A Clash of Lions Read online

  By the time the screaming started she was out of the tent and running hard towards the fort. She knew the third man would have circled around to intercept her, and was unsurprised when he stepped out from behind the last hut, barring her way. Choking on smoke and fumes she did the last thing he expected, running straight at him and stabbing him in the belly before he could move. Shouting, he staggered back, clutching at the wound and she raced on up the hill, bloody knife in her hand. She reached the crest, sprinting towards the gatehouse, and then stopped dead. A bulky man in Dominican robes carrying a wooden staff stood in the gatehouse arch. It was Brother Oswald.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, grinning. ‘What have we here? Is it a boy, or… can it perchance be a girl? Aye, if they’re young and tender enough, what difference does it make?’

  He advanced towards her, raising the staff. Tiphaine let the knife fall to the ground, dropping to her knees and clasping her hands in supplication. ‘Please,’ she cried. ‘Don’t hurt me, I beg you! I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Maybe not yet,’ said the friar, grinning. ‘But you’ll have plenty to confess at your next churching, sweetheart.’ Dropping the staff, he hauled his robes up around his waist and reached out to push her onto her back. She seized his hand and bit it hard, teeth crunching through skin and flesh. Oswald yowled with pain, jerking his hand back, and Tiphaine snatched up her knife. She stabbed him in the arm and then raced through the archway. Untethering the horse, she flung herself into the saddle and rode hard for the gate. As Oswald ran towards her cursing and holding his arm, she kicked the horse hard and drove it straight at him. At the last moment the friar jumped aside and Tiphaine galloped away downhill towards the road.

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 23rd of September, 1346

  Afternoon

  ‘They’re going to kill Simon,’ she said.

  Lady Mary was calm. ‘Something tells me that gentleman will take quite a lot of killing,’ she said.

  They were in the solar of Blyth’s house, sunlight streaming through the windows and glowing off the carpets and glass. Tiphaine had cleaned the blood from her face and hands and changed her clothes, but she was still shaking with shock. ‘We must do something,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll ask Master Blyth to organise a rescue party,’ said Lady Mary. ‘That’s about all we can do.’ With sudden gentleness, she took Tiphaine’s hand. ‘My dear, he knows the risks. There’s nothing you can do to stop a man like that. I should know, I’m married to one.’

  ‘I wish I could be as calm as you,’ Tiphaine said.

  ‘Oh, believe me, it’s all on the surface. Underneath I am quaking in my boots, just like everyone else. What else did Brus say?’

  ‘Something about Durham, which I did not understand. And he asked the friar to carry letters to the Disinherited, and another to Lord Percy and Sir Harry.’

  Lady Mary let go of her hand. ‘The Percys? What does the letter say?’

  ‘I do not know. The friar was to wait for a reply.’

  ‘Idiots!’ Lady Mary stamped her foot on the rush mats. ‘Don’t they know that even accepting correspondence from the enemy is treason?’

  ‘You are not at war with Scotland,’ said Tiphaine. ‘Yet.’

  ‘But we are at war with France, and Rollond de Brus is an envoy of the French crown. Damn it! I will not let the Percy family destroy themselves, or this country.’

  She looked out the window. ‘Make ready to travel, my dear. I am going to see the captain of the garrison. It is too late to depart today, as we should not arrive before dark, but in the morning we are going to Warkworth.’

  Tiphaine looked blank. ‘We?’

  ‘I promised the herald I would keep you safe. I want you where I can keep an eye on you, and not let you go wandering off again.’ Lady Mary bit her lip. ‘God’s blood. I only hope we are not too late.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tiphaine, thinking of Simon riding alone across the wild hills. ‘So do I.’

  8

  Black Middens, 23rd of September, 1346

  Late afternoon

  Wind whistled through the grasses on the high slopes of Kielder Moor. Apart from the distant cawing of a crow and the thud of the horse’s hooves on turf, all was silent. A line of trees marked the course of the Tarset Burn down to his left; otherwise, the hills were wide open under an enormous blue sky. Merrivale watched the skyline as he rode. He was only a few miles from the border now; one day very soon Scots raiders would come pouring over these hills and down into the settled valleys below.

  Perhaps today would be that day. The truce had not yet expired, but Merrivale had little faith in truces. He rode on, the air and land seeming empty around him.

  From Hexham, where Gilbert de Tracey waited should he return from this venture, Merrivale had ridden across the Roman wall and up the valley of the North Tyne. South of Bellingham he had met a boy out shooting, who confirmed Harry Percy’s directions. Leaning on his bow, the boy gazed in awe at his embroidered tabard. ‘Are you a herald?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘My name is Peter de Lisle. I want to be a herald one day. I am already studying.’

  ‘Very laudable,’ said Merrivale, smiling.

  ‘I know the coats of arms of all the northern lords. Ask me, and I can name any of them for you.’

  Merrivale glanced up at the sun. ‘My young friend, I would love nothing more than to stop and discuss heraldry with you, but I have an errand that cannot wait. I wish you good sport with your bow.’

  Passing through the little war-scarred town of Bellingham, he turned north-west towards the moor. Another hour brought him to Black Middens, a square stone bastle house surrounded by a walled enclosure of the kind they called barmekins here in the north. As he drew closer he could see the wall had been breached, and the house no longer had a roof beyond some scorched timbers.

  He rode through one of the gaps in the barmekin wall and halted, waiting. His herald’s tabard gleamed in the sun, a splash of colour against an otherwise austere landscape. Wind ruffled the tabard, making the red leopards stir a little. The silence lasted a long time, long enough to wonder if he had the right place or the correct day. Then he heard the whicker of a horse, and two men walked around from behind the bastle house. Both wore mail coats and steel caps, and were armed with swords and leaf-bladed spears. Their red surcoats were blazoned with a white triskeles, the three armoured legs of the Isle of Mann.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded one of the men.

  ‘I am Simon Merrivale, envoy of her Grace Queen Philippa. I have come in place of Sir Harry Percy to meet the Countess of Dunbar.’ He held out his hands. ‘As you can see, I have no weapons.’

  ‘Let him enter, Somairle,’ said a female voice.

  The man who had spoken bowed his head. ‘Come with me.’

  A little stiffly, Merrivale dismounted and followed the man called Somairle up the stone stair and through an empty doorway into the hall. Charred roof timbers lay strewn across the floor, and the walls were stained with bird droppings. A woman stood in the middle of the chamber, two more armed men in attendance. She wore a long moss-green cloak with a hood framing curly black hair; her face was a warm brown colour with high cheekbones and arching eyebrows over long-lashed black eyes. This was Agnes Randolph, Countess of Dunbar and March, Lady of Mann and Annandale, and the most powerful woman in Scotland.

  Merrivale bowed his head. ‘Greetings, my lady.’

  She surveyed him. ‘You are unarmed. Is that wise? The borders are a dangerous place.’

  ‘Heralds are not permitted to carry weapons,’ said Merrivale. ‘We are ambassadors and messengers, who come in peace.’

  Her lips twitched with sudden amusement. ‘According to the rules, you are allowed to wear a blunted sword.’

  ‘A blunt sword is a thing a child might play with,’ Merrivale said. ‘When I became a man, I put away childish things.’

  She nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Why have you come instead of Sir Harry?’

  ‘Si
r Harry has many admirable qualities, but I was a King’s Messenger before I became a herald. I understand diplomacy.’

  ‘Do you? Consider this room is now a chessboard. I am black, you are red. You make the first move.’

  Merrivale paused for a long time. ‘I was going to ask a question,’ he said finally. ‘But then, I realised I already knew the answer. You opened clandestine negotiations with Sir Harry because you recognised what your king and his councillors have not; that in the long run, even with French support, you have very little chance of winning a war with England. And now, with France crippled after the battle of Crécy, that chance has dwindled to nearly nothing.’

  He paused again for a moment. ‘Forgive me for saying this. The Scots have courage, that is undeniable. But England has more men and more money. Courage alone will not bring you victory.’

  Behind her, one of the men-at-arms stirred. The countess stilled him with a motion of her hand. ‘I need no lectures on courage, herald,’ she said coolly. ‘I held Dunbar for a hundred and eighteen days against Lord Salisbury’s army, and in the end Salisbury crept away with his tail between his legs. At the moment, things are running in our favour. I think we have a very good chance.’

  ‘A very good chance,’ the herald repeated. ‘Yet Sir Harry Percy claims you summoned him here to talk about making peace with England.’

  ‘Yes,’ the countess said calmly. ‘A permanent peace, once the conflict is over. England and Scotland have been at war for fifty years. Enough blood has been shed, and enough treasure has been expended. It is time to make an end, a permanent end, for the good of both nations.’

  ‘You talk of peace, when your army is poised to invade England,’ Merrivale said. ‘A curious contradiction, my lady, is it not?’

  ‘I thought you said you understood diplomacy,’ she challenged. ‘Military victory will give us a stronger hand at the bargaining table. Surely that is not difficult to comprehend.’

  The herald nodded. ‘Are you putting pressure on Sir Harry and his family to change their allegiance?’

  She laughed, which was unexpected. ‘The Percys of Northumberland, joining forces with Scotland? The Percy lion will never lie down with the Scottish lion. They would rather fight to death.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘The Percys will look after their own, that is certain. If it suits their ambitions to make common cause with the Scots, they will do so. And at present, someone is pressing them to do exactly that. Is it you?’

  ‘No,’ said the countess after a moment. ‘But if we are to achieve a lasting peace, we need the support of the barons on both sides of the border, to persuade them to hang up their arms. I offered to meet Sir Harry to find out whether this might be possible.’

  ‘Are there others in Scotland who are also thinking about peace?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said directly. ‘But I will not tell you their names, or how many they are.’

  He gazed at her for a moment, thinking. ‘But yours is not the party in power in Scotland,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, you would not have to conduct these negotiations in secret. There is another party, urging war, and I hear that David Bruce is listening to them. I can guess at some of their names: Sir William Douglas of Liddesdale, and your brother, the Earl of Moray. Who are the others?’

  The countess said nothing. ‘Tell me their names and I might be able to stop them,’ the herald said.

  She laughed again, genuinely amused this time. ‘Why would I want you to stop them? Edward of England has neglected his northern defences for years, and his best fighting men are away in France. Now is our moment. As I said, victory is within our grasp.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the herald. ‘But you know as well as I do that any victory you win will be pyrrhic. As soon as King Edward takes Calais, his victorious army will return to England and march north, and once more you will be outmatched. Any gains you make this year will be wiped out, and the English will pillage and burn Scotland up to the eyebrows.’

  He paused for a moment, letting this sink in. He recognised all too clearly the emotions behind her proud face. ‘I believe it is your move,’ he said.

  ‘The man who leads the war party, and who planned the current campaign, is the envoy of King Philippe of France,’ she said. ‘He has only recently arrived, but has been at work at a distance for many months. His name is Rollond, Seigneur de Brus, and he is also King David’s cousin. I see you know him.’

  ‘We have met,’ said Merrivale. Things were clicking into place, the pieces of the plot coming together in his mind. ‘Are there others?’

  ‘The king’s half-brother, Niall Bruce of Carrick, is a close ally of Brus. There is another Frenchman too, Guy of Béthune. Those three, along with my brother and Douglas, have the king’s full confidence. He listens to them, and them alone.’

  Merrivale’s hands clenched suddenly. ‘Guy of Béthune,’ he said. ‘What is he doing here?’

  ‘He also holds lands in Scotland, the lordship of Hamilton. His brother, the Count of Flanders, was killed at Crécy. Béthune wants revenge against the English.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Merrivale, his voice suddenly weary. ‘Everyone wants revenge for something. It is the one thing we all have in common.’

  It took him a moment to collect his thoughts once more. He could see the countess watching and appraising him. ‘And so, they have agreed a new strategy,’ he said. ‘Not just the usual border raids to keep England occupied, but an all-out invasion.’

  ‘That is the condition for French support,’ said the countess. ‘We are to raise every man we have and launch them across the border, to seek out the English army and defeat it in battle.’

  ‘But that makes no sense,’ said the herald. ‘For most of the past two decades, you have been very successful against us by avoiding large-scale warfare. You have used the razor, not the hammer, slicing away our possessions in Scotland. You have launched lightning raids over the border and retreated before our captains can respond. Why change now? Why are Brus and his allies urging you to risk everything on invasion and pitched battle?’

  ‘Because Brus thinks we have a very good chance of winning,’ she said. ‘And he has persuaded the king and the others that he is right.’

  The herald shook his head. ‘There is more to it than that. There must be. Archbishop de la Zouche believes the French are paying you a subsidy to make war on us. Did the Seigneur de Brus bring this money with him?’

  She said nothing, her lips compressed. ‘My lady, you must tell me,’ he said quietly. ‘If what I think is true, then Scotland is in even greater danger than you can imagine.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘How much money, I do not know. But enough to raise an army, and to pay bribes to your nobles and the Disinherited.’

  ‘Where does this money come from?’

  ‘The French treasury, I assume.’

  ‘But that treasury is empty. War has bled it dry. Last summer, Philippe was unable even to pay his foreign mercenaries. So, where has this money come from?’

  She stood, silent. There was an obvious answer, he thought, but he was not about to share it with the Countess of Dunbar, not yet. He studied her face intently. ‘You are afraid of Brus,’ he said.

  One of the men-at-arms started forward, but again the countess motioned with her hand. ‘You are too bold, herald,’ she snapped. ‘An unarmed man should choose his words more carefully, I think.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Merrivale. ‘Because I bear no weapons, I am able to speak freely. You are right to be afraid. Rollond de Brus may be your king’s cousin, but he is no friend to Scotland.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Brus thrives on chaos,’ Merrivale said. ‘He is acting as Philippe’s envoy, but his true loyalty is not to France. He is part of a group of ruthless men, bankers, nobles, cardinals and priests, who seek power only for themselves. Last summer they tried to overthrow the kings of both England and France. I fear that they now mean to bring about the ruin of S
cotland.’

  ‘I have never heard of these men. Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because if I truly wanted to see Scotland brought to ruin, I would have said nothing and let Brus and his friends do their work. I am giving you a warning, countess. It is up to you whether you heed it.’

  She was still angry. ‘You have said enough. My patience is not limitless. It is time for you to go.’

  Merrivale bowed. ‘I apologise if I have given offence,’ he said. ‘I shall say one more thing. I agree with what you said earlier. This war has brought nothing but harm to both of our nations, and it is time to make an end. If you genuinely desire peace, and if you can persuade your king to offer proposals for an end to the conflict, I will be happy to carry them to London. You will always know, I think, where to find me.’

  * * *

  The sun was sinking towards the moor when Merrivale walked back into the courtyard. The Manxman holding his horse saluted as he stepped into the saddle. He wondered, briefly, where the man’s own loyalties lay; the Isle of Mann was one of the debateable lands, claimed by England as well as Scotland. We live in fractured, broken times, he reflected, when no one’s loyalty is certain, and greedy, ambitious men like Rollond de Brus are taking full advantage.

  His intention was to ride to Hexham and take lodging there for the night, and in the morning call at the priory to interview Gilbert de Tracey. Finding the banker’s money had taken on a new urgency. Blyth was probably right, and the money had gone overseas; given time, the Chancery’s Argus-eyed investigators would probably pick up its trail, but they didn’t have time. Michaelmas and the expiry of the truce was just six days away. It seemed very likely now that the missing money was already in the hands of the man from the north; and that some of it, at least, was funding the Scottish invasion.

  But what else? What other plans did Brus have? What orders had he received from the man from the north? Everything he had done so far pointed to a carefully planned and prepared invasion; the raising of the army, the careful concealment of its strategic intentions, the wooing of the Disinherited, the bribery and intimidation of local nobles. But there would be more to it than that. Brus and his allies never did anything that would not profit themselves. Scotland, damaged and impoverished by decades of war, was fragile and vulnerable. So why would the conspirators expend so much time and treasure?