The Complete Kingdom Trilogy Read online

  Dog Boy wiped his bloody nose. It had been a bad day. He did not think he had ever had a worse one, or that this one could grow more rotten.

  He thought to revise the opinion in the dim of the gatehouse arch, where the torch flickered red light on Berner Philippe’s face. When he smeared the smile on it, he looked to Dog Boy like one of the devils cavorting on the walls of the church in the nearby town. Gib moaned.

  ‘Get in,’ he ordered and Dog Boy swallowed. The black square gave off a faint stink of grave rot and led to the pit of the pivot bridge, a black maw where the weighted end hung and the great pivots waited to be greased.

  Dog Boy felt Gib tremble and started to shake himself; they would climb into the pit with a pot of stinking grease and a torch and, in the tomb dark of it, they would labour, smearing grease on the pivots. It was Berner Phillipe’s clever idea for punishment and Dog Boy never even dared point out that he was no longer the Berner’s to command.

  ‘The torch will burn for an hour,’ Philippe said, the smile still a nasty streak. ‘I will return in that time – give or take a minute or so. Take care of yon light, or you will be left in the dark.’

  They stared into the pit, the dank, cold stink of it reaching out like coils of witch hair, the wood and knotted rope ladder dangling into the dark; Dog Boy sat on the edge, turned gingerly and slithered down. The grease pot was handed to him, then a shivering, weeping Gib thumped down beside him and the torch was flung in.

  The trapdoor shut, cutting out the last of the dim, dappled sunlight under the gatehouse arch. With the final shunk, they were alone with torch and the flickering shadows and the huge roll of the bridge weight, locked in place by timber supports shoved through from the walls on either side.

  ‘Jesu, Jesu, Jesu,’ muttered Gib.

  Dog Boy looked at his nemesis, at the pinch-face and the tear-streaked cheeks, then handed him one of the two flat sticks. Worldlessly, dry-eyed and shaking, he moved to the steps, climbed to one of the great pivots and began slapping grease on it. He could not believe he had been afraid of leaving Douglas and now could not wait to be quit of the place and all the folk in it.

  ***

  Malise massaged his throat and fumed. Thomas the Sergeant had been no more than an old, scarred man-at-arms, no better in rank than Malise himself, yet he stood there like some belted earl and lectured, finally throwing Malise out of the castle.

  Black scowled, Malise collected his horse and tried not to worry about bumping into Tod’s Wattie, though he saw the dim grey shapes of the deerhounds in the depth of the stable. An idea came to him.

  He went out and found what he sought – the discarded pot of offal, thrown away by that little rat-runt. The flies had found the contents, but nothing else had, and Malise scooped it back into the pot wearing his gauntlets, then fumbled out a small glass bottle, unstoppered it and poured half the contents in, tossing the whole to mix it.

  He went back to the stable and gingerly came close to the dogs, making kissing sounds. He laid the pot down, backed away and watched as the nearest hound sniffed, rose up, stretched front, then back and ambled towards the delicious smell, click-clicking across the flags. The other followed. Malise smiled and collected his horse.

  Thomas the Sergeant, from the window nook high above, watched Buchan’s creature slither towards the gatehouse with his horse. Good riddance, he thought to himself and then shook his head. How had he gotten in? Androu, half-shamed, had thought it was probably because Crozier the Keep had recognised him from before as the Earl of Buchan’s man and saw no reason to keep him out.

  ‘Christ’s Wounds,’ Thomas declared, watching Malise leave. ‘You would think the year was all good crops and peace. Our lord is at odds with the English again and his enemies are everywhere.’

  It had been a moment of crushing despair for Thomas when the Lady had admitted a Bruce into the sacred centre of The Hardy’s Douglas, but nothing more than he expected from the woman, who did not have much inkling of what that meant. Nor cared, he thought.

  Mind you, he had expected better from the hard-eyed Sientcler lord from Lothian with his blessing of good men -but then another Sientcler, a Templar no less, had stood on the Bruce side and, of course, that high and mighty family had no thought for Douglas then, only themselves.

  As if to make a mockery of it all, the Earl of Buchan had arrived at the gates not long after to find Bruce on the stone gatehouse battlements, making sure his red chevronned surcoat was clearly visible. That had been worse still, for the Comyn and Bruce hated each other and none of them, as far as Thomas knew, supported the cause of his master, Sir William.

  He had stood beside the Earl of Carrick and the Herdmanston lord, Sir Hal, looking out on the patient riders on mud-spattered horses, armed and righteous and wanting entry. Bruce, Thomas recalled, looked young and petted – more two than twenty-two – and he’d felt a momentary spasm of concern about how the Earl of Carrick would handle this affair.

  There had been two others on the wooden battlements -Bruce’s sinister wee shadow, the man called Kirkpatrick, who had nodded to the giant called Sim. That yin had needed nothing more than the nod to foot one worn boot into the stirrup of his great crossbow and, scorning the bellyhook, drag the thick string up by brute force and click it into place. Thomas had been impressed by the feat, yet mortally afraid of what might result.

  He recalled the riders’ pale faces looking up, framed in arming cap bascinets and maille coifs, their great slitted helms tucked under one arm and shields pointedly brought forward.

  ‘Open in the name of the King,’ one had shouted, urging his mud-spattered horse forward a little. Davey Siward, Thomas remembered, with John of Inchmartin behind him – a clutch of Inchmartins had been there, in fact.

  ‘Which King is that, then?’ Bruce had asked. ‘John Balliol, in whose name you attacked me and my father in Carlisle last year? Or Edward of England, whose army you are supposed to be with? I should point out that I am here because Sir William Douglas has also absconded from that army and King Edward is less than pleased.’

  Which was as sure a seal on the fate of Douglas as any Thomas had heard and he burned with indignation. Before he could say anything at all in his master’s defence, a light, easy voice rolled sonorously up like perfumed smoke.

  ‘Is that a shivering cross I see? Could that be young Hal Sientcler from Herdmanston?’ the Earl of Buchan had asked. Thomas remembered the way the Lothian lord had unconsciously touched that engrailed blue cross on his chest. It was an arrogance, that symbol, signifying a Templar connection and allusions to the Holy Grail, as if only the Sientclers held the secret of it beyond Jesus himself.

  ‘Sir William of Roslin is also here,’ the Lothian lord had replied and Thomas knew he had done it deliberately, hoping a mention of the Auld Templar might unlatch the situation a little. Buchan had sighed a little and shook his head, so that the sweat-damp hair stirred in the bold wind.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ Buchan answered. ‘God’s Own Chosen, the Sientclers, together with the Young Himself of Carrick, all descended here to punish a wee woman and her wee sons. Such we have been driven down to, Bruce.’

  There had been a clipped, frosted exchange after that, Thomas recalled, but more to score points than for any serious questioning of intent. Buchan presented his Writ from King Edward, permitting him to go home and contain the rebels of Sir Andrew Moray. Bruce had taken his time to study it, letting Buchan savour the fact that he had no more than sixty riders, too few to tackle a castle like this, stuffed to the merlons with Carrick men.

  Some had grown impatient and Sim had spotted it, for which Thomas had been grateful and furious with himself for having been so lax.

  ‘Is that you there, Jinnet’s Davey?’ Sim had called out in a friendly voice, and the man with a crossbow in one hand and the reins of a horse in the other looked guiltily up.

  ‘Yer da back in Biggar will be black affronted to see you in sich company,’ Sim chided, ‘and about to shoot from
the cover of other men’s back. If ye try I will pin your luggs to either side of your face and slide ye aff that stot ye are riding.’

  Thomas remembered that more for what he overheard, whispered by Bruce to the Lothian lord.

  ‘I have only a little idea what he said, but the sentiment seems fine.’

  Thomas marvelled at it anew. The great Earl of Carrick, heir to the Bruces of Annandale, speaks court French, southern English and the Gaelic – thanks to his mother – but he has poor command of English as spoken by a good Scot.

  Yet the gates of Douglas had opened and Thomas, feeling the slow burn of resentment at having had his charge swept from under him as if he was of no account, had been forced to watch as the Ward bustled, rang with shouts and horse-snorts and neighs. Bruce had stepped forward, the red chevron on his surcoat like a bright splash of blood, his arms expansively wide as he and the stiffly dismounted Buchan embraced like old friends well met.

  Well, now they were all gone and the Lady and her bairns with Bruce, Thomas thought. Poor sowls – God ensure that they go where Bruce promised, to The Hardy at Irvine. No matter if they did, or ended up in Bruce’s power, or whether the Earl joined with patriots or the English, or whether Sir William The Hardy won or lost – Thomas swore that the fortress of Douglas would not fall as easily again.

  He rounded on Androu and pointed an accusing finger.

  ‘From this moment Douglas is in a state of war, man,’ he declared. ‘I want yon Lothian man and his dugs gone from here in short order – I do not care if it puts them into danger. I do not trust any of that Lothian lord’s chiels and do not want any Lothians inside looking out for Sientclers coming back here, having wormed their way into the English peace at Irvine and looking to advantage themselves.’

  Androu had not thought of the Sientclers turning their cote and wanted to defend them, to point out how they had come originally, at considerable risk, to defend the place. He opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish, but the words would not marshal themselves in any order.

  Thomas frowned down at the retreating back of Malise Bellejambe, then rounded on Androu like an unleashed terrier.

  ‘And as soon as that ill-favoured swine is on the far side of the ditch, that yett is closed and the bridge raised, to be lowered only on my say.’

  He turned away to stare out the slit window, high in the great square bulk of keep.

  ‘When The Hardy comes back,’ he said, half-muttering to himself, ‘he will find his castle ready for war.’

  Androu, who could see Tam’s mind was made up, scurried to obey.

  When the bridge trembled, Dog Boy paused, then looked at the guttering torch. Gib whimpered and it was only then that Dog Boy understood what the tremble meant. They both heard the rasping thump, felt rather than saw the supports being windlassed back. Then the massive counterweight shifted and Gib gave a moan, dropped his pot and went for the rope ladder, elbowing Dog Boy to the clotted floor of the pit.

  At the top, Gib shoved at the unresisting trapdoor, then started beating on it, screaming. The counterweight, a great long roll like a giant’s stowed sleeping blanket, started a slow, downward swing, dragging the outhrust, unseen beams attached by chains to the moatbridge, hauling it up.

  Gib shrieked and dropped off the ladder, his hands bloody from beating the wood.

  ‘Flat,’ Dog Boy yelled. ‘Get yourself flat.’

  The smoothed granite went over Dog Boy, a huge, round crush of weight, moving ponderously, yet more swiftly than before with its new grease. Dog Boy felt the touch of it, the plucking fingers of it along his back like some giant’s fist.

  Gib was caught by it. Dog Boy saw his wild face, the staring eyes, the red maw of his mouth, twisting with shock as he realised that he was too big, that the skinny runt he had always despised for his size could get under the rolling weight, but not him.

  It scooped Gib up and carried him back, back to the far wall, and Dog Boy, head buried in his arms, heard the cracking splinter of bones and a last, despairing shriek in the cold dark.

  Temple Bridge, Annick Water

  Division of the Apostles Across The Earth – July, 1297

  The rain lisped down, dripping from the bell hanging over their heads on the arch of the glistening wet timber bridge. Hal knew the bell was called Gloria because Bangtail Hob had told everyone so, squinting into the falling mirr to read the name etched on it and proud of his ability to recognise the letters, however long he had taken to spell them out.

  The bell could be rung by tugging on a white rope, pearled with sliding water drops now, to warn the Poor Knights of the Temple Ton that travellers were coming to them in peace, seeking succour or sanctuary. Hal fervently wished he was in the small Temple out of a rain as fine as querned flour, soaking the men who were huddled on the bridge, waiting and watching the men on horseback on the far side.

  His own men had taken off their quilted gambesons, trading the protection for the agility; the rain had soaked the garments heavy as armour. They had tied their right shoe into their belt or round their necks, for the right was the bracing foot, rutted into the churned earth and needing all the grip it could get. The left, shoved forward, required a measure of protection and, though it would not divert a cut or a stab or the crush of a hoof, the leather of a shoe was still a comfort.

  Hal did not expect hooves. His men were bunched and dripping, a hedge of spears and blades and wicked hooks, and Hal expected that the English horse – decently armoured serjeants – would climb off and tramp on foot the length of the bridge to attack.

  He wished they would not, that they would try to ride them down and suffer ruin for it. More than that, he wished they would just go away, thinking like sensible men, and that, any day – any moment – they would all be friends, with the Scots back in the King’s peace and no harm done.

  More than that, he wished that John the Lamb, wherever he was, had seen sense and was not trying to bring the reived cattle out of the dripping trees and across the bridge to join them. That would be all the provocation the English needed.

  The last hope was driven from him by the distant bawl of a miserable cow. Sim slid up beside him, rusted rain running off the brim of his iron hat and his crossbow swathed in his cloak to try to keep the string from getting wet and slack.

  ‘John the Lamb,’ he said and Hal nodded. He saw the head of the English captain come up, cocked to hear the same mournful lowing and knew, with certainty, that both were now caught in the whirling dance of it, borne along to the inevitability of blood and slaughter by honour, duty, chivalry and desperation. And all over a handful of rieved coos for a hungry army waiting for their betters to set seal to their deals.

  He looked at the man’s shield, the six little legless birds on it, three on top of a diagonal stroke, three beneath. Argent, a bend between six martlet, gules, he thought automatically to himself and smiled. All those days of bruised knuckles and scowls as his father dinned Heraldry into him – no, no, ye daftie, a bird which is facing you is full aspect, any other beast similarly displayed is affronty. Repeat, affronty.

  No practical use at all, for he still had no idea who the man opposite him was, or even if he was English. The only thing he did know was that the martlet marked him as a fourth son and that, in a moment, they would be trying to cleave sharp bars of iron into each other.

  Furneval sat as haughtily as he could while rain slithered off his bascinet and down under the maille; his padded, quilted gambeson was sodden and weighed four times as much as normal and so would those of the rest of his men – they would feel the dragging weight when they had to dismount and fight in them, as well as the maille, the heavy shields and the lances, too long to make comfortable spears.

  For now, he was watching the sudden antheap stir of the little group under the bridge-bell arch. Behind, his men shifted in their ranks, hunching down so that their rimmed iron helmets were all that could be seen above the long shields. That and the lances.

  Behind that, F
urneval knew, was William de Ridre, up in the trees with even more men and watching closely what happened here. Furneval felt the surge in him, a fire of pride and joy, for he had been chosen to demonstrate the power of the Percy and had his own lord, de Ridre, watching him do it.

  They had chased these foragers a long way over the fields and Furneval had some sympathy for their desperate plundering – small though it was, the Scots force at Annick still needed fodder and meat – and some admiration of their skill.

  Fast riders, skilled at herding the small, black cattle, he had been thinking to himself, so no strangers to such thieving, and it was right and proper that, even though a truce pertained here, such raiders were not permitted to plunder as they chose. They were, until announcements were made to the contrary, rebels after all and just a rabble of brigands. Now that Furneval had seen them for himself he was sure of the second part and suspicious of the first.

  They were waiting at the far end of a narrow bridge across a steep-banked, undergrowth choked stream called the Annick Water, knowing that this was their best chance of defence. It was clever and determined, the weapons they had were like polearms only worse, so that Furneval felt a flicker of doubt, a sharp little dart that flew into his heart like a sliver of ice.

  A sensible man would have let them go, with their sumpter cart of stolen rye and wheat and their handful of cattle, but de Ridre was not about to go back to Percy and admit that a raggedy bunch of Scots foot had forced back sixty mounted serjeants.

  A sensible man would not try to ride down a hedge of spears, but dismount and march on them, and Furneval would do that, at least; he had seen what spear-bristling foot could do at Dunbar. He wished for some crossbows, for they had split the spear rings of the Scots apart at Dunbar. He wished for de Ridre to send him a message telling him to pull off and leave it. He knew neither wish was possible, yet he waited in the lisping rain, ever hopeful.

  Then the first cow stumbled out of the woods with others at its back and men behind, running their weary, stumbling horses like shambling bears and sealing the fate of them all.