‘My lord Malenfaunt declares,’ Malise Bellejambe said at the end of it all, seeing the blank faces, ‘that he has a writ from King Edward giving Herdmanston to himself. He has come to take over his fortress and desires you quit-claim from the place immediately.’
The silence and stares made him frown and he turned into the equally incredulous face of Malenfaunt.
‘What?’ Malise demanded. ‘That is what you said, is it not?’
Malenfaunt nodded, his eyes wide as a dog who has found someone without a whip.
‘I hold Herdmanston,’ Hal answered with a growl, ‘and will do so. If ye wish me or mine, nobiles, then you must exert yerself and do yer utmost.’
‘Come away in,’ said a new voice, lilting and smooth and so instantly recognizable that Buchan visibly jerked.
She came to the back of Hal, russet head proud and eyes blazing on her husband’s face.
‘There is little point in speaking with a man who would throw his wife to all his dogs,’ she added in French and laid a hand gently on Hal’s shoulder. Up on the roof, the Dog Boy saw the shift in the saddle and even from there, the rush of blood to Buchan’s jowled face turned it almost black.
Buchan saw Hal’s sudden smile at her touch as a glittering curve of leering triumph against him and all his walls broke. With a sharp cry, almost the scream of a girl, he raked the sides of the great warhorse; taken by surprise, it reared and pawed, then surged forward. Buchan’s blade was raised high and capable of striking Hal’s ankles, bringing him tumbling off the steps.
A dark shape slammed his horse on one shoulder, sending it skittering sideways. Davy Scott saw Patrick of Dunbar’s furious face as he balked Buchan’s horse with his own and he brought up the spanned latchbow he’d held, quiet and hidden, down one side of his horse, away from the sharp eyes of Sim Craw; if he shot Hal of Herdmanston now, Buchan would reward him richly…
‘Stay yer hand,’ Patrick of Dunbar bellowed furiously at Buchan. ‘This is a truce, by God.’
For a moment, it seemed the unthinkable would happen and that Buchan would strike the son of the Earl of March — then the arrow hissed, snaking over the heads of everyone, so that only a few saw it and fewer still cried out and reached for weapons. By the time hand was on hilt, though, the best shot the Dog Boy ever did struck Davy Scott on his top lip and drove straight through his head, slicing his brainstem in two.
As if someone had cut all the strings of him, he simply flopped, slid sideways and toppled off the horse, the latchbow falling free; it hit the ground and went off, so that the bolt wasped over ducking heads.
There was yelling and confusion; Hal slid Isabel backwards into the keep, covered by Sim’s crossbow, while Patrick of Dunbar bellowed at Buchan and everyone around him to stay their hand.
With a final savage wrench that took Bradacus’ head back with a protesting whine, the Earl of Buchan reined round and trotted off, the old warhorse stepping delicately over Davy Scott’s body, which Buchan never once looked at.
They came on in a rush an hour later. The rain had stopped and enough sun came out to steam the ground and bring out a rash of insects, which caused the horses to fret and quiver at their tethers; they were useless in this event and could only stand fast and be bitten.
The grim-faced men assembled, knowing this would be a hard affair, even though they hugely outnumbered the defenders; there was only one way in and that was up the stair, two wide.
The first four would have shields up, to front and above. The next two would lug the awkward man-length of wooden planking to span the gap between the top of the stair and the lip of the doorway. The others would come up with spears and axes, the first for forcing the defenders back from the yett, no doubt reinforced and barriered as best as could be managed, the second for the close in-fighting, where even a sword was too long.
Young Patrick, fired and eager, moved down the ranks, trying to behave as a knight should, his earnest face red where it could be seen in the framing of maille rings and bascinet. He clapped shoulders of men he would never dine with at home and prepared himself to lead the ones carrying the spanning plank.
Buchan stood and glowered, armed and armoured, a glory of gold wheatsheaves on blue, but patently not involved; it was not the place of earls to risk themselves in such a combat and if the silly sons of earls wished to be foolish that was their own affair.
He had said as much to Malise, while instructing him to join the affray. Malise, accoutred in uncomfortable maille, stumped bitterly towards the pack clutching an unfamiliar axe and shield, the whole panoply of it a crushing weight that made him wonder if he could even get up the steps.
Malenfaunt stopped him with a hand on one arm, muttering in his gabbled way. Malise could not work out why no-one else could understand the man; what he said was clear as day to him.
‘Stay out of it until they are inside,’ the knight warned, then grinned, thin-lipped and mirthless. ‘See the smoke there?’
Malise saw it, a curling wisp from a hole to one side, above the doorway; he nodded, confused.
‘They have a fire going. It is in a wee kitchen, but I do not think they are making a basket of chicken.’
They stood and watched as the attack went in, the shielding men huddled and crabbing as fast as they could go, the ones lugging the plank roaring in desperate fear and fury to keep themselves moving forward.
An arrow spanged off a shield, a bolt took one of the shieldmen in the thigh and he fell with a shriek of despair and a clattering thump. The spanning plank went down and Patrick of Dunbar led the rush, bellowing, into the maw of the doorway.
The yett had been barricaded and buttressed with the tower’s original spanning plank, while Leckie the Faber, expert blacksmith that he was, had hammered a bar of iron into a circle, fastening the grilled door shut after a fashion. Behind it, as Patrick’s eyes blinked from the sunlight to the dim, were shadowy figures, flicking out spear tips between the metal squares of the yett grill.
Men crushed forward, Patrick yelling for his own to hammer the bar off the gate. Spears clattered on shields — then, suddenly, inexplicably, the men behind the grill scampered away from it. There was a moment of confusion as the attackers, with nothing to stab at, milled round the yett door, getting in the way of the men bringing in hammers — then there was a hissing sound, like falling rain, and the screaming began as boiling water poured from the murder-holes above them.
Malenfaunt nodded with smug righteousness as men howled out of the door. Three of them missed their footing on the plank or were shoved aside by the pack of panicked to fall in a whirl of arms and legs and screams. The rest half-ran, half-stumbled back down the stairs; one was smacked on to his face by a bolt in his shoulderblades and Malise knew that came from Sim Craw, high on the roof and hidden by the merlons. He shivered at the idea of almost having been in all of that and glanced sideways at the smiling Malenfaunt, who had saved him.
Young Patrick came out, bawling and screaming, hauling off his coif in a frenzy, throwing bascinet to one side; squires and servants ran to assist and shield him while he stripped himself to his broiled, blistering face and head, finally falling, moaning.
‘Blood of Christ,’ Malise muttered. He crossed himself.
‘Amen,’ mouthed Malenfaunt wryly.
They carried Patrick of Dunbar off to be balmed with goose-grease and reflect on the reality of knightly conflict and the loss of his good looks, while Malenfaunt grinned and nudged Malise to look at the blazing fury that was Buchan’s own face. Even though he did not like the idea of Malenfaunt mocking his lord, Malise had to admit that the Earl of Buchan did look like an ox’s backside with a bee up it.
Hal had taken little or no part in any of this, for Ill-Made was dying and Mintie Laidlaw had worked herself into such a state over events that her birthing was early, a combination which made for a deal more pain and suffering than anything going on in Herdmanston’s scabbed doorway.
‘Fetch me warmed watter,’ Alehouse Maggie demanded of Mouse. ‘Not the boiling ye are dumping on our enemies, mind — softer than that. Likewise a sharp knife, to pare my nails.’
‘A good midwife,’ Isabel said with a smile, ‘needs short clean nails and should be a stranger to drink.’
‘Ah, weel, my lady,’ Maggie answered with a wink, ‘half right is all good — Mouse, fetch also a cup o’ fat. I would usually use almond oil to grease the privities o’ the likes of Araminta Laidlaw, but needs must.’
Those who knew Mintie and her cry of ‘I am nobiles born, albeit a poor yin’ laughed, but it was tempered by the crash and clatter and screaming not far from them.
‘Make certain ye fetch a cup with no burned bits in it,’ Maggie yelled at the flustered scampering back of Mouse. ‘We are easing a wean into the world, no’ frying bacon.’
