The cold silence of night draped around the castle. Merrivale could feel the dew falling on his face, and taste it on his lips. The man who had cried for water had gone silent.
Out of the darkness came the drums, thundering, shaking the air, and through the din came the ear-splitting scream of pipes, shredding the nerves. Fire arrows, flaming death, flew over the ramparts in clouds. Men flooded into the outer bailey, Moray’s highlanders now, charging towards the walls with their heavy swords and shields in hand. Flinging themselves against the walls they began to prise more stones away, heedless of the missiles falling on their heads. Men screamed and fell writhing, covered in flames, or collapsed streaming with blood where the stones and arrows hit them. In the gatehouse, the gate shattered with a crash of timber and the Scots poured through the passageway, trapping the men of the garrison who were still on the roof. Some raced up the stair; others ran into the inner bailey, screaming their war cries, swords raised ready for the kill.
Selby led the counter-attack. The men behind him were battered and bleeding and Selby himself could barely walk, but they stopped the highlanders in their tracks while Peter de Lisle and two other archers on the ramparts shot down their flankers, and together they drove the rest of the Scots back inside the gatehouse. ‘Light the fire!’ Selby shouted, and Peter picked up a torch and ran into the bloody shambles in the gatehouse. Within minutes the tower was well alight, wooden floors and ceilings boiling with flame and smoke.
Selby and his remaining men hurried back out into the courtyard, coughing the smoke out of their lungs. Inside the tower they could hear men screaming as they tried to get out, and as the flames burst through the roof two of the Scots jumped, their clothes already on fire, trailing flames as they fell. One landed in the river outside the walls; the other crashed down on the cobbles of the courtyard where he lay without moving, his coat still smouldering.
Once again the attackers fell back. The tower burned like a gigantic torch, vomiting smoke and sparks into the sky. The roof caved in with a crash, taking with it the floors below and choking the passageway behind the gate with burning timbers. A last few vengeful fire arrows flew into the courtyard and lay smoking on the cobbles. In the silence that followed a sickle moon rose over the eastern hills, hanging in the sky like an omen of death. Merrivale looked at Peter, leaning exhausted on his bow; at Tiphaine, silent, her eyes haunted by what she had seen; at Mauro and Warin. How can I protect them? How can I save them when the time comes?
Liddel Strength, 9th of October, 1346
Dawn
Seven more had died in the night assault, most of them in the grim fighting around the gatehouse. Fifteen defenders were still standing.
The end was swift. There were too few men on the wall-walks now to stop the undermining, and as the Scots attacked the wall once more the stone rampart began to crack and bulge. Merrivale placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘Lay down your bow,’ he said.
The boy gazed at him, dazed. ‘Lay down your bow,’ Merrivale repeated. ‘Return to your post with me, now.’
Taking Peter’s arm, the herald guided him towards the chapel. Tiphaine and Mauro and Warin ran to join them. Just as they reached the door a ten-foot section of wall cracked and fell with a roar, stones scattering across the courtyard. A roar of triumph went up and the Scots poured through the gap. Selby shouted to his men to make a run for the keep. Two of them made it, along with Selby himself. The rest were hacked down in the courtyard.
The herald closed the chapel door and led the way to the altar. Will Selby’s body still lay stretched out on the floor before it. ‘Stand behind me,’ Merrivale instructed the others, and they obeyed, Tiphaine putting an arm around Peter’s shoulders to keep the exhausted boy upright. Heavy blows hammered on the door, which splintered and swung open. Armed men entered the chapel, weapons raised.
Merrivale raised his voice. ‘I am a herald,’ he said. ‘Under the laws of war, you may not harm me. And these people are under my protection.’
‘We know,’ said Lady Mora of Islay, striding up the aisle. The big man Somairle was behind her along with three more of his Manx companions, triskeles still gleaming on their dusty surcoats. ‘We have come to take you out of here. Quickly now.’
They walked out into the courtyard, and Mora and the Manxmen guided them towards the gap in the wall. Just as they reached it, Merrivale turned. Up on the motte, Sir Walter Selby came hobbling out of the keep and down the slope towards the Scots waiting below. Two of his men followed him, the last survivors of the garrison.
A man stepped out of the Scottish ranks, armoured, with a red saltire on his surcoat. Merrivale heard Tiphaine’s breath hiss, but Brus, intent on his prey, had probably not even seen them. ‘Selby,’ he said. ‘You betrayed me.’
‘I betrayed no one,’ Selby said. ‘I served my king to the end.’
‘You are foresworn!’ Brus shouted at him. ‘And now, you will pay the penalty!’
Selby raised his head. ‘I am ready. But save the lives of my men.’
Brus made a gesture with his hand. Two of his men-at-arms stepped forward, drew their swords and stabbed both men through the body. One screamed as he fell; the other collapsed in silence.
‘Lay him on the ground,’ Brus said. The two men seized Selby and threw him down on the cobbles on his face, pulling off his bascinet. Someone handed Brus an axe. Tiphaine turned her face away. Brus walked forward, standing over Selby and raising the weapon. ‘Hold him still,’ he commanded as the knight struggled.
‘You are the one who is foresworn, Brus,’ Selby gasped. ‘You are the traitor here, not me.’
‘Burn in hell, you bastard,’ Brus said, and he brought the axe down hard across Selby’s neck.
24
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 10th of October, 1346
Late morning
Egidia Murton was a rose-cheeked woman in her mid-twenties, who wore clusters of rings on her fingers and fur-trimmed gowns that tested the sumptuary laws to the limit. She clasped the hands of her new friend Lady Mary Grey with delight, drawing her into a pretty parlour just off the great hall of her home on Newgate. Sunlight shone through red and green glass windows, lighting walls painted with flowers and wild beasts, some real and some clearly made up by the artist.
‘My husband will join us shortly,’ she said, summoning a servant. ‘I fear he had to go out early on business. Poor Adam, he is so busy, and of course the war has added greatly to his cares and concerns.’
‘I’m sure it has,’ said Lady Mary, smiling. ‘But I didn’t come to see your husband, you goose, I came to see you. We have become such marvellous friends in so short a space of time, and I shall truly miss you when I go south.’
‘When will you go?’
‘As soon as it is safe to travel. I have been away for long enough already, and with my father in poor health I really cannot linger for too long.’
Apart from the aches and pains that a gentleman of fifty was likely to acquire from spending too long in the saddle in all weathers, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Lord Grey’s health. Mary felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt. She did quite like Egidia Murton, but it was not really Egidia she had come to see. It had taken her some time to negotiate the labyrinthine paths of borough and guild politics in Newcastle, but she had finally identified the alderman of the town, Adam Murton, as the man who could tell her what she wanted to know, preferably without realising he was doing so.
And so, she had engineered a casual meeting with Murton’s wife, striking up a conversation that led to her being invited to see the latter’s home and then sit down with a glass of posset and a good long gossip. The house was delightful, with not a captive bird in sight; Mistress Murton’s children were charming and Egidia herself was always as cheerful as a bed of daisies even with war clouds boiling up on the horizon.
They sat in the coloured sunlight and talked about children. Egidia had two so far, and was confident of more. Realising suddenly that she was talking to a childless woman, she blus
hed. ‘I am sure you will have many children when your husband returns.’
‘Whenever that is,’ Mary said glumly. ‘I’ve just had a letter from him. He and my brother have got into a fight with the king, and have left the army in France. They’re on their way east, to Prussia.’
‘Prussia is not so far away,’ Egidia said consolingly. ‘My husband has trade connections in Danzig. There are very fine people in Prussia. Oh; I hear the door. That will be Adam now. Dearest! We are in the parlour! Do come and meet my friend Lady Mary.’
Murton was about twenty years older than his wife and a contrast in almost every way; tall, sober and dressed in dark coat and hose without adornment. He was respectful and polite, but he kept glancing at Lady Mary as if trying to figure out why a knight’s lady should be keeping company with the wife of a merchant. Mary smiled at him and turned to Egidia. ‘My dear, I keep forgetting. You said you had a receipt for chicken mawmeny. My mother is so fond of it; do you think it might be possible to have a copy?’
‘Why, of course!’ said Egidia, rising. ‘I will write it out for you now.’
‘There is no need—’
‘No, please, I insist. It would be my pleasure.’
Egidia left the room with an expensive swish of skirts. Lady Mary smiled at her husband. ‘Your wife is the kindest woman in the world. I have been so lonely in Newcastle. I would have gone back to my mother-in-law at Warkworth, only it really isn’t safe to travel now. But I am so glad to have made a friend here.’
‘We are honoured to have your company, my lady.’
She smiled again. ‘It is good to meet you, too. Lord Percy speaks highly of you. You act for him in certain matters of business, I gather. He says he can always trust you. Do you see him often?’
Murton looked gratified. ‘I had the pleasure of his lordship’s company a few days ago, when he passed through Newcastle with his troops.’
‘Such a brave array they made, too. I am quite confident we shall repel the Scots. My host, Master Blyth, is very worried about what Durham will do, but I’m sure it doesn’t matter. They are only monks.’
‘Very wealthy monks,’ Murton said dryly. ‘They control much of the new industry in the Palatine, and beyond. Their estates are vast.’ He paused. ‘But I am sure your ladyship is not interested in such things.’
‘I somehow feel I ought to be,’ Mary said thoughtfully. ‘These things do matter, don’t they? I wonder why Master Blyth is so concerned about Durham.’
‘Surely it would be best to ask him, my lady. He knows Durham well and has done business there for years.’
‘He has?’
‘Oh, yes. He invests in their mining ventures, and helps arrange shipping and insurance. The priory relies on him for arbitrage.’
Mary smiled again. ‘You see? I don’t even know what that is. I will ask Master Blyth, but I don’t expect for a moment I will understand the answer. Oh, Egidia; is this the receipt? You are a darling. It looks delicious, and I have already bought some fresh saffron for mother.’
Arthuret, 10th of October, 1346
Midday
‘Congratulations,’ said Oswald of Halton. ‘I hear Carlisle has surrendered.’
Rollond de Brus poured a cup of wine and drained it down, then filled the glass again. He did not offer wine to the friar. ‘Yes. They paid a ransom,’ he said.
Oswald glanced at Guy of Béthune, sitting on a bench and watching. ‘How much?’
‘A thousand pounds.’
‘You should have asked for more.’
Brus turned, wincing at the pain of his broken ribs. ‘Don’t tell me my business. What is the news from Durham?’
‘The priory still intends to remain neutral. They’re waiting to see how things turn out.’
‘Then tell them everything is going according to plan. Liddel Strength has been reduced, Carlisle has fallen, and now we march east. We will sweep the Tyne valley, take Newcastle, and then turn south. Durham will have to make up its mind then.’
Oswald raised his eyebrows. ‘I reckon you’re behind schedule, and I hear you took losses at Liddel Strength. I thought the castle was supposed to open its gates.’
‘Our losses were minor,’ Brus snapped. It was true, although the Galwegians had lost some of their best men, and the bowmen had suffered too; Scotland was not a nation of archers, and they would be hard to replace. He brushed the thought aside. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Gilbert de Tracey wants out.’
Béthune looked up. ‘What do you mean, he wants out?’
‘He has written to King Edward. Ostensibly to ask him to respect church property during the war, but actually to ask if he can return to court and resume his life as the king’s banker.’
‘God’s blood!’ Brus slammed his cup down on the table, spilling wine across it. ‘Selby learned what happens to men who betray me, and Tracey will learn it too.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Find Douglas. Tell him I need the services of two of his hobelars, Nickson and Croser, the two who were in Heron’s service. Tell them to set a watch on Hexham, and if Tracey leaves, send word immediately to me. I’ll hunt that bastard to the end of the earth if I must.’
‘It shall be done,’ said Oswald. ‘For your usual fee, of course.’
Brus opened his purse and slapped some coins on the table. Gold glinted in the sunlight. ‘I also hear you have captured the herald,’ said Oswald, counting the coins. ‘What do you intend to do?’
‘Kill him,’ said Brus.
‘Really? He is under Agnes of Dunbar’s protection.’
‘I don’t give a damn about Agnes.’
Oswald looked sceptical. ‘If you alienate her, she and her husband will leave the army and take their troops with them, like the Lord of the Isles did. Theirs isn’t the largest contingent in the army but it has some of the best fighters, including the Galloway men. Can you really do without them?’
‘God damn it, Oswald! I don’t need you to tell me what to do! You have your orders; carry them out.’
‘Well, you need someone,’ the friar said. ‘Between your ribs and the wine, you’re not thinking straight. Find out her price, and give her whatever she wants. You haven’t won yet, my lord, and there is still a long road to go.’
After Oswald had gone, Guy of Béthune rose to his feet. ‘He’s right,’ said the count, running his hand through his thinning black hair. ‘You should talk to her.’
‘Jesus Christ on the cross. Not you too.’
‘Talk to her,’ Béthune repeated. ‘Nothing says you have to keep your promises, Rollond. Just make it sound convincing.’
* * *
Somairle of Mann escorted Brus into the red and white painted pavilion of the Dunbars. The countess sat in a wooden chair; her husband stood beside her, still in mail and armour, his bascinet resting on a table beside him. ‘My lord of Brus,’ Agnes said calmly. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘I have come to negotiate,’ Brus said.
‘For what? You have already promised us Berwick, which is all we asked for.’
‘Then perhaps you need to be more ambitious,’ said Brus. ‘I can offer you an earldom.’
Patrick of Dunbar stirred a little. Steel to his wife’s quicksilver, he was a veteran of four decades of war and knew every twist and turn in the road of diplomacy. Men sometimes underestimated him, but never more than once.
‘I already have two of them,’ he said. ‘I am Earl of March as well as Dunbar, remember.’
‘Then make it a trinity. I can offer you Northumberland as well.’
Dunbar glanced at his wife. She sat calmly, twisting a curl of black hair around her finger. ‘Go on,’ said the earl.
‘You will have Berwick, and Newcastle, and all the lands I shall seize from the church. The Percys have thrown in their lot with King Edward, so I shall take their lands too and give them to you. Once the English are defeated, you will control everything from the Tyne to the walls of Edinburgh, plus my lady’s lands in Galloway and Mann.
Yours will be the most powerful polity in these islands.’
‘Tempting,’ said Agnes. ‘What is it that you want in exchange?’
‘Loyalty,’ said Brus.
‘To whom?’ the earl asked sharply. ‘To yourself?’
‘To the king of Scotland. Whoever that may be.’
He had their attention now. Dunbar had stiffened a little; the countess was sitting forward in her chair. ‘Leave us,’ she said to Somairle, and the Manxman bowed and left the pavilion. There was no sign of Mora, her other usual companion.
‘Now speak plainly,’ Agnes said.
‘The king still hopes to sire an heir to continue his line. However, as you are well aware, many years of marriage have yet to produce any children. The kingdom needs an end to the uncertainty over the succession.’
‘Go on.’
‘The king tells me that after the English are defeated, he will nominate an heir. One of his closest friends and supporters will be named.’
‘You?’ demanded Dunbar.
Brus spread his hands. ‘He has not confided in me, and I do not know his mind. But… it is possible. I am his cousin, after all, and he does rely on me.’
‘And if he makes the offer, will you accept?’
Brus bowed. ‘With great humility and love for my adopted country, I would dedicate my life to the service of Scotland.’
‘There are others with better claims than you,’ Agnes said. ‘Carrick is the king’s half-brother. Robert Stewart is his cousin. My brother is the son of the last regent, and respected among the nobles.’
‘If Carrick took the throne, there would be civil war,’ said Brus. ‘He knows the fate of Manfred of Sicily, and all the other bastards who tried to seize thrones before him. Stewart is a dull ass whom no one respects.’
He paused. ‘And if John Randolph should ever become king, my lady, I do not think you would live very long thereafter. Your best chance is to support me. I can make you rich, and you can put the crown on my head. It seems a perfect arrangement.’
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