Lights ahead, a yellow flicker on the edge of vision. Had she imagined it? No, there it was again; more of them, lights twinkling like a vision of hope. She turned the horse towards them, seeing a high bank on the south side of Liddel Water and a tower on top of that, surrounded by walls. Torches burned along the ramparts. The south side of the river; that meant the castle was English. They would give her shelter; they had to.
The horse was stumbling with weariness, but she urged it carefully across the stony bed of the river and up to the castle gates, hearing men calling from the ramparts overhead as she crossed the drawbridge. Somehow she managed to climb down from the horse without falling, and stood looking up at the faces of the watchmen. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Help me. I am the Demoiselle de Tesson from Normandy, and my father served your king. The Scots are pursuing me. For the love of God, give me shelter.’
A postern in the main gate opened. A man-at-arms, clad in armour and mail with a surcoat decorated with black and gold bars, stepped out. She looked into his face and froze with horror. She had seen that face before, in the ruined church outside Berwick. It was Sir Walter Selby, one of the leaders of the Disinherited, and his sword was pointed directly at her heart.
21
Liddel Strength, 5th of October, 1346
Early morning
‘Where did you come from?’ Selby demanded. ‘How did you get here?’
‘The Scottish camp. I escaped.’ She waited for his reaction.
Selby sheathed his sword. ‘Inside, quickly.’ He took Tiphaine’s arm and she stumbled and started to fall. The knight caught her before she hit the ground, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her through the postern, shouting at his men to fetch the horse inside. The next few minutes were a semi-conscious blur, and by the time she came to she was sitting in a chair in a small stone hall, next to a fire. Someone was untying the filthy leather strap around her wrist and applying salve to the raw wounds beneath. Selby poured wine into a wooden cup and handed it to her. ‘Drink this. Slowly.’
She sipped the wine and felt warmth begin to return to her body; and with it, the aches and pains and bruises. ‘You are Sir Walter Selby,’ she said.
‘How do you know my name?’
She did not answer. ‘The Scottish army is coming,’ she said. ‘They think you will open the gates to them.’
‘They are wrong,’ Selby said abruptly. ‘If the Scots come here, I will fight them to the bitter end.’
‘Your comrades, the Disinherited. Where are they?’
Selby made an impatient gesture. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
Tiphaine knew she had to trust him; there was no choice. ‘I must send a letter to Simon Merrivale, the herald. I have urgent information for him. Can you help me?’
‘Bring her what she needs, Will,’ Selby said to the young man who had been salving her wrists. ‘Fetch a candle too.’
Will smiled and rose to his feet, unlocking a wooden chest and bringing out a writing set, placing it on a small table before her while Selby watched. She wrote, her head swimming and the letters on the parchment blurring together. She could have given a verbal message, but until a few minutes ago she had thought Selby was the man involved in the conspiracy; for all she knew he might still be, and this was some sort of elaborate trap. If it was, she could not think of a way out of it.
When she had finished writing, the young man called Will dusted the parchment to dry the ink and then folded it and placed a blob of candlewax on the edge. He guided her hand while she sealed it. ‘Where is the herald?’ Selby asked.
‘Newcastle,’ she said, feeling the world spin. ‘At the house of a merchant named Blyth.’
‘I know him. Will,’ he said to the young man, ‘ride hard. Return here as soon as you are done.’
Will left the hall. ‘He is my son,’ Selby said. ‘He will see your message gets through.’ Then his voice faded away and Tiphaine lost consciousness.
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 5th of October, 1346
Evening
Kristoffer Tielt, merchant of Bruges based in Newcastle, was a tall thin man with long arms and legs who reminded Merrivale of a spider. His expensive black clothes emphasised the likeness still further. ‘I fear I cannot tell you anything of importance,’ he said.
‘Cannot, or will not?’ Merrivale asked.
‘I cannot tell what I do not know. One hears rumours, of course. They might be true, they might not.’
‘Tell me what they are, and I will decide.’
Tielt looked unhappy. ‘It is said that some of the merchants have banded together and bribed officers of the garrison. When the Scots come, these officers will open the gates and admit them. The property of the merchants will be protected, while the rest of the town is pillaged.’
‘Are you one of those whose property will be safe?’
Tielt gazed at him. ‘What do you think? Whenever there is trouble or unrest, the mobs turn against the foreign merchants. No, my property is not protected, and I would not expect it to be. I can tell you further that whenever any town or city is threatened by the enemy, these same rumours always emerge. When in doubt, blame the foreign merchants.’
It was true, of course; Merrivale had heard the same rumour in other times and other places. He had been hearing it again all day from Mauro, Warin and Peter who had gone out to listen to the gossip in the marketplace and taverns, and from the captain of the guard and his officers and the other leaders of the Guild Merchant. He had come to see Tielt last of all because, like Blyth, the other merchants had been keen to point the finger at the foreigners. Everything he had heard could be true, he thought, or it could be fiction; or dust, thrown in his eyes to distract him from some other plot.
‘You are a merchant of Bruges, Heer Tielt,’ the herald said. ‘Have you ever done business with Oppicius Adornes?’
Tielt smiled briefly. ‘I have dealt with representatives of his house, yes. Never the man himself.’
‘Why not?’
‘You mistake both my importance and my wealth, Sir Herald. Adornes only deals with the biggest names, the richest bankers and the international traders who buy and sell in bulk. I am a humble importer of spices. I doubt if Adornes even knows of my existence.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Do you have business interests in Scotland?’
‘Yes, I have partners in Leith and Dunfermline. I can supply you with their names if you wish.’
‘Thank you. Does that not put you at risk? If the populace knew you were trading with the enemy, they would not be happy.’
‘That is because they are ignorant. A few bales of pepper or casks of alum will not help Scotland win the war. Nor am I alone. Ask the members of the Guild Merchant the same question. They will say no, of course, but they will be lying. Newcastle thrives on the Scottish trade. Without it, the town would wither away.’
‘Which gives the merchants plenty of motive for opening the gates,’ Merrivale said.
Tielt nodded. ‘You understand.’
On my list of potential traitors, the herald thought, I shall place Tielt’s name near the bottom. Of all the people he had spoken to today, Tielt was the one most likely to be telling the truth, or at least part of it. Deep in thought, he walked back through the streets to Marygate, seeing the flare of torches on the walls and hearing the tramp of sentries along the stone ramparts. Newcastle sleeps uneasily, he thought.
At the Blyth house, Lady Mary and Peter de Lisle were waiting for him in the hall. Both were wide-eyed with alarm. With them was a young man in a mail coat and surcoat splattered with mud. ‘Sir Herald? My name is Will Selby, and I am sent by my father from Liddel Strength.’
Merrivale checked. ‘Sir Walter Selby is at Liddel Strength?’
‘Yes, sir. The Demoiselle de Tesson is there too. I bring you a letter from her.’
Merrivale tensed. Taking the letter, he broke the seal and read the weak, faint writing. ‘She has discovered something about the Disinherited,’ he said. �
�Something she was too worried or too frightened to write down. She needs to see me.’
‘Is she well?’ asked Peter.
‘She is exhausted and suffering from cuts and bruises,’ said Selby. ‘The Scots were not kind to her, but they did her no grave injury.’
‘How far is it to Liddel Strength?’
‘Sixty miles, sir. We can change horses along the way.’
‘No, you’ve done enough. Stay here and rest.’
The young man shook his head. ‘You’ll need a guide, sir. It’s rough country out west, and the Scottish army is in Liddesdale, not far away.’ He smiled. ‘Honestly sir, I’m fresh as a flower.’
He had ridden sixty miles, and was preparing to ride sixty more. They breed them tough on the borders, Merrivale thought. ‘All right. Peter, find Mauro and Warin and tell them we are riding. Lady Mary, if you are determined to remain, can I ask you to keep watch on the merchants?’
‘Isn’t that Master Blyth’s job?’
‘It is. Master Blyth is a generous host and an excellent merchant and banker, but I have some doubts about his skills as an investigator. Don’t go out of your way, but if you do learn anything I would be grateful.’
‘He spends too much time feeding those blasted birds,’ she said. ‘Tell Tiphaine I want to see her again as soon as possible. And if she promises to behave in future, I may decide not to turn her over my knee and spank her.’
The herald smiled a little. ‘I will give her your love.’
Liddel Strength, 6th of October, 1346
Dawn
They had followed the Carlisle road through the cold moonlight, but in the small hours they had veered off to the north-west, passing Lanercost Priory and climbing up over the shoulder of the Bewcastle Wastes. Here Merrivale was glad of a guide, for even with the moon it would have been easy to get lost amid those harsh hills and fells. First light found them descending towards the coastal plain, the waters of Solway Firth gleaming in the far distance.
The Scots caught them a mile from the castle. There were about a dozen of them, reavers come in advance of the main army to burn and plunder, and they came racing across the field with lowered lances, yelling with glee. ‘Ride hard,’ Will Selby said, and he touched spurs to his tired horse, the others following suit. They fled over the fields towards the castle, its torches pale sparks in the growing light, but halfway there Selby’s horse stumbled and went down in a thrashing kicking heap, throwing its rider clear.
‘Ride on!’ Merrivale shouted at Peter and the others, and he turned his horse, seeing Selby’s mount struggling to its feet and Will Selby himself on all fours, dragging his leg at an awkward angle. The young man saw him turn, and gestured towards the castle. ‘Get out of it!’ he screamed. ‘Go! Quickly!’
The reavers were racing towards him. Even if Merrivale could drag a man with a broken leg over the back of his horse, they would never outrun the pursuit. Selby was still down on all fours, hanging his head in pain, but then he looked up again. ‘Find the demoiselle, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s all that matters. Tell my father I did my duty.’
Lashing his horse with his riding crop, Merrivale turned again and galloped towards the distant castle. Glancing back he saw Selby surrounded by a little group of horsemen. Two had broken away from the rest and were pursuing him, lances lowered. Border reavers lived on the edge of the law and beyond it; if they caught him, his herald’s tabard would mean nothing. Up ahead he saw the gates of the castle swing open and the drawbridge come down. Mauro and Warin rode into the castle but Peter halted his horse at the end of the drawbridge, jumping down from the saddle and stringing his bow. He could hear the hooves of the pursuing horsemen now; they had stopped shouting and were grimly silent, intent on riding him down.
He saw Peter raise his bow. There were archers on the ramparts too, and arrows whickered in the air. He heard the thud of one striking home, and when he looked back he saw a body on the ground; the other pursuer was wheeling and riding back out of range. In the far distance the rest of the Scots were still clustered around Will Selby; it was impossible to tell if he was dead or alive. Merrivale slapped his horse on the neck and the exhausted animal cantered over the drawbridge and stopped dead in the courtyard, covered in lather and head hanging down. Merrivale dismounted, stumbling a little with weariness himself, and someone threw a bucket of water over the horse to cool it down. The drawbridge rose, groaning, and the gates slammed shut.
Walter Selby came down from the ramparts, mail coat and the bars on his surcoat gleaming in the morning light. ‘What happened?’
Merrivale told him. ‘I don’t think it was an ambush, just a chance encounter with a raiding party. Pure bad fortune. Sir Walter, I am deeply grieved about your son.’
‘He’s still alive,’ Selby said abruptly. ‘I saw them just now, putting him on the back of a horse. Perhaps he’ll turn out to be the fortunate one. I’ll take you to the lady.’
Tiphaine was sitting before the fire in the hall, wrapped in blankets. She was still white with exhaustion, her skin almost translucent apart from the livid bruises and the raw red chafing on her wrists. ‘Here I am,’ she said, looking up at the herald. ‘In trouble again.’
‘We’ll get you out of it,’ Merrivale said. Peter had come in behind him, still carrying his bow. ‘How are you?’
‘I feel like I have been crushed by a millstone. I slept all day yesterday, but I can still barely move.’
‘Then don’t move,’ the herald said smiling. ‘Now, what is this news you have for me?’
‘I overheard Brus talking about the Disinherited. One of their leaders is part of the conspiracy, and has been from the beginning. Simon… we have talked about the man from the north. Could this be him?’
In spite of his weariness and lack of sleep, Merrivale could feel his nerves tingling. ‘Possibly. But there are strong indications that the man from the north is someone close to the king, which doesn’t sound like any of the Disinherited.’ He paused. ‘Did Brus say who it was?’
‘The others have doubts about Umfraville and Wake. That doesn’t mean it’s not them, of course, but it sounded like either Clennell or Sir Walter Selby. But Sir Walter gave me shelter, and helped me send a message to you. He sent his own son.’
‘Yes.’ Merrivale did not tell her what had happened to Will Selby. ‘How did they discover you?’
‘I was careless,’ Tiphaine said. ‘The countess could do nothing to save me.’ Briefly, she told him the story of her escape. ‘Brus wanted to burn me. Again.’
Merrivale bent and kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘You are safe now,’ he said. ‘Rest, and recoup your strength. I will talk to Selby.’
He found Selby in the inner bailey overseeing his men as they laid out weapons and bundles of arrows, drew buckets of water from the well for fighting fires and carried up baskets of stone shot for the castle’s single catapult. ‘Sir Walter, I am deeply grateful to you for everything you have done. As soon as the demoiselle is able to travel, we will depart.’
‘I can spare you no men for an escort,’ Selby said. ‘With Will gone, I now have forty-one men to defend this place, including myself.’
The herald nodded. ‘Of course, I would not ask it of you. Sir Walter… might I speak with you a moment?’
They walked away from the others, past the little stone chapel huddled in the shadow of the castle keep. ‘You and the other Disinherited met the Seigneur de Brus at Berwick,’ Merrivale said. ‘Did he instruct you to surrender Liddel Strength to the enemy?’
‘He did. This castle bars the way to Carlisle. It must be reduced or taken before the Scots can advance.’
Merrivale glanced around. ‘But I see you are preparing to fight.’
‘Yes,’ Selby said curtly. ‘Let me spare you the trouble of asking more questions. I was never comfortable with what Brus proposed, nor was I certain we could trust him. His behaviour during the meeting at Berwick increased my suspicions. After the meeting broke up, I told the others I wa
s going my own way.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Clennell begged me to change my mind. He even offered to go back to Brus and see if they could pay me more money, or give me some additional lands. I said no, I was done with the whole thing.’
‘Why was Clennell so adamant, do you think?’
‘God knows. He kept repeating that we all had to stick together. I got the feeling he has more to lose than the others, but I don’t know what.’
A voice from the top of the keep shouted, ‘My lord! They are coming!’
* * *
By the time Selby and the herald climbed to the top of the keep, the plain north of the river was alive with colour and motion. Columns of mounted men-at-arms were coming over the fields, armour and mail sparkling in the sun, their coats and banners of red and blue, black and white and gold all gleaming in the strong light. Behind them came wedges of foot soldiers, spearmen from Galloway, archers from Lothian and Fife, highlanders with heavy swords and shields strapped to their backs. Clouds of border hobelars and other light cavalry streamed out from the flanks of the approaching army; the nearest, half a mile away, were already fording the river and racing down to cut the castle off from the south.
In a few more minutes, the castle would be surrounded.
Merrivale turned to Selby, who was staring grimly at the oncoming army. ‘I shall postpone my departure,’ he said quietly. ‘I believe, Sir Walter, that you may need the services of a herald.’
22
Liddel Strength, 6th of October, 1346
Late morning
Given a larger garrison, Merrivale thought, Liddel Strength could have held out for several weeks. The centre of the position was the keep, a square tower built on an earth motte and protected on the north by a precipitous drop into the river. Below it was the inner bailey, containing the hall and chapel and protected by high stone ramparts with another tower over the gatehouse leading to the outer bailey; the catapult was located on its roof platform. The outer bailey was enclosed by a wooden palisade with a broad wall-walk and yet another stone tower protecting the main gate. Both inner wall and palisade were protected by deep fosses.
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