Lyon Herald wept too as he watched them go. Merrivale put an arm around his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, my friend.’
‘Why are you sorry? It is the fortune of war.’ A group of men gathered around the wounded King David, half carrying him from the field, fighting off the English who raged around them. ‘When in the name of God are we going to learn?’ Graham asked. ‘How many have we lost today, how many will we have lost by the time the day is done? Thirteen years ago at Halidon Hill we lost an entire generation, annihilated in a single day. We waited for their sons to grow and replace them, and now their sons are dead or dying too. How many times will we repeat this folly, Sim? Until every family is wiped out, every future obliterated?’
‘The same is true of England,’ Merrivale said, thinking of de Lisle. ‘It takes two to make a war, Archie. Come. Let us get you away so you can rejoin your own people.’
The Scots were fleeing down the slopes towards the Browney now, the English howling after them, and some of the men-at-arms were calling for their horses. Merrivale spotted Warin leading his own horse and called to him. ‘Fetch another mount for Lyon Herald. Quickly now!’
The horses arrived. They mounted and rode down towards the river, seeing little parties of Scots fighting desperate actions here and there across the meadows near Beaurepaire. David Bruce’s party had not managed to get him to safety; they passed the king being led back towards the English lines on foot, John Coupland gripping him possessively by the arm. He had not surrendered tamely; several of the Englishmen around him had fresh wounds and Coupland’s face was covered in blood. The blackened stump of an arrow still protruded from the king’s head.
On the far side of the river another company of Scots was making their last stand, English hobelars and archers howling around them. Beyond them Merrivale spotted two riders on the skyline.
With a cold shock he realised one of them was Tiphaine.
‘I may need your help, Archie,’ he said.
‘I need to see,’ Tiphaine said.
The three women sat on their horses by the pilgrim cross, the baggage train parked behind them. The cathedral bells were ringing again; it was vespers now. Lady Mary listened to the cries of the wounded men coming from the field ahead and shuddered. ‘I don’t. I’m not moving, and I don’t advise you to either.’
‘I have seen battlefields before,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Mora, will you come with me?’
They rode forward, skirting the edge of the field, Tiphaine scanning the bodies for Brus’s saltire. She did not see it; she did not expect to. No matter how fierce the combat, Brus would find a way to survive. She turned the other way and looked down into the meadows along the Browney, and spotted his device at once. He had found his horse, and had collected a small band of mounted men around him; Guy of Béthune was one of them. As she watched they cantered away across the meadows towards Beaurepaire, easily outrunning the English who pursued them.
‘God’s death,’ Tiphaine said sharply. ‘He is getting away.’
She kicked her horse down the slope towards the river, Mora close behind. Scottish fugitives ran down the hill too, trying to escape; one made a lunge for Tiphaine’s horse but Mora clubbed him down with the flat of her sword. English soldiers came plunging down with bloody knives and spears in hand, and men screamed as they fell; for a few moments death was all around her, but all she could think about was that red saltire banner. If Brus escaped, the plotting and killing would continue. She would be in danger, and so would Simon, so long as Brus lived. She had to find him, and somehow, she had to find a way of killing him.
They had left the stream of fugitives behind now. A quarter of a mile ahead, Brus and his companions rode on, every minute taking them further towards safety. Tiphaine and Mora followed them.
‘What do you intend to do now?’ asked Guy of Béthune.
‘We carry on,’ said Brus.
They rode past another string of coal pits, black holes like smallpox scars gouged out of the ground, piles of coal heaped up at their edge. ‘Are you mad?’ Béthune repeated. ‘The army is destroyed. The king is probably either dead or a prisoner.’
‘Hopefully the former,’ Brus said. ‘It doesn’t matter either way, Guy. When we reach Edinburgh, I shall proclaim myself king and take the throne. The English will invade, of course, but they don’t have enough men or money to do much damage, and in a few months King Edward will be dead as well and the whole country plunged into chaos. We’ll have everything we planned, and more.’
Béthune nodded. ‘Have you ever wondered why I came to Scotland?’ he asked.
‘To see what spoils you could gather for yourself, I imagine. Don’t worry, you will have your heart’s desire. I had intended to give Carrick an earldom. Now he is dead, I shall give it to you instead.’
‘You honour me too greatly,’ said Béthune. He raised his hand and hit Brus a powerful backhand blow that knocked him out of the saddle. Flailing, Brus fell onto a heap of coal beside one of the pits. The heap collapsed, pitching him ten feet down into the bottom of the pit. An avalanche of coal followed him, crashing down across his legs and burying him up to the waist. Pain lanced up his side as his broken ribs gave way once more. Stunned, he looked up to see Béthune standing on the edge of the pit looking down. The count’s gauntlets were black; it was he who had pushed the coal down on top of Brus.
‘You disobeyed orders,’ Béthune said. ‘Had you succeeded, you might have got away with it. But our friends don’t tolerate failure, Brus. You killed the Traceys, who were useful to us. You failed to protect Blyth, who was essential to our plans. And now you have broken Scotland, and all for nothing.’
He paused. ‘There is no profit in this, Brus, not for any of us save you. You thought only of yourself. That is not acceptable.’
‘Get me out of here,’ Brus gasped.
‘No,’ said Béthune. ‘Your blind ambition led you to this hole, and you can remain here. What the English will do to you when they find you, I don’t know and I don’t care, but don’t expect us to pay your ransom. You’ve flouted orders for the last time, Brus. Time to pay the price.’
Béthune turned away. The weight of coal pressing down on Brus was almost unbearable; already his legs had gone numb. He scrabbled at the coal with his hands, trying to pull the hard black lumps away, but more came cascading down on top of him. Even the slightest effort brought more blinding pain in his ribs. A shadow fell across the pit and he looked up, hoping beyond hope that Béthune had changed his mind and returned to rescue him.
His hope turned to ash. Tiphaine stood on the edge of the pit, looking down at him.
Tiphaine and Mora had seen Béthune mount and ride away with the other horsemen.
‘They’ve abandoned him,’ Mora said. ‘Why?’
‘Perhaps he is dead,’ Tiphaine said. They rode past the pits to the one where Brus had fallen and dismounted. Brus lay on his back, half-buried in fallen coal, pinned and unable to move. For the first time in her life, he was helpless before her.
‘Get me out of here,’ Brus said.
‘No,’ said Tiphaine.
He scrabbled at the coal again, gasping in agony as he tried to pull himself free. ‘For God’s sake, Tiphaine. I’ll give you anything you want. Money, houses, land, anything. It’s all yours.’
‘You don’t have any money,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Not any more. The Traceys are dead and Blyth has fled away to Flanders. You’re empty now, Rollond. You are a husk, nothing more.’
‘We were lovers once,’ Brus said, still trying to pull the coal away. ‘Does that mean nothing to you?’
She heard hoofbeats on the ground. From the corner of her eye she saw the herald dismount and come forward, along with another man in a red lion tabard.
‘About as much as it did to you, when you gave orders to burn me alive. Three times you tried, at La Roche Guyon, in Liddesdale and at Lanercost. There will not be a fourth.’
Brus looked up at her and he must have seen the expression in her face. Anger exploded in his voice. ‘You filthy stupid little bitch. Burning is about all you are good for. Well? Are you expecting me to beg?’
‘No, Rollond,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to beg. I want you to die.’
His anger faded quickly. He screamed in frustration, clawing at the ground. Tiphaine turned to the two heralds.
‘Is there any reason why I should not kill this man?’ she asked.
‘Can you live with yourself afterwards?’ asked Merrivale.
She thought for a moment, her face serious. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can.’
The wind whirled coal dust around them. ‘His intrigues and ambition have destroyed a kingdom,’ said Lyon Herald. ‘Hundreds of good and noble men are dead. Hundreds of widows will grieve, hundreds of children will grow up as orphans. An entire nation will drown in its own grief, because of him. The Seigneur de Brus no longer deserves to walk upon this earth.’
Mora came up beside her, holding a stone jar and a torch. ‘I found these in a mine just down the hill. The jar is full of oil. It is up to you what you do with it.’
Tiphaine took the stopper from the jar and poured it over the coal in the pit below her. Brus saw the oil falling and shouted at her, raging, cursing her for a witch and a whore; she barely heard him. ‘I need to light the torch,’ she said.
‘Allow me,’ said Lyon Herald. He took a tinderbox from a pocket of his cloak and lit the torch, handing it to her. Oily flames licked up, pale in the dying daylight. Tiphaine held the torch out over the pit, looking down into Brus’s eyes. She held his gaze for a long moment, and then opened her fingers and let the torch fall.
The oil burned quickly, flames rushing up, and the onlookers on the edge of the pit felt the heat on their faces. Drops of burning oil fell on Brus’s armour and surcoat, burning for a minute or so and then dying away. When the flames passed they saw the coal beginning to turn white in places. Brus tried again to pull himself free, but the coal was too hot to touch now and he could not shift it. Time passed, and as darkness fell the white heat turned to red. Very slowly, the furnace glow spread towards the man trapped in the pit below.
It took a long time for Rollond de Brus to die.