They reached Chipchase as dusk began to fall in the valley, although the higher hills still shone with light. The house was rather larger than Black Middens, a tower house with battlements on the roof, and the barmekin wall was high and in good repair. Merrivale dismounted in the courtyard and followed Peter through a doorway and up a narrow stair to the hall. A white-haired man seated before the fire and wrapped in a long fur-trimmed robe looked up sharply as they came in. ‘Peter! It’s about time you were home, lad! And who have you brought with you?’
‘It is Master Merrivale, father! Herald to the Prince of Wales!’
‘A royal herald?’ The old man reached for a stick and struggled to his feet. ‘Now what possesses such a man to go riding alone through Tynedale? Never mind, never mind, questions can wait. Run to the kitchen and tell the servants to bring food and wine.’ Peter disappeared, and the older man looked at Merrivale.
‘Let us introduce ourselves properly. I am Sir Robert de Lisle, and of course you’ve met Peter, my son. We’re proper northern de Lisles, not like those nose-in-the-air bastards down south.’
Merrivale, who had met the de Lisle family of Rougemont in Bedfordshire, smiled. ‘My name is Simon Merrivale,’ he said.
‘Merrivale… From Dartmoor, in Devon? Are you Reginald’s boy? Aye, you’ve his look about you. I knew him quite well, back in the old days. Is he still alive?’
‘Yes, though life does him no favours.’ Losing his wife and daughters in the Great Famine and his lands a few years later had crushed Reginald Merrivale’s spirit; these days he lived in a world of dreams and memories, not knowing what day it was, unable to recognise his only son.
‘I’m sorry to hear it. I heard about your mother and sisters too. It was a bloody awful time, the famine, and then the years of chaos around the old king’s death. People today complain about hard times. They don’t know how lucky they are. Sit down, lad, sit down.’
They sat. A book bound with wooden boards rested on a stand beside the table; Cicero’s The Dream of Scipio, Merrivale saw. To his relief, de Lisle changed the subject. ‘What brings you up here?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought you’d be in France with the prince.’
‘The queen asked me to come north and look into certain matters,’ Merrivale said. ‘I ran into trouble on the road today, and your son was kind enough to help out.’
‘What kind of trouble? Scots?’ Merrivale nodded. ‘So they’re over the border already,’ the old man said. ‘It was to be expected, of course. Bloody truces don’t mean anything up here, never did.’
Peter returned, followed by a servant bearing a platter of bread, cold beef and chopped herbs, with a flask of wine, a jug of water and a glass. ‘Make sure the watch at the gate stays alert,’ Sir Robert instructed his son. ‘And check that the horses are secure.’
‘Aye, father.’
‘He’s a good lad,’ Sir Robert reflected after the boy had gone. ‘My only remaining son and heir. My wife died giving birth to him. His brothers are gone too, the eldest killed at Annan, the second died on pilgrimage many years ago. Peter is all I have left.’
‘He is brave as a lion,’ Merrivale said, cutting a piece of beef.
‘He is. Yet strangely, he has no interest in tales of derring-do and courage. The military exploits of our forefathers don’t interest him, not at all. He’s fascinated by heraldry, that’s all. He knows every kind of armorial device there is. Give him a name, and he can not only tell you the man’s coat but what its history is and where it comes from.’
Merrivale smiled. ‘He has an extraordinary talent. Sir Robert, may I ask you a question? I understand you are one of the leaders of the Disinherited.’
The old man waved a gnarled hand. ‘Once upon a time, perhaps, but not anymore. These days I am so crippled with arthritis I hardly leave the house. You’re going to ask me if I have received offers from Scotland. This will be the queen’s business that brought you north, no doubt.’
Merrivale sipped his wine. ‘Your son saved my life, and I am a guest in your house. I will not compel you to tell me anything.’
‘Oh, I’ve nothing to hide. I won’t tell you who made the offers, because I believe the man was well-intentioned and I don’t want to draw trouble down on his head. I was promised restitution of the Scottish lands I once held in Nithsdale and Dumfries, and a sum of money besides. Quite a large sum.’
‘You turned them down,’ said the herald.
‘I don’t want the lands,’ the old man said, ‘not any more. And I’ve enough money to see me by. My interest in Scotland ended in 1332, when Edward Balliol fled bare-arsed out of the camp at Annan and left his men to die. My son included.’
Merrivale waited. ‘I was part of a great adventure, once,’ said de Lisle. ‘I was a new-minted knight when I followed Edward Longshanks to Scotland and we brought her king back a prisoner to the Tower of London. Those Scottish lands were my reward. We thought that was the end, Scotland subdued, peace in our time. But the Scots kept fighting and Edward’s son, our present king’s late and unlamented father, let them win it all back. Fourteen years ago, we tried again. I followed Balliol to the slaughterhouse at Dupplin Moor, and we established ourselves as masters again, thinking we had turned back time. It lasted four months, before Balliol’s stupidity led us into disaster and I lost my lands for the second time; and my son. That was enough. I am done with this venture.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Merrivale. ‘The boot is on the other foot. When the Scots come, they will remember their enemies as well as their friends.’
De Lisle shook his head. ‘That’s fortune’s wheel for you. If they come, they come, and all I can do is hold them off for as long as I can and make the best end my aching bones will allow.’
‘You could make your life easier by accepting their offer.’
‘Possibly. Possibly not. I don’t really care, to be honest. I just think I’ve had enough. You see things more clearly when you’re near the end of your life. You understand what truly matters in the eyes of God. I want to see my son make his way in the world. Nothing else really matters to me.’
‘What about the rest of the Disinherited? Do they feel the same as you?’
The old man shook his head. ‘The Disinherited feel ignored and betrayed. When the present king first came to the throne he promised support, and for several years he gave it. Every summer, regular as the turning of an hourglass, English armies came north to fight the Scots, though they never seemed to accomplish much. Then the king decided that the crown of France was the shiny new bauble he was going to pursue, and all the men and money were diverted to the French war. The Disinherited have been cast aside. Edward Balliol is a broken reed, everyone knows that. But Umfraville and Wake and Clennell, in particular, wanted to continue the fight. Now, they are beginning to wonder why they bother.’
‘And they may be tempted by the Scottish offer,’ said Merrivale. ‘I can understand that.’ He paused. ‘Would you be willing to do a service for the crown? Speak to Umfraville and Wake and the others, and persuade them to follow your example and reject the offer?’
De Lisle paused for a long time before replying. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t. There’s two reasons. First, I am so damned crippled that I doubt if I could ride as far as Redesdale or Coquetdale to find them. Second, I have made my own decision, but I have no idea if it was the right one. What right have I to expect others to follow my example?’
‘You could remind them of their loyalty,’ said Merrivale.
‘Loyalty isn’t something you demand, my boy. It’s something you earn. Even kings need to realise that. Who or what you give your loyalty to is a matter for every man’s conscience. I will not decide for them.’
From outside came the sound of voices, the guard at the gate challenging, another answering. Booted feet on the stair and Peter de Lisle burst into the room. ‘Father! There’s a party of men-at-arms at the gate, demanding entrance!’
‘Go and find out who they are,’ Sir Robert said calmly. ‘If they’re English, admit them. If they’re Scots, we’ll give them another kind of welcome.’
The new arrivals were in fact English. Their leader, attired in mail coat, breastplate, vambraces and bascinet with a plain white surcoat, raised a hand in salute as he entered the hall. ‘Sir Robert, my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour. Sir Herald, my name is Woodburn and I am in the service of Master Blyth. He sent me and my men to discover whether you were safe, and if so to escort you back to Newcastle.’
‘It is good of you to come,’ the herald said, ‘and good of Master Blyth to send you. Why did he think I might be in danger?’
‘The Lady Tiphaine overheard a French spy talking this morning. He appeared to indicate that an ambush had been set for you. She informed Master Blyth, who gave me my orders. We have called at every house since Hexham, looking for you.’
Merrivale considered this for a moment. ‘It is too late to start for Newcastle now,’ he said. ‘Sir Robert, would you be able to accommodate Master Blyth’s men overnight?’
‘Of course,’ the old man said equably. ‘Peter, fetch the steward, if you please.’
Woodburn looked disconcerted. ‘We’re ready to go now if you wish, sir. We can pick up fresh horses in Hexham.’
‘Thank you,’ said the herald. ‘But I have had a long and wearying day, and I will stay here and rest for the night. In the morning I am riding to Hexham, where I have business that will take some time.’
‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ said Woodburn. ‘We are at your disposal. Our orders are to bring you back to Newcastle safe and sound. If we don’t, we must answer to Master Blyth.’
‘And to the Lady Tiphaine?’ suggested Merrivale.
‘Yes,’ said Woodburn with feeling. ‘Yes, that too.’
Five more days until Michaelmas; five more days to war.
At dawn Merrivale departed for Hexham, accompanied by Woodburn and his men-at-arms and by the effervescently eager Peter de Lisle. This last, Merrivale realised, should have been expected.
‘I want you to know how much I admire you,’ the boy had said as they took bread and weak watered wine in the hall that morning. ‘You have travelled so far on your embassies, and seen so much of the world, and you have studied the coats and devices of great nobles from all over Europe. Oh, I would give so much to live a life like yours.’
‘I was also once tied in a sack and thrown into a river,’ Merrivale pointed out.
Peter looked blank for a moment, and then smiled. ‘It is a good joke, sir. I do admire your sense of humour.’
‘Don’t you want to be a knight like your father?’
‘No,’ the boy said simply. ‘I want to be a herald.’
Later his father had taken Merrivale to one side. ‘Could you use an apprentice, perhaps? You don’t have to pay the boy, he is well settled. Just teach him what you know, and perhaps one day help him find a post. He’ll serve you well and faithfully.’
‘If I take him away, who will look after you?’
‘I have a steward and plenty of servants.’ De Lisle leaned a little closer. ‘If the Scots do come,’ he said quietly, ‘I want the boy out of here. Keep him with you, herald, and keep him safe. He is the last family I have left.’
That settled the matter, and Peter de Lisle packed a saddlebag, fetched his bow and quiver and rode away from his family home without a backwards glance, intent on the sparkling life of adventure that awaited him. Woodburn, informed that there would be an additional member of the party, looked briefly nonplussed before replying that of course the protection offered to Sir Herald extended to his attendants as well. Nevertheless, Merrivale thought he looked put out, and he and his men rode in silence all the way down to Hexham.
Peter on the other hand talked volubly throughout the journey. ‘Will we join the army when it musters, Sir Herald?’
‘Very likely,’ said Merrivale.
‘Oh, I do hope so! So many lords and knights and gentlemen will be gathered there, and it will be so exciting to observe their coats and banners. And the Scots too; perhaps we will go on an embassy to Scotland? I should love to see all the Scottish coats and devices. And France; will we go to France when your work is done here?’
Merrivale smiled. ‘One thing at a time,’ he said.
Hexham lay a few miles south of the Roman wall, near the confluence of the northern and southern branches of the Tyne. The town was unfortified; only the priory was walled, and riding through the streets Merrivale saw many of the stone and half-timber houses were tightly shuttered. Their occupants had either fled or had shut themselves up inside. They had reason to be fearful, Merrivale thought; for centuries, Tynedale and neighbouring Redesdale had been the principal high roads used by raiders coming out of Scotland.
They crossed the deserted marketplace and dismounted outside the gates of the priory. Men-at-arms with halberds and axes guarded the door. ‘I wish to speak to the prior,’ Merrivale said.
The men looked at his tabard. ‘You may enter, Sir Herald,’ said the leader. ‘But your companions must wait outside.’
A postern door opened to admit him. Passing through the courtyard Merrivale saw preparations for defence, baulks of timber bracing the main gate, buckets of water prepared to deal with fire arrows. There were more guards outside the prior’s lodging. The prior, a short, black-robed man with a Cumbrian accent, greeted him apologetically. ‘Father John of Bridekirk, at your disposal, Sir Herald. I apologise for the warlike preparations. I know they are not seemly in a house of God, but Hexham has been attacked many times before.’
‘I think you are wise to take precautions,’ Merrivale said. ‘Father, I wish to speak to one of your canons, Brother Gilbert.’
The prior looked suddenly wary. It struck Merrivale that he was not entirely happy about the new servant of the Lord that had been foisted upon him, despite the five thousand marks of silver he had deposited in the abbey coffers. ‘I will send for him, of course. Has he… Has he done anything wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said truthfully. ‘That is what I am hoping to find out.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Father John rang a bell. ‘Wilfrid,’ he said to the servant who appeared, ‘fetch Brother Gilbert at once, if you please. You will find him in the scriptorium.’ He looked at Merrivale. ‘Do you wish me to be present at the interview?’
‘If it is all the same to you, Father, I would rather speak to him in private.’
‘Of course, of course.’ The prior looked relieved. ‘I must go and check on the workmen who are repairing the walls. Good men, God’s children all, but prone to idleness if not closely supervised.’
He disappeared. Merrivale sat for a moment, looking around the lodgings. The room was pleasant, with white painted walls and a little private altar in a niche and a silver chalice and pyx and a reliquary crucifix with a fragment of the True Cross in a crystal case. One of tens of thousands of such fragments scattered around Europe, Merrivale thought; put them together, and how many actual crosses would they build? Geoffrey of Maldon had once asked that question, he remembered. He thought briefly of Geoffrey, back at his home convent recovering after a spell in a French prison, and wished he was here.
The door opened and Gilbert de Tracey walked into the room and stood, arms folded across his chest. The past few weeks had changed him, Merrivale saw. Gone were the Cambrai cloth and silks and fur; instead he wore the black woollen robe of his order and rough sandals on his feet. He looked older; the cropped and tonsured hair were part of it, but there were lines on his forehead and around his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow. His nose and forehead ridge stood out in sharp, hard angles against the rest of his face.
Merrivale pointed to a stool. ‘Please, be seated.’
‘Thank you, but I prefer to stand.’ The other man’s voice was hostile, his eyes sharp and angry.
‘Very well. How are you enjoying your new life? Have they given you work to do?’
‘I have been set to work in the scriptorium,’ Brother Gilbert said after a while. He held out his hands, showing ink-stained fingers. ‘I am currently engaged in copying the In principium Genesis by Bede the Venerable. I leave it to you to judge whether I am enjoying it. May I suggest you dispense with the small talk and tell me exactly what you want from me?’
‘You were among the richest men in England. You were a banker, a merchant, a respected advisor to the king and his council, and yet you turned your back on everything to retire here. I doubt very much that you were motivated by a sudden desire for poverty and simplicity. So what did happen?’
‘My brother’s death, of course. And the accusation of treason. How long do you think my business would have lasted once Edward’s actions become public knowledge? No one would want to do business with the brother of a traitor. The king and court would have turned against me, and the rest would have followed. My choices were to liquidate now, or go bankrupt later.’
‘It would have taken you some time to go bankrupt. Before I left London, the Chancery investigated your former business. After your public bequests, they reckon there is still over eighty thousand pounds unaccounted for, not including any moveable wealth. What has happened to it?’
‘Why is that any concern of yours, or the Chancery’s? Unlike my brother I had committed no crime, and I chose voluntarily to withdraw from the world. My wealth was mine to dispose of.’
‘Unless you gave it to the men with whom your brother was plotting treason,’ Merrivale said. ‘Did you?’
‘I have no idea who my brother’s confederates were. After I settled in London I rarely saw him. And I am not a traitor.’
‘That is easy to say,’ said Merrivale. ‘Can you prove it?’
‘Can you prove otherwise?’ Brother Gilbert challenged.
‘Let me put it this way,’ said Merrivale. ‘You took holy orders, I assume, because you believed they would give you some form of protection. You were wrong. I have only to snap my fingers, and the men-at-arms of my escort will drag you out of this priory and take you to Newcastle, where you will be interrogated with fire, water and the rack. Or you can save us all the trouble and tell me the truth here and now.’
They stared at each other, the canon’s fists clenched at his sides. Finally, reluctantly, he spoke. ‘The money is safe,’ he said. ‘I have put it out of reach of the king’s agents.’
‘Why? If you are innocent of your brother’s crimes, then as you said, you can dispose of your wealth as you please and the king will have no claim on it.’
Brother Gilbert sneered at him. ‘You think the king and his officers will abide by the rule of law when there is eighty thousand pounds at stake? If you do, you’re a bigger fool than you look. Some excuse will be found, some charge will be trumped up against me, and my fortune will be confiscated. That’s the way it always is with bankers. Kings love them until they have no more use for them, and then—’ Gilbert drew his finger across his throat.
‘Very well,’ Merrivale said, ‘the money is out of reach. Where is it?’
‘In Bruges,’ said Brother Gilbert. ‘Lodged with a banker I know well, and can trust to see my requests carried out.’
‘Who is this banker?’
‘Oppicius Adornes. You may have heard of him.’
Merrivale nodded. After the collapse of the Italian banks last year, Adornes was one of the most powerful and wealthy bankers in Europe. Not coincidentally, he was also one of the few who refused to lend money to the English crown. ‘You do know that exporting currency is illegal.’
‘I do. And I know merchants who do it every single day, and the crown looks the other way. So long as we need to import cloth and spices and wine, we will send money out of the country to pay for them. I am prepared to defend my actions.’
‘Shipping eighty thousand pounds out of the country is hardly the same thing. You mentioned requests. What are they?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Brother Gilbert, I am not interested in your currency dealings. I have other, more important things on my mind. Tell me the truth, and I will leave you in peace.’
Gilbert looked disbelieving, but he answered the question. ‘When the crown seized my brother’s lands, his wife and daughters were left destitute. They are innocent of any crime, and it is wrong that they should suffer. On my instructions, Adornes will pay a pension to his widow, and settle dowries on the daughters when the time comes for them to marry.’ Brother Gilbert’s mouth twisted a little. ‘Adornes is of course charging a sizeable fee for this service.’
It was plausible, Merrivale thought. Indeed, if you did not know the history of the Tracey family – or if you did not know that Edward de Tracey’s widow came from the fabulously wealthy Fitzalan family, the Earls of Arundel, who would hardly let one of their own starve on the street – it was almost believable. ‘You lent money to the Percys, as we know. How many other northern families did you do business with?’
‘Most of them. The Nevilles, and Selbys; quite a few others. Not regularly, but from time to time.’
‘You mentioned the Selbys. What about the rest of the Disinherited?’
‘All of their leaders, yes.’
So Gilbert de Tracey had financial connections with all the nobles and knights the Scots were attempting to bribe. His close knowledge of their financial affairs and their worth meant he could have calculated fairly exactly the amount it would take to bribe them. ‘What about Durham cathedral priory?’
Brother Gilbert shook his head. ‘I have never dealt with them. Their banking arrangements are unknown to me.’
‘Uncle Hugh never sought to put a little business his nephew’s way?’
‘No.’ Gilbert’s voice was dry. ‘You will have gathered, herald, that we are not a close family.’
Merrivale’s eyebrows rose. ‘And yet you were happy to take your father’s inheritance and use it to start your bank, the foundation of your own fortune. That inheritance came from the proceeds of piracy, murder and worse. Did you know your father acted as a broker for the Norman raiders who sacked Southampton in 1338? He helped them sell girls and boys captured in the raid as slaves. That’s your inheritance, brother.’
Gilbert was impatient. ‘Men commit sins, money does not. Money is fungible, it has exactly the same value no matter how it is earned or acquired. My money does not mean I am tarred with the same brush as my father, or my brother.’
He looked at the herald, his eyes still angry. ‘I know you don’t believe me. I know you think I was mixed up in the same treason as my brother. Do you know what, herald? I don’t care. Arrest me, drag me away, torture me; I don’t give a damn. Whatever Edward did, whatever my father did, is in the past. I have made a new life for myself here. I would hope that a decent man would respect that, and leave me in peace. If you don’t,’ and Gilbert spread his ink-stained hands again, ‘then there is nothing I can do about it.’
The herald watched him for a moment. ‘I asked you this question at Hargate,’ he said. ‘I will ask it again now. Did Edward ever talk to you about the scheme he was involved in, or mention the names of his associates?’
Brother Gilbert folded his arms again. ‘If I give you a name, will you leave me alone?’
‘It depends on the name.’
The other man let out his breath. ‘He was in contact with a Norman nobleman named Rollond de Brus. Some sort of cousin to David of Scotland, apparently. Edward made several payments to Brus last winter, about four hundred marks in all. I queried him about the legitimacy of the payments, but he assured me it was all above board. Brus was one of the Normans in rebellion against France and the king had approved the payments.’
For a banker, Merrivale thought, he lies surprisingly badly. The intriguing question was, why of all the names he could have dropped, why Rollond de Brus? Because Brus is in Scotland and we cannot touch him?
The thought came suddenly. Or because he is not? Is there a chance that we could find Brus and arrest him? Is he trying to betray Brus?
‘You don’t belong here,’ he said aloud.
For the first time, the other man looked startled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Why retreat from the world? Why take the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience? None of the three suits you. You don’t belong here, and you know it.’
‘What choice did I have? My business was ruined. No one would deal with the brother of a traitor. I had to liquidate and get out, before the whole thing collapsed around me.’
‘But in time,’ the herald said, ‘other, greater scandals will erupt and the name of Edward de Tracey will be forgotten. When that time comes, you will leave your monastic cell and return to the secular world. Oppicius Adornes will have kept your fortune safe for you, and you will resume your old life. Your withdrawal is a tactical retreat, while you wait for fortune’s wheel to turn once more.’
‘You know nothing of me,’ said Brother Gilbert. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘I know this much. If Rollond de Brus is using your money to bribe the Percy family and the Disinherited, they will put your head on a spike on the Micklegate Bar and feed the rest of you to the dogs.’ The canon said nothing. ‘As for your friends, I don’t advise you to rely on their goodwill either, or the protection this priory can offer. From the moment your brother’s involvement in the conspiracy became known, he was expendable. They sacrificed him without a second thought. They will do the same to you.’
Still Gilbert stood silent, his eyes burning. ‘An archer from your brother’s own retinue killed him,’ Merrivale said. ‘His orders came from the leader of the conspiracy. I don’t yet know the name of that leader, only that he comes from somewhere in the north of England. But he will be found. I will find him, and pull this entire conspiracy down. Think about that, Brother Gilbert, and consider where your own self-interest lies.’
Outside he found Father John directing a party of workmen building a stone buttress to reinforce the barmekin wall. ‘I must ask you a favour,’ he said quietly. ‘If Brother Gilbert receives visitors, or letters, please inform me at once. You may send word to me through Master Blyth of Newcastle.’
‘I shall do so, of course,’ said Father John. ‘Is this man a danger to our priory?’
‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said. ‘It could be that he is also a danger to himself. Keep him close, father, and keep an eye on him.’