The Dunbars glanced at each other again. ‘I agree,’ the earl said.
‘So do I,’ said Agnes, and she smiled. ‘You have played the game well, my lord. I did not expect this of you.’
‘There is one more thing,’ Brus said. ‘The herald, and the Demoiselle de Tesson. You took them under your protection at Liddel Strength. Why?’
‘To stop you from slaughtering them out of hand,’ Agnes said. ‘Murdering a herald is both a crime and a mortal sin. And you have already agreed that the girl should be put on trial. If they are to be put to death, let it be done properly, according to law.’
She rose to her feet. ‘Do you doubt me still, my lord? My Galwegians broke the back of the English resistance at Liddel Strength. The blood they shed there is proof of my loyalty.’
Brus said nothing. ‘Tomorrow, the army marches to Lanercost,’ Agnes said. ‘There, I will surrender Merrivale and the girl to the king’s officers and they will be put on trial for spying and treason. If found guilty, the herald’s protection will be stripped from him and they will both be put to death in a lawful manner.’
Brus stood for a long time, looking from one to the other. ‘Then I hold you responsible for them until then,’ he said. ‘If they escape, the offer I have just made you is null and void. If you try to help them in any way, you will gamble your future away. Am I clear?’
‘Completely clear,’ said March.
After Brus had gone, Agnes sat down slowly. Mora of Islay walked out from behind the curtain where she had been listening, mail coat rustling a little. ‘This is a coup,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Dunbar. ‘He will persuade the king to nominate him as heir. And then he will kill the king.’
‘Obviously,’ said Agnes. She rested her chin on her hand. ‘I wonder who will really get Northumberland? Not us. He’ll parcel up the kingdom to reward his favourites; Carrick, Douglas, Béthune. My brother, perhaps. The rest of the old nobility, like Strathearn and Menteith and ourselves, will be swept aside.’
She paused for a moment. ‘There is more to this. The herald spoke of a wider conspiracy, embracing England and France too. How does Brus’s coup fit into that? Who are these conspirators, and what do they want?’
‘The only man who knows is the herald,’ said Dunbar. ‘And he cannot tell us if he’s dead. We need to protect him, Agnes, at all costs.’
‘The longer we keep him under our protection, the more our own danger grows,’ she warned.
‘I know.’ Dunbar tapped his fingers on the pommel of his sword. ‘We must think of something.’
Arthuret, 10th of October, 1346
Afternoon
Once again the sky was full of smoke and ash, and the air reeked of burning. Not far from the camp was a small stone church, and next to it the burned-out ruins of a village. In the far distance more smoke rose in towering columns as the reavers scorched their way down the dales south of Carlisle. Fortified towns like Carlisle could escape burning by handing over their silver. Poor country villages and farms did not have that luxury.
Guards surrounded the pavilion where Merrivale and the others were being held. They were Kinross’s men, not the countess’s Manx bodyguard; Kinross, it seemed, was someone she trusted like few others. The rest of the Scottish camp lay stretched around him; he could see the white cross on red of the Knights of Saint John, and remembered his conversation with Brother Alexander Seton.
Inside the pavilion itself, Peter and Tiphaine were sleeping. Both were at the last limits of exhaustion, and had been half asleep in the saddle when the army moved south yesterday, leaving the ruins of Liddel Strength behind. Her capture and escape and the horrors she had seen at Liddel Strength had etched lines into Tiphaine’s face. How can a merciful God allow anyone so young to endure so much? the herald wondered.
And Peter, too; but no, Peter was different. For him, the siege had been a coming of age. I shall have to speak to him, the herald thought. For all his love of pageantry and the bright blazons of heraldry, this is not his calling. He will be a man-at-arms and captain of men, admired and respected as his father was before him. That is the path he will follow.
A pity, he thought. I’ve got used to the idea of having an apprentice. I shall him miss him, when we finally go our separate ways…
He looked again at the church. Supposedly, the church at Arthuret had been founded on the site where King Arthur was buried, but Merrivale knew of several other places that made the same claim. It’s a bit like the True Cross, he thought. Add up all the relics and myths and burial places of Arthur, and you would have enough to make several kings…
He knew his mind was wandering. He forced himself to concentrate. The more he thought about Thomas Hatfield, the Bishop of Durham, the more possible it seemed that he could be the man from the north. He was a Yorkshireman who, like so many administrators and royal officials, had risen without a trace. He had attended Exeter College, the smallest and poorest of the Oxford colleges, and somehow made his way into royal service around the time the French war began, nine years ago. As Receiver of the Chamber he had been highly efficient at ensuring the king and queen always had enough money to pay their gambling debts, which were often considerable, and to maintain their high style of living. His reward had been an appointment as Lord Privy Seal two years ago, and Bishop of Durham last year.
The herald recalled the latter appointment. The priory of Durham had a history of objecting to and even blocking royal nominees for the bishopric, but in Hatfield’s case they had accepted without a murmur. Was this because they knew the bishop intended to remain at court, to further his ambitions and advance his career? Or had Hatfield and the priory – including the powerful treasurer, Brother Hugh – some joint enterprise in mind?
He smelled her scent, even before he heard the rustle of her skirts on the grass, and the sensation was a like a blow between the eyes. He stood motionless for a moment, composing his tired mind and soul, and turned to face her.
Her skin was pale in the hazy sunlight, and the lines inscribed at the corners of her eyes were deeper than before. She looked at the guards. ‘I wish to speak to this man in private,’ she said. ‘Leave us, please.’
The guards looked at her. ‘I have no intention of escaping,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nor will I do harm to this lady. Summon your master, if you doubt me.’ The guards moved some distance away.
‘I thought you were going home,’ said the herald.
‘My husband does not wish it,’ Yolande of Bohemia said quietly. ‘I think he wants me to remain, as a witness to your death. It will close the circle.’
Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘Am I going to die?’
‘Tomorrow they will put you and the girl on trial. Lyon Herald insists this is illegal, but the king has overruled him. The verdict, I think, is beyond doubt. I do not believe Guy and Rollond de Brus intend to let you live.’
‘Why does Guy hate me so much?’
‘Because he knows you were first,’ Yolande said. ‘Every time he touches me, he knows you were there before him. He cannot bear that.’
‘He must be a man of very simple imagination,’ the herald said tartly. ‘Does he think eradicating me from the face of the earth will change that?’
‘He hopes it,’ said Yolande.
‘I think there is more to it than that. Guy’s brother was close to Jean of Hainault, yes? What about Guy himself?’
‘They know each other well. Hainault came to stay with us at Béthune sometimes. I don’t like him. He is the sort of man who would stab you in the back if he thought there was a penny in profit for him.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘Hainault would want more than a penny. His ambitions are broader than that. Has Guy ever mentioned Gilbert de Tracey?’
‘Yes, he spoke of him this afternoon. He and his brother used to be associates of Hainault. Guy said Hainault won’t be happy about something Tracey has done.’
The herald looked up at the sky. ‘What about the Bishop of Durham, Th
omas Hatfield?’
‘I’ve heard of him. He is one of King Edward’s councillors, with the army in France. Simon, why are you asking these questions?’
Again Merrivale shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you. If you knew the truth, you would be in danger.’
‘Do you think I care? I faced danger many times, to be with you.’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘But you said in Jedburgh that they might harm your son, and you were right. If you cross John of Hainault, there is absolutely no doubt he will harm the boy in order to punish you. That is the kind of man he is. You were right, you must keep him safe.’
‘And so, I am powerless,’ she said bitterly. ‘I can do nothing except watch you die.’
‘Yes,’ said the herald. ‘I’m afraid so.’
She made a sudden violent gesture with her hand. ‘No. I will take the risk, any risk, to save you. You can escape, now. I will help you.’
Merrivale did not move. ‘No,’ he said.
‘We can save the boy. If we are quick we can get to him before Guy’s men, or Hainault’s. He’s your son too, Simon. Don’t you want to see him?’
‘Not at this price,’ said Merrivale.
She stared at him, her eyes wet with tears again, but he thought they were tears of anger this time. ‘Why not? Is it the girl? Is she yours?’
‘She belongs to no one,’ said the herald. ‘Certainly not to me.’
‘I don’t believe you. I should have let them burn her,’ she said bitterly.
‘So you could have me to yourself?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is this who you are now, Yolande? You will sacrifice anyone, Tiphaine, your son, to be with me? That is not a price I will pay, not now, not ever. And I am horrified that you would dream of doing so.’
‘I would sacrifice anything for you,’ she said, and now her eyes spilled over, the tears on her cheeks glittering in the sunlight. ‘I thought you felt the same. Or do you not remember?’
‘I remember everything,’ the herald said. ‘I remember every line of your body, every coil of your hair, the smell of your skin, how the sweat of passion used to shine like diamonds on your skin. Even now I am drawn to you, like opium. You once held my soul in the palm of your hands.’
‘Then run with me,’ she said through her tears. ‘Run with me, like we promised we would do. Or else I will die with you tomorrow.’
‘No,’ said the herald. ‘I cannot. And neither can you. You must live, Yolande, for the boy’s sake.’
‘Is that all?’ she said bitterly. ‘Is that all that remains to me on this wretched earth?’
For the second time she turned and walked away weeping. The herald watched her go, feeling his heart bleed even while he wondered why she had come and what the real purpose of her visit was. He did not know, but where John of Hainault and the man from the north were concerned, anything was possible.
The guards watched him curiously, wondering what he had said to upset the lady. Merrivale took one last look at the smoke gushing into the southern sky, and went back into the pavilion.
Lanercost, 11th of October, 1346
Evening
There were men in the army old enough to remember the last time the Scots had visited Lanercost, in the deadly summer after the great victory at Bannockburn when Scottish raiders had ravaged the north of England without resistance. Now, having scorched their way across the Cumberland countryside, burning every building in sight, the army descended into the deep valley of the River Irthing and surrounded the priory. The inhabitants, a handful of Augustinian canons and their servants, made no resistance.
Lyon Herald was waiting for Merrivale and his party as they rode into the park around the priory, his face full of sympathy and gloom. ‘You’re to come with me,’ he said. He led the way into the cloister and up the stair to the dorter, and ushered them into a cell. A chill ran down Merrivale’s spine. The two guards at the door were no longer Kinross’s men, but members of the royal bodyguard blazoned in red and yellow.
‘When will the trial take place?’ he asked.
‘After dinner,’ said Lyon Herald. ‘I’m sorry about this, Sim. It shouldn’t be happening.’
‘I assume you have made your objections known.’
‘I have argued until I was hoarse. For God’s sake, you can’t arbitrarily strip a royal herald of his privileges! Only your king can do that, and he’s away in France.’
‘Brus does not care about rules,’ said Tiphaine. ‘He makes his own.’
Peter de Lisle looked up. The boy was still in a fog of fatigue, and had spent most of the journey cross-country from Arthuret dozing in the saddle. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked. ‘What trial?’
The herald told him. Peter stood petrified with shock. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because we thought you would do something stupid,’ Tiphaine said tartly. She was afraid, of course, but her chin was up and her eyes were bright and clear. Merrivale turned back to Lyon Herald.
‘Thank you, Archie. We won’t detain you further.’
Unhappily, Lyon Herald departed. One of the guards looked in the door, grinning. ‘They’re building a pyre and a scaffold facing each other,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able to watch each other die.’
‘Already?’ said Merrivale sharply. ‘In advance of the verdict?’
‘We all know the verdict, spy.’ The grin broadened. ‘There’s no minstrelsy tonight, so you’re the show instead. Make it a good one, will you?’
The door slammed shut. Merrivale turned to Peter and the two servants, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Listen to me. One of two things will happen. One is that our allies will find a way to release us. The other, more likely, is that we will be tried and executed. That means drawing and quartering for me and burning for Tiphaine. You may be forced to watch this. Prepare yourselves.’
There were tears in Peter’s eyes. He turned his head away. ‘Your duty is clear,’ Merrivale said. ‘You must contrive to escape, all three of you, and find the English army and tell Archbishop de la Zouche what we have learned. Now, listen closely.’
Still whispering, he told them what he knew and what he suspected. ‘Do this for both of us,’ the herald murmured. ‘For myself and Tiphaine. Do not let us down.’
Peter wiped his eyes. ‘No, sir.’
The smells of cooking drifted up the stairs into the dorter. ‘Now, get some rest,’ Merrivale said. ‘Whatever happens, we’re going to need it.’
* * *
Time passed. The light outside began to fade; through the tiny window in the cell, Merrivale could see sunset light still brushing the high ground, but the valley was falling into shadow. The Irthing burbled in its bed. In the distance he could hear men talking and laughing. Someone brought the guards their dinner and they ate, one of them slurping broth from a bowl. The food smelled good, and Peter rubbed his stomach. None of them had eaten anything apart from a few pieces of bread that morning.
‘Good evening,’ said a pleasant voice outside the door. ‘I wish to see the prisoners.’
‘Why?’ demanded the guard. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am the prior, John of Bothcastle. I wish to pray with them, and to hear their last confessions. Allow me to do God’s work, gentlemen, if you please.’
Muttering, one of the guards opened the door. A black-robed Augustinian canon, an elderly man with white hair, entered the room, his hands folded in prayer. ‘My children,’ he said softly. ‘I have come to console you in your hour of need.’
‘It is kind of you to do so,’ Merrivale said. There would be no rescue; he knew that, and he had only mentioned it to keep up the spirits of Peter and the two servants. Agnes of Dunbar would not risk her own position; to do so would bring about her own downfall. He had faced death many times before and had no fear of it, or the pain and humiliation that would accompany it. But he feared, terribly, for Tiphaine.
‘You are well in body?’ the prior asked. ‘You have not been harmed?’
‘Not yet,’ said Tiph
aine.
‘Good, good. These are terrible days, my children, terrible days. My own canons and servants are safe and well, but the spoliation and destruction of this priory has been dreadful to see.’
Merrivale looked at him. The prior appeared to be in no hurry to start praying or hearing confessions. ‘I assume they have plundered your treasury,’ he said, wondering why they were having this conversation.
‘The treasury is only the beginning. They have taken everything, the altar dishes, the table silver, the holy relics. Ah, we had such a fine collection of relics, Sir Herald, a delight to the eye and a refreshment to the soul. We had bones of all the great northern saints, Cuthbert, Kentigern, Ceolwulf, Chad. We had the tibia of Saint Godric, did you know that? All gone now, vanished into the hands of the plundering hordes. It will cost a fortune to replace them.’
Out in the corridor came the sounds of retching and vomiting, followed by the thump of a body hitting the floor. The prior held up a finger for silence, waiting. Another body fell with a clank of armour, and Father John nodded with satisfaction.
‘Belladonna,’ he said. ‘Now, we must move quickly.’
In the corridor they stepped around the bodies and pools of sour vomit and hurried down the night stair, the prior leading the way. At the foot of the stair he stopped and looked into the church. The nave was nearly dark now, with only a little dim light coming from the high windows; outside, torches and lanterns flickered. The prior motioned with his hand and they slipped through the cloister, past smashed furniture and torn books and scrolls. ‘That passage leads to the latrines,’ he whispered. ‘Your friends will be waiting there.’
‘What about you and your people?’ Merrivale asked. ‘The Scots will take vengeance on you.’
‘Only if they find us,’ murmured the prior. ‘Do not fear, the rest are already safely away. They await only me to follow them.’ He sketched a cross in the air. ‘God go with you.’
They ran down the passage to the latrines. A back door stood open, leading towards the river. Two silhouettes stood waiting for them; Mora of Islay, and Brother Alexander Seton, preceptor of the Knights of Saint John. ‘In the name of Jesus Christ and Odin the Victorious, don’t just stand there!’ Mora hissed. ‘Come on!’
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