It was probably burned out anew, he thought, by the English foragers, or the deserters and outlaws from both sides – but the hopeful eyes lashed him to silence on this.
He had thought only of Isabel, yet he was still the lord of Herdmanston – the Auld Sire, no less. He told them he would be back once matters were settled here. He told them Herdmanston would be rebuilt – which got him a look from Sir Henry of Roslin, worried that he would be asked to help foot the bill. Hal put Henry at ease by telling him he would not call on his liege-lord aid and, because of what he had done to help the King, Henry relaxed, thinking Hal had been promised royal largesse.
The truth Hal kept to himself; underneath the stone cross, nestling with the remains of his son and his wife, were six Apostles, buried long ago by himself and Isabel; those wren’s-egg rubies which had once graced the reliquary of the Black Rood would more than pay for Herdmanston.
Given by Wallace to Isabel as a gift, he recalled.
Isabel. He stared at the dawn until the light started to blind him; somewhere beyond the glare of it, she waited for him. Or so he hoped.
A horn blared and Dog Boy shifted.
‘Muster,’ he said simply and Hal nodded. Dog Boy waited expectantly, but Hal made no move and, when he spoke, the bitterness tainted it.
‘On your way, Dog Boy,’ he said. ‘I remain here, by order of the King. I have, it seems, done enough service.’
He managed a wry twist of smile up into Dog Boy’s obvious confusion.
‘What he means is that I am auld and wounded and long removed from the practice of arms. He means it well, but I am left with the women and bairns.’
Dog Boy felt a rush of anger at that treatment of this man, but let it slide away – even from just looking, it was clear that Hal of Herdmanston would be a danger to himself if he put on harness and stood in a wall of men in such an affair as this.
Unlike Kirkpatrick, who stumped up, cowled and braied in maille and wreathed in smiles. He thrust a shield at Hal.
‘Fresh done by the limner here. I took your advice.’
Hal stared at the upraised iron fist, clutching a dagger which dripped blood. It was exactly as he had described it to Kirkpatrick in a fit of venomous pique.
‘Aye,’ he said, seeing the glint of laughter in Kirkpatrick’s eyes. ‘You will put the fear in them with this, certes.’
‘They will ken me, which is to the point,’ Kirkpatrick declared vehemently. ‘They know me as the royal wolfhound, a wee sleekit backstabber. Now they will see that I am a knight of this realm as well.’
Hal did not know whether Kirkpatrick meant the English or all the Scots lords who fought them. Both, he decided as Kirkpatrick frowned down at him.
‘I am sorry you have to remain here, but Sir John will be happy to have some expert help. See what came out of those tun barrels …’
He turned away to follow Dog Boy, laughing as he did so, then paused.
‘The smith says your sword is ready.’
Hal went into the forge lean-to, wondering what Kirkpatrick meant about the tun barrels. The smith was a dark, unsmiling man, his leather apron pitted with old spark-burns, and he handed Hal the sword wordlessly; it had been cleaned and sharpened and polished lovingly.
Behind the smith was a clatter and rattle, a curse and then the limner came into view, spotted with paints from where he had been touching up lordly shields all night. Red-eyed and weary, he was a small, mouse-haired ferret of a man, indignant and angry at what he had been given to do.
Hal craned to see: iron hats, rimmed and tumbled like scree, every one of them black, with a white crown and a red cross. Templar war hats. Of course, Hal thought, this is the stuff out of the tun barrels, the stuff that had not been issued because of the old ghosts that haunted it.
‘Blue,’ the limner raged. ‘With St Andrew’s white cross on it. By the time I have pented them all anew and they are dry enough to wear, the battle will be ower – and a dozen more like it. What is so wrang with clappin’ them on needful skulls and being done with it?’
‘There is no Order of Poor Knights,’ the smith answered sonorously, ‘and our king will not wish it back to life.’
Hal heard the pain in it, knew at once that the man had been a Templar. He and the smith looked briefly at each other; the other nodded.
‘At Liston, until the St John Knights took it,’ he said. ‘I was only a lay brother, skilled at smithing, so I broke no oath to man or God to leave that which was cast down by the Pope himself.’
Hal nodded, then thought.
‘It is the Feast of St John,’ he said, smiling lopsidedly because his face still hurt. ‘A quarter day – a hiring day. Are you serviced?’
‘I’m Davey of Crauford, your honour,’ the smith replied. ‘Serviced to none but the King by my own desire and God by my birth into this world.’
‘I need a smith at Herdmanston.’
Hal saw the hesitation, and then the smith jerked his chin at the naked blade in Hal’s hand.