* * *
By the time they reached Hexham they could see the smoke clouds in the distance, marking the advance of the Scottish army. The nearest fires were only three or four miles away. Silently, Tiphaine, Peter and the two servants turned their horses towards Newcastle, and Merrivale rode into the town.
Hexham town was even more silent than before. The priory grounds were full of people and cattle who had taken refuge there, the latter lowing in distress.
‘You will make no defence?’ asked Merrivale, looking at the newly repaired walls.
John of Bridekirk, the prior, spread his hands. ‘We can keep out raiding parties, but not the entire Scottish army. If we resist they will kill everyone, like they did at Liddel Strength. All we can do now is trust in God.’
God hadn’t intervened to help the garrison of Liddel Strength, Merrivale thought, or Alexander Seton. He glanced at the smoke clouds in the west, drawing nearer. ‘Father, I wish to speak to Brother Gilbert. It is urgent.’
‘He is in the church. Come, I will take you to him.’
Inside the church and cloister the canons were hard at work removing items of value, reliquaries, altars, cups and pyxes, manuscripts and vestments, taking them away to hide them. They found Brother Gilbert in the presbytery carrying a wooden processional staff with a gilded crucifix mounted on top. His dark eyes widened at the sight of Merrivale. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We need to talk,’ Merrivale said abruptly. He led the way into the south transept, where the night stair ran up to a covered passage at the top. ‘You wrote to the king just before the war started,’ he said. ‘You asked him to protect the lands of the church in Northumberland, especially those of your order. Am I correct?’
‘Yes, though God knows how you found about it.’
‘What else did you say? Did you ask him to restore your position? To allow you to resume your business and become one of his bankers again?’
Shouting and turmoil outside the church, the sudden clatter of iron-shod hooves. Gilbert glanced towards the church door. ‘Yes. I asked him to grant me this favour in exchange for information I could give him.’
Merrivale tensed. ‘What information?’
Gilbert hesitated. The shouting outside had increased in volume. A woman screamed. ‘We don’t have much time,’ Merrivale said.
‘I lied when I said I had no contact with my brother. We worked closely together, and did so for years. Our uncle Hugh became involved too. It was he who suggested I retire to Hexham.’
‘What information?’ Merrivale repeated.
‘My brother was betrayed by his fellow conspirators. Brus was one of them. He urged that my brother be killed, and Nanteuil the Grand Prior, too. The conspirators wanted to get their hands on the lands of the Knights of Saint John, but Nanteuil wouldn’t agree. He had other plans for the Order, he said.’
The door of the church slammed open, echoes reverberating in the high wooden ceiling. Merrivale heard Father John protesting, and another voice ordering him roughly out of the way. He seized Gilbert by the collar of his cassock, half choking him. ‘What information?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
‘Brus is a rogue. He disobeyed orders. He has taken our money and made his own plans. God knows what they are.’
‘Whose orders did he disobey? Who is your leader? Who is the man from the north?’
Gilbert struggled. ‘I’ll tell you, but you’ll have to protect me. If they find out I have told you, they will kill me.’
‘Yes,’ said Rollond de Brus. ‘They will.’
He stood ten feet away in the crossing, the saltire on his surcoat stained with ash and dust, a drawn sword in his hand. He had raised the visor of his bascinet, and his face was red with anger. ‘You fucking traitor,’ he said to Gilbert. ‘Just like your brother.’
Gilbert had gone pale. He backed towards the night stair, still holding the wooden staff and crucifix. ‘I have told them nothing,’ he said.
‘And you never will,’ said Brus, and he strode forward, raising his sword. Gilbert screamed and turned to run up the stair, but tripped over the cross and fell forward onto his knees. The armoured man stooped over him. ‘This is how traitors die,’ he hissed, and drove his sword straight into Gilbert’s back. The canon screamed again and slumped down on the stairs. Blood spread along his back, turning his black cassock crimson red.
Before Brus had withdrawn his sword from the body, Merrivale had picked up the processional cross. Brus wheeled on him, the dripping blade pointing at Merrivale’s chest. ‘The devil has given you many lives, herald,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘But today, they run out.’
‘You sent Carrick and Heron and they both failed,’ said Merrivale. ‘Are you hoping for better luck?’
Brus lunged at him. Merrivale stepped to one side and swung the cross like a quarterstaff, slamming the crucifix into the side of Brus’s bascinet, then reversing his grip to rap the butt across the wrist of the other man’s sword hand. The sword fell clattering to the floor. Brus reached for his dagger, but Merrivale hit him twice more on the bascinet and then smashed the butt into his breastplate with the force of a battering ram, directly over his broken ribs. Brus screamed and staggered back, doubling up in pain.
Merrivale stepped forward, intending to finish his work, but more boots were pounding up the nave. He turned instead, stepping over Gilbert’s body and running up the night stair. The covered passage at the top led to another door and an external stair leading out of the church. He opened the door and started down the steps. Two more men came around the corner of the church and stood looking up at him, grinning. They were border reavers, in leather armour and open-faced helmets, and they had swords in their hands. He recognised them without difficulty; Heron’s tame killers, Eckies Nickson and Kalewater Jack Croser.
‘You thinking of going somewhere, herald?’ asked Nickson.
Croser chuckled. ‘Only place he’s going is down—’
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence because the herald launched himself down the stair with the cross levelled like a lance and hit Croser full in the mouth. The crucifix broke, taking several of Croser’s teeth with it. Nickson slashed at him, but Merrivale ducked under the blow and hit Nickson on the kneecap with the butt of the cross, followed by a second blow into his groin. Nickson went down, gasping with pain, and a whirling circular blow caught Croser on the side of the head just below his helmet and knocked him unconscious on his back.
Picking up the broken crucifix once more, Merrivale ran back up the stair and rammed it under the door, wedging it. By the time he reached the ground again, men were pounding on the door from inside. He hit Nickson again with the remains of the cross to knock him out and then ran across the park, seeing panicky people trying to flee while the first flames lifted from the rooftops of Hexham. Smoke boiled in clouds across the park, full of ash and sparks. He ran on, clutching the broken staff of the cross. There was a postern gate in the wall around the park, he remembered, and if he could reach that and get away from the priory, he might be able to find a horse and escape. He had done this sort of thing before, as a King’s Messenger; he was good at it.
A man came out of the smoke, another armoured man-at-arms with a plain surcoat and no badge, a sword in his right hand. The devil walks in Hexham today, Merrivale thought savagely, and God is in heaven, fast asleep. He stopped, leaning on the staff and catching his breath. ‘I told Umfraville who you are,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Sir Thomas Clennell, walking towards him. ‘Gilbert is a good fighting man, but he is easily gulled. I can explain everything away when I return, and make him trust me once more. It will be quite easy.’
More smoke boiled around them. Merrivale nodded. ‘I assume you intend to kill me,’ he said. ‘Before you do, satisfy my curiosity. Why did you instruct Harkness to stage an attack on me?’
‘To draw attention away from myself,’ Clennell said, coming closer. ‘I knew you would be looking at the Di
sinherited, and I wanted to turn your gaze away from me. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.’
‘Yes. That was your first mistake. Not your worst, by any means, but certainly the first.’
‘Enough talking,’ Clennell said, and he strode forward, raising his sword.
Someone came running out of the smoke behind Clennell and jumped on him, grabbing his sword arm and dragging it down, trying to twist the weapon free. Instinctively, Clennell pulled his dagger from his belt with his left hand and turned, stabbing hard. Merrivale heard the blade rasp against bone, and the other man staggered back, dropping to his knees with blood pouring out of a wound in his belly. Clennell took a step forward, and then saw the face of the man he had stabbed and stopped.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said sharply.
Merrivale hit him a two-handed blow with the staff across the back of the neck. The staff snapped, one end cartwheeling across the ground. Clennell went down in a clatter of metal and lay without moving, and Merrivale ran to the other man.
Peter de Lisle had fallen forward onto his face. Gently, Merrivale turned him over and saw the wound gushing blood. The boy was conscious, moving feebly, his lips moving but no sound emerging. Merrivale picked him up and carried him the short distance to the postern gate. Tiphaine, Mauro and Warin were waiting with the horses, and Tiphaine looked at Peter and covered her face suddenly with her hands.
‘Clennell may have had men with him,’ Merrivale said harshly. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘No, sir,’ said Warin. ‘In this smoke they could be anywhere.’
Merrivale laid Peter’s body down. The boy was unconscious now. ‘I need a bandage.’
They had no baggage; everything had been lost at Liddel Strength. Tiphaine tore a strip off the hem of her travel-stained kirtle and Merrivale bound it tightly around the boy’s midriff, hoping to put pressure on the wound, but blood stained the cloth almost immediately. Tiphaine’s face was wet with tears. ‘Is he going to die?’
‘Yes,’ said the herald, ‘and very soon. Mauro, Warin, help me.’
He stepped into the saddle and the two servants handed the limp body up to sit before him. Merrivale wrapped one arm tightly around him to hold him in place, heedless of the blood gushing from the wound. The smoke was thicker than ever now, and they walked their horses quietly away from the abbey. Only when he was certain the Scots were not following did Merrivale call a halt outside the burning town.
‘Help me,’ he said to the servants, and together they lifted Peter down to the ground once more. ‘Is he dead?’ asked Tiphaine. She was still crying.
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. Kneeling beside the body, he took Peter’s hand and held it in his own, just as Peter had done with his dead friend David Harkness weeks ago. He felt no pain, no sorrow, not yet; those would come later, he knew. At the moment, he felt only a dark emptiness in his soul. Something bright and beautiful had gone out of the world.
‘We have no tools to bury him, señor,’ said Mauro, who had seen enough death to be pragmatic about it. ‘What do you wish to do?’
‘We’re going to Chipchase,’ said the herald. ‘We’re going to take him home.’
Chipchase, 13th of October, 1346
Afternoon
Chipchase had its own chapel, and a resident priest. Ashen-faced, for he had known Peter de Lisle since he was a boy, the priest took charge of laying out the body and saying prayers for his soul. Sir Robert de Lisle came in, leaning on his stick, and sat down by the bier, holding his son’s cold hand clasped in his. Merrivale nodded to the others and they retreated to the hall. A fire burned on the hearth. The Dream of Scipio lay on the table, abandoned when they had arrived.
An hour passed before the old man hobbled back into the hall. ‘Tell me again what happened,’ he said, sitting down heavily.
‘I ordered Peter and the demoiselle to ride to Newcastle while I went to Hexham,’ Merrivale said. ‘He decided to turn back.’
‘He said you were in danger,’ Tiphaine said. She was weeping again. ‘He said he had to help you. He could not leave you behind.’
‘And it was Clennell who killed him? You’re certain of that?’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Clennell is a traitor twice over,’ he said. ‘To his country, and to his brothers in the Disinherited.’
‘And he killed my last remaining child,’ de Lisle said. He looked around the hall. ‘It will all end with me now; this house, this estate, everything. It will pass into the hands of strangers, and our name and lineage will be forgotten.’
He looked at Merrivale. The herald saw the agony and grief in his eyes. The end of his line did not matter. He had loved his son, loved him for his courage and his selflessness, for the very qualities that had brought him to his death.
‘Peter had your courage,’ Merrivale said. ‘He saved my life twice. And young though he was, he was wise beyond his years. You say your name will be forgotten, but we who knew him will never forget.’
De Lisle nodded slowly. ‘Thank you. I am glad that others knew his worth. He was better than me, better than all of us. It breaks my heart to know he has gone, and the world is a darker place without him.’
They sat in silence for a while, each with their own memories. The fire crackled. ‘Peter is in God’s hands,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘But for his sake, I can undo some of the evil that Clennell has done. The Disinherited and their men are camped at Stonehaugh. I intend to go back there, and persuade them to their true loyalty.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘By telling them the truth,’ the herald said.
De Lisle looked sceptical. ‘The truth won’t be enough. It never is. I’m coming with you.’
Merrivale looked at him. ‘Are you able to ride, my lord?’
‘I can ride as far as Stonehaugh.’ The old man banged on the table, shouting for a servant. A pale-looking man appeared, bowing. ‘Send to the stables,’ said de Lisle. ‘Tell them to saddle a horse, and tell the men to make ready to ride.’ He looked back at Merrivale. ‘Do you mind acting as my esquire? I’ll need help to arm.’
‘It would be my honour,’ Merrivale said.
Tiphaine wiped her face with the sleeve of her kirtle. ‘How can I help?’
‘Mauro and Warin will take you to Newcastle,’ he said gently. ‘Wait for me there.’
She nodded. For once, she did not resist. ‘We will go now. If we hurry we can reach the gates before dark.’
Their eyes met for a moment. ‘May God watch over you,’ Merrivale said softly.
Her voice echoed his own thoughts in Hexham. ‘I don’t think God is interested in us anymore,’ she said. ‘I think we need to start watching over ourselves.’
Stonehaugh, 13th of October, 1346
Late afternoon
The meadows along the little burn were full of activity in the fading light. Pavilions and tents were being struck, horses saddled and men were arming. The need for secrecy was past; the bright colours and heraldry were back now, Wake’s red and gold bars, Umfraville’s gold cinquefoil, Clennell’s black and white lions. Merrivale’s lips tightened at the sight of the latter.
‘They’re preparing to march,’ he said.
The man beside him said nothing. Sir Robert had not spoken during the ride from Chipchase, and Merrivale could only guess at the pain he was in. Outriders from the camp spotted the little party of Merrivale, de Lisle and his handful of men-at-arms, and galloped to investigate; they pulled up and saluted respectfully when they saw the de Lisle’s coat of arms. Hall, the Redesdale hobelar, was one of them. ‘Come, my lord. I will take you to Sir Gilbert.’
They found the three captains in the centre of the camp. Clennell was talking quickly and urgently, gesturing with his hands. He must have regained consciousness quite quickly, Merrivale thought, and come galloping back to camp in hopes of getting the others moving before the herald could reach them. He looked up and saw Merrivale, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. Then he saw Sir Robert de Lisle and froze, the
blood draining from his face.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Sir Robert. ‘I am surprised to see you here. Why are you not with the archbishop and his army, where your duty lies?’
No one answered. With immense effort the old man slid off his horse and walked forward. Hundreds of men stood around them, watching in awestruck silence as a legend strode into their midst.
‘What are you doing here, Robert?’ Wake asked quietly. ‘We heard you were ill.’
‘I am ill,’ said de Lisle. ‘Ill and near my death. But I will not go to my grave until I have justice for my son.’
Umfraville tensed. ‘Peter? What happened to him?’
Merrivale looked at Clennell. ‘Tell them,’ he said.
Clennell stood still. His mouth opened but no sound came out. De Lisle ripped his sword from his scabbard and advanced towards him. ‘Tell them!’ he screamed.
‘It was an accident,’ Clennell said. His nerves collapsed and he fell to his knees, raising his hands in supplication. ‘I didn’t know who it was. Sir Robert, I beg you, for the love of God. I would never hurt your son.’
‘But you killed him,’ Merrivale said. ‘I saw you do it; I am the witness. And now, the hand of every man on the borders will be against you. Your own retinue will desert you. Why did you come back, Clennell? Why not run and join Brus and his friends? You might have been safe there.’
The men around Clennell turned towards him. Umfraville and Wake drew their swords, as did Hall and some of the others. ‘It was an accident,’ Clennell repeated. ‘God help me, I never meant to harm him.’
De Lisle raised his sword. With a force born of anger and despair, he drove the point through Clennell’s throat, snapping the mail links that protected it and stabbing through jugular and windpipe and spinal column. Clennell slid slowly off the blade and fell onto his side. His hands clawed feebly at the grass for a moment, and then went still.
Merrivale ignored the body. He looked at Umfraville and Wake. ‘You are preparing to march. What orders have you been given?’
A Clash of Lions Page 30