Up ahead was another hamlet on a low hill, the ground beyond sloping down towards the river. The hamlet, he remembered, was called Hett. A large wooden shed stood at the foot of the hill, black heaps of coal around it. The grass dipped and became uneven. Oswald’s horse stumbled, whinnying, and then went down in a tangle of thrashing legs, throwing the friar clear. He staggered to his feet, looking back to see the two horsemen bearing down on him, and turned and ran into the shed.
Merrivale pulled his lathered horse to a halt beside the building and slid from the saddle. Percy galloped up a few seconds later, dismounting and drawing his sword.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Covering your back. You said yourself that this might be a trap.’
‘For me, yes. Not for Tracey. I didn’t see that coming.’
‘What did Tracey want with you?’
‘He thought Brus wanted to kill him,’ Percy said, ‘and he wanted to get his retaliation in first. But he wasn’t fast enough.’
‘Oswald is a rogue who will do anything for money. If we find him, we can persuade him to talk.’
Percy nodded towards the shed. ‘Let’s go fetch him, shall we?’
* * *
Unlike the shallow pits in many fields, the miners at Hett had dug underground, following a rich seam of coal. The shed covered the entrance, keeping out rainwater which would otherwise have filled the tunnels. They descended a short wooden ladder and found several torches leaning against the wall with a tinderbox on a shelf above them. Merrivale lit one of the torches and held it up. Flickering light showed them a low, rough black tunnel with wooden props holding up the weight of the stones and earth above.
‘Come out, Oswald,’ he shouted into the tunnel. ‘If you do, we will spare your life. You have my word of honour.’
The words echoed down the tunnel and died away. There was no response. ‘We’ll have to drag him out,’ Percy said, drawing his sword. ‘I’ll go first. You light the way.’
Bending low, Percy entered the tunnel. Merrivale followed him, holding up the torch. Broken stone crunched under their feet. One of the pit props shifted alarmingly as they passed, sending little showers of earth and dust down from the ceiling. The mine was deserted; knowing of the armies nearby, the miners had either hidden themselves and their families or fled. Once Percy stopped, pointing to a sandalled footprint in the dust. ‘He’s here.’
After twenty yards the tunnel branched. They halted, listening. Both tunnels were dark but there was a sense of a presence, someone watching and listening, in the tunnel to the right. Merrivale pointed and they moved on, treading slowly and carefully, trying to ignore the little stones that fell from the ceiling and pinged off Percy’s armour. If the roof caved in now, all three of them would be trapped here forever.
They passed a cluster of tools leaning against the wall, picks and spades and baskets; they must be nearing the end. The tunnel curved around to the left and widened a little. They found themselves in a broader chamber cut out of the earth and rock. The black face of the coal seam glistened like ebony in the torchlight.
Oswald stood with his back to the coal face, holding a knife in one hand. His face was streaked with black dust and covered in sweat. He smiled a little. ‘Very clever of you to bring a torch. I fear I was in too much of a hurry.’
‘If you come with us, we will spare your life,’ said Merrivale.
‘Will you? What guarantees can you offer? Your word of honour isn’t good enough, I’m afraid. Having no honour myself, I don’t trust those who claim they do.’
‘We can give you protection,’ said Percy, ‘and an easy path out of the kingdom.’
Oswald smiled again, beads of sweat rolling down his broad face. ‘Protection? Can you keep me safe for the rest of my life? Can you save my immortal soul?’
No one answered. Oswald laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask for miracles. I know they’re keeping a seat warm for me in hell. In exchange for this protection, what do you want?’
‘Did Brus pay you to kill Tracey?’ the herald asked.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. You didn’t need to chase me through the underworld like Orpheus looking for Eurydice to learn that. Ask me a question where you don’t already know the answer.’
‘Is Brus acting alone? Or is he following his master’s orders?’
Oswald smiled again. ‘That’s more like it. Alone, of course. He has shaken off his master’s halter and is determined to set up a kingdom of his own, supported by his creatures. Carrick, Douglas, Béthune, Clennell.’
‘And the Traceys also turned against him,’ said Percy.
‘More correctly, they never joined him in the first place. They stayed true to their oath. That annoyed Brus. He wanted their loyalty, but even more than that, he wanted their money. That’s why he has brought the army to Durham now, to pillage the place and seize its treasury.’
Torchlight flickered off the black stone walls of the chamber. ‘You say the Traceys were true to their oath,’ the herald said. ‘Their oath to whom? Who is their master?’
The friar looked at him. ‘I’ll have that protection you promised me. Now, if you please.’
Percy nodded. ‘Let’s take him up,’ he said to Merrivale. ‘Go ahead with the torch. Friar, clasp your hands on top of your head and follow the herald. I’ll bring up the rear with my sword at your back. One false move, Oswald, and I’ll bleed you like a pig. Move.’
They retraced their steps, reaching the branch in the tunnels. Merrivale heard the sudden scrabbling behind him and tensed, but he was too late. Oswald slammed into him, pressing him hard against the wall of the tunnel. The torch fell from his hand, rolling onto the floor where it still flickered and flamed. Merrivale felt the sting of a knife blade against his throat.
‘Don’t move!’ Oswald snarled.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ the herald said quietly. ‘Drop the knife.’
‘Put up your sword, Percy, or I’ll cut his throat, by God I will.’
Out of the corner of his eye Merrivale saw Harry Percy hesitate, sword in hand. Raising his free hand, the herald stabbed his fingers back into Oswald’s face, seeking the other man’s eyes. Cursing, Oswald pulled his head back and the pressure of the knife relaxed for a second. Before the friar could move again, Percy took a long stride forward and ran his sword through the Dominican’s midriff. Oswald fell to the floor, blood pouring from his stomach. He screamed once with pain and Percy stabbed him again, this time through the heart. He shuddered convulsively and then went limp.
Merrivale stared at Percy. ‘We needed him alive,’ he said.
‘On the whole, herald, I think you are rather more valuable.’ Percy gestured with his sword. ‘Leave this carrion where he lies. The miners will find him when they next come down. Let’s go.’
Sunderland Bridge, 17th of October, 1346
Morning
As promised, Rokeby had done more than just hold the Scots at bay. Not expecting opposition, Douglas’s men had been caught off guard by the sudden charge through the fog. After a brief fight they turned and fled towards the bridge over the Wear, pursued by Rokeby’s hobelars who caught them just as they reached the bridge. Here, the fight turned into a slaughter. Hemmed in against the river and the stone parapets of the bridge the Scots could not fight back and the Northumbrians killed them one by one. By the time Merrivale and Percy arrived, Douglas and the survivors had fled across the bridge and up the hill beyond and Rokeby’s men were dragging up bodies and piling them in rows. Coils of blood stained the waters of the Wear.
‘Douglas escaped, I am sorry to say,’ Rokeby said. ‘That man has the luck of the devil. John Grey ran him through with a sword last year, and he still got away.’
He looked at Merrivale. ‘Did you do what you needed to do?’
‘Yes, and no,’ said Merrivale. ‘We will need to send word to the priory at Durham. Their treasurer is dead. His body is in a field up near Ferryhill.’
Rokeby looked sur
prised. ‘We’ll send a party to fetch it back to the priory once the fighting is over,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Merrivale told him. He was still angry with Percy, and the latter knew it. ‘I knew Oswald was a spy,’ Rokeby said at the end. ‘I never thought of him as a killer.’
‘He was,’ Merrivale said. ‘Just not a very efficient one. Like so many, he was seduced by the money Brus paid him.’ The jangle of harness and rattle of horseshoes echoed down the road from the south. ‘Here comes the army. All we can do now is go forward, and discover what destiny awaits us.’
31
Neville’s Cross, 17th of October, 1346
Afternoon
They could hear the Scots army even before they saw it, the sounds of men chanting and singing, the blare of trumpets and hammer of drums, the wailing of pipes drifting out over the moor. Passing Neville’s Cross with the cathedral on the far side of the river, Merrivale realised it was less than a month since he had last ridden this way. It felt like an entire age of humanity had gone by.
Ahead lay another moor, open grassland clumped with heather and gorse, swept by a cold north wind. The first companies of the vanguard were already deploying into line of battle, men-at-arms under the blue lion banner of Percy and the white saltire of Lord Neville dismounting and forming long lines brilliant with metal and colour. Wedges of green and russet-clad archers formed up on each flank; the same formation as at Crécy but with fewer men, far fewer.
The archbishop’s division pulled into line alongside the vanguard, the men-at-arms sending their horses back to the rear. Merrivale dismounted too, handing over his horse to Warin and sending him to join Mauro with the baggage train. There was no sign of Mary or Tiphaine, which was good; he could trust Mora of Islay to protect them. The archbishop, sweating under the unaccustomed weight of his armour, was directing his men into position; fairly competently, Merrivale thought, although his experienced Yorkshire knights knew their business and needed little in the way of orders. The third division under Rokeby’s command had halted further back by the pilgrim cross; they were the army’s reserve. The Disinherited took up their position in the centre of the line, making a tight formation around the white lion of de Lisle. Merrivale thought of the boy they had buried at Chipchase, and wondered if that pain would ever fade.
Up ahead the Scottish scouts were falling back towards the clamorous main body. Like the English the Scots had dismounted, all except for one company behind the main line under the banner of the Earl of Menteith. Unlike the English men-at-arms who were standing in lines, the Scots had formed up into tight wedges known as schiltrons, with the most heavily armoured men at the front. The royal standard, the red lion rampant on yellow, fluttered on the right of the Scottish line, facing the archbishop’s men. He could see the king too, up front where his men could see him; David Bruce lacked many things, the herald thought, but courage was not one of them. Other familiar devices could be seen around him, the red saltire of Brus, the gold and blue of Béthune, the lion of Bruce of Carrick, the red heart of Douglas. The herald’s eyes narrowed a little. The inner circle, the trusted conspirators were all gathered near the king.
Over on the left were the red diamonds of Moray, his highland men chanting and slamming their swords against their shields. Further back, on a little rise in the ground, Merrivale saw the colours of Dunbar. He wondered what was going through the minds of Agnes and her husband. We tried to prevent this moment, and we failed, he thought. Now, everything is in the hands of God.
Zouche was looking at the enemy lines too. His face was pale beneath the visor of his bascinet. ‘Trust in your captains, your Grace,’ Merrivale said quietly. ‘They are men of great experience. They will not let you down.’
The archbishop gestured towards the enemy. ‘Their captains are experienced too. And they have numbers.’
‘But the ground is not in their favour,’ Sir Robert de Lisle said. ‘Whoever chose this battlefield chose unwisely. There is no room for manoeuvre. Their only choice is a frontal attack.’
It was true, Merrivale saw. To the east the ground fell away steeply towards the Wear, with Durham’s towers rising on the far side; the bells of the cathedral were tolling nones. To the west was a slightly less steep incline down to another river, the Browney. The spine of high moorland between them was further narrowed by deep valleys of tributary streams running down to the rivers, and sandstone quarries above the banks of the Browney presented sheer cliffs. There was absolutely no chance of a flank attack, by either side.
Zouche hesitated for a moment. ‘What do you advise we do, Sir Robert?’
‘Stand and wait,’ said de Lisle.
‘Wait? For how long?’
‘For as long as it takes,’ the old man said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. ‘Time is one thing we have plenty of.’
They waited. Across the moor the Scots waited too, drums still hammering, pipes wailing. Merrivale saw the familiar gold and red colours of Lyon Herald making his way towards the English lines, and he called to the archbishop. ‘The enemy wish to parley, your Grace.’
‘We must observe the conventions,’ Zouche said. ‘Go and speak to them, Sir Herald.’
‘What terms may I offer?’
Zouche glanced at de Lisle. ‘Tell them to lay down their arms,’ the old man said. ‘If they do, we will allow them to return unmolested to Scotland.’
The men around them murmured a little. They knew there was no chance the Scots would agree, and they were glad. They don’t care about the numbers against them, Merrivale thought. Some have already lost their homes in Northumberland and the west, and now they want blood.
He walked forward, seeing at once what de Lisle meant. The ground was rough and undulating, and the thorny spines of gorse and tangled roots of heather presented obstacles to both sides. The enemy had the wind at their backs, which would assist their archers, but they had very few of these left now; too many had been killed or wounded at Liddel Strength. Lyon Herald had stopped halfway between the two armies, and he waited for Merrivale to reach him.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, looking up at the skies. ‘Is it going to rain again?’
‘This moorland will turn into a bog if it does,’ Merrivale said. ‘The soil here is even worse than Dartmoor. What do you have for me, Archie?’
‘You can probably guess. Lay down your arms, withdraw south of the Tees, swear an oath not to take up arms against Scotland for a year.’
Merrivale looked surprised. ‘A year? That’s asking a lot. All we demand is that you return to Scotland.’
‘I thought our proposal was more imaginative. I take it the answer is no?’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Likewise,’ said Lyon Herald. ‘What are your lot planning to do, Sim?’
‘Stand fast, and hold their position until you attack.’
‘Unsurprisingly, our side are doing the same. Aye, it’s a staring contest,’ said Graham. He looked around. ‘I don’t like this field. The ground is too rough and too narrow. I thought Brus was supposed to know his business.’
‘He’s a better plotter than he is a soldier, I reckon. Still, you have the numbers.’
Graham shook his head. ‘Ground is more important than numbers, Sim. You know that. I’d say it’s an even contest.’ He looked up at the sky again. ‘We’d better get back.’
‘Good luck, Archie.’
‘You too, lad.’
Back at the archbishop’s post in the second line, Merrivale made his report. ‘They’re waiting for us to make the first move, your Grace.’
De Lisle leaned on his sword. ‘Hold your position, your Grace. Make them come to us. Let them make the first mistake.’
Across the moor, the pipes and drums had fallen silent. The cathedral bells had stopped too. Silence fell over the battlefield.
* * *
Armoured like the men around her, Agnes of Dunbar moved up to stand beside her husband at the head of the rearguard. ‘Will the king hold his nerve?’ she aske
d.
Dunbar looked at her. ‘You know as well as I do that it isn’t the king we need to worry about,’ he said. ‘It is the men around him.’ He paused. ‘When he appointed me commander of a division, I thought he had begun to trust me. Instead here I am, stuck far behind the line of battle.’
‘He does trust you,’ Agnes said. ‘As commander of the reserves, you will know when to intervene, and how.’
Dunbar shook his head. ‘I received an order this morning, from Brus. Once battle is joined, we are not to advance without a direct order from the king himself.’
The Master of Kinross turned his head. ‘Brus gave this order? In the king’s name?’
‘Yes. Brus thinks he can win the battle himself, and we are to have no share in the glory.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ said Kinross.
Dunbar said nothing more. Silence fell once again. Both sides waited, the wind whipping at the bright standards and banners. In the trees down by the Browney the crows cawed, waiting for their feast.
* * *
With dreamlike slowness, the passion play of battle began to unfold.
The first move came from the English side. Three hundred archers detached themselves from Lord Percy’s division, moving cautiously forward towards the wedges of Scottish spearmen. Zouche stiffened. ‘What are they doing? The orders were to hold fast.’
‘Trust Lord Percy, your Grace,’ said de Lisle. ‘He is trying to tempt them to attack.’
At two hundred and fifty yards the archers raised their bows and began to shoot. Even at a distance the men around the archbishop could hear the clatter of arrowheads striking metal. The Scottish schiltrons huddled together, men raising their shields to ward off the arrows. The archers were shooting at long range and into a stiff wind, meaning that by the time the arrows arrived at their target they had lost much of their penetrative force; but even so, a Scot fell, then another, and another. More men staggered back wounded, and the schiltrons began to lose their tight formation.
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