‘It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir Harry,’ Merrivale said with gentle irony. ‘I trust your journey down from Warkworth was uneventful.’
Around them the army was breaking camp, men-at-arms riding across the bridge under the frowning walls of the castle, followed by hard-marching companies of archers. Percy pulled on his gloves while his esquire held the reins of his horse. ‘It wasn’t the happiest of occasions,’ he said. ‘The old man was furious that Brus had tricked him. I tried to warn him, after Mary came to Warkworth and bearded him in his den, but he wouldn’t listen. He hates it when I’m right,’ Sir Harry said with satisfaction. ‘What is our situation?’
‘The Scots have been kept out of Berwick and Newcastle hasn’t been threatened, so far. But Hexham and Corbridge have been destroyed, and much of the Tyne valley with them. Even with the losses they took at Liddel Strength and yesterday, the Scots must still have well over eleven thousand men.’
‘And even with de Lisle’s men, we have half that,’ said Percy. His face, framed by mail coif and bascinet, looked glum. ‘I know we won against greater odds at Crécy, but the Scots will use different tactics, won’t they? And we don’t have enough men-at-arms, or enough archers.’ He paused. ‘What game is Brus playing? Is he trying to take over Scotland?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘But I assume this is also part of some larger plan.’
‘You mean the man from the north. I know all about him, Mary had it from Tiphaine and she told me. She said that last summer Brus was a minor player, nothing more than the Count of Alençon’s lackey. Now he has plenty of money, and power and influence too. How did he get them, do you think?’
Merrivale paused for a moment, thinking. It struck him once again that Harry Percy was rather more acute than he at first appeared. ‘David Bruce trusts him,’ he said finally. ‘He relies on his cousin for advice, and Brus has used his connections with the king to enrich himself.’
Percy looked at him sceptically. ‘But how did he get to that position in the first place? This is the man from the north’s doing, isn’t it? When Alençon was killed, did he call up Brus to take his place?’
‘That is certainly possible,’ Merrivale said slowly. The plan, back in the summer, had been to dethrone King Philip of France and replace him with his brother, the Count of Alençon. Brus couldn’t replace King Philip, but he could replace his cousin David Bruce. Was this an expedient, dreamed up after Alençon’s death at Crécy had halted the plan in France? Or had the man from the north intended all along to send Brus to Scotland?
Because if the latter was true, if this was all part of some long-ordained strategy, then it was quite possible that another plot against France was underway as well; and against England too. What had Tiphaine overheard Brus say? They won’t have a king for much longer. My friends will see to that.
Another company of men-at-arms rode past, harness and armour clinking. The red and white banner of Mowbray floated over their heads. ‘How well do you know Thomas Hatfield?’ Merrivale asked.
Percy looked startled by the change of subject. ‘The Bishop of Durham? Well, you saw him last summer. Typical ambitious clerk, although he fancies himself as a war leader as well. He’s very much in favour at the moment. I expect he’ll be Lord Chancellor one day soon. Why do you ask?’
Merrivale did not answer directly. ‘Are you aware of any friction between him and the priory?’
‘No, they seem to get along pretty well together. For a wonder, the bishop keeps his nose out of priory business, which is all they seem to want.’ Glancing around, Percy lowered his voice. ‘But if you wanted to hatch a conspiracy, Durham would be the place to do it. The whole of the County Palatine is cloaked in secrecy. Within its borders, the bishop and prior and their officials can do whatever they want.’
‘Mm. Yes,’ said Merrivale.
‘Is that it? Do you think Hatfield might be the man from the north?’
‘It is someone close to the king. That is all I know.’
‘You must tell me if I can help,’ Percy said.
A messenger in the archbishop’s livery ran up, saluting. ‘Sir Herald, his Grace commands you to his presence. You too, Sir Harry.’
Zouche was in the great hall of the castle, leaning over a parchment map spread out on a table. He wore a mail coat and breastplate, and looked almost warlike. His senior captains were gathered around him. ‘A message has arrived from Sir Thomas Rokeby,’ the archbishop said, his voice tense. ‘He has come south from Berwick, and is shadowing the Scottish army around Hexham. Last night he observed that the Scots are preparing to march.’
‘In what direction?’ demanded Lord Percy. ‘Newcastle?’
‘No. Sir Thomas says they sent out scouts towards Ebchester, to the south-east. He thinks they are preparing to move towards Durham.’
‘Durham has declared its neutrality,’ said Lord Neville.
‘Rollond de Brus will not respect that neutrality,’ said Merrivale. ‘Nor will he respect the sanctity of church property. He has already stripped Lanercost to the walls, and I assume he did the same at Hexham. Now he wants Durham and its treasury for himself.’
‘Then we must stop him,’ said Robert de Lisle. He was leaning on his sword again, his face sunken with weariness, but his eyes were bright. He pointed at the map. ‘We know where the Scots are going. We’re twenty-five miles from Durham, and the Scots at Hexham are only a little further distant. It’s a race now, gentlemen.’
‘The English have left Barnard Castle,’ Douglas reported. ‘Our scouts report they are at Auckland, about ten miles from Durham, roughly the same distance as ourselves.’
‘Then we shall meet them outside the walls of Durham,’ said Brus. ‘After we destroy their army, we shall seize and sack the city.’
‘When do we fight?’ asked Carrick. ‘Tomorrow?’
Patrick of Dunbar shook his head. ‘The men won’t be fit, ours or theirs. The English will pause to give their men a chance to rest and be ready for the following day. Sire, I recommend we do the same.’
‘That is wise advice, sire,’ said the Marischal.
King David looked around at his councillors. ‘Then we are agreed. We will camp tomorrow night at Beaurepaire, north-west of the city, and meet the enemy the following day. Make it so, gentlemen.’
They bowed and departed, Douglas, Carrick, Brus and Béthune all together, talking in low voices. Dunbar lingered for a moment, looking at the king. ‘Victory awaits us, sire,’ he said.
The king nodded. ‘This is our hour,’ he said. ‘I want to thank you, Dunbar, for your loyal service on this campaign. I confess that I had doubts about you at first, you and your wife, but you have both served me well.’
‘It is our honour to do so, sire.’
‘When we meet the English, I shall place you in command of a division of the army. Moray shall have the vanguard, and I shall lead the main body myself. To you I shall give command of the rearguard.’
The smallest of the three divisions, Dunbar thought, but it proves we are trusted. For the moment, at least… He bowed. ‘This is an honour, sire. I shall try to prove worthy of it.’
The king smiled and took a gulp of wine. ‘Shall I let you in on a secret, Dunbar? It is my great sadness that my lady wife has yet to produce an heir.’
‘I have no doubt that your Grace will sire many sons in the years to come.’
‘Of course. But in the meantime, the people need to know that the kingdom is safe, that there will be a king on the throne no matter what happens. Therefore, I intend to appoint an heir. A temporary measure only, of course, until my own son is born.’
‘May I ask who will receive this honour?’
‘I thought about one of our own nobles, of course, but if I name one of them it is bound to provoke the jealousy of others. Better an outsider, who has no loyalty other than to me. Who better than my kinsman and faithful servant, the Seigneur de Brus?’
‘A wise choice, sire,’ Dunbar said quietly. ‘When will you make the announcement?’
‘The day after tomorrow, when we have vanquished the English army and taken Durham into our hands. A historic day, Dunbar. I cannot imagine a more auspicious moment.’
Dunbar bowed. ‘I shall be the first to pledge my loyalty,’ he said. ‘With your Grace’s permission, I shall withdraw. I need to make sure my men are ready for the morning.’
Outside the royal pavilion the earl took a deep breath. Grimly, he started to walk towards his own lodgings, but he had not gone more than a few paces before he heard men speaking, and stopped. He recognised the voices at once. One was Rollond de Brus, the other was the renegade friar, Oswald of Halton.
‘Is Tracey dead?’ Brus was asking.
‘Not yet. He knows what happened to his nephew, and he is alert. He is never alone, and someone tastes his food. But I have learned something that may help.’
‘Spit it out,’ Brus commanded.
‘He has written to Sir Harry Percy, asking to meet him secretly outside the city. I know where they are going. I think I can get close enough for a crossbow shot, but I might need help getting away.’
There was a long silence, during which Dunbar fancied he could hear the wheels of Brus’s mind turning. ‘You still need me,’ Oswald said. ‘I’m one of the few left who is loyal to you.’
The silence lasted a little longer. ‘I’ll see to it,’ Brus said. ‘Once you have shot Tracey, Douglas and a party of light horse will be there to pull your fat out of the fire. What about those two reavers? Did you send them into the English camp?’
‘Yes.’ Oswald chuckled. ‘They should have done their job by now. Croser wants additional payment for his missing teeth.’
‘To hell with his teeth. He shouldn’t have been so careless in the first place. Very well, Hound of God. You can be on your way now. Report to me when you have completed your task.’
In their pavilion a few minutes later, Dunbar related what he had heard to his wife. Agnes ran her hand through her black curls. ‘Once the king names him as heir, Brus will not linger. David will die very soon, and Brus will take revenge on everyone who has ever crossed him in the past, starting with us. Our lives and those of our followers hang by a thread, my lord.’
‘Yes,’ Dunbar said. ‘Our only chance is to thwart him. Why do you think Tracey wants to meet young Percy?’
‘At a guess, he has found out about our communication and intends to use it to his advantage.’
‘Possibly,’ said the earl. ‘But Brus wants to kill Tracey, and is going to considerable lengths to do so. If he is Brus’s enemy, then he is also our friend. We need to keep him alive, at least until we can find out more.’
The countess turned to Mora of Islay, standing by. ‘Can you get a message to the herald? By the end of tomorrow?’
‘If you command it, my lady, it shall be done,’ said the shieldmaiden. ‘Do you wish me to remain with the herald, or return to you?’
‘Stay with him,’ Agnes said. ‘He may need you before all is done.’
Merrivale was dining on bread and mutton with a glass of well-watered wine, listening to the patter of rain on the canvas roof of his tent, when the door flap opened and Harry Percy walked in. ‘I need a word, Sir Herald. In private.’
Merrivale gestured to Mauro and Warin, but Percy shook his head. ‘We need to get away from the camp. Too many listening ears.’
The herald rose and Mauro brought him a cloak, draping it over his shoulders. ‘Qué está pasando, señor?’ the servant murmured.
‘No sé. Síganos.’
Outside the night was dark apart from the flare of torches in the wind and rain. Trees stood like spectral shapes in the misty light. The army lay camped around them in the park of Auckland, the Bishop of Durham’s palace and preferred residence a comfortable distance from his cathedral and priory. Mauro and Warin followed them at a discreet distance; if Percy was aware of their presence, he gave no sign. ‘Did you know Lady Mary and Tiphaine are still with the army?’ he asked.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I suggested they remain at Barnard Castle, but they didn’t listen, of course. The archbishop has taken them under his protection.’
That won’t mean much if we are defeated and Brus captures them, Merrivale thought. Passing the palace they walked down towards the River Wear. Bits of broken wall stood up from the ground, the ruins of an ancient watchtower. The night was almost completely dark.
Percy stopped in the shadow of the wall. ‘I’ve had a letter,’ he said quietly. ‘I need your advice on what to do about it.’
‘A letter from whom? The Countess of Dunbar?’
‘No, I’ve heard nothing further from her. Perhaps she has given up on the idea of peace. She’s with her husband and the Scottish army, I hear.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘The Dunbars will make peace when the time comes. For the moment, they are concentrating on staying alive. Who is the letter from?’
‘Brother Hugh de Tracey, the treasurer of Durham Priory. He wants to meet with me.’
‘I see,’ said Merrivale after a moment. ‘When and where?’
‘Dawn, the day after tomorrow, at Ferryhill. It’s just south of Durham. I am to come alone, he said.’
‘Did he say why?’
Percy shook his head. ‘Then I am not sure what you need from me,’ Merrivale said.
Even in the darkness he could tell the young knight was annoyed. ‘I need information,’ he said. ‘One of Tracey’s nephews was our family banker, until he took holy orders. The other was a traitor working with the man from the north. Is Hugh de Tracey one of the conspirators?’
Sudden suspicion filled Merrivale’s mind. Play along, he thought. If he is innocent, it won’t matter what I tell him; if he is guilty, then he already knows.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So was Gilbert, until he was killed.’
Percy stared at him. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Two days ago, at Hexham. Brus killed him.’
‘So why would Hugh want to meet with me?’
‘Perhaps he thinks you are also one of the conspirators,’ Merrivale suggested.
He waited for a reaction. Percy merely looked irritated again. ‘The Traceys have fallen out with Brus,’ Merrivale said. ‘It is possible that Hugh wants your protection.’
‘But why would he send for me?’ Percy asked. ‘Why not you?’
‘Because I am only a herald. You, on the other hand, are a knight with a retinue of men-at-arms at your back—’
Just in time he saw the blur of movement in the shadows, a dim flash of reflected torchlight on steel. He dodged sideways, and the blade meant for his chest ripped through the sleeve of his cloak. Pain stabbed up his arm. He grabbed the other man’s sword arm, but the man cursed and wrenched his arm free. He raised his sword for another blow; Merrivale seized him and threw him bodily backwards against the ruined stone wall of the tower, but the other man simply bounced off the wall and came straight back at him. Merrivale dodged the swinging sword but not the hard left fist that followed it, smashing into his midriff.
He doubled up in pain, bracing for the blow that must surely come, but nothing happened. Raising his head he saw the man fighting with someone else, a knife flashing in the shadows and then a gasp and a sound of snapping bone. The man fell, sword clattering on the ground, and the other man bent and stabbed him hard, administering the coup de grâce. The newcomer raised his head, and Merrivale saw it was Mauro.
Harry Percy was on the ground, wrestling desperately with another attacker. Out of the darkness Warin appeared, dragging the man off and holding his head back before drawing his knife across his throat. There was a gagging noise and the other man slumped to the ground.
‘Are you all right, señor?’ Mauro asked, his voice full of concern.
‘Cuts and bruises, nothing more.’ He could feel blood trickling down inside his sleeve, but he had taken worse wounds in the past. ‘Sir Harry, are you hurt?’
‘Apart from my pride, no,’ Percy said ruefully. He climbed to his feet. ‘Your servants saved our necks.’
Merrivale looked down at the man Mauro had killed. The light was faint, but he saw the bruised mouth and missing teeth and recognised the hobelar Kalewater Jack Croser. At a gesture from the herald, Warin turned the other man over. It was Eckies Nickson.
‘Brus’s hired killers,’ Merrivale said, his fingers searching inside his sleeve for the gash on his arm. ‘He certainly has enough of them at his disposal. I wonder how long they have been tracking me.’
Percy’s voice was wry. ‘What makes you think they were after you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just thought of another possible reason for this meeting, herald. They want to grab me and use me as a hostage. They’ll threaten to hang me unless my father withdraws his men from the army. It won’t work, of course, the old bastard won’t give an inch and besides, he has plenty of other sons. But Brus and his friends won’t know that.’
Merrivale pressed the edges of the wound together. That will need stitches, he thought; I shall have to call on Mauro’s skills with a needle. ‘Then you won’t go to the meeting.’
Percy sounded vexed again. ‘Of course I’ll go,’ he said. ‘How else will I find out what is going on?’
A column of horsemen came sweeping down from the north, riding hard across the moor. A trumpet sounded the alarm, but Merrivale held up a hand; he had seen their banner, a black chevron and three ravens. ‘It is Sir Thomas Rokeby,’ he said.
They waited. In Merrington church, a single, cracked bell rang vespers, harsh notes thudding into the damp air. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still full of cloud, and men were down in the open coal pits around the village, bailing them out with buckets. Black water stained the streams running down to the Wear, meandering through meadows to the left of the line of march. Mist was already rising from the river.
Rokeby arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by about fifty men; young Tom Rokeby and John Coupland were among them. ‘Once I heard the Scots were advancing down the Tyne, I stripped every spare man from the garrison at Berwick and came south,’ Rokeby said to the archbishop. ‘I thought if I cut across their line of march, I might pick up some intelligence about their movements.’
‘What can you tell us?’ Zouche asked.
‘The Scots are at Beaurepaire, the prior of Durham’s hunting lodge, about two miles from the city. They’ve made camp for the night.’
‘By God, they’ve made good time,’ exclaimed de Lisle. He stood hunched over, utterly exhausted and leaning on his sword again, but his eyes were as hard and determined as ever.
‘They are energetic and very well led,’ Rokeby said. ‘They intend to challenge us outside Durham, your Grace. My scouts had a good look at their camp from the high ground near the city. They are preparing for battle.’
‘Then we must do likewise,’ said the archbishop. He looked at Merrivale. ‘You’ve seen their full strength. Can we prevail against them?’
‘They have eleven thousand men to our six,’ the herald said. He had just spotted a familiar figure in the ranks of Rokeby’s men-at-arms. ‘They have some of the finest fighting men in the world, Moray’s highlanders and the Galwegians. But the latter and their archers were mauled at Liddel Strength, and the captains are not united. Brus has secret enemies, some at the highest level. And if David Bruce finds out that his cousin intends to kill him, who knows what might happen? There is hope, my lords.’
Rokeby smiled. ‘There is always hope,’ he said. ‘Well, gentlemen? The southrons are still crowing about their victory at Crécy. Let’s show them what the men of the north country can do.’
The baggage wagons arrived, toiling up the road from Auckland, and tents and pavilions went up across the moor. Merrivale walked to his own quarters and found, as expected, Lady Mora of Islay waiting for him. ‘Have you become Murdo again?’ he inquired.
‘For a time,’ she said. ‘I joined Rokeby’s men this morning, pretending to be a defector from the Scottish camp.’
‘Pretending?’
‘Let’s not get tangled up in words,’ she said impatiently. ‘My lady has news for you.’
Swiftly she told him about the plot against David Bruce, and Oswald’s plan to kill Hugh de Tracey. ‘My orders are to assist you,’ she said. ‘Command me.’
Much depended on whether Harry Percy was genuine. ‘You were in the garrison at Warkworth,’ he said. ‘Will Sir Harry recognise you?’
‘Not if I keep my distance.’
‘Good. Keep watch on him. If he leaves the camp, come and find me at once.’
After Mora had gone, the herald put on his cloak and went out. Mauro had mended the rent in the sleeve; his arm, heavily bandaged, throbbed a little as he walked. He thought of calling on Tiphaine to tell her what was happening, but decided against it; Tiphaine was a complication, and he could not think of her without confusing his mind still further.
He found Sir Thomas Rokeby’s quarters. Rokeby was still in full armour, talking with Coupland and young Tom; all three turned as the herald entered the tent. ‘Good evening, Simon. Still alive, I see.’
‘For the moment,’ Merrivale said. ‘Thomas, I need a favour. Quite a big one, as it happens.’