Neither Bruce nor Kirkpatrick could believe their luck when they heard the door opening, having found it fastened tight. Bruce was not sure if Hal or one of the others had unlocked it, but the thundering noise of the beam hitting the flagstones persuaded him that there was trouble enough to go in hard and fast.
Angus skidded to a halt, his mouth wet and wide at the sight of two armed men bursting in. Kirkpatrick darted forward, Bruce on his heels, and both of them saw a weasel of a man festooned with bags and a box – and, not far away, a collection of muscles on legs like trees, his mouth drooped, yet hauling out a long knife from his belt.
‘Aside,’ Bruce yelled and Kirkpatrick cursed – then the weasel shifted for the door and sealed the moment; Kirkpatrick rounded on him, catching him by the strap of the box and hauling him backwards.
‘Swef, wee man,’ he said, his mouth alongside the man’s ear and the long, slim dagger winking an inch from the side of one wild eye.
‘Let me loose,’ Lamprecht spat, struggling. ‘Let me go. Or. Else. I am as good as a priest. I am under the protection of the Pope himself. Bastonada, mumucho, mucho.’
The familiar tongue trailed down Kirkpatrick’s spine like a lick of ice. There was a moment of embers and shrieks before he actually realised what the pardoner had just said.
‘You will beat me?’
Lamprecht heard the words and the chuckle that went with them. Then his captor, now with a hand at the back of his neck, firm as an iron band, spoke in his ear, the breath stirring the greasy grey tangles of his hair.
‘ Si e vero que star inferno, securo papasos de vos autros non poter chappar de venir d’entro.’
If it is true there is a Hell, for sure your priests will not be able to avoid going there. The words circled into Lamprecht’s ear like the sensuous coils of a snake and he knew, with a sudden cold weight in the depths of his belly, that he was caught, for this was a man who had been places where he had gained fluency in lingua franca and – no doubt of it – done things which involved daggers. Or worse.
Kirkpatrick felt the little man go slack, heard his bitter muttering.
‘Si estar escripto in testa andar, andar. Si no, aca morir.’
If it’s written on your forehead for you to go, you will go. If not, you will die here.
Kirkpatrick kept the dagger point high enough, all the same, so that the little weasel could see it, while he tried to watch what Bruce was doing.
Bruce was discovering that he could not dance, that the German Method was of no use in a tight, dark passageway. The sword was too long and the knife man was good. Bruce saw the man come in, hunched and fast, with the knife held like a boar tooth, and he swung, caught the sword blade on an unlit sconce and the great ox, moving faster than his bulk promised, slashed a tavern brawl stroke which cut the homespun under Bruce’s heart and scored a fiery line.
Kirkpatrick yelled and almost let go of Lamprecht, but the pardoner sensed it and wriggled, making Kirkpatrick automatically clench the harder; the pardoner screeched.
Bruce, feeling the burn of the knife slash, saw the triumph in the slit eyes of his huge opponent, the realisation that the long sword was a hindrance.
Fear licked the earl, then, for he knew he was in trouble, so he did what a knight was supposed to do – took a deep breath, screamed ‘A Bruce’ until his throat burned, and hurled himself forward.
From the kitchens, turn right, Abbot Jerome had told them, and Hal and Sim did so, moving as swiftly as a watchful crouch would allow. They went past the doors to rooms which may have been priest cells, chapels or storehouses, but no light spilled from the chink of them.
Finally, they reached the end of the passageway, saw the door, limned in pale light which seeped through the bad fitting. Sim and Hal grinned at each other, then Hal, with a sudden leap, realised there were only two.
‘Where’s the boy?’
The boy had gone left, for he had paused to pluck the long thin dagger from Gawter’s dead hand, as much trembling at that as the sudden sight of swaddled folk, like dead risen in their grave rags, who came to stare.
With a last wild look at the smiling Abbot Jerome, the Dog Boy flung himself after Hal and Sim, turning left and birling up the passage, trying to look back and ahead at the same time.
He knew he had lost them a few heartbeats later, but by then he heard the loud roar of ‘A Bruce’ and the bell clangs of steel. He moved towards it, heard the grunts, came up behind the fighters and watched a huge man close in on a hapless victim, who could only wave a sword and back away.
He saw it was the earl and, beyond him and struggling with another man, the earl’s black-visaged man, who was clearly not able to help. He did not hesitate – this was the great lord who had shared wine with him, who had told him the vows of knighthood.
Bruce, backing away, desperately wondering if he would reach a more open area, hoping to get to the door, even if it meant going outside, saw the ox with a knife was about to rush him and end the affair. The French Method, he thought bleakly…
Then a wildcat screeched out of the dark and landed on the back of the ox, so that he half-stumbled forward and yelled with surprise and fear. He whirled and clawed with one free hand up behind him, but the wildcat hung on.
The Dog Boy. Bruce saw the frantic, snarling face of the boy and, just as the ox thought of crashing backwards into a wall to dislodge him, the little nut of a fist rose up, stabbed once, then the boy rolled free, the long sliver of dagger trailing fat, flying blood drops.
The ox howled, clapped a hand to his ear, the blood bursting from between his knuckles. He turned, the savage pain and anger of his face turning, as if washed by it, to a bewildered uncertainty. Then he collapsed like an empty bag, the blood spreading under his head.
There was silence save for ragged panting. Bruce saw the Dog Boy, half-crouched on all fours, feral as any forest animal, dagger bloody in one fist.
‘Good stroke,’ he managed hoarsely.
Hal and Sim burst in the door of the Dying Room to a tableaux of figures frozen in butter-yellow light, the shadows guttering wildly on the wall as the tallow was blasted by the wind of their entrance.
A little priest was untying Henry Sientcler from a chair, while a third figure knelt by a truckle bed, cradling the head of a man who gasped and gargled. He raised a face, bewildered and afraid, at the new arrivals.
‘Sir Henry,’ Hal declared and the lord of Roslin flung off the last of the ropes and staggered upright.
‘Hal – by God’s Wounds, I am pleased to see you.’
‘Malise…’ Sim declared, for it was clear the man was not here.
‘Gone, moments hence,’ Sir Henry declared, rubbing his wrists. Hal cursed and Sim was about to fling himself out of the door again when Bruce came in, the Dog Boy behind him and, behind that, Kirkpatrick clutching a man by the neck like a terrier with a rat.
‘Malise – did he pass you?’
‘He did not.’
Hal looked at Sim and the man grinned, then loped out to hunt Malise down. Bruce came to the truckle bed and looked down.
‘The Savoyard?’ he asked and Hal nodded.
‘I suspect so.’
‘Malise knifed him,’ the priest declared bitterly. ‘Not that he would have lived anyway… this is his uncle.’
The man by the bed stood up and Hal saw that he had a fine tunic stained with his nephew’s blood. His face was grimmed with weary lines of bitterness and resignation.
‘He is alive still,’ Bruce declared and knelt, shoving his face close to the dying man’s. ‘He is trying to speak…’
The man’s mouth opened and closed a few times; Bruce bent closer, so that his ear was almost to the lips of the man, and Hal was shamed that the earl was so bent on uncovering the secret of his Stone that he defiled the last peace of a dying man.
Then the man vomited a last wash of blood, on which sailed the wafer of the Last Rite like a little white boat. Bruce sprang up, his face peppered with bloody spray, which he wiped away with distaste. The uncle bowed his head and knelt, while the priest began to intone prayers.
Bruce blinked once or twice, then flung himself out and Hal went after him. Kirkpatrick, his hand numbing from clutching the sagging pardoner, thought to make sure that the man was, indeed, the Savoyard they had sought
