He was where Hal had left him, still hobbling desperately, but he stopped when he heard the hooves ring on the frozen ruts. Then his face got grim through the pain.
‘One?’
Hal told him, swiftly and Kirkpatrick groaned and hauled himself to the stirrup leather.
‘Aye. Well, there ye have it. Now ye can say that I am mainly for sense, save ower that wummin and have yer revenge.’
‘Haul yourself up,’ Hal declared. ‘We can ride double. Get settled while I have a listen for the hounds.’
He moved off, cocking his head and straining to hear deep into the dark, judging by the questing bell of the dogs whether they were on the scent or still looking. There was a sudden movement behind him and he turned, in time to see the dark figure spring out of the shadow between two howfs and run at Kirkpatrick’s back.
Kirkpatrick, laboriously hauling himself into the saddle of the patient mount, heard the final boot scuff too late; the blow smacked him in the back, slammed him into the horse, which skittered away and let Kirkpatrick fall and roll in the slush.
He knew he had been attacked and by whom, knew he had been stabbed, too, and was astonished by it, for he had never been in all his life so far. So that is what it is like to have the knife in, he thought, that terrible feeling of steel violating a place it should not be, that sickening, sucking grip of his own flesh, as if reluctant to see the blade withdrawn. Then the burn hit him and he struggled to rise.
‘Ye filthy boo,’ Nichol was spitting, breathing hard and standing straddle-legged. ‘Ye golach gowk-spit. I will learn ye to get on my wummin …’
He was cursing half in triumph, half in horror at what he had done, then turned and bellowed at the top of his voice.
‘Here. Over here. I have Black Roger …’
Then he remembered the reputation of the man who was struggling back to his weaving legs and whirled to face him, uncertain of what to do and afraid to close and finish it. The sudden clack of boots behind him made him whirl again, in time to see Hal come running up, the great blade of the sword bright in one hand.
Nichol yelped and fled, shrieking; Hal let him and darted to where Kirkpatrick, down on his one good knee, was gasping.
‘Christ and all His Saints,’ he panted. ‘That is sore.’
‘You are alive yet,’ Hal said, lifting him so that he grunted with pain.
The hounds were close, their baying loud. Hal forced Kirkpatrick up into the saddle, then looked steadily into the man’s pain-filled eyes.
‘Get gone back to your king,’ he said flatly. ‘Tell Dog Boy what happened here.’
Kirkpatrick knew that the horse would not outrun the dogs with two, knew what Hal was going to do and almost railed against it, but the hand came down on the horse’s rump and it sprang away into the night, leaving Kirkpatrick with all he could do to hang on as it went.
Hal was aware of what he had done, what was coming, with the small part of his mind not calculating the trajectory of the arrowing dogs. If he thought at all of whether Kirkpatrick deserved this, or whether this was some martyr’s posturing in the Kingdom’s Cause, it never registered more than a flicker.
He was here. He was a knight, defending the back of a weaker man who, for all his faults, had more to offer his king. It was enough …
The first dog darted out like a slim wraith and Hal stepped sideways, slashed once and left it tumbling behind him, yelping. The second he speared, but the wrench of it tore the sword from his grasp and then the rush of men came up, led by Fitzwalter and the Hospitaller, the fat young Ross lad peching up behind.
‘Alive,’ roared Fitzwalter. ‘Alive …’
Hal fought with fists and boots and teeth, until something crashed on him, a world of pain and dark scarlet, as if he had dived into a bloody pool that grew black and old the deeper he fell.
Then there was darkness only.
Crossraguel Abbey, Ayrshire
Feast of St Drostan, July, 1307
The fields lolled, the forest was still, both breathing in the hot air of noon through leaves and grasses, sifted with dragonflies, green frogs and brown toads all looking to the relief of water. There were curlews and hares and squirrels – but most of all, there were flies.
They came to feast on the bloat of dead cattle and sheep, rising off the carcasses as thick as the smoke that curled from the abbey buildings. Folk moved with cloths over their mouths against the stink and even the hardiest of them winced at the smell.
‘Bad cess to them,’ Jamie Douglas said and the Dog Boy, looking at the bloodied, snarling muzzles of the abbot’s dead hounds, could only agree. Bad cess to the English, who had viciously swiped one petulant claw at the defenceless, as if to reassure themselves that they were still in charge despite being beaten at Loudon Hill scant weeks before.
That had been the garland on a new spring. There had been a long hard winter of exile and then, as the thaw melted everything to drip and yellow, the news went out, leaping from head to head like wildfire.
The King was back.
Slowly, like a winter bear emerging from its cave, the Scots crawled out into the Kingdom and started to make their mark against the surprised English.
Kirkpatrick had been busy, too, with coin and promises, most of which came to ripeness – the last fruits had arrived only the night before, clutched in the brown mouth of a man who looked like a packman and had been taught as a priest.
There were a score or more of them, men and women both. Anonymous as dust and dark, they went where Kirkpatrick sent them and did as they were bid for revenge, the promise of advancement or – and Kirkpatrick’s cynical nature was amazed by it – increasingly for belief in the King and the Kingdom.
This one brought news.
‘He’s dead,’ the man said and, for a moment, Kirkpatrick felt the coursing shock of it plunge him to limpness – then the next words rushed him with relief.
‘At Burgh on the Sands, a week or less. They have not told the army yet.’
Longshanks. The news should have raised Kirkpatrick up, but he was too relieved that it was not the other man he had set agents to watching. Not Hal, then – Kirkpatrick blew out his cheeks. He had found where Hal was held and did not understand why the man was still alive. But he was, though no closer to rescue than before.
Now Kirkpatrick waited impatiently while the abbot of the charred Crossraguel, grim and resigned, accepted the commiserations of his king – after all, the Bruces of Carrick had founded the place and it was donations from there that kept it going. So the abbot tried to ignore the ruin and war that had been brought to him, smiled and bowed and fervently agreed to keep perpetual Mass for the souls of the King’s brothers, Thomas and Alexander, who had been slain at the start of the year.
The chapel was a miracle of beauty, left untouched even by de Valence’s rabble. It was a beautiful kingfisher of stone, small and perfect as a jewel, whose glowing painted walls were barely smoked by time, tallow and incense.
Bruce genuflected and then knelt, placing his hands on the eternal, untarnished altar as if to force it to prevail over the memory of those he mourned. He remained kneeling while all those half-in and half-out of the dimmed cool vault of it dared not come any closer, even though some were kin. Even the King’s chaplain remained outside, hands clasped inside his sleeves and head bowed.
They looked at the disordered, bowed head, the long, scarred face and the hands laid flat on the cold stone and thought he looked the very image of a warrior king, bowing before his Maker to ask for mercy and peace for those lost and for help in returning to claim the Kingdom from the Plantagenet father and son. They lowered their own heads, for they were back in the Kingdom – and would need all of God’s help to stay.
Bruce felt them like the rustle of moths in darkness, his mind full of the sins he had committed – and the ones yet to come – while the harsh taint of burning seemed to heighten the loss of two more of his brothers; Alexander, especially, was a crushing ache, for Bruce would miss the inciteful young mind.
Then there were the others, the defectors and waverers – Randolph, his own nephew, taken at Methven and pardoned into King Edward’s good grace on condition that he fought for the English; that he had so readily agreed to it was what rankled. And young David Strathbogie, new Earl of Atholl, who had been panicked enough to run off and clamour for English mercy from the very king who had hanged his father.
He heard the sudden burst of wild laughter, angrily shushed, that marked where Jamie Douglas had arrived from yet another
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raid; even he had wavered and sent a letter that seemed to beg King Edward’s mercy. The success at Loudon Hill had forestalled him and both he and Bruce pretended no such letter had happened at all, yet it was an ache to Bruce that even Black Sir James, who so hated the English, had been brought low enough to offer a hand to them.
But young Alexander Bruce was the worst loss, the more so because all he had wanted was to be a scholar. Now only Kirkpatrick knew the secret he and Alexander had shared and Bruce was aware of the irony of events; I am returned and my forces swell daily, but even as my kingdom grows the circle of those I can trust shrinks.
As if in response, Kirkpatrick hirpled up, pushing through the throng, even shouldering past the scowl of the last brother, Edward.
Kirkpatrick felt as he knew he must look – grey-faced and sick. Nichol’s knife had missed vitals by a fingerwidth and the recovery from it had been seven long, feverish and painful months; even now he was not fit for much – yet he was still invaluable to his king, more so now than ever.
In the dim of the chapel he waited until Bruce had raised himself up, crossed himself and turned back into the world. Then he said it, having thought of ways to present it all the limping way here and discarding them at the last.
‘Longshanks is dead,’ he said flatly. ‘Has been for a week or more, but they will not announce it yet for fear of taking the heart out of the army. They wait for the son to arrive.’
There was a long pause and Kirkpatrick knew that others had heard him say it – the sudden shouts rippled out as the news leaped from head to head.
Bruce did not need to ask if Kirkpatrick was sure. Instead, he turned away, blinded by a sudden spring of tears and Kirkpatrick looked on, amazed; the Covetous King had slaughtered three of his brothers, imprisoned his queen, his sisters and daughter – yet Bruce wept for him.
Bruce was surprised himself, yet he knew the lie of it and knew, also, that everyone had seen the same and was marvelling at it. The tale would spread, of the saintly king who could weep for the death of his worst enemy, though the truth was something Bruce would never admit – that it was simple relief and release.
Longshanks was dead. This is the moment I should have waited for, he thought, the moment to claim the throne. If he had waited until now, if he had never gone to Greyfriars, so much might have been different – Thomas and Niall and Alexander …
He threw it from him with a violent shake of his head and turned into Kirkpatrick’s worried frown, not helped by the sight of his king’s face, the livid scar above and below the left eye and the still unhealed blight of his right cheek.
Yet the King was smiling and his eyes glittered as he looked at all the expectant faces.
‘The pard is dead – now the lion can roar,’ he said and they murmured their approval. The abbot began offering thanks to God, sonorous and fervent, while folk bowed, crossed themselves and knelt.
Bruce had a sudden vision of his grandfather’s face, grim as a shroud. The Competitor had been the one who had dinned into him the justice and rights of the Bruce claims to kingship, pointedly ignoring the disapproving scowls of Bruce’s own father, who seemed to have turned his back on all of that.
Until now, Bruce had reviled his father for his lack of spine, for not having the commitment that drove The Competitor and himself. Hag-ridden, he had thought, by the Curse of Malachy.
Now he knew the truth that his father had realized long before – there was no God in the right of the Bruces to rule. Brothers, friends, marriage, the grace of golden opinion, peace of mind, the very wine of life – even eating and sleeping – had all been subsumed and sold for a throne and what went with it. Smiling lies and mouthed honour, deceptions, delusions and the accusing whispers of Judas. Scorpions of the soul. The Curse of Malachy.
Ambition, he now knew, was the Devil.
Burgh-on-Sands, Cumbria
Feast of St Swithun, July, 1307
The world had ended days ago, yet somehow people moved and spoke and acted as if it had not. The Royal clerk himself found that there were still matters to attend to, ones which always took him back to the room, laden with sweet-smelling flowers and herbs and burning incense that still failed to hide the stink.
He was here again, standing at the door of the room where the world had ended, with his head down so that all he saw were the clacking boots that arrived – green and red leather, fine heels and Cordoban workmanship, all muddied with hard travel.
‘You are?’
He raised his head into the eyes of the Lord of Caernarvon, seeing the resemblance, like a blur in water, to his beloved king. He is as tall, he thought …
‘Norbert the Notary,’ said a voice at Caernarvon’s elbow as the clerk hesitated. The Lord Monthermer, he noted, struggling to find his voice.
‘You took my father’s last words down?’ demanded Edward and Norbert nodded, fumbling for the parchment; Edward waved impatiently, then indicated the closed door.
‘In there?’
Norbert nodded again and Monthermer stepped forward and flung it open, then recoiled at the smell, cupping his nose and mouth with one hand.
‘A week dead,’ Edward said thinly, ‘in this damp heat and having died of a bloody flux of the bowel. You should have expected that, my lord – what did he say, at the end?’
Norbert, taken by surprise at the last sharply-barked question, hummed and erred, then brought out the parchment of it, though the truth was that he knew it by heart.