Above all he wanted to know what had happened — Bellejambe had arrived back, staggering and broken, having dragged himself away from St Olave’s before the King’s men came down on it and found outraged priests and the dead body of a pardoner. Bellejambe did not know how the pardoner had died — or how Bruce’s man had survived — but what information Lamprecht had was now lost to them.
Which was an annoyance Red John thought with a sharp pang of bitterness. But at least droop-eyed Edward Longshanks knows nothing of any Comyn involvement in the matter — else I would not be here, he thought. There was annoyance, too, at how he had been left to pick up the pieces while the Earl of Buchan, ostensibly seeking out his wayward countess yet again, had used the lie of it to flee to his own lands, just in case.
There was a flurry, a clack of leather on smoothed flagstones; Red John’s men, bland in plain clothing, stiffened like scenting hounds.
Bruce had arrived.
He came up swiftly, with the air of a man with better things to be doing, but that was mummery — Bruce was swift because he wanted this dangerous liaison over with, for a whole ragman roll of reasons.
Yet there was savour in the moment, handed to him from the wreck of a bad day which had brought Kirkpatrick hirpling home with tales of riot and chase, brawl and murder — and a Templar, who had arrived in time to kill Lamprecht and save Kirkpatrick.
‘The Templar knight has the Rood and the contents of the pardoner’s scrip, gilt reliquary, Apostle jewels and all,’ Kirkpatrick had said, once James of Montaillou had finished tutting and treating and left them alone.
‘He tells me his name, which is Rossal de Bissot, and that he will bring the Rood when the time is right.’
He paused and eased himself gingerly in the chair; the sweat popped out on his forehead, fat drops that he dashed away with an irritated hand.
‘It seems the Templars are up to their neck in this.’
A neck on the block, beset by rumours of papal displeasure and French spies actively seeking proof of heresy, as Bruce pointed out. Which was no soothe to Kirkpatrick’s bruised pride and cracked ribs, Bruce saw. The taste of failure was bitter in the man’s voice; Bruce heard and it was best that he knew all was not lost — just the opposite, in fact.
‘Rossal de Bissot is clearly working for the safety of his Order,’ he informed the whey-faced Kirkpatrick. ‘Bissot is a much-revered name within the Poor Knights.’
‘Aye, weel — revered or not, he will not be backwards in coming forwards,’ Kirkpatrick answered sourly. ‘He will want advantage from handing you what you seek, my lord — it is not wise to mire yourself in the doings of the Poor Order.’
Bruce said nothing, merely stroked his injured cheek, perpetually hidden now under a plain hood. It was clear that this Rossal was holding Lamprecht’s loot; the Apostles were gone — save the one the pardoner had handed over in a loaf — and, worse still, the Rood was gone and it was little comfort that it lay in the hands of the Templars. Still, the Bruce involvement in all of it was safely locked up behind the kist of Lamprecht’s dead mouth.
Best of all, the Comyn had been left floundering and, shortly after speaking with Kirkpatrick, Bruce had sent out word for a meeting with that family — and then dispatched his brothers and Kirkpatrick back to Scotland.
He had also sent off Elizabeth and her women, which had been a more disagreeable task altogether; he had not even seen his wife, only Lady Bridget her tirewoman, who had informed him that her mistress was not inclined to leave the comfort of London for the cold north.
He had bitten down on his angry tongue, though enough anger spilled into his eyes to set the tirewoman back a step and pale her cheek. His quietly delivered ultimatum had been taken to his wife, and very soon he could hear the flurry of them packing — but the victory in it was a sour taste.
Now he clacked across the floor to Red John, leaving a suitable hem of his own mesnie at the fringes of Rahere’s tomb. He studied the frowning wee man with his red-gold curve of beard quivering as if he barely held some unseen force in check. He looked like a man in the wrong clothing, from the foppish hat on his close-cropped head down the silk and fine wool to his vainly-heeled boots — Bruce was wary; this was the man who had sprang at his throat before and the memory of it burned shame in him still.
‘Was he one of yours, the man killed in the riot in the Cheap?’ he asked and Red John curled his lip in something which might have been sneer or smile.
‘He was not. That was one of Buchan’s own, a fine man from Rattray who will be much mourned — how is your own man? I hear he was much battered about.’
‘He is in good health. More so, I understand, than your Bellejambe.’
Red John smiled, warmly this time.
‘Again, Buchan’s man — and he is sore hurt, but will survive with Heaven’s help and good broth.’
‘Christ be praised,’ Bruce replied laconically.
‘For ever and ever.’
‘I suspect God’s Hand will be withdrawn from him, all the same,’ Bruce went on, flat and vicious. ‘Failure is a poor option in Buchan lands.’
‘Go dtachta an diabhal thu,’ Comyn hissed, looking right and left.
‘If the Devil does choke me,’ Bruce answered, also in Gaelic, ‘it will be a Comyn hand he uses.’
Which was enough of a reminder of Red John’s previous throttling anger to bring the fiery lord of Badenoch to the balls of his feet; he sucked in a deep breath.
‘What do you wish in this matter?’ he demanded, still bristling like a ginger boar. ‘Why for did you call this meeting?’
They sibilated in Gaelic now, the better to confuse any passing monk who, consciously or accidentally, breached the glowering ring of faces and came close enough to hear; there was chanting somewhere, for the celebration of the Visitation, and monks scurried to and fro with little flaps of sound.
Bruce waved one hand and, despite himself, Red John followed it with his eyes until he saw it was empty of blade.
‘Longshanks is no fool and will have learned of what happened. It is enough for him to leave off wondering and descend on vigorous seeking of answers,’ Bruce replied viciously. ‘He will see where your thoughts run, my lord. The Comyn looking to foil the Bruce? He may not consider this another tourney in our personal quarrels — he may think one or either of us plot against him, which has ever been his way. I am loyalty writ large and gilded, my lord — but yourself and Buchan have been a single thorn to him not long since and he will consider you are about to fight him again.’
‘We were fighting for Scotland before you and will after you,’ Red John replied savagely, then slapped his silk-quilted chest. ‘Comyn and Balliol, my lord Carrick, holding true while you waver and turn whenever it suits you. Titim gan eiri ort.’
May you fall without rising — a good old Gaelic curse that Bruce recalled his mother uttering, so that the memory of it made him smile a little; the sight threw Red John off his course.
‘Aye, you have resisted Longshanks fiercely,’ Bruce agreed, ‘so that your wife will be no guard against his belief that you will do so again.’
Red John’s eyes flickered at that; his wife was Joan de Valence, sister to Aymer and daughter of the King’s own uncle. Red John Comyn must be a fretting annoyance to the de Valence family, Bruce thought — almost as much as he is to me.
‘This must end,’ he said flatly. ‘Enough is enough — our feud is ruining the Kingdom, which needs a strong hand. It needs a king, my lord.’
‘It has a king,’ muttered Red John. ‘A Balliol, not a Bruce.’
‘Unmade by the same hand that raised him up,’ Bruce answered and saw the bristling over this old argument; he waved it away with a dismissive gesture.
‘We may debate it until Judgement Day,’ he growled, ‘but the Gordian Knot of it can be cut simply enough.’
They stared at each other and Red John grew still and quiet, leaning back slightly to look at Bruce — pale for such a dark man, Red John saw, with the tight dark green hood framing his face tightly, the spill of it like moss dagged on his shoulders. To hide the scar on his cheek, he thought, from Malenfaunt’s blow — marbhaisg ort, a death shroud on you, Malenfaunt, he thought. If you had done your work as you were paid to this man would not be such a stone in my shoe.
