I can’t take any more of this!” whispered Ailéas, distraught and giving up on the meadowsweet herbal tea she was preparing.
She wanted to scream, but restrained herself because they were in the camp.
“Following this army of death wherever it goes, knowing that you’re slaughtering Scots—people like me—it makes me sick!”
Bradley watched her uncomfortably without answering. It was not the first time she had gotten herself into such a state. With each new stage, after each battle, she exploded.
“I know that face!” she fumed. “It’s no use looking at me like that. What did you seriously expect? You don’t think I hear the fighting? Or the screams of the women who your soldiers bring back? I even hear them laughing about their bloody exploits! All this makes me want to vomit, constantly.”
He remained silent, but she was even more agitated than normal.
“You have nothing to say?!” she continued. “Where was your honor during all of that? You save me for your good conscience and yet you let it all happen?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally decided to say in a calm voice.
“Oh, I see. And I’m way too stupid for you to bother to explain it to me!”
“Let’s just say that, knowing you, you would not want to hear what I have to say.”
“You don’t know me.”
The old commander nodded silently and checked that the surroundings of the tent were empty before inviting her to sit down. He served her a cup of wine which she accepted without thanking him.
“This war is necessary,” he said simply.
“What?! Are you kidding me? How could it be necessary?!”
“You see, I do know you a little: you immediately go off on your high horse! Yes, some wars are required when they prevent much worse situations.”
“What could be worse than these massacres?”
“The fracturing of Scotland into several clans and lordships who would bicker eternally over a piece of land, as was the case until not so long ago. This campaign is the only way to unify the country, you understand?”
“By slaughtering its people and subjugating them? Great! That is some unification!”
The old man’s mouth twitched.
“No, of course not. Alas, this is the inevitable collateral damage of such campaigns. What I’m trying to tell you is that Scotland needs England’s help so as not to implode.”
“You’re seriously going to try and make me believe that your king does this out of the goodness of his heart?”
“That would be dishonest of me, because it’s obvious that our king takes revenge. As you know, John Balliol chose to betray his word and his oath before fleeing. No one forced his hand.”
“I know why the war broke out,” Ailéas said in annoyance, rolling her eyes. “No need to lecture me! But go on, you were about to explain how killing thousands of innocent people is going to unite Scotland.”
Bradley sighed and took a long sip of wine, staring at Ailéas.
“When King Alexander III of Scotland died ten years ago, a succession crisis erupted and nearly plunged the country into chaos. It was your own guardians,” he said, pointing his fingers, “who called on our king to arbitrate the conflict and ensure the stability of the kingdom.”
“I told you there was no need to lecture me,” she grumbled.
“What I’m trying to get across to you is that this war is only the continuation of a long series of events. It’s unfortunate, but that’s how it is, and I’m convinced that it is a necessary evil to prevent your entire country from tearing itself apart. When Balliol abdicates, there will be discussions, negotiations.”
“Ah, negotiations. You are so gifted in that area,” she spat as she brought her face close to the old man’s. “We could say that Berwick was an example of your negotiations! You should go tell that to everyone you’ve slaughtered there! It will give them a nice lesson! You can try to convince yourself all you want, but that is all just rubbish to sugarcoat your atrocious crimes!”
She turned on her heels and left the tent, enraged.
Several days passed with her giving him little more than a few words, which was not easy given that she had to follow him like his shadow through the entire camp. While she was still furious, she had no choice: she had to play her role as a healer, preparing herbal teas and inhalations to maintain the illusion. Enveloped in her silence, she never stopped thinking of Fillan, wondering where he might be and if he was okay.
She spoke again as they progressed further north, following the Chief Lieutenant and Earl of Surrey, John de Warenne. King Edward had entrusted him with the mission of taking the town of Dunbar, an important stronghold and the last strategic milestone in the conquest of the Lowlands to Edinburgh. Shortly after setting up the new camp, she spotted the spectacular Scottish fort on the tip of a cliff which protruded into the sea like a claw.
She had only had the chance to go there once with Alastair, a few years before, and she remembered that the castle dominated the whole city with its splendor and its port below. But imagining the horrors that would soon unfold there, her heart sank.
Inside the command tent, which had been erected under pouring rain in the middle of the surrounding plains, Ailéas was preparing an infusion in a corner while Bradley hunched over a map, debating strategy with two of his men.
“We won’t attack head on,” he explained. “Marjory Comyn* requested help. Warenne wants us to focus on it.”
“Who answered?” asked one of the soldiers.
“Part of Balliol’s army will not delay much longer,” replied the third. “But the king could not risk the trip. Sir Patrick de Graham has already arrived from Dalkeith. He has settled high in the west beyond Spott Burn Lake.”
“I fought with Graham in France two years ago,” Bradley replied. “He is a man of honor. Intelligent. He hasn’t got the stomach to bear the massacres.”
“Man of honor or not, he might run into us and take us from the rear with his cavalry. We must take care of him first.”
All nodded.
A soldier burst into the tent.
“Sir, you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but…”
“Get out of the way,” growled a man who didn’t have the patience to wait to be introduced.
At the sight of him, Ailéas’s blood froze. She almost dropped the jug of water she held in her hands. The warrior with the antlers, the murderer of her master, had just entered the tent with two of his men.
Lann Fala, Bloodied Blades, she thought, observing their red capes.
She managed to turn her back halfway to them, so that no one could make out her face.
“Lord Cornavii,” Bradley said dryly.
“What is Warenne waiting for to launch the assault?” demanded the knight without any form of politeness in his ghostly voice.
“Because of the Scottish reinforcements. He wanted me to prepare a flawless strategy.”
“Good. I’m sure King Edward will be delighted with this future victory. He also told me that he would come himself to take Dunbar’s keys back from that whore Comyn,” added the Lann Fala, spitting on the ground.
“Can we hope to see you on the battlefield?”
“Me and my men have more important things to do,” he replied, staring at the old man with his piercing, haughty eyes.
“Is it about that boy and that girl I received reports of?”
“That and other matters, according to the will of the king.”
“The king’s will?” repeated the commander in a voice tinged with sarcasm.
He knew full well that the Order of the Templars pulled the strings on this subject.
The helmeted warrior approached slowly, his armor rattling with each step. He placed his two gloved fists on the map, and Ailéas saw the hilt of his gigantic sword sticking out.
“Be careful not to say words you might regret, old man. An accident in the middle of a military campaign can happen so quickly.”
To Ailéas’s amazement, Bradley bowed, though as stiff as a board and with clenched teeth.
The warrior’s gaze suddenly fell on her, and her head felt like it was going to explode. Her heart raced, and she had to make a huge effort to look natural and stop her hands from trembling. The images of Berwick resurfaced, and terror forced its way into every inch of her body. Her entire soul cried out for revenge, and she thought of the dagger that Bradley had offered her, hidden in her boot. It was obvious that she would be dead before she could land even one blow.
The teenager absorbed herself in the mixture of St. John’s wort leaves and raspberries, pretending to ignore the gaze that landed on her, afraid she’d be unmasked at any moment.
She panicked for another second, then noticed out of the corner of her eye that the Lann Fala observed the other occupants of the tent in the same manner.
“We have to talk alone,” Cornavii announced to Bradley.
She sighed discreetly in relief, then left without rushing so as not to arouse suspicion, followed by English soldiers and the acolytes of the warrior with the helm.
“After Dunbar,” said the Lann Fala once he found himself alone with the commander, “the army will move towards Edinburgh.”
“I suspected that would be the case.”
“That’s because you’re a smart man, and intelligent men can anticipate. That’s why I wanted to speak with you.”
Bradley said nothing and allowed the warrior to continue.
“As you know, King Edward is not only interested in the two fugitives. He is also searching for objects of importance.”
“I heard of your research after the capture of Berwick. What is it about?”
“Do you seriously think I’m going to tell you?”
“So, what do you want me to anticipate?” asked the old man, ever the pragmatist.
“Thanks to an informant infiltrated within the enemy, we know where some of these items are. When we approach this place, I wish to ensure that you do not create any problems.”
“Why would I?”
“Because I’ll be in charge of operations from now on.”
“And my men, too?”
Cornavii nodded, smirking. Bradley firmly crossed his arms. He struggled to not let his anger show but still began to wander around the tent.
“King’s orders, of course,” added the knight.
“Will it be in Edinburgh?”
“No, later, near Perth. At Scone. I wanted you to have time to make up your mind.”
As he watched Cornavii, who took malicious pleasure in imposing his superiority with a crooked smile stretched under his helm, the old man couldn’t help but think back to his argument with Ailéas.
England could help and save Scotland. He was sure of that. But what about the presence of the Order and the Lann Fala?
The girl’s words echoed in his ears. It’s all bullshit.
A trace of doubt crept into his mind.
* Wife of Patrick IV of Dunbar, Count of March and English ally, who decided to support the Scots by handing over the fort to them before the arrival of the English.