‘To hell with his teeth. He shouldn’t have been so careless in the first place. Very well, Hound of God. You can be on your way now. Report to me when you have completed your task.’
In their pavilion a few minutes later, Dunbar related what he had heard to his wife. Agnes ran her hand through her black curls. ‘Once the king names him as heir, Brus will not linger. David will die very soon, and Brus will take revenge on everyone who has ever crossed him in the past, starting with us. Our lives and those of our followers hang by a thread, my lord.’
‘Yes,’ Dunbar said. ‘Our only chance is to thwart him. Why do you think Tracey wants to meet young Percy?’
‘At a guess, he has found out about our communication and intends to use it to his advantage.’
‘Possibly,’ said the earl. ‘But Brus wants to kill Tracey, and is going to considerable lengths to do so. If he is Brus’s enemy, then he is also our friend. We need to keep him alive, at least until we can find out more.’
The countess turned to Mora of Islay, standing by. ‘Can you get a message to the herald? By the end of tomorrow?’
‘If you command it, my lady, it shall be done,’ said the shieldmaiden. ‘Do you wish me to remain with the herald, or return to you?’
‘Stay with him,’ Agnes said. ‘He may need you before all is done.’
Auckland, 15th of October, 1346
Night
Merrivale was dining on bread and mutton with a glass of well-watered wine, listening to the patter of rain on the canvas roof of his tent, when the door flap opened and Harry Percy walked in. ‘I need a word, Sir Herald. In private.’
Merrivale gestured to Mauro and Warin, but Percy shook his head. ‘We need to get away from the camp. Too many listening ears.’
The herald rose and Mauro brought him a cloak, draping it over his shoulders. ‘Qué está pasando, señor?’ the servant murmured.
‘No sé. Síganos.’
Outside the night was dark apart from the flare of torches in the wind and rain. Trees stood like spectral shapes in the misty light. The army lay camped around them in the park of Auckland, the Bishop of Durham’s palace and preferred residence a comfortable distance from his cathedral and priory. Mauro and Warin followed them at a discreet distance; if Percy was aware of their presence, he gave no sign. ‘Did you know Lady Mary and Tiphaine are still with the army?’ he asked.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I suggested they remain at Barnard Castle, but they didn’t listen, of course. The archbishop has taken them under his protection.’
That won’t mean much if we are defeated and Brus captures them, Merrivale thought. Passing the palace they walked down towards the River Wear. Bits of broken wall stood up from the ground, the ruins of an ancient watchtower. The night was almost completely dark.
Percy stopped in the shadow of the wall. ‘I’ve had a letter,’ he said quietly. ‘I need your advice on what to do about it.’
‘A letter from whom? The Countess of Dunbar?’
‘No, I’ve heard nothing further from her. Perhaps she has given up on the idea of peace. She’s with her husband and the Scottish army, I hear.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘The Dunbars will make peace when the time comes. For the moment, they are concentrating on staying alive. Who is the letter from?’
‘Brother Hugh de Tracey, the treasurer of Durham Priory. He wants to meet with me.’
‘I see,’ said Merrivale after a moment. ‘When and where?’
‘Dawn, the day after tomorrow, at Ferryhill. It’s just south of Durham. I am to come alone, he said.’
‘Did he say why?’
Percy shook his head. ‘Then I am not sure what you need from me,’ Merrivale said.
Even in the darkness he could tell the young knight was annoyed. ‘I need information,’ he said. ‘One of Tracey’s nephews was our family banker, until he took holy orders. The other was a traitor working with the man from the north. Is Hugh de Tracey one of the conspirators?’
Sudden suspicion filled Merrivale’s mind. Play along, he thought. If he is innocent, it won’t matter what I tell him; if he is guilty, then he already knows.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So was Gilbert, until he was killed.’
Percy stared at him. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Two days ago, at Hexham. Brus killed him.’
‘So why would Hugh want to meet with me?’
‘Perhaps he thinks you are also one of the conspirators,’ Merrivale suggested.
He waited for a reaction. Percy merely looked irritated again. ‘The Traceys have fallen out with Brus,’ Merrivale said. ‘It is possible that Hugh wants your protection.’
‘But why would he send for me?’ Percy asked. ‘Why not you?’
‘Because I am only a herald. You, on the other hand, are a knight with a retinue of men-at-arms at your back—’
Just in time he saw the blur of movement in the shadows, a dim flash of reflected torchlight on steel. He dodged sideways, and the blade meant for his chest ripped through the sleeve of his cloak. Pain stabbed up his arm. He grabbed the other man’s sword arm, but the man cursed and wrenched his arm free. He raised his sword for another blow; Merrivale seized him and threw him bodily backwards against the ruined stone wall of the tower, but the other man simply bounced off the wall and came straight back at him. Merrivale dodged the swinging sword but not the hard left fist that followed it, smashing into his midriff.
He doubled up in pain, bracing for the blow that must surely come, but nothing happened. Raising his head he saw the man fighting with someone else, a knife flashing in the shadows and then a gasp and a sound of snapping bone. The man fell, sword clattering on the ground, and the other man bent and stabbed him hard, administering the coup de grâce. The newcomer raised his head, and Merrivale saw it was Mauro.
Harry Percy was on the ground, wrestling desperately with another attacker. Out of the darkness Warin appeared, dragging the man off and holding his head back before drawing his knife across his throat. There was a gagging noise and the other man slumped to the ground.
‘Are you all right, señor?’ Mauro asked, his voice full of concern.
‘Cuts and bruises, nothing more.’ He could feel blood trickling down inside his sleeve, but he had taken worse wounds in the past. ‘Sir Harry, are you hurt?’
‘Apart from my pride, no,’ Percy said ruefully. He climbed to his feet. ‘Your servants saved our necks.’
Merrivale looked down at the man Mauro had killed. The light was faint, but he saw the bruised mouth and missing teeth and recognised the hobelar Kalewater Jack Croser. At a gesture from the herald, Warin turned the other man over. It was Eckies Nickson.
‘Brus’s hired killers,’ Merrivale said, his fingers searching inside his sleeve for the gash on his arm. ‘He certainly has enough of them at his disposal. I wonder how long they have been tracking me.’
Percy’s voice was wry. ‘What makes you think they were after you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just thought of another possible reason for this meeting, herald. They want to grab me and use me as a hostage. They’ll threaten to hang me unless my father withdraws his men from the army. It won’t work, of course, the old bastard won’t give an inch and besides, he has plenty of other sons. But Brus and his friends won’t know that.’
Merrivale pressed the edges of the wound together. That will need stitches, he thought; I shall have to call on Mauro’s skills with a needle. ‘Then you won’t go to the meeting.’
Percy sounded vexed again. ‘Of course I’ll go,’ he said. ‘How else will I find out what is going on?’
Merrington, 16th of October, 1346
Evening
A column of horsemen came sweeping down from the north, riding hard across the moor. A trumpet sounded the alarm, but Merrivale held up a hand; he had seen their banner, a black chevron and three ravens. ‘It is Sir Thomas Rokeby,’ he said.
They waited. In Merrington church, a single, cracked bell rang vespers
, harsh notes thudding into the damp air. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still full of cloud, and men were down in the open coal pits around the village, bailing them out with buckets. Black water stained the streams running down to the Wear, meandering through meadows to the left of the line of march. Mist was already rising from the river.
Rokeby arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by about fifty men; young Tom Rokeby and John Coupland were among them. ‘Once I heard the Scots were advancing down the Tyne, I stripped every spare man from the garrison at Berwick and came south,’ Rokeby said to the archbishop. ‘I thought if I cut across their line of march, I might pick up some intelligence about their movements.’
‘What can you tell us?’ Zouche asked.
‘The Scots are at Beaurepaire, the prior of Durham’s hunting lodge, about two miles from the city. They’ve made camp for the night.’
‘By God, they’ve made good time,’ exclaimed de Lisle. He stood hunched over, utterly exhausted and leaning on his sword again, but his eyes were as hard and determined as ever.
‘They are energetic and very well led,’ Rokeby said. ‘They intend to challenge us outside Durham, your Grace. My scouts had a good look at their camp from the high ground near the city. They are preparing for battle.’
‘Then we must do likewise,’ said the archbishop. He looked at Merrivale. ‘You’ve seen their full strength. Can we prevail against them?’
‘They have eleven thousand men to our six,’ the herald said. He had just spotted a familiar figure in the ranks of Rokeby’s men-at-arms. ‘They have some of the finest fighting men in the world, Moray’s highlanders and the Galwegians. But the latter and their archers were mauled at Liddel Strength, and the captains are not united. Brus has secret enemies, some at the highest level. And if David Bruce finds out that his cousin intends to kill him, who knows what might happen? There is hope, my lords.’
Rokeby smiled. ‘There is always hope,’ he said. ‘Well, gentlemen? The southrons are still crowing about their victory at Crécy. Let’s show them what the men of the north country can do.’
The baggage wagons arrived, toiling up the road from Auckland, and tents and pavilions went up across the moor. Merrivale walked to his own quarters and found, as expected, Lady Mora of Islay waiting for him. ‘Have you become Murdo again?’ he inquired.
‘For a time,’ she said. ‘I joined Rokeby’s men this morning, pretending to be a defector from the Scottish camp.’
‘Pretending?’
‘Let’s not get tangled up in words,’ she said impatiently. ‘My lady has news for you.’
Swiftly she told him about the plot against David Bruce, and Oswald’s plan to kill Hugh de Tracey. ‘My orders are to assist you,’ she said. ‘Command me.’
Much depended on whether Harry Percy was genuine. ‘You were in the garrison at Warkworth,’ he said. ‘Will Sir Harry recognise you?’
‘Not if I keep my distance.’
‘Good. Keep watch on him. If he leaves the camp, come and find me at once.’
After Mora had gone, the herald put on his cloak and went out. Mauro had mended the rent in the sleeve; his arm, heavily bandaged, throbbed a little as he walked. He thought of calling on Tiphaine to tell her what was happening, but decided against it; Tiphaine was a complication, and he could not think of her without confusing his mind still further.
He found Sir Thomas Rokeby’s quarters. Rokeby was still in full armour, talking with Coupland and young Tom; all three turned as the herald entered the tent. ‘Good evening, Simon. Still alive, I see.’
‘For the moment,’ Merrivale said. ‘Thomas, I need a favour. Quite a big one, as it happens.’
30
Merrington, 17th of October, 1346
Morning
A hand touched Merrivale’s shoulder; Mauro, waking him gently. ‘The lady is here, señor. The dama del escudo.’
Merrivale sat up quickly, reaching for his tabard. ‘Run to Sir Thomas Rokeby. Tell him I need his services as requested.’
Outside the fog was thick, particles of water swirling in the air. Silver-grey light seeped through it. Mora stood waiting, her mail coat and helmet glittering with damp. ‘He rode out alone just now, going east.’
‘Well done,’ said the herald. ‘Warin, bring my horse around.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ Mora asked.
‘You have done more than enough already. I have another favour to ask of you. Go to Tiphaine and Lady Mary. If there is fighting today, keep them safe.’
‘I am a shieldmaiden, not a lady’s tirewoman,’ grumbled Mora, but she saluted and departed. Rokeby’s men were already forming up, his own company from Berwick with John Coupland in command and a hundred or so hobelars from other retinues, dark shapes with upright lances moving through the mist. ‘He has gone east towards Ferryhill,’ the herald said.
‘Tracking him in this fog will be the devil’s work.’ They rode past the sentries and east across the moor, passing clumps of gorse and threading their way around the dark coal pits that yawned suddenly under their feet. Gradually the fog cleared a little as they rode further away from the valley of the Wear, climbing up onto high ground, but visibility was still not much more than a long bowshot.
‘I hear something,’ Coupland said.
Rokeby held up his hand and the column jingled to a halt. They all heard it then, the drumming of massed hooves coming at speed across the moor from the north. Rokeby looked at Merrivale. ‘Is this what you thought might happen?’
‘Yes. Can you hold them off?’
‘We’ll do better than that.’ Rokeby waved his hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Wheeling left, the horsemen charged away across the moor just as the first Scots rode out of the fog. Merrivale saw the red heart of Douglas, pulling up in astonishment. Yelling like fiends, Rokeby’s men charged home, and the crash of breaking lances and clatter of swords erupted through the morning. Spurring his horse, Merrivale rode east alone, quickly swallowed up by the fog.
He came to the Great North Road and reined in, listening. The wind whistled around him. Otherwise, apart from the sounds of combat fading away to the north, all was silent.
The fog swirled and parted a little. He saw the hamlet of Ferryhill away to the right, and nearer at hand a series of coal pits following a seam. Two horses stood near one of the pits. Beside them, two men stood talking. One was Harry Percy. The other wore a black Benedictine habit. A shaft of sunlight pierced the fog and illuminated both men, and Merrivale saw the face of Hugh de Tracey.
‘My nephew always spoke well of you and your family,’ Tracey said.
Harry Percy looked disbelieving. ‘I’ve never heard a banker speak well of anyone.’
Tracey’s voice was sharp in response. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I know about your correspondence with Agnes of Dunbar.’
Percy’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you blackmailing me?’
‘No, of course not. I want your help. And I want the countess’s help too.’
They heard the eruption of combat in the distance, a dim clamour muffled by the fog. ‘If you have played me false,’ Percy said grimly.
Brother Hugh raised his hands. ‘I swear before God I have not.’ Both men waited for a few minutes, tensed and listening. ‘The sound is moving away,’ Hugh said. ‘Perhaps a Scottish foraging party ran into one of your patrols.’
It was possible. Percy listened for a few more moments as the sound faded, and lifted his hand from his hilt. ‘You were saying.’
‘Rollond de Brus intends to kill his cousin David and proclaim himself king of Scotland.’
‘I know all about that. I know all about your conspiracy, too. The herald told me.’
‘That goddamned herald.’ Tracey’s voice was bitter. ‘None of this would have happened without that interfering bastard. Brus has broken ranks. He wants to seize control of Scotland and make the country his personal base of power. He tried to drag Gilbert and myself into his scheme. Wh
en we refused, he killed Gilbert. Now he is coming for me.’
‘Where does the Countess of Dunbar come in? Come to that, where do I come in?’
‘I know Brus and the countess hate each other. If he becomes king, she and her husband will soon be dead. I need her to kill Brus, and I need you to help me make contact with her.’
Percy considered this for a moment. ‘And just why should I help you?’
‘Because I can make you rich,’ said Tracey.
‘I’m already rich. Or will be, when the old man goes to his rest.’
‘Come on, Percy. You’re young and ambitious. Are you really content with your present estate? I can give you all of Northumberland, if you want it, and more besides.’
‘Really? How much more?’
Tracey said nothing. Instead there came the dull thud of a missile striking flesh and bone. The monk’s knees buckled and he fell heavily onto his face, his arms and legs twitching a little and his fingers clawing at the grass. A black crossbow bolt protruded from between his shoulder blades, buried up to the vanes. Percy looked up and saw another horseman standing just on the edge of the fog bank. The rider wore the white robe and black cloak of the Dominican friars, and he held a crossbow in his hands.
The herald turned towards Oswald, spurring his horse. The Dominican saw him coming, and hesitated. It would take him fifteen seconds to load and wind the crossbow, and by that time Merrivale would be on top of him. Cursing, he dropped the weapon and galloped hard away to the north with the herald pursuing him. More hoofbeats drummed in the heavy air; Harry Percy had mounted his horse and was following too.
Off to the left the fighting continued, invisible in the fog. They raced across the moor through patches of drifting mist, Oswald heading steadily north towards the Scottish army and safety. But the River Wear was about to cut across their path, and the only way over the Wear was the bridge on the Great North Road, not far from where Rokeby and Douglas were still hammering each other. Merrivale spurred his horse again. He wanted to catch Oswald before they became entangled in the fighting.
A Clash of Lions Page 33