Berwick’s position as the sole English outpost on the north side of the Tweed meant that its garrisons and citizens lived in a constant state of watchfulness. The gates were closed at sunset, but a nun seeking to return to her convent outside the walls excited no suspicion; at the Saint Mary Gate, the guards opened the postern and let her through.
The castle lay close on her left, and she could see the fluttering of torches on the ramparts and the restless movement of watchmen. She passed a small stream with a millpond and waterwheel and came to the ruins of Bondington, once a prosperous little suburb of the town; now the houses were roofless, and weeds grew in the gardens of the messuages. The clouds were breaking up a little, and stars shone from dark patches of sky. Every so often a half moon peeped through, lighting her way.
The convent church of Saint Leonard’s was ruined too, its roof caved in and its tall windows bare of glass. As Mora had said, the cloister still stood and as she crept closer Tiphaine could hear the sound of voices in prayer. Not many; three or four at most.
The moon came out again, and her robe glowed ghostly white. Cursing the nuns for choosing the Cistercian order over the more discreetly black-robed Benedictines, she walked into the ruined church. Weeds were growing out of the walls, and the altar was stained with bird and bat droppings. She looked around for a place to conceal herself. There were several chapels in the apse behind the presbytery, but those were the first places anyone would look; the same was true of the vestry.
In the south transept she found the night stair, leading from the dorter down into the body of the church. In better times, the nuns would formerly have used this stair to come down and celebrate matins. Judging by the amount of rubble and bird shit, she thought, no one had used the stair since the church was ruined. The door at the top of the stair was securely barred, confirming her thought. The stone landing outside the door was in deep shadow. Crouching down and making herself as small as possible, Tiphaine waited, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart.
They came on foot, having tethered their horses some distance away, and without torches; the sentries on the castle walls would have seen any glint of light. ‘Where are the nuns?’ asked Selby.
‘Up in the dorter,’ said Clennell. ‘Did you not hear them singing as we came in?’
‘What if they hear us?’
‘They won’t be stupid enough to come and investigate. Not at night.’
Gilbert d’Umfraville nodded. ‘But keep your voices down all the same.’
‘How long do we wait?’ asked Wake.
‘An hour,’ said Clennell. ‘If he hasn’t come by then, that settles it.’
They stood in silence in front of the white-streaked altar. Only a few minutes passed before a shadow moved in the nave, and they turned. ‘Who is it?’ Umfraville demanded.
‘Who were you expecting?’ asked Rollond de Brus. He walked forward, still moving stiffly, and threw back the hood of his cloak, letting the moonlight play on his pale face and fair hair. ‘You’re all here,’ he said, his voice deceptively mild. ‘Good. Very good. For a time I wondered if you would come. Have you searched the place?’
‘No,’ Wake said sharply. ‘We assumed you had.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ Brus walked around the apse end of the church, looking into the chantry chapels and then the vestry. He glanced up at the night stair, but saw nothing in the shadows. Walking back into the transept he stood facing the four men. ‘Well? Shall we begin?’
‘Why did you attack my lands?’ Umfraville demanded harshly. ‘You burned good farms and villages, for no reason. My tenants are homeless now, and winter is coming.’
‘I burned them, as you know full well, to concentrate your minds and help you focus on making the right decision. Why did you resist? Douglas and Bruce lost good men this morning.’
‘For Christ’s sake, we had to do something,’ Clennell said sharply. ‘The herald was there, watching everything. He was already suspicious. Standing by and letting you do your worst would have been an admission of complicity.’
‘I don’t give a damn about the herald,’ Brus said. ‘The next time he comes among you, kill him and throw his body to the wolves. Make him disappear from the face of the earth. Is that clear?’
‘That seems a little excessive,’ said another voice.
Brus wheeled around, pulling his sword out of the scabbard. The other four men drew as well. The man who had spoken, a man-at-arms in a mail tunic and helmet with a nose guard, walked forward, followed by Oswald of Halton carrying a heavy wooden staff. ‘What the devil?’ demanded Brus. He looked at Oswald. ‘Who is this?’
‘This is Murdo,’ said Oswald. ‘I’ll let him explain the rest.’
‘No more pretence,’ said the man-at-arms, pulling off her helmet. ‘I am the Lady Mora of Islay, shieldmaiden to the Countess of Dunbar. When her ladyship heard of this meeting, she vowed to be a part of it. Unable to make the journey herself, she sent me as her envoy.’
There was a moment of stunned silence. ‘Is she telling the truth?’ demanded Rollond.
‘Yes,’ said the friar.
‘How did the countess learn about this meeting?’
‘I couldn’t exactly say.’ Mora’s voice was calm. ‘But her ladyship approves of your actions. Bringing the Disinherited back into the fold will be a great coup.’ Mora smiled at the four men. ‘It will be good to welcome you home.’
Still furious, Rollond pointed his sword at the friar. ‘You worthless piece of shit. Did you tell her?’
‘Don’t blame him, my lord,’ said Mora. ‘I already knew the date of the meeting. All I needed was the place. I assumed Oswald would be working for you, because he works for anyone who needs dirty work done in the shadows. I persuaded him to tell me by threatening to enforce his vow of chastity, permanently.’
The Disinherited stared at her. Brus hesitated. What she was saying could be true, or it could be an audacious lie, but at the moment it made little difference. He wanted to kill this woman, but he could not afford to make an enemy of the Countess of Dunbar; not yet. ‘Good,’ he said finally, sheathing his sword. ‘You can bear witness. Your mistress has doubted me in the past. Tonight, I will show her that I keep my promises.’
‘And are we one of your promises?’ demanded Wake.
Brus turned to face him. ‘Of course. I have disciplined you, and now I will bring you to heel.’
‘I don’t like the sound of your language,’ said Clennell.
‘I don’t care what you like,’ Brus said viciously. ‘What you like is of no interest to me. Now listen to me, gentlemen, while I explain what you will do.’
They waited.
‘The Scottish army is at Edinburgh,’ Brus said. ‘Tomorrow it will march down the Via Regia towards the borders. Two days later it will reach Jedburgh, where we will celebrate Michaelmas. Thereafter, the war begins in earnest.’
He pointed at Lord Wake. ‘You and Sir Walter Selby are responsible for the west. Apart from the usual bastel houses and pele towers, there is only one fortified place of note on the border; Liddel Strength… Lord Wake, you are the owner of Liddel Strength, and Sir Walter, you are the commander of the garrison. You will ensure that the castle surrenders as soon as the Scottish army approaches.’
Wake and Selby looked at each other. Selby’s fists clenched, but neither man spoke. ‘Sir Gilbert d’Umfraville, Sir Thomas Clennell,’ Brus said. ‘You will instruct your castellans and tenants to let us pass. There will be no repeat of today, no more brave little shows of defiance. I am the master, and you bow to me.’
‘What about Sir Robert de Lisle?’ demanded Clennell. ‘He is too old and ill to travel. Do you intend to ravage his lands because he has not replied to you?’
‘When the time comes, Sir Robert will be given every chance to make his position clear,’ Brus said. ‘I will make my decision based on what response he gives.’
‘Is that everything?’ asked Umfraville.
‘Not yet. As well as carrying out my orders, you will muster your retinues and as many other men as you can. Don’t worry about money, we will see they are paid. When you leave here tonight, you will not return to your homes. Instead you will go to a secret place, a rendezvous that I shall give you. Instruct your men to join you there.’
‘Where will you be?’ asked Wake.
‘With the king in Jedburgh. You will hear from me.’
‘And what are we supposed to do when we reach this secret place?’ Wake demanded.
‘Wait for orders,’ Brus said.
Wake’s voice growled in his throat. ‘And if we refuse to obey them?’
‘Then I will crush you,’ said Brus. ‘Douglas and Bruce of Carrick command the borders, and they are loyal to me. I have only to snap my fingers, and every house and barn and pele on your lands will be burning by day’s end, and the crying of children for their mothers will be the loudest sound you will hear.’
‘Splendid!’ said Lady Mora, clapping her hands. ‘A superb performance, my lord. You have us in the palm of your hand. The only thing left now is to tell these gentlemen what they have to gain by acquiescing to your demands.’
‘We will keep the promises made earlier,’ Brus said. ‘All the lands you once claimed in Scotland will be restored, and the titles too. Sir Thomas will become Lord of Selkirk, Sir Gilbert will be Earl of Angus once more.’
‘Some of those lands are currently held by other Scottish nobles,’ said Lady Mora.
‘They will be compensated in other ways,’ Brus said.
Mora smiled. ‘I am sure they will. Meanwhile, gentlemen, I suggest we cut this meeting short and disperse as swiftly as possible.’
‘Why?’ demanded Brus.
‘Because the castle gate has just opened,’ said Mora, ‘and a column of men is marching out, heading this way. I think our secret has been discovered.’
They all turned towards the castle, its walls blazing with torchlight now, and saw the armed men running over the drawbridge and spreading out across the fields. ‘The south door leads to the cloister,’ said Mora. ‘From there you can get to the kitchens, and a back door leading out over the fields. I advise you to run. You too,’ she said to Oswald.
The Disinherited ran for the door, followed by Rollond clutching at his side. Brother Oswald raced after them. For a big man, Mora thought, he had a surprising turn of speed. She waited until they were gone, then trotted up the night stair and crouched down beside the figure in white, putting an arm around Tiphaine’s neck and clamping a hand over her mouth. Tiphaine struggled briefly, and Mora cuffed her. ‘Do not move,’ she hissed. ‘Do not make a sound.’
Tiphaine lay still. Keeping her head down so the light would not shine on her face, Mora heard men running down the nave and around the presbytery. Torchlight flickered off the walls over her head. ‘No one here,’ a voice said finally. ‘Tom, search the cloister. I’ll take the outbuildings.’
Footsteps and voices receded and the torchlight faded. They waited, Mora still covering Tiphaine’s mouth. Only when the search party began to withdraw towards the castle did she allow them both to sit up. In the cloister one of the nuns was crying out in fear, and they heard a murmur of voices as the others tried to calm her.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Tiphaine whispered.
‘I was watching the place when you arrived, and followed you in. It was very foolish of you to come here, and even more so to send a letter to Sir Thomas Rokeby warning him we were here. You very nearly upset all my plans.’
‘I don’t care about your plans,’ Tiphaine said. ‘All I care about is Rollond de Brus. I want to see him captured or dead, preferably the latter.’
‘Why? What is Brus to you?’
‘I was his lover once, when I was young and stupid. I left him when I realised what kind of man he was. He never forgave me, and last summer he betrayed me to the enemy and tried to have me burned at the stake.’ She shivered at the memories. ‘I want him dead.’
‘I’ve no doubt you’ll get your wish, before too much longer,’ Mora said. ‘Now, you are going to do what I say. Walk to the castle, announce yourself and see Sir Thomas Rokeby. He will protect you.’
‘You sound like the herald,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I don’t want protection. I’m going after Rollond, and you will not stop me. I will find that bastard and I will kill him. Because until I do, Mora, the earth will not be safe for any of us.’
In the darkness Mora sat for a long time, thinking. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Jedburgh,’ said Mora.
It was nearly midnight by the time the herald and his little party arrived at Berwick. The castle gates were closed once more and the drawbridge was up, but at the sight of his tabard the bridge was lowered and they were admitted through a postern. Off to the far south-west, fires flickered on the horizon.
Despite the hour Rokeby was in his office, a big solar with mullioned windows looking over the ramparts and across the dark river towards the distant fires. Four other men were with him, two still fully armed. Rokeby himself looked older than the herald remembered; there were dark circles under his eyes and worry lines on his forehead. ‘Simon Merrivale, by all that’s holy. Good to see you again, my friend. You could have come at a better time.’
‘I fear I have brought trouble with me,’ Merrivale said.
‘To the borders? No fear of that. This is the land where disasters hatch and calamity spawns. Let me introduce John Stryvelyn, keeper of the castle, and Roger Heron, his deputy.’ He turned to the two armoured men. ‘This is John Coupland, my right-hand man. And you may remember my nephew Tom.’
Tom Rokeby, one of the armoured men, smiled and bowed. He was a pleasant young man, who bore a strong resemblance to his uncle. Merrivale introduced Peter de Lisle. ‘We’ve not met, but I knew your father well,’ Rokeby said kindly. ‘Have a seat, lad. The servants will bring us something to drink.’
Peter sat down and promptly fell asleep in his chair, head drooping on his chest. ‘What is the situation?’ Merrivale asked.
‘Douglas of Liddesdale has driven a horse and wagon through the truce. His own men were raiding further south, I hear, but his allies along the borders crossed the Tweed south of Wark and burned everything as far as Doddington. They’ll come again tomorrow, I expect, and there’s not a damned thing we can do stop them. We don’t have enough men.’
‘What about the local families?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Are they loyal?’
Rokeby nodded. ‘So far. At the moment they are looking to protect their own homes, but they’ll fight if we call on them.’
‘They will for the moment,’ said Coupland. He was a hard-faced man, probably about thirty but looking older. ‘But we can’t say the same about Norham.’
Norham was seven miles upriver from Berwick, a key element in the chain of castles guarding the frontier. ‘Norham and the lands around it are the property of the Palatine of Durham,’ Rokeby said. ‘And the priory at Durham has sent word to the castellan at Norham, ordering him not to fight or obstruct the passage of the enemy. Effectively, they have declared themselves neutral.’
‘And if Norham avoids the wrath of the enemy, other landowners may decide to do the same,’ said Roger Heron. ‘It pains me to say this, because I’m a local man myself, but I wouldn’t take their loyalty for granted.’
The tide is rising, Merrivale thought, washing away the sand under our feet. ‘Have you heard any word from Lord Percy?’
‘He’s calling out his tenants and mustering them at Warkworth and Alnwick, but he is being bloody slow about it. Which reminds me. I have a letter for you from his daughter-in-law.’
Rokeby handed over a small parchment roll, and Merrivale broke the seal and read it quickly.
To Simon Merrivale, heraldus, I give greeting. I have attempted to persuade Lord Percy to declare his allegiance, but I fear I have failed. He is gathering his men, but he will not commit himself to joining the archbishop at Richmond. Sir Herald, it gives me great sorrow also to tell you that the Demoiselle Tiphaine left Warkworth without telling me of her departure or where she intended to go. She may be travelling in company with one of Lord Percy’s men-at-arms, a man named Murdo. We have searched for her, but to no avail. I am sorry indeed to give you this news, and I have prayed continually for her safety. May God watch over her, and over you too, my friend.
Merrivale closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Bad news?’ asked Rokeby.
‘Yes.’ He told them the contents of the letter. ‘Can you ask your officers if there has been any sign of the demoiselle, or this man Murdo?’
‘I recognise Murdo’s name,’ said Tom Rokeby. ‘He was in the garrison here last year. A Scots deserter, most probably. I remember seeing him in company with that fellow Oswald.’
‘Oswald of Halton? The Dominican friar?’
‘That’s the one. The biggest rogue unhung.’ Tom turned to his uncle. ‘He was there tonight, too. I caught a glimpse of him, running like a hare. We went after him, but he disappeared into the dark before we could catch him.’
Merrivale raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
‘We received a message that the leaders of the Disinherited were coming tonight to meet the Seigneur de Brus,’ Rokeby said. ‘I sent Tom and John out in hopes of catching Brus, but the whole lot slipped through our fingers.’
‘Body of Christ.’ Merrivale did not often show anger, but he did now. ‘I knew they were intending to meet Brus, and I went to Harbottle to persuade them to remain loyal. They assured me they would, and then gave me the slip through a ruse so facile that even a child could have seen through it. Why in God’s name did I believe them?’
The herald shook his head. ‘What’s done is done. Did you pursue them?’
‘Yes, but not far,’ said Rokeby. ‘My patrols never venture more than five miles from Berwick. It’s simply too dangerous to go further.’
‘If it can be proven that they met Brus, that is treason.’
‘Yes,’ said Rokeby. ‘On the other hand, if we attempt to arrest them, that could spark a rebellion by their followers. And if the Percys and some of the others join in, we could have a civil war on our hands.’
‘What about the merchants in the town? Archbishop de la Zouche feared they might be plotting treason as well.’
Rokeby rolled his eyes. ‘When aren’t they plotting treason? I arrested three of them last year, but I reckon the embers are still burning underground.’ He grinned at Merrivale. ‘Welcome back to the borders, Simon,’ he said. ‘Not much has changed since you were last here, has it?’
‘No,’ said the herald. ‘But I have a feeling things are about to get quite a lot worse.’
Servants, one of them carrying the still sleeping Peter, took him to a comfortable room in the Constable Tower. He saw the boy settled on a palliasse and then lay down on the narrow bed, looking up at the shadows on the timber ceiling as the single rushlight flickered to the end of its life.
Once again he felt the weariness in his bones. He had ridden many miles in the past few days, but he had ridden longer journeys as a King’s Messenger. Perhaps I am getting old, he thought… But the weariness was mental as much as physical, rooted in a sense of dark anticipation. The dread of what was about to come had increased sharply since the news of Tiphaine’s disappearance, and for one of the few times in his life Merrivale knew real fear; not for himself, but for her.
He knew how much she hated Rollond de Brus, and why; it was he who had pulled her off the platform at La Roche Guyon with the flames already crackling beneath, and taken her away to safety. He knew, too, that she resented his attempts to keep her safe. His own past failures to protect those he loved was probably warping his judgement. He remembered his mother and sisters, dead in the Great Famine. He remembered Yolande.
Protect those I love… Is love possible between myself and Tiphaine? Or are we too battle-scarred and disillusioned even to make the attempt? Will the shades of past and present always stand in the way?
The rushlight died. Its wick glowed for a few seconds and then went dark. He lay in his bed, staring into the blackness and thinking about Tiphaine alone in the night, before exhaustion finally claimed him and he fell asleep.