After Flodden (15 page)

There was, Louise estimated, an hour’s daylight left. The haar had fled, chased off by a wind intent on drying every stitch the mist had soaked. Shivering, the boy and
Louise eyed the road ahead. It stretched empty before them, and they rode on without a word. Hans plodded dutifully, though he was flagging. At their heels the vixen trotted, unwearying.

After a couple of miles Hob fell asleep, his head bobbing over the horse’s neck. Louise did not waken him, though his weight hung heavy on her arm. Rising anxiety kept her alert. Surely
there must be an inn somewhere on this road? Her brother had never spoken of passing a night outdoors.

When the boy finally stirred, Louise tried to cheer him. ‘We’ll find a hostel soon, don’t you worry,’ she said.

‘Alang this road?’ Hob’s voice was weary. ‘There’s gey few.’

‘Did you come this way with your father?’

‘Naw, though we should’ve. We wis heading west, by mistake. When we got to the moor, faither seemed to liven up. Knew we wis on the right gait, mair or less. He started talking about
the priory, heading there for help if we could.’

Louise pulled the horse to a halt. ‘What priory?’ Her voice was sharp.

‘Coldingham.’

‘This is Coldingham Moor?’

‘Aye. Did you no ken that?’

Sweet Mary. She dropped her head in her hand. She had taken the wrong road. Instead of heading inland into border country, she had clung limpet-like to the coast. She was miles from where she
needed to be and, worse, there was nowhere out here for shelter until they reached Coldingham itself. She kicked Hans into a brisk walk, though it was herself she wanted to kick.

As if reassured by the fact that the night was likely to be as miserable as his day Hob curled into Louise’s arm, buried his fingers in Hans’s mane for warmth, and went back to
sleep.

Dark had fallen long since by the time Coldingham Priory loomed into view. A dour, imposing building, with a perimeter wall that would need ladders to scale, it did not look welcoming. Ignoring
its glower, Louise found a side gate, where travellers looking for a bed could ring. The bell was still humming when a nun peered through the wicket. She looked at Louise and the boy, and nodded,
opening the gate to let them in. Louise dropped a coin into her outstretched hand. The woman turned, without a word, and led them into a courtyard cushioned in moss. She pointed towards the
stables, and left Louise to settle her horse.

Roused from sleep, Hob was shaky and close to tears, remembering in an instant everything he preferred to forget. But when he saw Louise unsaddling Hans, he gathered himself and picked up a
handful of straw to help rub him down. A stable lad hurried out of the stalls with a torch, bringing hot mash for the horse and a bone for the vixen. Only when Hans and the dog were fed and at rest
did Louise and Hob cross the cobblestone yard in search of their own dinner.

The priory kitchen was more inviting than the night, but not much. A handful of sticks flickered in a grate wide enough to hold a tree, and a table fit for a banquet was set with two pewter
dishes and a couple of bent spoons. Overhead, a cavernous vault cast shadows thick as smoke into the corners of the room, and while Louise and Hob appeared to be the only travellers staying the
night, they could not be sure that no-one else was sitting in this vat of gloom, watching them.

The nun pointed them to the bench, and poured a slurp of mutton stew into their bowls. Her apron was spattered with grease, and her fingernails were grimed, but when she smiled there was a weary
friendliness to her face that chased away the eeriness of the kitchen and the brooding presence of the priory at its back.

‘Best dry your clothes,’ she said, indicating a rail near the fire, though its flame was so meagre Louise doubted it could warm a flea. ‘Your beds are down the passage.
I’ll get you shirts for the night.’

The robes were so scratchy they might have been made from straw intended for their mattresses, which in turn had been filled with rubble. And yet Louise and Hob slept more soundly that night
than they had for weeks, a sleep without dreams or night sweats or tears.

It was late morning before the nun shook them awake. ‘Looked like you needed the rest,’ she said. ‘Young lad in particular,’ she added, to excuse her soft-heartedness. A
breakfast of watery soup was set before them, but when the nun waved them off in dry clothes, with bread and ale for their journey, they felt as grateful to her as if she had offered them a feast
and feather beds.

A grey, sunless afternoon awaited them. ‘We need to talk,’ said Louise, as they followed the priory’s winding walls out onto the road to Eyemouth. Hob pulled his leather jerkin
closer round his neck. In his experience, talking never led to anything good. It was village talk that had brought his father to Flodden. If he had not been fired up by his friends’
blustering blether about fighting for king and country, he would not have left his forge and Hob might still be stoking ovens and sweeping up sawdust. He said nothing, and hoped Louise would follow
suit.

‘I can’t take you with me,’ she said, ignoring his silence. ‘I’m going to Flodden, to find my brother. You need to be taken back to your family, or to someone who
can look after you.’

‘I can look after myself,’ Hob growled.

‘I know,’ said Louise, ‘but you still need a home – somewhere to stay, at least. I’ll be out on the road for God knows how many weeks.’ She suppressed a
shiver. ‘I have no idea what I’m heading into. I can’t expect you to come with me.’

‘Seems like you need company,’ said the boy. ‘And I dinnae have anybody to go back tae.’

‘No-one at all?’

‘Naw. Ma died when I wis a bairn, and my faither brought me up alane. There was naebody else to dae it. That’s why he took me alang wi’ him tae Flodden. I walked at the rear of
the army, wi’ him and the infantry. I slept next to him at night, and never saw him during the day.’

‘What did you do when the battle broke out?’

‘Hid in camp, under a kitchen cart. Went out after dark to find him. Didnae come on him till it was light.’ His body tightened at the memory.

‘You’re a brave lad,’ said Louise. ‘He must have been proud of you.’ She did not know if she would have had the courage to pick over the mounds of dead and dying to
find Benoit.

They rode without speaking for another mile, putting off the decision that had to be made.

‘Ye’re no far frae Eyemouth now,’ said Hob as a sullen sea came into view. ‘The road goes south on to Berwick, or west to Chirnside. That’s the one you’re
wanting, surely.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Louise asked. ‘Where is it you’re from?’

‘A village near Dunbar, up in the hills. It’s called Spott. But my faither and his friends joined the army over at Duns, and he used to take me wi’ him on trips to Berwick, so
I ken all these roads.’

Louise sighed, and reined in Hans. The horse stood, snorting and stamping, tossing his head. Hob patted his neck while Louise chose her words. ‘Look,’ she finally said,
‘it’s your decision. Do you want me to find you a hostel, till I can return for you? You could go back to the priory, I have enough to pay them for that. Or do you want to come with me?
It’ll be a hard journey, where I’m going. It’ll bring back bad memories for you.’

‘I’ll come wi’ you,’ said Hob, as lightly as if he was choosing between a parsnip and a neep for his dinner. ‘You might need me.’ He whistled for the vixen,
and she wheeled back to their side. He reached down to rub her nose, the picture of a boy out for nothing more serious than a holy day spree.

They rode on, one with lighter spirits, the other more troubled than ever. Shortly after, they turned west and left the girning sea behind.

Already the sky was growing dull, the shadows lengthening. The nun had told them of a farmhouse ten miles or so along this road where they could spend the night. Flodden, she said, was half a
day’s ride beyond that.

As they reached the brow of a hill, Louise and Hob dismounted, allowing Hans to rest. Louise looked out at the coast road, snaking towards the border. In the distance, Eyemouth was visible in
the fading light, boats huddling in the harbour as if the open sea had yelled at them. A few miles out of sight beyond the cliff tops lay Berwick. She prayed that Benoit was not lying in prison
there, trapped in the enemy’s hands. Better by far to be on the run than caught in a snare.

She was helping Hob back into the saddle when a movement far below caught her eye. A horse was cantering along the Coldingham road, kicking up turf and earth in its haste. The rider was bent
over the horse’s neck, urging him on with spurs and whip, as if he was the bearer of terrible news. Louise narrowed her eyes. When the horseman pulled up hard, raising a spindle of dust under
the horse’s hooves, she held her breath. He had reached the turn-off they had taken. For a moment the rider hesitated, holding his steed in check while it pawed the ground. He looked down the
broad road to Eyemouth, and then he stared up at the track Louise and Hob had taken. Louise’s heart began to skip. The rider’s urgency suggested a man in search of prey, and she
clenched her hands as she waited for him to make his decision. ‘Keep still,’ she said quietly to Hob, who was watching in fascination. ‘Don’t say a word.’

Finally, the rider turned and his horse cantered on, down the road to Eyemouth.

Louise swung up into the saddle, and kicked Hans into a gallop. For no good reason she felt uneasy. The vixen ran close at her heels, and they hurried on. As dusk descended, and the road grew
rougher, Hans slowed to a trot. Louise began to wish they had not set out so late in the day. The farmhouse was not far off, but even a mile or two was further than she liked, when such a man was
out on the road.

They were making good time when she heard the sound she had feared. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Can you hear something?’

Hob listened, then nodded. ‘Another horse,’ he said, ‘coming fast behind us.’ With a kick, Louise plunged Hans off the track and over the heather towards a straggle of
pines some distance from the road. They had barely reached the trees and crouched for cover, when a horse came cantering into sight. Hob put a hand over Hans’s nose, to keep him quiet. The
vixen panted, her ears pricked.

In the grainy twilight, the figure on horseback appeared more wraith than human, a figment of mist. Louise tried to steady her heartbeat. Without looking to either side, the rider passed their
hiding place and rode on, a faceless swirl of cloak, hat and sword. They listened as the jangle of bridle and spurs faded down the road, until the road was once again quiet. A lapwing called, and
its mate answered. Nothing else stirred. Dusk was overtaken by dark, and the first stars came out. None of them moved. Time passed, and still they remained, frozen in place as if rooted. It was no
surprise to any of them when they heard the hooves returning. This time they came at walking pace.

The rider stopped and got off his horse. There was a spark from a flint box, held low to the ground, where Hans’s tracks disappeared onto the heath. Snuffing the light, the rider began to
lead his mount across the heather, towards the trees. His shape was a blacker patch of night, but all too solid, moving towards them like the worst of dreams. Louise pulled her short sword from her
belt. Hob, she saw, was clutching a gutting knife. It looked comfortable in his hand – a hand steadier, she noticed, than her own.

The rider reached the edge of the trees and came to a halt. He was a horse’s length from them now, though he could not yet see them. They could hear his horse’s breath. The blood in
Louise’s veins was hot as boiling water. The man came a step closer and ducked under the fronds of the first pine. ‘Louise,’ he called softly. ‘I know you’re in there.
Come out now. You’re quite safe.’

Louise’s heart contracted, as if it had been squeezed. The vixen launched herself from her hiding place with a snarl. Her jaws closed on the rider’s arm and he yelled, stumbling
backwards and falling. ‘Louise!’ he shouted. ‘Call the dog off! Call it off! It’s me, Gabriel!’

‘Praise the saints!’ gasped Louise. She was out of the trees and at Gabriel’s side as she spoke, dragging the vixen off by her scruff, and using both hands to hold the
growling, bristling animal back.

‘Mother of Christ!’ Gabriel got to his feet with an unsteady laugh. ‘That’s some beast you’ve got there. She could have snapped my arm in two.’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Louise, her voice shrill with fear. ‘You nearly scared us to death.’

‘Your mother sent me. I’ve been riding since dawn.’ He picked up his hat, where it had fallen, and slapped it against his leg. ‘She was deeply alarmed at your
disappearance. She does not want to lose the only child she has left. I admit, I did not like the thought of you travelling these roads alone myself, especially in these times. You are very young,
you know, Louise. Very vulnerable.’

In the dark it was impossible to see his expression but his voice softened. ‘You are also courageous. I know of no other woman who would have set out like this on her own.’ He took a
step towards her, his tall, lean figure as reassuring a presence now as it had been terrifying a moment before. After the events of the last two days, Louise found herself longing for the comfort
of this man’s arms. She had wished for them since the day he tended her when she had fainted, the gentleness of his touch a warm memory to set against so much misery.

She moved towards him, and saw that he was clutching his arm.

‘Oh, you’re hurt!’ The vixen, panting, watched Gabriel, her hackles raised. ‘I can’t believe she did that,’ said Louise with remorse, like a doting mother
startled at her child’s bad behaviour. Gabriel said nothing, but it was as well that the night hid his face.

‘Hob!’ cried Louise, ‘Bring the flint from my pack.’

Gabriel started. ‘You are not alone?’

‘Oh no,’ said Louise, examining the rip in the courtier’s fine shirt. ‘Can you sit against this tree, and let me look more closely?’

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, though he did as she asked.