‘You may have the other one when we capture him,’ de Valence added in a conciliatory fashion. ‘One Rossal de Bissot by name. Once the King’s justice has finished with him.’
‘They should not be party to secular justice,’ the abbot persisted. ‘They are of the Church and only the Pope may punish them. He will hear of this.’
‘You have mentioned that once already,’ de Valence spat back, then leaned forward a little in the saddle. ‘Be assured, dear Abbot, that the Pope may be deafened to complaints by all the accusations against the Order. That and the sound of victory over his excommunicated enemies, which forgives all sins.’
‘The end does not always justify the means,’ intoned the abbot, drawing himself up. Behind him, a coterie of monks and clerics nodded and clasped pious hands.
Go home, Aymer wanted to say. Go home and help Galeazzo and all the other Viscontis dominate Milan and the Pope. Leave the serious business of the day to fighting men, who can see the madness in this and in everything to do with war yet persist in it, like a peasant ploughing a stony field.
The madness was necessary, too. Lamberton had given in at Scotland as well — but not before he had sent off all the men he could to Bruce — while the siege of Cupar had secured that arch-priest of dissent, Lucifer’s Own secretary Bishop Wishart.
Resplendent in maille and helm, the recalcitrant old dog had dared plead the safety of his Holy Vestements, in an irony that would not be missed by anyone there, especially those who knew that the siege engines he had used to capture Cupar in the first place had been made by timbers sent by King Edward himself for the repair of Glasgow’s cathedral.
There was no time for the qualms of an abbot, whether he be a Visconti, papal spy or Christ’s Own Right Hand, for it was doubtful if King Edward would allow that to interfere with his own form of burning vengeance. Let the little Visconti pick the irony out of that, Aymer thought savagely.
A sudden high yell slashed through the stream of his thoughts, followed by cheers; the coterie of clerics crossed themselves and muttered prayers as de Valence stared into the furious eyes of the abbot, as burning as the sudden leap of flame from the pyre.
‘Justified or not,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘We have, it seems, reached the end.’
He closed the visor of his new-style bascinet and hauled the surprised horse round, then set off at a frantic pace, almost blind and only eager to move, to course blood into him and all thoughts out.
Up on a hill, belly flat and peering through wet fronds, Hal, Sim and Jamie Douglas looked at the smoke- stained wood and the figures round it. De Valence was easily seen, in his blue and white striped mantle decorated with a ring of red birds — barry of twelve argent and azure, an orle of ten martlets gules Hal translated to himself.
The others were less easy to work out — a lot of arguing prelates, a host of ill-dressed Welsh rabble trying to light a huge fire and a wary knot of serjeants, who galloped off after de Valence. Hal had no idea what was going on.
‘I could have shot yon aff his fancy stot,’ Sim muttered, moody at having been told to hold his fire by Hal, who gave him a sour sidelong glance.
‘Which would have had us all looking like hedgepigs,’ he grunted. ‘Yon are Welsh bowmen — they have stacked their bagged weapons in shelter while they hunt dry wood for their fire.’
Sim’s eyebrows went up and he looked, then nodded admiringly.
‘Full price to ye — I missed that. Bigod, it is lucky for us they are so frowning over makin’ a heat for themselves. Not that it is chill, as anyone can tell…’
‘We should take a look,’ Jamie Douglas declared eagerly. ‘There are only a brace o’ them left — see there.’
He was right — the Welsh were straggling off after de Valence and their leader, the tall one in the jack fitted with little metal-leaf plates, had barked at two of them to stay behind. Hal could not understand why and said so.
‘Guarding their meal,’ Sim said with firm conviction based on nothing at all. Jamie and Hal looked at each other and did not have to put voice to it — it was a gey muckle fire for a meal, even for as many Welsh as that.
‘An entire coo at least,’ Sim agreed cheerfully and licked meaningful lips. It was a point fairly made — Hal and his men, with Jamie Douglas in tow ‘for the learnin g in it’, had been sent by Bruce to scout Cupar, last known position of the English. It had been a long, hard, meandering ride in the warm damp of summer, plagued by a host of flies and a lack of decent food.
Yet, for all the promise of beef, Hal was uneasy and sour at the coiled strike that was Jamie Douglas, envying his youth and how all was adventure to him, while annoyed that he was prepared to put everything at risk for it.
He and Dog Boy were a pair, he noted, padding round as if leashed to each other — even now, Dog Boy held the garrons no more than a hidden score of yards away. As Sim had remarked, the pair of them were like the brace of deerhounds Hal had once owned, with Jamie the fawning one with a streak of vicious savagery you did not want to unleash and Dog Boy as the solid, relentless, reliable partner at the hinter end.
Hal did not like remembering those dogs, the pride of their handler, Tod’s Wattie. Malise Bellejambe had poisoned the dogs and, not long after, red murdered Wattie in the back with a knife. What was worse, nothing had been done about that in the half score of years since.
‘Well?’
The challenge was in French and Hal turned into the cocked head and grin of Jamie Douglas. He wants to be a leader this one, Hal noted.
‘We can capture at least one,’ Jamie went on. ‘Valuable information for the King.’
‘Ach weel,’ interrupted Sim in a quiet whisper as he peered through the fronds, ‘where is that wee mannie headed now?’
They looked; one of the Welsh had started off into the trees, away from the other.
‘Bigod,’ said Sim, with a beam of realization, ‘he is away to do his business. Now’s oor chance…’
They were out and away before Hal could decide, Sim half-crouched like a lumbering bear, Jamie moving like a gazehound. They came circling round, to where they could just see the figure, unlacing his braies and studying the ground for stinging nettles.
‘Now,’ Jamie hissed and felt the clamp of Sim’s hand, turning into the quiet shake of the shaggy grey head.
‘Wait.’
The Welshman squatted, grunted, let loose a long, sonorous fart.
‘Now, while he is engaged,’ Jamie hissed, excitement making him break into French, forgetting Sim did not understand it — but Sim understood enough.
‘Wait.’
The man strained and fretted, then let loose a long sigh. He sought out a handful of leaves, reaching round to wipe himself; Jamie was in agonies of trying to contain himself, but Sim was a rock, grim and silent and implacable.
‘He will be gone in another wipe,’ Jamie whispered bitterly, but Sim merely smiled. The man stood, hauling up his braies to his knees — and turned.
Jamie saw it at last. The thing every man would do — he had done it himself — was to look at what he had created, a slow, almost proud examination. Now, with his back to them and braies half-way to his knees was the time, as Sim said with a hard nudge in Jamie’s ribs.
The youth was out and across the distance between them in the time it took the man to nod, as if happy with the steaming pile — then something smacked him hard in the back, an arm snaked round his neck and cut off his breathing and shouts.
They fell, as Sim knew they would, Jamie on top and driving the breath from the Welsh archer so that, when Sim lumbered up, the man was already weak and flopping; a swift dunt with the hilt of his dagger settled the matter and now Jamie became aware of the learning in this.
‘Christ’s Bones, Sim,’ he spat, looking at the smears, evil-smelling and fetid, on his clothes and hands, where they had rolled in the fresh pile. Sim Craw, who had known exactly what would happen, only smiled.
‘It is in yer hair a wee bittie,’ he pointed out helpfully. ‘Since ye are already besmeared, ye may as well take
