After every battle came the administration. He had written his report the day after the fighting, laying out the losses the Scots had suffered; the earls of Strathearn and Moray, Bruce of Carrick, the Marischal and the constable dead along with thousands of others; David Bruce and most of the rest of the earls, including Menteith and Sutherland, prisoners in English hands. It was a victory even more complete in some ways than Halidon Hill. His report also commended the very important role played by the northern barons, Lord Percy and his son Sir Harry, Lord Neville, Lord Wake and Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville, and expressed regret over the loss of the gallant Sir Robert de Lisle. No word, no hint of possible treason entered his report; it was as if those days of doubt and uncertainty had never existed. In his mind’s eye he saw again The Dream of Scipio lying on the table, its cover boards gathering dust.
A second, private report for the king noted that Rollond de Brus and Thomas Clennell were dead along with Hugh and Gilbert de Tracey, but William Blyth and Guy of Béthune had escaped. Some of the tendrils had been cut down, but others were still flourishing. The conspiracy was still alive; the threat to King Edward was real and immediate.
* * *
He had come down to London by sea, travelling with Lady Mary and Tiphaine. In London there had been a long and wearying delay. The queen had crossed to France to join her husband at Calais, but there were still interviews with Stratford, the president of the council, and Ufford the lord chancellor, and various clerks and officials at the Treasury and Chancery who were slowly unravelling the financial affairs of the Traceys and William Blyth. Lady Mary had handed over Blyth’s accounts and gone back to her family, after a gently emotional farewell with Tiphaine.
‘What are you going to do?’ Mary had asked her.
‘Go with the herald, I suppose. There is nothing else for me to do.’
‘You could come with me. We would welcome you at Hargate.’
‘But what would I do there? I love you for the friendship you have shown me, Mary, but prison and war have changed me. I cannot live life as you do.’
She was beside the herald now, wrapped in a black cloak and staring at the dark waves sliding past the rail. Merrivale watched her, quietly. Over the course of the summer and early autumn they had grown closer together, a little, but now there were shadows between them. Seeing Yolande again had shaken him, badly; guilt and remorse had eaten into his old wounds and reopened them. For her part, she had said she could live with killing Rollond de Brus in such a manner. She had not said she could live comfortably.
He had not burned Yolande alive, but at times he thought he might as well have done; Brus’s suffering had lasted for a few hours, but Yolande’s had endured for years. But he still did not know whether he could trust Yolande. When she asked him to run with her, had that been a trap to deliver him into the hands of her husband and Brus? Perhaps.
‘What will we find at Calais?’ Tiphaine asked finally, breaking the silence.
‘By all reports, not very much. The French are sitting inside the city, the English are camped outside, and it is hard to tell who is more uncomfortable. We have closed off the land approaches to the city, but the French are still able to run in supplies by sea. It’s what Archie Graham would call a staring contest.’
‘Archie. Are all you heralds so friendly?’
‘We get along,’ Merrivale said. ‘We get to know each other well during our travels. There is a kind of fellowship that binds us, or most of us.’
‘I wonder what that feels like? To find a place where you belong?’
He wanted to say to her, perhaps you have already found it, but he held back. Too much was uncertain in both their lives, too much darkness and pain. Perhaps the moment would come when they could talk openly of their past. Or perhaps it would never come.
She hesitated before speaking, as if she could sense his own dark mood. Probably she could; she could read him well by now, better perhaps than she realised. ‘Will you find another apprentice?’ she asked.
Another wound, another pain, though this one was something they could share. ‘I don’t think I could bear it,’ he said finally.
‘No. I understand that. It was like losing a member of one’s family.’
He wondered briefly about Yolande’s son – their son – and then slammed and locked that door in his mind.
‘While you look for a new home,’ he said, ‘you are welcome to remain with me. I warn you this winter is likely to be a hard one.’
‘Harder than last summer, or the past two months? You have always been kind to me. I cannot think what I have done to deserve it.’
‘Nothing,’ he said. He turned his head and smiled at her. ‘Kindness isn’t something that is deserved, Tiphaine. It is not bartered or exchanged. If it was, it wouldn’t be kindness.’
‘When you start to talk like a philosopher, I know you are trying to cheer me up. You don’t have to, you know. I am not sad, my spirits are not depressed. But I am not the same person I was a month ago.’
The ship was rounding the North Foreland now, setting a course for Calais. They felt the change in the motion of the ship, pitching and rolling in the strong currents. ‘Do you still think Bishop Hatfield is the man from the north?’ she asked.
The change of subject came as a relief to him, and he suspected to her as well. ‘It is possible. Of course, that might be too obvious. But I shall certainly begin with him.’
‘Let me know how I can help.’ She looked up at him, forestalling any possible objection. ‘Don’t hold me at arm’s length, Simon, or tell me I need protection. I am already part of this story, and I will be there when it ends.’
‘Whatever that end may be,’ he said, and they stood in silence, watching as the dark shape of the coast of France began to slide out of the mist.
Acknowledgements
It is impossible to remember and thank everyone who has helped us with a series of books so long in the making. First and foremost we must thank our wonderful agents, Jon Wood at RCW and Heather Adams and Mike Bryan at HMA for all their support and thoughts going forward. The team at Canelo have been great as usual; thanks to Kit Nevile for editing, suggestions, advice, support and encouragement, and especially for making things easy for us during a time of chaos. Elodie Olson-Coons has done a brilliant job of copy-editing, and Nick Venables has done a superb cover illustration; as Kit says, he knocked it out of the park. Thanks to Gary Beaumont for his last-minute work on the map.
Thanks as always to Cogito Books in Hexham; sorry we had to burn your town down, but we hope you will think it was worth it! Thanks finally to Steve, Bat, Xav and Raf for a wonderful lunch just down the hill from the battlefield at Neville’s Cross; one of the highlights of the year. And finally, thanks to the Scottish borders, Northumberland and Durham for providing such a spectacular backdrop to write about, and a wonderful place to visit.
About the Author
A.J. Mackenzie is the pseudonym of Marilyn Livingstone and Morgen Witzel, an Anglo-Canadian husband-and-wife team of writers and historians. They write non-fiction history and management books under their own names, but ‘become’ A.J. MacKenzie when writing fiction. Morgen has an MA in renaissance diplomacy from the University of Victoria, but since the late 1990s has concentrated on writing books on leadership and management. Several of his books have been international best-sellers. Marilyn has a PhD in medieval economic history from the Queen’s University, Belfast. She is a musician who writes music and also plays in a silver band and sings in an a capella trio. They have written two books of medieval history together, and also several novels, including the Hardcastle & Chaytor mysteries set on Romney Marsh during the French Revolution.
Also by A.J. MacKenzie
The War of 1812 Epics
The Ballad of John MacLea
The Hunt for the North Star
Invasion
The Hundred Years’ War
A Flight of Arrows
A Clash of Lions
The Fallen
Sword
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Oxford OX2 0DF
United Kingdom
Copyright © A.J. MacKenzie, 2021
The moral right of A.J. MacKenzie to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN 9781800322844
Print ISBN 9781800324848
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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