The road north from York had been busy, clogged with wagons loaded with corn and pig iron, bordered by fields of stubble where wheat and flax had just been harvested. At Darlington the air smelled of linseed, and sheets of linen hanging in the air flapped in the wind like sails on a ship. It was after nones on the second day out of Cawood when they reached Neville’s Cross, the waymarker for pilgrims heading for Saint Cuthbert’s shrine at the cathedral rising above the River Wear. Turning their horses, they rode down to the river and across Framwellgate Bridge into the town. As they reached the busy marketplace, Merrivale turned to his servants.
‘Given all that has happened, I am unlikely to be made welcome at the priory. See that inn? Take rooms for us there and wait for me.’
‘You are going alone, señor?’ Mauro asked. ‘Is that wise?’
‘I am a herald,’ Merrivale said. ‘No one will dare to harm me.’
‘He always says that,’ Mauro muttered as they watched their master ride up Fleshergate towards the cathedral.
‘So far, he has been mostly right,’ said Warin.
‘Sí. But one day, I think he will go too far.’
Above the gatehouse the banner of the Bishopric of Durham, four silver lions on a crossed field of blue, rippled and snapped in the cold north wind. Merrivale looked up at the colossal bulk of the cathedral, its towers reaching towards the dark, wind-driven clouds. Compared to it, the bishop’s castle on the far side of Palace Green looked small and rather dowdy. That was almost certainly no accident, Merrivale thought.
The porter, a black-robed monk standing outside the gatehouse, held a long wooden staff in a manner that suggested he knew how to use it. Another, a boy novitiate, stood hesitantly just inside the gate. ‘Who are you?’ the monk asked, looking at the herald’s tabard. ‘What is your business here?’
He must have recognised the royal coat of arms, the yellow embroidered leopards on a field of red blazing even in the dim light, but the challenge was also a statement: you have no authority here. By a quirk of history, the bishops of Durham held their lands not as tenants of the crown but as a palatine, independent of royal control. With the passage of time, their own authority had been eroded and the priory had seized power instead. As Zouche had said, the priors of Durham recognised no master.
‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales and personal envoy of her Grace the queen. My business is with Brother Hugh at the priory.’
‘Brother Hugh sees no one without an appointment.’
‘He will see me,’ Merrivale said. ‘I wish to speak to him about his nephew, Edward de Tracey.’
The porter hesitated for a moment, then turned to the boy novitiate. ‘Run to Brother Hugh, and tell him he has a visitor. Quick now!’ he shouted, shaking his staff. The boy hitched up the skirts of his cassock and raced away towards the cathedral. The monk turned back to Merrivale. ‘Leave your horse here.’
The vast interior space of the cathedral was flooded with light from the high windows and hundreds of lamps and candles reflecting off the painted walls and carved columns. The air was full of competing smells: incense, tallow, unwashed bodies. From a chantry chapel came the sound of voices reciting the mass. Pilgrims arrived in a quiet steady stream, uncovering their heads as they entered the church. Some were barefoot penitents with their hands clasped in prayer, others hobbled on crutches. Curious, Merrivale followed them towards the east end of the church.
Behind the high altar lay the shrine of Saint Cuthbert, an immense gold reliquary lit by banks of flickering candles. Gemstones glowed with coloured flame, blood-red rubies and garnets, the eye-aching blue of lapis lazuli, emeralds green as spring grass and the purple fire of amethysts. At the centre of the shrine was an image of Cuthbert himself, black-robed, bearded and tonsured, holding a Bible and cross; above him was another, much larger image, Christ enthroned in majesty with blue robe and golden halo, and neat red stigmata on his feet and hands.
The hum of soft prayers filled the air. Some prayed for the souls of the loved ones they had lost, or the restoration of health or sight; others for absolution for sins they had committed, or would commit… Prayers complete, they rose and found the sacristan and his assistants ready to guide them to the stall where they could buy little red splay-armed crosses, badges to remind them that they had made the holy and noble pilgrimage to Cuthbert’s shrine. The badges cost sixpence each. Nothing is free in this life, the herald thought, not even forgiveness. Especially not forgiveness.
‘Have you said your prayers, herald?’ a voice said quietly beside him.
Merrivale turned. The man who had spoken was in his fifties, with keen dark eyes and a long thin nose. He wore a black habit with the hood thrown back, girdled with a leather belt, and a gold ring on his finger set with a cabochon ruby. His grey hair was tonsured, but unusually for the fashion of the time he wore a carefully trimmed beard. In another convent that might have been considered a luxury, but as the archbishop had said, Durham made its own rules.
There was enough family resemblance to recognise him. ‘Brother Hugh de Tracey,’ the herald said. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘In the eyes of the Lord, Brother Hugh is sufficient. Come with me.’
Taking a candle from a nearby stand, Brother Hugh led the way back through the cathedral and out into the cloister. Opening a heavy iron-bound oak door, he ushered Merrivale into the library. More odours floated in the air, leather and parchment and the bitter gall of ink. Parchment rolls and bound books with heavy cover boards rested in wooden racks around the room. A Bible stood open on a lectern, the margins of its pages decorated with bright painted scrollwork.
Brother Hugh lit more candles. ‘I presume you have come to tell me about Edward. Save your breath. I have already heard what happened.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Then please accept my condolences for the death of your nephew.’
‘Why? He was a traitor. No one should mourn him.’
‘Not even his wife and children? Surely they should be pitied.’
‘God will provide for them,’ said Brother Hugh.
The ruby ring on his finger would have fed Tracey’s widow and her daughters for more than a year. ‘Let us hope so,’ the herald said. ‘As for the rest of his family, his brother has resigned his business and taken holy orders. And what about you yourself, brother? I am told you have ambitions to be the next prior of Durham. Considering the disgrace that Sir Edward has brought upon your family, do you think this is now likely?’
The prior’s bearded face was full of hostility. ‘I am the instrument of God’s will, and I go where He calls me. Edward’s crimes have naught to do with me.’
‘Well said. But I wonder if the king will believe it.’
‘What the king believes is of no consequence. I answer only to the prior, and the prior answers only to God.’
The herald nodded. ‘Having such close connections with the Almighty must be useful,’ he commented. ‘Did you by any chance use your influence on behalf of Sir Gilbert, to find him a place at Hexham Priory? That too must be convenient, having your only surviving nephew just a day’s ride from here.’
‘When I entered this convent fourteen years ago, I renounced my family utterly, herald. This convent, this cathedral, they are my life now. The brothers here are my family. The outside world is of no consequence to me.’
And yet he has not actually denied helping Gilbert, the herald thought, any more than he denied having ambitions to become prior, another degree closer to God. ‘Did Sir Gilbert call on you when he came north?’
He was surprised by the answer. ‘Yes,’ Brother Hugh said reluctantly. ‘I didn’t particularly wish to see him, but courtesy demanded it. We met briefly at the gates, and I congratulated him on his new vocation and wished him well. That was all.’
‘I see.’ The herald paused for a moment. ‘He didn’t happen to mention what he had done with his money?’
Brother Hugh stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘When he liquidated his bank, Sir Gilbert stated that he had donated his entire estate to various religious houses and hospitals, Hexham Priory included. We know the value of these donations, and it is nothing like the full amount of Sir Gilbert’s wealth. Tens of thousands of pounds are missing.’
‘So? What is this to do with me?’
‘Do you know of any other donations he made? To Durham Priory, perhaps?’
‘No. If he had, I would know of it.’
‘Of course, you are the priory’s treasurer. And Durham is already rich enough, isn’t it? You have vast investments in land and coal and iron, as well as the pilgrim trade. From what I have seen this evening, I imagine Saint Cuthbert’s shrine has a very steady yield. You do not need Sir Gilbert’s money.’
The monk said nothing. ‘Another thing puzzles me,’ Merrivale said. ‘When the Scottish army comes over the border, as it will do very soon now, Hexham will be in danger. Why did Sir Gilbert choose the priory as his place of retreat?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Brother Hugh. ‘Why don’t you go to Hexham and ask him yourself?’
That was exactly what Merrivale intended to do. ‘One last question, brother. Archbishop de la Zouche is raising troops to fight the Scots, and he needs money and men. Why has the priory refused to help him?’
‘Because it is not our place to do so,’ Brother Hugh said. ‘Nor is it Zouche’s place. He is a man of God. He should never have become involved in secular affairs, and we will not follow his example. We do God’s work here, not the work of man.’
‘I see.’ Merrivale’s voice hardened. ‘And were you doing God’s work twenty years ago, when you rode out with your brother to terrorise the people of Devon and Dorset? The piracy you engaged in, the ships you plundered, the murders you committed, the men and women you robbed; was that the work of the Lord?’
He had lost his temper, and that was a mistake. Brother Hugh gazed at him for a long time. ‘This interview is finished,’ he said calmly. ‘I regret I cannot offer you accommodation. As you have seen, we have many pilgrims to house.’
‘Doing God’s work, I know. But when the Scots come, brother – not if, but when – the lords of the north must pull together, all of them, secular and spiritual. If they do not, then Durham will burn, and Hexham, and Newcastle, and the Scots will spread fire and the sword all across the north of England. Will you do nothing to protect your own people?’
‘When the time comes, we will follow the will of God.’ Ironically, one hand sketched a cross in the air. ‘Go in peace, my son.’
After Merrivale departed, another man stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the library. Unlike Brother Hugh, he wore the long white tunic and black cape of the Dominican order of friars.
‘Did you hear all that?’ Hugh asked.
‘Every word. Is he dangerous?’
‘Very. I’ve had a full report on him.’
The friar crossed his arms over his chest. He was a portly man, his belly straining at the fabric of his cassock. ‘What do we do about him?’
‘Watch him. Report his every move to me.’
The friar nodded. ‘The usual fee?’
‘Of course.’
The door closed behind the Dominican. Brother Hugh walked over to the lectern and stood for a moment, looking down at the Second Book of Samuel. Thus shalt thou say unto Joab: Let not this thing displease thee, for the sword devoureth in one manner or another; make thy battle more strong against the city, and overthrow it; and encourage thou him.
Crossing himself, Brother Hugh raised his eyes towards heaven. ‘Thy will be done,’ he said aloud.
The wind had veered east, bringing with it the cold chill of the sea. A buzzard circled overhead, riding the wind. Merrivale could see occasional glimpses of the Wear off to the right, water glinting pale in the light. There were coal workings on the far side of the river, black scars across the fields. In the distance lay the houses and church tower of Chester-le-Street; from there it was only a few more miles to Newcastle, their destination.
They passed two groves of trees that had been felled completely; piles of woodchips and a few pale, axe-bitten stumps were all that remained. Up ahead, woodcutters were working on another grove, logs piled up by the side of the road, and he heard the dull thud of axes and the rasp of a saw. He watched the cutters, puzzled at what the men were doing. Ordinarily, timber men only took the best trees and left the rest standing. These men were cutting down everything in sight.
Merrivale’s interviews with the archbishop and Brother Hugh had each been unsettling in their different way. It had been nearly twenty years since the Scots had last mounted a full-scale invasion of England, and London had foolishly assumed that it would not happen again. The queen had been more concerned about plots among her restless nobles than any real threat from the north. But if Zouche was right, the kingdom faced two threats at once. The crisis was deeper and more dire than even the queen had imagined.
It had been particularly disconcerting to find Hugh de Tracey in a position of power and influence. Not for the first time, the herald wondered how he had managed to slip into the priory and rise to prominence in such secrecy. Of course, this was the County Palatine of Durham. No one was accountable here; no one had to make reports or render accounts to the crown. He was quite certain that Hugh had lied to him about almost everything.
Near the end of a long journey, when travellers are tired and let their guard down as they think of the comforts that await them, is the moment of greatest danger. One moment the road was empty; the next, men were swarming out of the trees. Merrivale turned his horse, but too late; hard hands dragged him out of the saddle, hurling him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. He heard Mauro and Warin struggling nearby and looked up to see a man standing over him. The sword in the other man’s hand was a silhouette, a dark cross against the background of trees and sky.
He sucked in air and managed to speak. ‘Your business is with me,’ he said. ‘Let my servants go. They have done you no harm.’
The man said nothing. He raised the sword above his head, preparing for a killing stroke.
Someone whistled sharply. The swordsman hesitated, turning his head. The whistle was repeated, and suddenly Merrivale could feel the drumbeat of approaching hooves reverberating in the ground beneath him. The man stepped back, slamming his sword into the scabbard. ‘Sauve qui peut!’ he called, and the attackers turned and ran. As quickly as they had arrived, they were gone.
Still winded, Merrivale struggled to his feet. The woodcutters were watching open-mouthed. A party of horsemen came sweeping through the trees, gentlemen in bright coats and hose with feathers in their hats, accompanied by an escort of mounted archers. Some of these had arrows at the nock, and were surveying the woods for targets. The leader of the party rode up to the herald and stopped. ‘Are you hurt?’ he demanded.
Merrivale looked at Mauro and Warin, who were dusting themselves down. ‘Thanks to you, sir, we are unharmed. But we are deeply in your debt.’
‘Think nothing of it. Lucky for you we happened to be hunting nearby.’
Merrivale looked at his coat, white with three black lions rampant. ‘Sir Thomas Clennell of Hesleyside. You are hunting a long way from home, sir.’
The other man laughed. ‘Trust a herald to know everything. I’m the guest of an old friend who lives nearby. I’ll send someone to round up your horses, they won’t have gone far. The rest of us will see if we can track these brigands down.’ He smiled again. ‘One kind of hunting is as good as another, hey?’
‘Once again, you have my thanks,’ Merrivale said. ‘We owe you our lives.’
Clennell raised a hand in salute. ‘Think nothing of it. I will detain you no longer, Sir Herald. Journey safely.’
He wheeled his horse and rode away, followed by his men. One had an unusual coat of arms, two gold chevrons on blue with a red crescent on the lower chevron. An archer arrived a few minutes later, leading their horses, and they mounted and rode on. Mauro waited until they were out of earshot of the woodcutters. ‘Those were not robbers, señor,’ he said. ‘Those were assassins.’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘Possibly. Or possibly not.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ asked Warin.
‘Sir Thomas and his friends arrived at exactly the right time, did they not? And Sir Thomas, of all people. What exactly is he doing here?’
‘Do you know him, sir?’
‘I know who he is. Sir Thomas Clennell of Hesleyside, three black lions on white, claimant to the lordship of Selkirk and one of the leaders of the Disinherited. His English lands are in Tynedale and Coquetdale, up in Northumberland. But today of all days he just happens to be hunting down here in Durham.’
‘He said he was the guest of a friend,’ said Warin.
‘Perhaps he was. And perhaps what we just saw was a mummery staged for our benefit. It stinks like week-old fish. Mauro, Warin, when we reach Newcastle, find out who this friend of Sir Thomas’s might be. And learn anything you can about who might have hired a gang of cut-throats to attack a party of travellers on the Great North Road today.’