Lion at Bay (33 page)

‘This is the red murderer of the Lord of Badenoch.’

Near Cupar Castle, Fife

Next day – the English Feast of St Margaret of Scotland, June, 1306

The monk’s face was inflamed, even over the wind-chilled redness that had chapped his cheeks and his dark olive eyes were brilliant with outrage. De Valence sighed and shifted in the saddle; his buttocks ached and the damp that was not quite rain, not quite mist seeped straight through the layers of leather and linen, maille and padding to gnaw his very bones.

He wanted a fire and hot food and something warm and spiced. He did not want an outraged Italian abbot.

‘In God’s holy name,’ this annoyance persisted stubbornly. ‘You must put a stop to this. It is against Heaven.’

Aymer de Valence agreed. He was also aware that this figure, trembling more with outrage and cold in his white wool swaddling, was Abbot Alberto of Milan, sent from York to ensure that the holy presences of Bishops Lamberton and Wishart were not harmed by their rebellion.

Before that, the shivering, sallow little priest had been sent from Rome to investigate the increasingly disturbing reports of outrage among the Templar knights in England – and the wilds of war-ravaged Scotland. He was finding more than he had expected, de Valence noted grimly, on that matter.

What outraged the good abbot was a murmur among the rain-darkened trees, trunks and twisted branches so black it seemed they had absorbed their own shadows. It was, in truth, a stark, eldritch horror which, under other circumstances, de Valence would have ridden down, shouting for God’s help and swinging a cleansing blade.

Not now, all the same. Now the dragon had been raised and the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ were caught in the vice of it – Aymer thought that was rather good. The vice of it; he had little sympathy nowadays with the Templars, whose arrogance and faked poverty had been annoying and whose blasphemies, if reports were to be believed, were vile – did his own men not say, grinning and nudging each other, that they were ‘going to the Temple’ each time they visited a brothel?

Still, what was being done was not exactly chivalrous, but that was the nature of matters when the dragon was raised by an angry king – it would breathe its fire on all, even an Order Knight who had contrived to entangle himself in a war he should have avoided.

Breathing fire was what the dragon was doing, if the Welsh could ever stir it to life. De Valence needed those dark, vengeful half-pagan little Welsh dwarves happy and, most of all, not focusing any resentment on himself. If that meant turning them loose to do what they pleased on a hated enemy, so be it.

Yet the abbot wore a ring on one finger which had the
biscione
engraved on it, a marvellous depiction of a coiled serpent seemingly eating a man but, in actual fact, giving birth to him – de Valence was sorely tempted to point out the heathen origins of that symbol.

He did not, for the symbol was the coat-of-arms of the Viscontis of Milan, one of the most powerful families in Lombardy and the conduit to papal sanction. Alberto may have been the least scion of it, but he was still a member and he had a slew of Inquisition priests at his back, the sinister black Hounds of God, the Dominicans.

‘My dear Abbot Alberto,’ he said through a smile like a sewer grating, ‘you must see that I cannot put a stop to it. This Templar has put himself beyond the pale and contrived to slay some of the Welsh in his attempts to evade capture. I have influence, no more – and it seems that my influence does not stretch to interfering with their … singular observances.’

‘Singular,’ shrilled the abbot, lifting the word out of himself so that de Valence fancied he saw the monk step out of his own shoes. ‘Observances.’

The little Italian opened and closed his mouth, the words so crowding his mouth, like gulls falling on abandoned fish, that he could not get a single one out. Taking advantage, Aymer waved one metal-gloved hand.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘These are Welsh, from the distant mountains of my lord’s kingdom and only recently gathered unto God’s blessing, for all that priests like yourself have waved censors and crosses and prayers over their peaks and forests for centuries. It is hardly surprising that they have … odd practices.’

‘Odd!’

It was a shriek now, so loud that it brought the heads of the Welsh round and de Valence closed his eyes and hoped they would not be offended. He felt the wolf stare of the one called Addaf fall on him and offered a prayer; if that one started in to be outraged, there would be a blood-bath and, though he had no doubt he and his handful of knights would kill them, it would certainly mean an end to the service of all his Welsh. The smoke of the badly-burning fire cloaked over them like a vile benediction.

Mark you, Aymer said to himself, ‘odd’ was perhaps the wrong choice of words for what was happening in the clearing a little way away.

In it was a piled heap of damp faggots that the Welsh were trying to fan into life. In the centre of it, staked fore and aft, was a mercifully dead horse – a fine
destrier
, Aymer noted wistfully, that had deserved a better fate than to be throat-slit and then staked upright, as if still alive. And one, he added viciously to himself, that a supposed Poor Knight should never have been riding.

The Poor Knight was riding it still, lashed to the dead animal in his armour, bucket helmet on, broken arms fitted with shield and a lance bound to his shattered fingers. Fully armed and mailled, the Templar sat the horse, his mouth gagged under the helmet, still alive and waiting to burn.

If the Welsh could ever get the fire lit.

A stocky, cadaverous man wearing a studded jack and a green hood shouted instructions and the Welsh obeyed Addaf, fetching more wood, more lit torches, fanning the flames while the pyre sputtered and smoked; the edifice rocked a little as the desperate knight struggled.

The Welshman and the abbot from Rome had bristled and scowled at each other when they had met, one making warding signs as well as the cross with string-calloused fingers, the other crossing himself and offering a clasp-handed prayer. Like barely leashed mastiffs, de Valence thought wearily; my money is still on Addaf, the Welsh archer they called Mydr ap Mydvydd – Aim the Aimer.

‘Madness,’ Abbot Alberto spat. ‘This is madness. The Pope shall hear of it.’

‘The Pope shall hear of the mischief of the Order,’ de Valence retorted, irritated now. ‘Besides – if you find the evidence you seek, what will become of those Templars Holy Mother Church finds guilty?’

There was silence, no-one wanting to admit, of course, that they would burn, no differently from what the Welsh were doing now.

‘You may have the other one when we capture him,’ de Valence added in a conciliatory fashion. ‘One Rossal de Bissot by name. Once the King’s justice has finished with him.’

‘They should not be party to secular justice,’ the abbot persisted. ‘They are of the Church and only the Pope may punish them. He will hear of this.’

‘You have mentioned that once already,’ de Valence spat back, then leaned forward a little in the saddle. ‘Be assured, dear Abbot, that the Pope may be deafened to complaints by all the accusations against the Order. That and the sound of victory over his excommunicated enemies, which forgives all sins.’

‘The end does not always justify the means,’ intoned the abbot, drawing himself up. Behind him, a coterie of monks and clerics nodded and clasped pious hands.

Go home, Aymer wanted to say. Go home and help Galeazzo and all the other Viscontis dominate Milan and the Pope. Leave the serious business of the day to fighting men, who can see the madness in this and in everything to do with war yet persist in it, like a peasant ploughing a stony field.

The madness was necessary, too. Lamberton had given in at Scotland as well – but not before he had sent off all the men he could to Bruce – while the siege of Cupar had secured that arch-priest of dissent, Lucifer’s Own secretary Bishop Wishart.

Resplendent in maille and helm, the recalcitrant old dog had dared plead the safety of his Holy Vestements, in an irony that would not be missed by anyone there, especially those who knew that the siege engines he had used to capture Cupar in the first place had been made by timbers sent by King Edward himself for the repair of Glasgow’s cathedral.

There was no time for the qualms of an abbot, whether he be a Visconti, papal spy or Christ’s Own Right Hand, for it was doubtful if King Edward would allow that to interfere with his own form of burning vengeance. Let the little Visconti pick the irony out of that, Aymer thought savagely.

A sudden high yell slashed through the stream of his thoughts, followed by cheers; the coterie of clerics crossed themselves and muttered prayers as de Valence stared into the furious eyes of the abbot, as burning as the sudden leap of flame from the pyre.

‘Justified or not,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘We have, it seems, reached the end.’

He closed the visor of his new-style bascinet and hauled the surprised horse round, then set off at a frantic pace, almost blind and only eager to move, to course blood into him and all thoughts out.

Up on a hill, belly flat and peering through wet fronds, Hal, Sim and Jamie Douglas looked at the smoke-stained wood and the figures round it. De Valence was easily seen, in his blue and white striped mantle decorated with a ring of red birds –
barry of twelve argent and azure, an orle of ten martlets gules
Hal translated to himself.

The others were less easy to work out – a lot of arguing prelates, a host of ill-dressed Welsh rabble trying to light a huge fire and a wary knot of
serjeants
, who galloped off after de Valence. Hal had no idea what was going on.

‘I could have shot yon aff his fancy stot,’ Sim muttered, moody at having been told to hold his fire by Hal, who gave him a sour sidelong glance.

‘Which would have had us all looking like hedgepigs,’ he grunted. ‘Yon are Welsh bowmen – they have stacked their bagged weapons in shelter while they hunt dry wood for their fire.’

Sim’s eyebrows went up and he looked, then nodded admiringly.

‘Full price to ye – I missed that. Bigod, it is lucky for us they are so frowning over makin’ a heat for themselves. Not that it is chill, as anyone can tell …’

‘We should take a look,’ Jamie Douglas declared eagerly. ‘There are only a brace o’ them left – see there.’

He was right – the Welsh were straggling off after de Valence and their leader, the tall one in the jack fitted with little metal-leaf plates, had barked at two of them to stay behind. Hal could not understand why and said so.

‘Guarding their meal,’ Sim said with firm conviction based on nothing at all. Jamie and Hal looked at each other and did not have to put voice to it – it was a gey muckle fire for a meal, even for as many Welsh as that.

‘An entire coo at least,’ Sim agreed cheerfully and licked meaningful lips. It was a point fairly made – Hal and his men, with Jamie Douglas in tow ‘for the learnin g in it’, had been sent by Bruce to scout Cupar, last known position of the English. It had been a long, hard, meandering ride in the warm damp of summer, plagued by a host of flies and a lack of decent food.

Yet, for all the promise of beef, Hal was uneasy and sour at the coiled strike that was Jamie Douglas, envying his youth and how all was adventure to him, while annoyed that he was prepared to put everything at risk for it.

He and Dog Boy were a pair, he noted, padding round as if leashed to each other – even now, Dog Boy held the garrons no more than a hidden score of yards away. As Sim had remarked, the pair of them were like the brace of deerhounds Hal had once owned, with Jamie the fawning one with a streak of vicious savagery you did not want to unleash and Dog Boy as the solid, relentless, reliable partner at the hinter end.

Hal did not like remembering those dogs, the pride of their handler, Tod’s Wattie. Malise Bellejambe had poisoned the dogs and, not long after, red murdered Wattie in the back with a knife. What was worse, nothing had been done about that in the half score of years since.

‘Well?’

The challenge was in French and Hal turned into the cocked head and grin of Jamie Douglas. He wants to be a leader this one, Hal noted.

‘We can capture at least one,’ Jamie went on. ‘Valuable information for the King.’

‘Ach weel,’ interrupted Sim in a quiet whisper as he peered through the fronds, ‘where is that wee mannie headed now?’

They looked; one of the Welsh had started off into the trees, away from the other.

‘Bigod,’ said Sim, with a beam of realization, ‘he is away to do his business. Now’s oor chance …’

They were out and away before Hal could decide, Sim half-crouched like a lumbering bear, Jamie moving like a gazehound. They came circling round, to where they could just see the figure, unlacing his braies and studying the ground for stinging nettles.

‘Now,’ Jamie hissed and felt the clamp of Sim’s hand, turning into the quiet shake of the shaggy grey head.

‘Wait.’

The Welshman squatted, grunted, let loose a long, sonorous fart.

‘Now, while he is engaged,’ Jamie hissed, excitement making him break into French, forgetting Sim did not understand it – but Sim understood enough.

‘Wait.’

The man strained and fretted, then let loose a long sigh. He sought out a handful of leaves, reaching round to wipe himself; Jamie was in agonies of trying to contain himself, but Sim was a rock, grim and silent and implacable.

‘He will be gone in another wipe,’ Jamie whispered bitterly, but Sim merely smiled. The man stood, hauling up his braies to his knees – and turned.

Jamie saw it at last. The thing every man would do – he had done it himself – was to look at what he had created, a slow, almost proud examination. Now, with his back to them and braies half-way to his knees was the time, as Sim said with a hard nudge in Jamie’s ribs.

The youth was out and across the distance between them in the time it took the man to nod, as if happy with the steaming pile – then something smacked him hard in the back, an arm snaked round his neck and cut off his breathing and shouts.