Kingdom 01 - The Lion Wakes (44 page)

Isabel had stood beside him in the shadow of the great stone column with its coffin bell and chains – disconnected, she knew, after a violent storm had set the heavy bell ringing in the night and brought everyone to trembling wakefulness – and hoped to feel something from the mound.

There was nothing but wind and the wheep of birds, no word of greeting or condemnation from the dead, not even from the newest, the Auld Sire himself, who had winked and leered at her that day in the makeshift chapel on Abbey Craig.

Then Alehouse Maggie had lumbered up with a brown, glazed jug in one hand and, to Isabel’s questioning eyebrow, lowered two of her own.

‘First of a new brew,’ she rumbled, ‘goes to the Auld Sire.’

She was intrigued and shocked when Isabel reached out, took the jug and gently but firmly plucked it from her hands, then handed it to Hal.

‘First of a new brew,’ she said as Hal, taking his cue, drank and handed it back to her, ‘goes to the lord of Herdmanston. After that, you can water what graves you choose.’

Hal smiled at the memory of it, then uncurled one fist and held up an amulet on a leather thong; Isabel arched a quizzical, mocking eyebrow.

‘Did that wee pardoner promise redemption, or just the Hand of God?’ she demanded and he looped it over the tousle of her hair, then kissed her soft on the lips.

‘We are all in the Hand of God,’ he said and she clutched him. The Kingdom was a guttering candle in the high wind of Edward Plantagenet and Hal knew that the next few days and weeks would make or break it. I would not leave here for anything less than this, he said to himself, but he did not need to say it to her.

Yet, even now, he knew that Buchan would be scheming harder on how to bring down one wee Lothian lord than all the Plantagenets in Christendom; he threw the thought from him with a flick on the medallion.

‘That holds the secret of making a king,’ he said to her, smiling. ‘Keep it safe. Give it to The Bruce if . . . matters turn out badly. Serve him right to have to uncouple the puzzle of it, as I did.’

She did not know what he meant, but clutched the lead medallion in one hand as he turned away, clumping and clattering carefully down the worn stone steps in his hobnailed shoes. She heard the shouts and neighs and armour clatter, finally dragged the coverlet tight round her for modesty and went to the great window.

Below, Hal and Sim were mounted and surrounded by a score of riders, all local men come to join him. I have to go, Hal said to himself, feeling the heat of her eyes on his back even after the curve of land hid the tower from view. There is no other Sientcler to do it.

With luck, he thought to himself, there will be no battle and the English, half-starved and thirsting, will be forced to abandon their campaigning for another year. Wallace was no fool and was not about to give Longshanks the battle he craved – particularly as the English king had finally reached Scotland with the largest army anyone had ever seen, with hundreds of heavy horse and a great mass of foot, almost all of them Welsh, or Gascons – even some Germans.

Isabel watched the Lothian men cavalcade away, the younger ones on their first such great endeavour, whooping for the joy of it. She felt the lead settle in her heart for the life that might be ripped away from them all.

And afterwards . . . the chill of that sleekit a way in to her, unwanted and unloved, so that she could not ignore it.

Afterwards, there would be sunshine and a gentle life with a man I have come to hold dear, as much a surprise to me as it is to him.

Even as she warmed herself at the idea of it, she knew it was a lie. Afterwards, win or lose, would come the reckoning – and she was not sure she wanted to visit on Herdmanston such a hatred as Buchan would wreak.

Yet, for now, there was the hope of something else, forlorn and ragged though it was.

‘Aye,’ said a voice, ‘it is a hard matter to watch yer man ride away to war, Lady.’

She turned to see Alehouse Maggie and Bet the Bread at the top of the stairs, the former holding a limp swatch of cloth.

‘You’ll be missing Sim,’ she managed and saw the pair of them smile and look at each other.

‘Pleased to see the back of him,’ Maggie declared. ‘He has wore us both out, the muckhoond.’

They did not look worn to Isabel and she did not want another game of tests with them. To her surprise, Maggie held out her arms, full of the limp cloth which Isabel saw was a dress.

‘We made ye this,’ she said awkwardly, ‘seeing as how ye came with no furbishments and have, we heard, refused to wear the mistress’s auld cloots.’

Isabel’s gaze flicked to the chest that held the clothes. It had not been hard to refuse the offer: she did not want to parade in his dead wife’s leavings.

She took the dress, which she knew would fit perfectly. It was good linen, dyed the colour of sky, festooned with ribbons and frippery and she dropped the coverlet under their gaze and slipped it on.

‘Bigod, Lady,’ sighed Maggie wistfully, ‘I wish I had yer slim. I did, a long time since. But too many bairns has ruined it.’

‘Ye never did,’ Bet replied scornfully. ‘Ye were a byword for sonsie, you – and every laddie for miles came to get a grip of some, which is why ye have had too many bairns.’

Maggie laughed, so that bits of her trembled like a quake, and admitted she had not been short of suitors. Then she saw the bleak of Isabel’s eyes and realised, suddenly, that this woman would trade slim for bairns at the cock of a head; her heart went out to her in that minute.

‘It is very fine,’ Isabel said slowly and Bet nodded.

‘Needs an underkirtle, mind. I have one which will fit – and some small clothes as well. Now your man is away ye might get a chance to wear them.’

Both women started to laugh, shrill and loud and Isabel, after a pause, saw there was no malice in it and joined in. Then she looked wistfully at the dress.

‘The ribbons and some of the frippery will have to go,’ she said, ‘for all your good work and fine words, I am more mutton than lamb like this.’

‘Aye,’ Maggie answered with serious and surprising agreement. ‘I was hoping ye had no grand airs, Coontess or not. I was right about that, eh, Bet? The ribbons are easy removed, your ladyship.’

A sudden breeze brought the strong smell of char, raising Isabel’s head like a hound on hare scent.

‘Well,’ she said, stripping it off and fetching the old dress she had arrived in. ‘This must do for now – I will keep yours for good. There is work to be done, is there not?’

The English had raided for food, right up to the barmkin and the garth it enclosed, where cattle and desperate, frightened folk had huddled while men shot bolts and arrows at the enemy and had them back, with thrown torches besides. In the end, the alehouse and a couple of other buildings had burned but, as Maggie declared in her booming voice, ‘Ye cannot burn my vats.’ Nor could you, for they were made of stone and only the enclosing building had flamed.

It was that, in part, which had kept Hal here – though Isabel smiled at the lie that nestled at the heart of it. He stayed because he wanted her, as she wanted him, sucking the most joy they could from the time they had left.

Now she had to see to the ruin of what was left – in every sense. The debris around Herdmanston had been cleared out, the stone thatch weights found and rescued. Now a new building would be constructed round the brewing vats, but waited for labour now that men had gone to war.

‘We’ll get no help from Dirleton or Tantallon,’ Isabel declared, ‘for Bishop Bek has shown his Christian charity by burning them out.’

Maggie and Bet looked at one another; they had not known this, for Hal had only heard the night before and told Isabel of it just before they drifted off to sleep.

‘So,’ Isabel said grimly, ‘there is only us. I am no expert in making buildings, but I daresay there are folk, yourself included, who can weave the wattle. And I can at least tread mud and dung and straw in a bucket.’

They followed her down the steps, tame and admiring as sheepdogs.

Temple Liston, Commanderie of the Knights Templar Feast of St Theneva, Mother of Kentigern, July 1298

His army was sliding away like rendered grease and the expensive loss made Edward grind his teeth. Dog turd Welsh, he thought to himself, though he had to admit that bringing some several thousands of them had been the only option to overawe the Scots, who had had a year to preen and laud themselves for having won a victory.

Victory, by God – I will show them victory, Edward thought, even if good Englishmen had long since given their forty days of service and would not be persuaded further.

Yet the elaborate supply of what army he had was broken like a bad bowstring. Ships coming up the Forth had failed to arrive, forage had scrabbled what it could, but this Wallace was as smart an enemy as any Edward had faced and had left scarcely a cabbage or an ear of rye. There were precious few carcasses of livestock, either – save for a rotted pig shoved down a well. How could you hide so many cows and sheep?

He strode out of his elaborate panoply and stood under the banners in a deliberate pose, facing the assembly of lords. The pards of England drooped wearily above him, tangling in the golden snarl of wyvern that everyone knew as the Dragon Banner, which signified no quarter. To left and right hung the banners of Saint John of Beverley and Cuthbert of Durham – for you could not have enough holy help in the endeavour of red war. He rubbed his arm, where the poisoned dagger of the
hashashin
had all but killed him save for the Grace of God.

Sixteen years ago, he realised and hardly a night when he did not wake, slick with sweat and hagged by the wild-eyed dark face of the Saracen he had strangled with his bare hands. God’s Own Hand had been over him then – though He might have tempered the months of crawling sickness that followed that single nick.

He looked at the sweating assembly. God’s Holy Arse, how he hated most of them – and how they hated him. Each time he looked at a sullen face, he wanted to humble it, bring the great lord to his knees. Norfolk, Lancaster, Surrey and all the others who thought themselves greater than the king, the scions of the families who had tried to shackle and then subvert his father’s reign, plunging them all into a long, bloody business. Not content with that, they tried with me, too.

Percy and Clifford especially, he thought savagely, who thought themselves God’s anointed in the north, together with all the lords scrabbling for his favour and their lands in Scotland, yet prepared to break their oath as soon as his back was turned.

He was too kind, that was the problem. Even the young Bruce was not to be trusted, but that was almost certainly the fault of his whingeing father and the influence of that relactricant old schemer, his grandfather. He liked young Bruce – there was something of himself at that age in the Earl of Carrick, he thought.

If he can be bent to forgetting this foolishness of a crown, he added to himself, for there was only one ruler in Scotland. And England. And Wales. And Ireland. By God’s Holy Arse he would bring this Wallace to the quartering and the headsman and the country to the knowledge that there was only one king and that was Edward, by the Grace of God an Englishman.

For what? The thought always slid in there, like Satan at his elbow. For his son, he replied by rote, though he winced. Fifteen. Young yet and the only survivor of the brood. Left too long alone after the death of his mother . . . as ever, the memory of Eleanor rose up, the death of her taking him in the throat. That long mourn of a journey, the hole in his life where she should be still black and infinitely deep, unable to be filled by any amount of stone crosses raised in her honour.

Let the boy have his thatching and ditch-digging a while longer, but in the end, he would buckle to the dignity, to what it means to be heir to the Crown, or, by God’s Holy Arse, Edward would make him . . .

The truth of it was that he knew God had a Plan for him and that it was to rescue the Holy City. With the Welsh and the Scots securing his north and west, he could turn his will to Crusade; the thought drew him up into the glory of it, though the reality of God’s Paladin was not what he thought.

The assembled lords saw the unnaturally tall, slightly stooped figure, long-armed and lean, his hair, once a gold cap, now swan white and straggling out of the customary coiffure of curls round his ears, his beard curving off his chin like a silver scimitar. His eyes were pouched and violet-ringed, because his dressers had all their paste and powder arts in a lost sumpter wagon and so could not produce the illusion of his health and vigour.

Now everyone could see that the skin of his face had sunk and seemed to want to peel back over the cheekbones, while the one drooping eye gave him a sly look, as if he was about to visit some corner of Hell on them all. Which, thought De Lacy, might well be the truth.

‘You wish congress, my lords,’ Edward said flatly and his dislike of it was plain.

De Lacy cleared his throat. The Earl of Lincoln was the closest thing to a confidant Edward had, yet even he was not sure how far friendship stretched.

‘The army is starving,’ he declared. ‘Desertion is rife. The Welsh are . . . fretful.’

Someone sniggered and Edward could hardly blame him for it. Fretful was a serious understatement for what those black dwarves from the mountains had perpetrated, even on each other. For a time it had seemed as if the only battle fought on Scottish soil would be between drunken Welshmen and everyone else they staggered across. In the end, English knights had charged the worst of them down and killed eighty; now the Welsh were muttering about going over to the Scots.

Which had all been his own fault. A ship arrived and those expecting food had found its cargo to be wine. To offset the disappointment, Edward had issued it to the army, the Welsh had sucked it up and, on empty bellies, had gone fighting mad – he’d had to let Aymer de Valence lead a charge of horse to bring order back and Welshmen had been killed. Now the rest were sullen.

The Devil with them all, Edward thought savagely. Let the Welsh desert to the Scots – at least then I will know the enemy and can shove them back into Satan’s arse, where they all fell from in the first place.