Bruce let the words wash him, grim and uncaring as rock. I yield, he heard. He should heed that one. God was watching, after all.
More to the point, Badenoch and the rest of the Comyn were watching, so he lay closer, his head on Malenfaunt’s shoulder like an embracing friend, took Malenfaunt’s leaf-shaped dagger, bright with his own blood and shoved it up under the bucket helm to where it grated on the coiffed chin. He felt the man buck and start to shake his head from side to side, his metallic pig squeals increasing, his babbled desperation wilder still.
Then he put the heel of his hand on the hilt of the weapon and slammed hammer-blows until he felt it pop through the links, the flesh of the chin, then the tongue and the roof of Malenfaunt’s mouth. He knew that because the blood spurted and the babbling was so high only dogs could hear it. Then there was only a sickening ‘thu … thu … thu’ from a man whose desperate speeches were now all pinned.
The crowd was a great roaring beast, feeding on the pain and the blood.
One more blow would drive it up into the stem of the man – Bruce stopped then, for it was a message he was sending, not death.
He wobbled upright feeling the world whirl. The blood drooled from his mouth as he turned, half-blind like a blinkered horse; the crowd fell silent at the sight of him, at the twitching, moaning ruin that was Malenfaunt and into it, as loudly as he could muster, Bruce completed the bloody mummery of the day, spouting gore from his cheek with every word.
‘
Ai-je fait mon devoir?
’
The Marshal nodded but it was the throated roar of the crowd that revealed that Bruce had done his duty. Released like arrows, the squires and his brothers raced for him, even as his legs finally gave way.
Nunnery of the Blessed Saint Augustine, Elcho, Perth
Feast of the Blessed St Fillan, January, 1305
They had arrived in daylight when it should, to suit the mood and the deed, have been darkest night, she thought. A rare day as well, silvered with a weak coin of a sun fighting through the iron sky to shine on the enchantment of Elcho.
She and the escort of her husband’s grim dog-soldiers, all swagger and lust, came to it past herb banks and trellised rose bushes, black and clawed now but, she knew, a riot of beauty in the spring and summer. There was a carp pond, half-frozen and, beyond that, a cobbled path they had to walk to reach the nunnery, a series of stone buildings, some of the stones yellow, others rich pink, like jewels in the black-brown of it.
Arrow-slit windows and a stout door told much of how it had survived and the woman who came to the gate revealed more without saying a word. She was dressed in plain grey homespun, but wore a small gold cross on a chain about her neck. As tall as me, Isabel thought, and pale-haired under the headcover if her brows were anything to go by. Not white, though – in the plain, shapeless clothes and veil it was hard to guess her age, but Isabel thought her not greatly older than herself. She moved with dignity and bowed to Isabel.
‘The lord of Buchan craves shelter, lady, for his countess and protection from the world. He begs you instruct her in the ways of God.’
The
serjeant
said it by rote, having memorized it in mutters all the way here. The woman did not even look at him, but at Isabel.
‘I am the Prioress Bridget,’ she said simply and held out both hands. ‘Welcome. Are you with child?’
Isabel, taken aback, almost shook her head, then recovered herself.
‘If I was,’ she answered with bitter haughtiness, ‘I would not be here. And I am the Countess of Buchan.’
The prioress did not blench, merely nodded a receipt to this reminder of their station, but remained still as an icon, arms folded in her sleeves.
‘If you were,’ she answered blandly, ‘and are sent here, then it would not have been the Earl’s child.’
‘Countess,’ she added, with a slight, wintery smile, then looked at the scowling, shift-footed thugs.
‘Your task is done. You may leave the lady’s baggage – Elcho is no place for men.’
The
serjeants
went, dismissed like the dogs they were; Isabel smiled, liking this prioress, yet recalling the other time she spent in a nunnery in Berwick as a prisoner of Malenfaunt.
She turned, to take a last scornful look at the retreating backs of her husband’s thugs and saw another grey woman shut and bar the heavy door; she knew then that this was no different than the last time – save that the nuns here were truer Brides of Christ.
The prioress smiled softly, gentle as falling snow and just as cold.
‘Your husband sent word of your coming,’ she said. ‘Now we have established that an unwanted child is not the reason for your arrival, we may thank God for His guiding you here. We are to care for you and instruct you in the ways of God’s love.
Victoria veritatis est caritas –
the victory of truth is love
.’
Isabel followed her meekly, past where women, unveiled, shaved heads revealed, wore stained sacking overserks and worked with lime water and sinopia at marking out a fresh plastered wall for painting; the blood-red sinopia ran in sinister runnels, swiftly halted by squirrel-hair brushes before they could besmirch the glory of the Raising of Jairus’ Daughter.
Red lead and cups of gold dust for the halos lay nearby, showing the wealth of Elcho, and Isabel wondered at what Buchan had paid for this, her final instruction.
Her quarters were simple, but comfortable. The prioress pointed out where the wash place was, and the latrines, showed where meals would be served, and told Isabel how she would be called by the ringing of the bell.
There was no need to show where the chapel was, for the sound of chanting revealed it; the prioress offered another thin smile.
‘Qui cantat, bis ora,’
she said – who sings once, prays twice.
Alone, Isabel sank on the bedplace, feeling good springy heather and thick warm wool plaids. There was wood stacked beside the fireplace, but it was unlit and her breath smoked; a pair of panting nuns sweated in with her meagre baggage, all that had been garnered in the brief moments between her husband’s brusque instruction and her own departure from Balmullo.
There had been little time to do anything, but she had used it as wisely as she could. A quick press of coin and token into the hand of Ada, a whispered, urgent message and the swift secreting of a bundle in the depths of her cosmetics.
She hoped it would be enough, the first to bring rescue, the second to bring some succour and, after a moment, she hunted out the bundle, unwrapping it to reveal the contents, the remaining five bright berries of blood on the snowy linen.
Wallace had shoved them at her in the cold half-light of the hall on the morning he had limped away from Balmullo.
‘For yer love and care, ye mun have need o’ this, lady,’ he had said, ‘though sell them abroad and tell only those ye trust that ye have them. They are no use where I am bound, since no-one has the coin or the will to buy them in this country.’
The sixth ruby Apostle she had sent with Ada glowed brightly in her mind and she wondered who was there, clasped in the warmth of her tirewoman’s considerable cleavage. James the Greater? Matthew? Peter?
‘May the saints bless your sleep,’ the prioress had said portentously on taking her leave and had been puzzled at Isabel’s sharp reply.
‘I have no need of them – I have Apostles to bless me.’
The ruby nestled in the warm down of Ada’s bosom like a blood egg, shining with soft hope as she hurried through the night.
Holebourn Bridge, London
The Invention of John the Baptist’s Head, February, 1305
The rain came across the Fleet like a curtain, a thin, stinking mist of tar, salt, pickle and fish. It collided with the rich odour of meat and dung, pie shop and bakery, hissing on the smithy fire, rattling the flapping canopies of the stalls along the river.
Folk fled it, grey shapes scampering, looming out of it with faces soft as clay, baggy-cheeked and scowling, the women barrel-bottomed and harsh-voiced. Hal didn’t understand them, didn’t like the place, not even the comfort of the Earl of Lincoln’s Inn which they had just left, and thought the best of London lay back with the unseen St Andrew’s church where they had paused for word of Lamprecht.
Kirkpatrick, squinting from under a loop of cloak, grinned at Hal’s expression; the wee lord had never been in London before – Christ’s Blood, he had never been south of York – and the sights and sounds and stink of it were as stunning to his sense as a forge hammer on the temple.
Even to Kirkpatrick, who had been here twice before, it was hard to take. Tinkers, furriers, goldsmiths, hemp-sellers, all with the crudely-daubed bar over their stall to show what they were, bellowed against the calls of butcher and, above all, the horse copers, for this was the southern edge of Smoothfield, main market for livestock and the sale of prime horseflesh.
The frenetic throng was thinning as folk huddled in shelters from the rain, leaving the muddy, shit-clogged roadway to carts, barrows, litters. And the doggedly foolish like us, Hal thought bitterly as the rain wormed down his back.
‘Sty Lane,’ Kirkpatrick declared, pointing the fetid entrance to an alleyway. Hal wanted to know how he knew that, but did not bother to ask; Kirkpatrick’s skill at finding places and people had long since earned respect from Hal. Still, he did not like the look of the place, where the houses leaned in and blocked the sky, making it a dark and dangerous cave.
Two men came out of it, carrying the split carcass of a large pig, leaking rain-watered blood on to the sacking of their shoulders – which at least proves Kirkpatrick is right, Hal thought. Right, too, about Lamprecht making for here like a dog back to its own sick, though that had made no sense at first, even as they trailed him down to St Andrew’s and then the Purpure Lyon.
‘The little by-blow will offer this Mabs back the half-cross he has,’ Kirkpatrick had growled in answer. ‘In return, he will want passage to France, or Flanders or even Leon if he dares the crossing.’
‘Because that’s what you would do?’ Hal had queried, speaking in a soft hiss so as not to be heard by the muttering growlers and drinkers in the inn. They spoke French for the same reason and Kirkpatrick had laughed.
‘Because it is what I would not do. But I am clever and Lamprecht is not only afraid, he is as idiot as a moonstruck calf.’
‘He may have gone to Dover,’ Hal pointed out, not so convinced of Lamprecht’s stupidity. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
‘Without coin he can squat on the shingle and try to wish up a ship until we come on him, then.’
The more Hal looked at the rain-misted cleft of Sty Lane, the more the Lyon’s now-distant fug-warmth called to him. The Earl of Lincoln’s Inn had been the last haven for Lamprecht, two nights before; no-one called it anything other than the Purpure Lyon thanks to the sign, the arms of the Earl of Lincoln, nailed over the door. Lincoln owned it as he owned a deal of the land round it, but Hal doubted if the Earl had ever been in it. Which was a pity for him, since the roast goose had been a joy, with raisins, figs and pears in it. A barnacle goose, for it had been a fish day and that was aquatic, as any priest would tell you …
Kirkpatrick was on the move and Hal, flustered, shredded his dreams of food and followed on, hoping the rest of the plans made in the Lyon moved as smoothly.
The rain was flushing filth out of Sty Lane like a privy hole drain; Hal’s boots sloshed through a gurgling brown mess and the place stank, so that pushing into it made him open his mouth so as not to have to breathe through his nose.
Kirkpatrick stopped and Hal almost walked up his heels. There was silence save for the hiss and gurgle of rain and the squeal and honk of unseen pigs; sweat started to soak Hal from the inside at the sight of the grey shapes looming up in front of them.
Six he counted, their faces blurred by rain and beards and grease. Three wore broad-brimmed hats, turned up at the front and pinned so that the soaked droop of them would not blind them. Two wore coif hoods of rough wool, one a hat trimmed with ratty fur, all had the sacking tunics of slaughtermen, dark with old blood. Every one had a naked, long, knife.
‘Oo are ye and what d’yer wish in Sty Lane?’
Hal struggled with the thick accent, knowing it was English but unable to make it out without squinting. Kirkpatrick, seemingly easy, offered a smile and a spread of empty hands.
‘Looking fer Mabs,’ he declared. ‘Heard there was work for lads as was not afraid o’ blood.’
Which could mean much or little to slaughtermen, Hal thought, half crouched and silent in his role in the mummery. The rat-furred hat swivelled to take them both in, while the others circled in a ring; used to herding pigs, Hal thought wildly, his mouth dry, his heart thundering in his throat.
‘Sojers,’ Rat-Fur declared and then spat sideways. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
‘Have been, will be again if the shine is right. We knows the way of it, certes.’
Warned, Rat-Fur held his distance while the rain plinked and splashed. Then he nodded at Hal.
‘Tongueless, is he?’
‘From the Italies,’ Kirkpatrick countered smoothly. ‘Knows little of a decent way of speaking.’
Which hid Hal’s Scots accent.
‘Where did you hear about Mabs?’
The question came sudden as a hip-throw, but Kirkpatrick was balanced for it.
‘Old friend,’ he replied and winked. ‘Lamprecht. Ugly bastard of a pardoner. Said there was work in Sty Lane, with Mabs. Izzat yourself?’
Rat-Fur chuckled, glanced swiftly to his left. Oho, Hal thought, there is someone unseen jerking this one’s strings.
‘Not me,’ Rat-Fur said, while the others laughed, though there was little mirth in it. ‘Come and meet the bold Mabs, then.’
Cautious, sweating, Hal followed Kirkpatrick, who followed Rat-Fur, with the others closing in so that the flesh from the nape of Hal’s neck to his heels crawled with the unseen presence of them at his back. They went sideways, into a place of unbelievable stink and squeals from pigs jostling each other, as if they sensed that these men were slaughterers. That or the smell of old porker blood from them, Hal thought …