A Clash of Lions Page 9

  Merrivale did not doubt that Brus and the man from the north had some plan to spread chaos in Scotland. The question was, did their plan include England as well?

  And finally, what about Agnes of Dunbar? What she had told him was likely to be true, or mostly true, but there were also a great many things she had not told him. She was clearly reluctant to speak freely about Brus. Was this because she was afraid of him, as the herald himself had implied? Or was she playing some game of her own?

  He forded the River Rede where it came down to join the North Tyne. The sun was low on the horizon now; it would be dark by the time he reached Hexham. He saw a flicker of movement on the track ahead; a single horseman trotting towards him, a typical border hobelar in leather jack and cap, carrying an upright lance. The man wore no device on his jack. Something prickled on the back of Merrivale’s neck, and he turned to see two more horsemen coming up behind him.

  He looked around. To his right were the rippling waters of the Tyne, full of rocks and boulders; the river was fordable, just, but he would have to pick his way across slowly and if his horse stumbled and fell, the horsemen would spear him in the water. To the left rose a line of bare hills; he might be able to get away over these, but even as he looked three more horsemen topped the skyline and came riding down towards him.

  This was growing tiresome, the herald thought. Three attacks in less than a month. Even if one of them was fairly obviously a pretence, it seemed excessive. He dismounted, turning his horse to use it as a shield, and studied the oncoming riders, noting the speed and angle of their approach, working out how he would attempt to deal with each in turn. As they drew closer, he realised this would not be easy. They were keeping pace with one another, timing their rides so that all six would arrive on top of him at once.

  Every time we ride out, it could be the last time, his old friend Geoffrey of Maldon had once said. Perhaps this was that time. Unbidden, a woman’s face flashed through his mind, and to his mild surprise the face was that of Tiphaine, not Yolande. On the heels of the thought, an arrow came hissing through the air from the direction of the river and buried itself halfway to the fletchings in the chest of one of the riders.

  The man fell from the saddle, rolling over once and then lying still while his horse bolted in fright. Another horse went down thrashing and kicking, its rider scrambling to his feet and reaching for his lance. Merrivale turned to see the boy Peter de Lisle running across the fields, bow in hand and nocking another arrow. ‘Sir Herald! To me, sir! I will defend you!’

  Merrivale ran towards him. The boy halted and shot again; this time the arrow missed. Cursing under his breath, the boy pulled another arrow from his quiver. The ground vibrated to the drumming of hooves; the enemy were almost on top of them, and then out of nowhere four more horsemen piled into the fray, attacking the hobelars with sword and axe. The man on foot tried to run, but one of the newcomers rode after him and chopped him down with a single brutal cut of his sword. The boy raised his bow, but Merrivale saw the white triskeles badge on a red field and put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Hold fast. These are friends.’

  The fight was over in less than a minute. The Manxmen circled their horses, lathered from hard riding. A female voice said, ‘Is this all of them, Somairle?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Make certain they are all dead. I want no witnesses.’

  The Manxmen dismounted, bending over the bodies. One man struggled up, trying to run; Somairle kicked him to the ground and cut his throat with a single smooth motion. Agnes of Dunbar rode up to Merrivale and the boy, halting her horse and pulling back the cowl of her cloak. The herald bowed.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How did you know they were following me?’

  ‘I had scouts out watching the hills. They reported six men came over the border above Redesdale. I thought at first they were looking for me, but when they bypassed Black Middens, I knew they must be coming for you.’

  Her horse stirred at the smell of blood, and she calmed it with a hand on its neck. ‘Who wants you dead, herald?’

  ‘There is a list,’ said Merrivale. ‘These men were Scots?’

  ‘I recognise the one Somairle dispatched just now. He was in the household of Niall Bruce of Carrick. The king’s half-brother, and Rollond de Brus’s close friend.’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘I understand why you wanted no witnesses. May I ask why you decided to rescue me?’

  ‘I thought about letting them kill you, but then I realised you might be useful one day. Now I have a question of my own. What is Guy of Béthune to you? I saw your face change when I mentioned his name.’

  He had tried to avoid thinking about Guy of Béthune during the ride down from Black Middens. ‘An old adversary,’ the herald said. ‘I thought he was buried in the past. Hearing his name again was… a surprise.’

  ‘Not a pleasant one, I think,’ said Agnes of Dunbar. She raised one gloved hand in salute. ‘Go carefully, Sir Herald. Night is coming, and there may be others on your list out there waiting.’

  She motioned to her men and they turned and rode back up the valley to the north-west. The red surcoats flashed once in the last of the sunlight and then faded from view.

  * * *

  Twilight was already hovering over the eastern hills and Hexham was still two hours away. The herald turned to the boy. ‘I have not yet thanked you,’ he said. ‘You risked your life for me. I am deeply in your debt.’

  The boy blushed under his sunburn. He was about fifteen, still at the slightly gawky stage; he reminded the herald a little of his own master, the young Prince of Wales. ‘It was nothing, sir. But why were those caitiff wretches trying to kill you? And the lady who saved us; was that… was that really…?’

  Merrivale raised a finger. ‘Not a word to anyone,’ he said. ‘Take this secret to your grave. But yes; that was Agnes of Dunbar.’

  The boy’s eyes were round with astonishment. Merrivale could see other questions bubbling up inside him, but the boy remembered his manners and checked himself. ‘The lady is right, sir. It is not safe to travel after dark. My father’s house at Chipchase is not far from here. Come with me, and we can give you shelter for the night.’

  Merrivale looked at him. ‘Chipchase? Your father is Sir Robert de Lisle.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Do please say you will come, we receive so few visitors these days. Well, apart from the ones who come to steal our cattle.’

  Sir Robert de Lisle was one of the most prominent members of the Disinherited. If the information received in London was correct, he was one of those who had been approached about switching his allegiance to Scotland in exchange for restitution of his lost lands. By going to Chipchase, Merrivale thought, will I be stepping out of the frying pan into the fire?

  Once again, there was only one way to find out. ‘I should be delighted,’ he said.

  9

  Chipchase, 23rd of September, 1346

  Evening

  They reached Chipchase as dusk began to fall in the valley, although the higher hills still shone with light. The house was rather larger than Black Middens, a tower house with battlements on the roof, and the barmekin wall was high and in good repair. Merrivale dismounted in the courtyard and followed Peter through a doorway and up a narrow stair to the hall. A white-haired man seated before the fire and wrapped in a long fur-trimmed robe looked up sharply as they came in. ‘Peter! It’s about time you were home, lad! And who have you brought with you?’

  ‘It is Master Merrivale, father! Herald to the Prince of Wales!’

  ‘A royal herald?’ The old man reached for a stick and struggled to his feet. ‘Now what possesses such a man to go riding alone through Tynedale? Never mind, never mind, questions can wait. Run to the kitchen and tell the servants to bring food and wine.’ Peter disappeared, and the older man looked at Merrivale.

  ‘Let us introduce ourselves properly. I am Sir Robert de Lisle, and of course you’ve met Peter, my son. We’re proper northern de Li
sles, not like those nose-in-the-air bastards down south.’

  Merrivale, who had met the de Lisle family of Rougemont in Bedfordshire, smiled. ‘My name is Simon Merrivale,’ he said.

  ‘Merrivale… From Dartmoor, in Devon? Are you Reginald’s boy? Aye, you’ve his look about you. I knew him quite well, back in the old days. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes, though life does him no favours.’ Losing his wife and daughters in the Great Famine and his lands a few years later had crushed Reginald Merrivale’s spirit; these days he lived in a world of dreams and memories, not knowing what day it was, unable to recognise his only son.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. I heard about your mother and sisters too. It was a bloody awful time, the famine, and then the years of chaos around the old king’s death. People today complain about hard times. They don’t know how lucky they are. Sit down, lad, sit down.’

  They sat. A book bound with wooden boards rested on a stand beside the table; Cicero’s The Dream of Scipio, Merrivale saw. To his relief, de Lisle changed the subject. ‘What brings you up here?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought you’d be in France with the prince.’

  ‘The queen asked me to come north and look into certain matters,’ Merrivale said. ‘I ran into trouble on the road today, and your son was kind enough to help out.’

  ‘What kind of trouble? Scots?’ Merrivale nodded. ‘So they’re over the border already,’ the old man said. ‘It was to be expected, of course. Bloody truces don’t mean anything up here, never did.’

  Peter returned, followed by a servant bearing a platter of bread, cold beef and chopped herbs, with a flask of wine, a jug of water and a glass. ‘Make sure the watch at the gate stays alert,’ Sir Robert instructed his son. ‘And check that the horses are secure.’

  ‘Aye, father.’

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ Sir Robert reflected after the boy had gone. ‘My only remaining son and heir. My wife died giving birth to him. His brothers are gone too, the eldest killed at Annan, the second died on pilgrimage many years ago. Peter is all I have left.’

  ‘He is brave as a lion,’ Merrivale said, cutting a piece of beef.

  ‘He is. Yet strangely, he has no interest in tales of derring-do and courage. The military exploits of our forefathers don’t interest him, not at all. He’s fascinated by heraldry, that’s all. He knows every kind of armorial device there is. Give him a name, and he can not only tell you the man’s coat but what its history is and where it comes from.’

  Merrivale smiled. ‘He has an extraordinary talent. Sir Robert, may I ask you a question? I understand you are one of the leaders of the Disinherited.’

  The old man waved a gnarled hand. ‘Once upon a time, perhaps, but not anymore. These days I am so crippled with arthritis I hardly leave the house. You’re going to ask me if I have received offers from Scotland. This will be the queen’s business that brought you north, no doubt.’

  Merrivale sipped his wine. ‘Your son saved my life, and I am a guest in your house. I will not compel you to tell me anything.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve nothing to hide. I won’t tell you who made the offers, because I believe the man was well-intentioned and I don’t want to draw trouble down on his head. I was promised restitution of the Scottish lands I once held in Nithsdale and Dumfries, and a sum of money besides. Quite a large sum.’

  ‘You turned them down,’ said the herald.

  ‘I don’t want the lands,’ the old man said, ‘not any more. And I’ve enough money to see me by. My interest in Scotland ended in 1332, when Edward Balliol fled bare-arsed out of the camp at Annan and left his men to die. My son included.’

  Merrivale waited. ‘I was part of a great adventure, once,’ said de Lisle. ‘I was a new-minted knight when I followed Edward Longshanks to Scotland and we brought her king back a prisoner to the Tower of London. Those Scottish lands were my reward. We thought that was the end, Scotland subdued, peace in our time. But the Scots kept fighting and Edward’s son, our present king’s late and unlamented father, let them win it all back. Fourteen years ago, we tried again. I followed Balliol to the slaughterhouse at Dupplin Moor, and we established ourselves as masters again, thinking we had turned back time. It lasted four months, before Balliol’s stupidity led us into disaster and I lost my lands for the second time; and my son. That was enough. I am done with this venture.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Merrivale. ‘The boot is on the other foot. When the Scots come, they will remember their enemies as well as their friends.’

  De Lisle shook his head. ‘That’s fortune’s wheel for you. If they come, they come, and all I can do is hold them off for as long as I can and make the best end my aching bones will allow.’

  ‘You could make your life easier by accepting their offer.’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly not. I don’t really care, to be honest. I just think I’ve had enough. You see things more clearly when you’re near the end of your life. You understand what truly matters in the eyes of God. I want to see my son make his way in the world. Nothing else really matters to me.’

  ‘What about the rest of the Disinherited? Do they feel the same as you?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘The Disinherited feel ignored and betrayed. When the present king first came to the throne he promised support, and for several years he gave it. Every summer, regular as the turning of an hourglass, English armies came north to fight the Scots, though they never seemed to accomplish much. Then the king decided that the crown of France was the shiny new bauble he was going to pursue, and all the men and money were diverted to the French war. The Disinherited have been cast aside. Edward Balliol is a broken reed, everyone knows that. But Umfraville and Wake and Clennell, in particular, wanted to continue the fight. Now, they are beginning to wonder why they bother.’

  ‘And they may be tempted by the Scottish offer,’ said Merrivale. ‘I can understand that.’ He paused. ‘Would you be willing to do a service for the crown? Speak to Umfraville and Wake and the others, and persuade them to follow your example and reject the offer?’

  De Lisle paused for a long time before replying. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t. There’s two reasons. First, I am so damned crippled that I doubt if I could ride as far as Redesdale or Coquetdale to find them. Second, I have made my own decision, but I have no idea if it was the right one. What right have I to expect others to follow my example?’

  ‘You could remind them of their loyalty,’ said Merrivale.

  ‘Loyalty isn’t something you demand, my boy. It’s something you earn. Even kings need to realise that. Who or what you give your loyalty to is a matter for every man’s conscience. I will not decide for them.’

  From outside came the sound of voices, the guard at the gate challenging, another answering. Booted feet on the stair and Peter de Lisle burst into the room. ‘Father! There’s a party of men-at-arms at the gate, demanding entrance!’

  ‘Go and find out who they are,’ Sir Robert said calmly. ‘If they’re English, admit them. If they’re Scots, we’ll give them another kind of welcome.’

  * * *

  The new arrivals were in fact English. Their leader, attired in mail coat, breastplate, vambraces and bascinet with a plain white surcoat, raised a hand in salute as he entered the hall. ‘Sir Robert, my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour. Sir Herald, my name is Woodburn and I am in the service of Master Blyth. He sent me and my men to discover whether you were safe, and if so to escort you back to Newcastle.’

  ‘It is good of you to come,’ the herald said, ‘and good of Master Blyth to send you. Why did he think I might be in danger?’

  ‘The Lady Tiphaine overheard a French spy talking this morning. He appeared to indicate that an ambush had been set for you. She informed Master Blyth, who gave me my orders. We have called at every house since Hexham, looking for you.’

  Merrivale considered this for a moment. ‘It is too late to start for Newcastle now,’ he said. ‘Sir Robert, would you be able to accommodate Master Bly
th’s men overnight?’

  ‘Of course,’ the old man said equably. ‘Peter, fetch the steward, if you please.’

  Woodburn looked disconcerted. ‘We’re ready to go now if you wish, sir. We can pick up fresh horses in Hexham.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the herald. ‘But I have had a long and wearying day, and I will stay here and rest for the night. In the morning I am riding to Hexham, where I have business that will take some time.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ said Woodburn. ‘We are at your disposal. Our orders are to bring you back to Newcastle safe and sound. If we don’t, we must answer to Master Blyth.’

  ‘And to the Lady Tiphaine?’ suggested Merrivale.

  ‘Yes,’ said Woodburn with feeling. ‘Yes, that too.’

  Hexham, 24th of September, 1346

  Morning

  Five more days until Michaelmas; five more days to war.

  At dawn Merrivale departed for Hexham, accompanied by Woodburn and his men-at-arms and by the effervescently eager Peter de Lisle. This last, Merrivale realised, should have been expected.

  ‘I want you to know how much I admire you,’ the boy had said as they took bread and weak watered wine in the hall that morning. ‘You have travelled so far on your embassies, and seen so much of the world, and you have studied the coats and devices of great nobles from all over Europe. Oh, I would give so much to live a life like yours.’