Brus’s fist slammed into the pit of her stomach. Dropping to her knees, she barely felt the blow to her head that knocked her sprawling to the ground. ‘Treason!’ Bruce snarled, and he kicked her where she lay. Fresh pain washed through her body. She lay still, unable to move or even think.
‘Who is this girl?’ Douglas demanded.
‘I recognise her,’ said the woman. ‘She is one of the Countess of Dunbar’s servants.’
‘She is no servant,’ Brus said. ‘She is a traitorous whore and an English spy. Burn her.’
Panic stronger than pain seized Tiphaine. She tried to struggle up and Brus knocked her down again. ‘Hold fast, my lord!’ the woman said sharply. ‘I do not know what this girl was doing, but let her explain herself! Or let her mistress the countess explain for her. You cannot simply execute her out of hand.’
‘I can, and I damned well will,’ Brus said.
Swiftly the woman stepped across Tiphaine’s body. ‘You cannot touch her without laying a hand on me. And you know who I am.’
Shivering, Tiphaine lay on the ground, listening. ‘I know who you are, Madame de Béthune,’ Brus said grimly. ‘I shall be interested to hear what your husband makes of your behaviour, when he learns of it.’
‘What passes between my husband and me is no concern of yours,’ the woman said coolly. ‘May I suggest you send for the Countess of Dunbar?’
‘She is here,’ said Agnes, coming out of the darkness. ‘What have you done to my servant? Rise, girl.’
Painfully, Tiphaine rose to her feet. A small crowd had gathered, attracted by the noise, and she saw the bright tabard of Lyon Herald. Robert Keith the Marischal was there too, along with the countess’s brother, Moray. ‘I have done nothing wrong, my lady,’ she said.
Brus sneered at her. ‘Explain who this girl is and how she came into your service,’ he demanded.
‘Her name is Flora,’ the countess said calmly. ‘She was formerly in service to the nuns of the priory at Eccles, which is in the patronage of my husband. While we were camped at Jedburgh, I sent to the prioress and asked her to find me another servant.’
‘Lies,’ Brus said. ‘Her name is Tiphaine de Tesson, she is from Normandy, and her father is an executed traitor. And she is the whore of the English herald, Merrivale.’
Tiphaine spat him. ‘I was your whore once, Brus. Since then, I have belonged to no man.’
‘Face me,’ Agnes said.
Tiphaine turned and looked into her eyes. She saw nothing there; no pity, no emotion at all. The countess could not save her. She had made the ultimate mistake of getting caught, and now she would pay the price alone.
‘Is this true?’ the countess said, her voice level. ‘Are you who the Seigneur de Brus says you are?’
‘I am,’ Tiphaine said steadily.
Brus nodded. ‘You heard my order. Make a pyre and burn her.’
‘No!’ said the Countess of Béthune sharply. ‘She is only a girl! For God’s sake, have pity on her!’
You should have thought of that before you exposed me, Tiphaine thought darkly, but Lyon Herald was stepping forward. ‘We must have due process of law,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said the Marischal. ‘The girl has admitted her identity, but there is no proof yet of her treason. Confine her, keep her safe, and when there is time there will be a proper trial.’
He turned to Douglas. ‘Your castle of the Hermitage is not far from here. We will send her there for safekeeping, and summon her when we are ready. My lord of Brus, have you any objection?’
‘No,’ Brus said. He looked at Douglas. The latter winked.
‘Allow me to add a further suggestion, my lord,’ said Moray. ‘The Countess of Dunbar employed this woman, and brought her into our midst. When she is tried, let the countess her mistress be put on trial along with her. And if it transpires that the countess knew of her treason and consented to it, then let them both burn together.’
Agnes turned on him, dark eyes spitting fire. ‘Next time someone threatens to hang you, brother, I will pay them to finish the job.’
‘Enough!’ commanded the Marischal. ‘You will show unity in the face of the enemy, my lords, or the king will know the reason why. Take this woman to the Hermitage. Make it so.’
Two of Douglas’s hobelars bound her hands in front of her and lifted her roughly into the saddle of a horse. One took the reins and led her mount, the other followed behind. They splashed across the shallow river and up the far bank, Tiphaine clinging to the pommel and feeling the leather thong around her wrists already rubbing raw. West of the river the ground rose steeply into hills cut with deep valleys, down which burns bubbled and flowed. Hurrying clouds scudded across the moon, plunging the hills into sudden shadow.
She knew there would be no trial. Douglas’s wink had told her as much. She would go to this place called the Hermitage, and she would die there. Her body ached from where Brus had beaten her, but she barely noticed. All her mind was running on one thing; how to escape before she and her escort reached their destination. She thought of simply kicking the horse and riding hard away, but the leading rider still held her reins, and the one behind would run her through with his lance before she could escape.
The moon was still obscured. She saw the hills above her, autumn grass pale in the moonlight, and realised they were near the summit. Beside her the ground dropped steeply away towards a burn bubbling invisible at the bottom; how deep or how steep the slope was she could not tell, for all was in shadow. She had only a limited idea of where she was. Even if she could escape, the Scots would hunt her down.
Maybe. But better that than whatever fate Brus and Douglas intended for her. She took a deep breath, expecting to feel a lance point in her back at any moment, and then twisted her body and fell sideways out of the saddle and down the slope.
Her shoulders hit the ground first with a shock that drove the air out of her lungs, and then she was tumbling over and over, trying desperately to use her bound hands to shield her head. The burn came up sooner than expected; she landed half in water and half on a muddy bank and lay gasping, trying to decide if any important bones were broken. From above she could hear shouting. ‘Get after her, Tam!’
‘What do you think I’m doing? Christ, it’s black as the pit down here.’ She heard boots on the slope above her, sliding on scree, and kept her head down as far as possible, praying the moon would remain hidden. Her prayer was answered; the little valley remained inky black. Her pursuer passed a few yards away without seeing the body huddled on the edge of the burn.
‘She’s probably broken her neck!’ Tam called over the noise of water.
‘Don’t bet on it. Come on, let’s look downstream.’
She heard Tam move away, swearing as he slipped on wet rocks. The other man, still mounted, was riding along the top of the slope; she saw him once, silhouetted dim against the clouds as he peered over the bank. Hoping the water in the burn would cover any noises she made, Tiphaine struggled to her feet. Every part of her body hurt, except where the icy water had numbed her. On all fours, struggling with the bonds on her wrists, she climbed slowly back up the slope. After what seemed like hours of pain, she reached the top just as the moon slid out from behind the cloud wrack.
The moon showed her the hobelar, still on horseback, a quarter of a mile away down the
hill. It also showed her own mount, standing nearby and cropping grass. The horse raised its head as she approached, but did not stir. With the last of her strength she raised her bound hands to grasp the pommel and drag herself into the saddle. There she leaned forward, resting for a moment with the horse’s mane in her face, struggling to stay conscious.
The inner steel that had kept her alive for two years in solitary confinement came to her rescue. She raised her head, looking at the moon and the surrounding hills and valleys. The river where the army lay camped, she knew, was Liddel Water, and Agnes had told her it ran south-west towards the English border. Once over the border, if she could find a farm or a bastel house she could rest for a while and find a fresh horse, and perhaps also directions to Newcastle. What she had learned must not be lost. Simon had to know.
Tiphaine kicked the horse and it moved, reluctantly at first; kicking it harder eventually roused it to a canter. Riding south-west across the hills, keeping the river to her left, she looked around for Scottish patrols but saw nothing. Behind her, torches flickered like tiny points of light; the enemy had discovered that her horse was missing and were searching for her in strength. She kicked the horse again, clinging to its mane with all her strength. If she fell now and the horse went on without her, she was dead.
Time passed. She slowed the horse a little to let it rest, which was a mistake because the animal stopped altogether and stubbornly refused to go on. It took her several minutes of kicking and prodding to get it moving again. The hills were growing lower, and now a flat plain opened out in front of her with another river winding down from the west.
She pushed the horse on, determined to get across the border at all costs. The moon passed its zenith and sank in the west. Once the clouds cleared the night air grew cold, and she was glad of the warmth of the horse. Her body ached, her bound wrists were burning and raw, and her brain felt numb. Once she fell asleep and nearly dropped from the saddle; panicked, she clung on again and kicked the horse back into a canter. She searched the country ahead of her, looking for any form of shelter.
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