A hand touched Merrivale’s shoulder; Mauro, waking him gently. ‘The lady is here, señor. The dama del escudo.’
Merrivale sat up quickly, reaching for his tabard. ‘Run to Sir Thomas Rokeby. Tell him I need his services as requested.’
Outside the fog was thick, particles of water swirling in the air. Silver-grey light seeped through it. Mora stood waiting, her mail coat and helmet glittering with damp. ‘He rode out alone just now, going east.’
‘Well done,’ said the herald. ‘Warin, bring my horse around.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ Mora asked.
‘You have done more than enough already. I have another favour to ask of you. Go to Tiphaine and Lady Mary. If there is fighting today, keep them safe.’
‘I am a shieldmaiden, not a lady’s tirewoman,’ grumbled Mora, but she saluted and departed. Rokeby’s men were already forming up, his own company from Berwick with John Coupland in command and a hundred or so hobelars from other retinues, dark shapes with upright lances moving through the mist. ‘He has gone east towards Ferryhill,’ the herald said.
‘Tracking him in this fog will be the devil’s work.’ They rode past the sentries and east across the moor, passing clumps of gorse and threading their way around the dark coal pits that yawned suddenly under their feet. Gradually the fog cleared a little as they rode further away from the valley of the Wear, climbing up onto high ground, but visibility was still not much more than a long bowshot.
‘I hear something,’ Coupland said.
Rokeby held up his hand and the column jingled to a halt. They all heard it then, the drumming of massed hooves coming at speed across the moor from the north. Rokeby looked at Merrivale. ‘Is this what you thought might happen?’
‘Yes. Can you hold them off?’
‘We’ll do better than that.’ Rokeby waved his hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Wheeling left, the horsemen charged away across the moor just as the first Scots rode out of the fog. Merrivale saw the red heart of Douglas, pulling up in astonishment. Yelling like fiends, Rokeby’s men charged home, and the crash of breaking lances and clatter of swords erupted through the morning. Spurring his horse, Merrivale rode east alone, quickly swallowed up by the fog.
He came to the Great North Road and reined in, listening. The wind whistled around him. Otherwise, apart from the sounds of combat fading away to the north, all was silent.
The fog swirled and parted a little. He saw the hamlet of Ferryhill away to the right, and nearer at hand a series of coal pits following a seam. Two horses stood near one of the pits. Beside them, two men stood talking. One was Harry Percy. The other wore a black Benedictine habit. A shaft of sunlight pierced the fog and illuminated both men, and Merrivale saw the face of Hugh de Tracey.
‘My nephew always spoke well of you and your family,’ Tracey said.
Harry Percy looked disbelieving. ‘I’ve never heard a banker speak well of anyone.’
Tracey’s voice was sharp in response. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I know about your correspondence with Agnes of Dunbar.’
Percy’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you blackmailing me?’
‘No, of course not. I want your help. And I want the countess’s help too.’
They heard the eruption of combat in the distance, a dim clamour muffled by the fog. ‘If you have played me false,’ Percy said grimly.
Brother Hugh raised his hands. ‘I swear before God I have not.’ Both men waited for a few minutes, tensed and listening. ‘The sound is moving away,’ Hugh said. ‘Perhaps a Scottish foraging party ran into one of your patrols.’
It was possible. Percy listened for a few more moments as the sound faded, and lifted his hand from his hilt. ‘You were saying.’
‘Rollond de Brus intends to kill his cousin David and proclaim himself king of Scotland.’
‘I know all about that. I know all about your conspiracy, too. The herald told me.’
‘That goddamned herald.’ Tracey’s voice was bitter. ‘None of this would have happened without that interfering bastard. Brus has broken ranks. He wants to seize control of Scotland and make the country his personal base of power. He tried to drag Gilbert and myself into his scheme. When we refused, he killed Gilbert. Now he is coming for me.’
‘Where does the Countess of Dunbar come in? Come to that, where do I come in?’
‘I know Brus and the countess hate each other. If he becomes king, she and her husband will soon be dead. I need her to kill Brus, and I need you to help me make contact with her.’
Percy considered this for a moment. ‘And just why should I help you?’
‘Because I can make you rich,’ said Tracey.
‘I’m already rich. Or will be, when the old man goes to his rest.’
‘Come on, Percy. You’re young and ambitious. Are you really content with your present estate? I can give you all of Northumberland, if you want it, and more besides.’
‘Really? How much more?’
Tracey said nothing. Instead there came the dull thud of a missile striking flesh and bone. The monk’s knees buckled and he fell heavily onto his face, his arms and legs twitching a little and his fingers clawing at the grass. A black crossbow bolt protruded from between his shoulder blades, buried up to the vanes. Percy looked up and saw another horseman standing just on the edge of the fog bank. The rider wore the white robe and black cloak of the Dominican friars, and he held a crossbow in his hands.
The herald turned towards Oswald, spurring his horse. The Dominican saw him coming, and hesitated. It would take him fifteen seconds to load and wind the crossbow, and by that time Merrivale would be on top of him. Cursing, he dropped the weapon and galloped hard away to the north with the herald pursuing him. More hoofbeats drummed in the heavy air; Harry Percy had mounted his horse and was following too.
Off to the left the fighting continued, invisible in the fog. They raced across the moor through patches of drifting mist, Oswald heading steadily north towards the Scottish army and safety. But the River Wear was about to cut across their path, and the only way over the Wear was the bridge on the Great North Road, not far from where Rokeby and Douglas were still hammering each other. Merrivale spurred his horse again. He wanted to catch Oswald before they became entangled in the fighting.
Up ahead was another hamlet on a low hill, the ground beyond sloping down towards the river. The hamlet, he remembered, was called Hett. A large wooden shed stood at the foot of the hill, black heaps of coal around it. The grass dipped and became uneven. Oswald’s horse stumbled, whinnying, and then went down in a tangle of thrashing legs, throwing the friar clear. He staggered to his feet, looking back to see the two horsemen bearing down on him, and turned and ran into the shed.
Merrivale pulled his lathered horse to a halt beside the building and slid from the saddle. Percy galloped up a few seconds later, dismounting and drawing his sword.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Covering your back. You said yourself that this might be a trap.’
‘For me, yes. Not for Tracey. I didn’t see that coming.’
‘What did Tracey want with you?’
‘He thought Brus wanted to kill him,’ Percy said, ‘and he wanted to get his retaliation in first. But he wasn’t fast enough.’
‘Oswald is a rogue who will do anything for money. If we find him, we can persuade him to talk.’
Percy nodded towards the shed. ‘Let’s go fetch him, shall we?’
Unlike the shallow pits in many fields, the miners at Hett had dug underground, following a rich seam of coal. The shed covered the entrance, keeping out rainwater which would otherwise have filled the tunnels. They descended a short wooden ladder and found several torches leaning against the wall with a tinderbox on a shelf above them. Merrivale lit one of the torches and held it up. Flickering light showed them a low, rough black tunnel with wooden props holding up the weight of the stones and earth above.
‘Come out, Oswald,’ he shouted into the tunnel. ‘If you do, we will spare your life. You have my word of honour.’
The words echoed down the tunnel and died away. There was no response. ‘We’ll have to drag him out,’ Percy said, drawing his sword. ‘I’ll go first. You light the way.’
Bending low, Percy entered the tunnel. Merrivale followed him, holding up the torch. Broken stone crunched under their feet. One of the pit props shifted alarmingly as they passed, sending little showers of earth and dust down from the ceiling. The mine was deserted; knowing of the armies nearby, the miners had either hidden themselves and their families or fled. Once Percy stopped, pointing to a sandalled footprint in the dust. ‘He’s here.’
After twenty yards the tunnel branched. They halted, listening. Both tunnels were dark but there was a sense of a presence, someone watching and listening, in the tunnel to the right. Merrivale pointed and they moved on, treading slowly and carefully, trying to ignore the little stones that fell from the ceiling and pinged off Percy’s armour. If the roof caved in now, all three of them would be trapped here forever.
They passed a cluster of tools leaning against the wall, picks and spades and baskets; they must be nearing the end. The tunnel curved around to the left and widened a little. They found themselves in a broader chamber cut out of the earth and rock. The black face of the coal seam glistened like ebony in the torchlight.
Oswald stood with his back to the coal face, holding a knife in one hand. His face was streaked with black dust and covered in sweat. He smiled a little. ‘Very clever of you to bring a torch. I fear I was in too much of a hurry.’
‘If you come with us, we will spare your life,’ said Merrivale.
‘Will you? What guarantees can you offer? Your word of honour isn’t good enough, I’m afraid. Having no honour myself, I don’t trust those who claim they do.’
‘We can give you protection,’ said Percy, ‘and an easy path out of the kingdom.’
Oswald smiled again, beads of sweat rolling down his broad face. ‘Protection? Can you keep me safe for the rest of my life? Can you save my immortal soul?’
No one answered. Oswald laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask for miracles. I know they’re keeping a seat warm for me in hell. In exchange for this protection, what do you want?’
‘Did Brus pay you to kill Tracey?’ the herald asked.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. You didn’t need to chase me through the underworld like Orpheus looking for Eurydice to learn that. Ask me a question where you don’t already know the answer.’
‘Is Brus acting alone? Or is he following his master’s orders?’
Oswald smiled again. ‘That’s more like it. Alone, of course. He has shaken off his master’s halter and is determined to set up a kingdom of his own, supported by his creatures. Carrick, Douglas, Béthune, Clennell.’
‘And the Traceys also turned against him,’ said Percy.
‘More correctly, they never joined him in the first place. They stayed true to their oath. That annoyed Brus. He wanted their loyalty, but even more than that, he wanted their money. That’s why he has brought the army to Durham now, to pillage the place and seize its treasury.’
Torchlight flickered off the black stone walls of the chamber. ‘You say the Traceys were true to their oath,’ the herald said. ‘Their oath to whom? Who is their master?’
The friar looked at him. ‘I’ll have that protection you promised me. Now, if you please.’
Percy nodded. ‘Let’s take him up,’ he said to Merrivale. ‘Go ahead with the torch. Friar, clasp your hands on top of your head and follow the herald. I’ll bring up the rear with my sword at your back. One false move, Oswald, and I’ll bleed you like a pig. Move.’
They retraced their steps, reaching the branch in the tunnels. Merrivale heard the sudden scrabbling behind him and tensed, but he was too late. Oswald slammed into him, pressing him hard against the wall of the tunnel. The torch fell from his hand, rolling onto the floor where it still flickered and flamed. Merrivale felt the sting of a knife blade against his throat.
‘Don’t move!’ Oswald snarled.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ the herald said quietly. ‘Drop the knife.’
‘Put up your sword, Percy, or I’ll cut his throat, by God I will.’
Out of the corner of his eye Merrivale saw Harry Percy hesitate, sword in hand. Raising his free hand, the herald stabbed his fingers back into Oswald’s face, seeking the other man’s eyes. Cursing, Oswald pulled his head back and the pressure of the knife relaxed for a second. Before the friar could move again, Percy took a long stride forward and ran his sword through the Dominican’s midriff. Oswald fell to the floor, blood pouring from his stomach. He screamed once with pain and Percy stabbed him again, this time through the heart. He shuddered convulsively and then went limp.
Merrivale stared at Percy. ‘We needed him alive,’ he said.
‘On the whole, herald, I think you are rather more valuable.’ Percy gestured with his sword. ‘Leave this carrion where he lies. The miners will find him when they next come down. Let’s go.’
As promised, Rokeby had done more than just hold the Scots at bay. Not expecting opposition, Douglas’s men had been caught off guard by the sudden charge through the fog. After a brief fight they turned and fled towards the bridge over the Wear, pursued by Rokeby’s hobelars who caught them just as they reached the bridge. Here, the fight turned into a slaughter. Hemmed in against the river and the stone parapets of the bridge the Scots could not fight back and the Northumbrians killed them one by one. By the time Merrivale and Percy arrived, Douglas and the survivors had fled across the bridge and up the hill beyond and Rokeby’s men were dragging up bodies and piling them in rows. Coils of blood stained the waters of the Wear.
‘Douglas escaped, I am sorry to say,’ Rokeby said. ‘That man has the luck of the devil. John Grey ran him through with a sword last year, and he still got away.’
He looked at Merrivale. ‘Did you do what you needed to do?’
‘Yes, and no,’ said Merrivale. ‘We will need to send word to the priory at Durham. Their treasurer is dead. His body is in a field up near Ferryhill.’
Rokeby looked surprised. ‘We’ll send a party to fetch it back to the priory once the fighting is over,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Merrivale told him. He was still angry with Percy, and the latter knew it. ‘I knew Oswald was a spy,’ Rokeby said at the end. ‘I never thought of him as a killer.’
‘He was,’ Merrivale said. ‘Just not a very efficient one. Like so many, he was seduced by the money Brus paid him.’ The jangle of harness and rattle of horseshoes echoed down the road from the south. ‘Here comes the army. All we can do now is go forward, and discover what destiny awaits us.’