The town drones like a smacked byke; there has been a great battle at Stirling and King Edward is fled. He came to Berwick, having sailed to Bamburgh from Dunbar and ridden back up to the town, to meet his escort lords who took the coast road. I saw him, clattering into the bailey with no more than four riders, but I could not say which one had been him, for they all looked pinched and afraid, arriving drookit as gutter rats in the lightning-split dark so no one would see them. Save me, crept into my cage to peer down through the rain and feeling, suddenly, more liberated than whichever of the dark, wet shadows was the King. That was a fortnight since … Constance came this day to say that now King Edward is leaving, fleeing back to London before Berwick is proper besieged. She was frightened and pale; Malise slithered in not long after like a mottled spider and snarled at her to be gone; poor wee nun, she had no courage for it and fled, weeping. Then he fell on his knees and raised his face to me as if I was Heaven itself, his mouth like a wet opening in a bog. Christ Jesus, he moaned, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered, was crucified, died and was buried – I know You. You touched Heaven and came to Hell and cast out that which offended You. What You loved, O Lord, You destroyed. I understand that.
There was more, so that it was clear that Badenoch was dead and Malise had no more liege lord, nor living to be had, either from him or me. Now he has thrown me to the Hounds of God, who will need some witch to blame, to sacrifice as in darker times to older gods, to make sense of such a loss to the English.
O Lord, I am shamed and sorry to have so vexed You with myself. Give me leave to repent, for You shall know me well, soon enough.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Berwick
Octave of the Visitation, July 1314
He was in there, the King of England. Jamie said it twice so that Hal would hear, though he was not sure if it had worked, for the man gave no sign. Just kept staring across the mirk of a sodden day at the faint grey streaks and worms of pallid light that marked Berwick.
‘Are we going for him then?’ demanded Yabbing Andra, and Horse Pyntle snotted rain and worse from his nose, which was expressive enough.
‘We are bliddy not,’ Sweetmilk replied vehemently, and turned uncertainly to the Black Sir James Douglas. ‘That’s the right of it, is it not, yer honour?’
‘That’s the right of it,’ agreed Jamie Douglas, clapping Sweetmilk on his rain-sodden shoulder, hard enough to spurt water. ‘We are not here for the glory of snatching the son of Longshanks at all.’
He paused for effect and lowered his voice to a mockingly husked whisper.
‘We are here, lads, for … love.’
We should not be here at all, Kirkpatrick told himself, on a mad-headed fool’s errand like this. But he kept it to himself, for there was no way of avoiding it and he owed the Herdmanston lord this much and more.
He eyed the man who stared unflinchingly into the grey mirk; if the Devil was here to give him it, Kirkpatrick thought, Hal Sientcler of Herdmanston would sell his immortal soul for the power to drag Isabel MacDuff out of her cage and to his side with his eyes alone.
He crossed himself for the thought and waited, sitting with the others in the dubious shelter of a copse of trees while the twilight drained the land of colour and the rain filled it with misery.
It had been raining since the evening of the battle, Kirkpatrick thought, a downpour that drowned what was left of the fields and ruined the last chance of a harvest. Livestock plootered in mud, promising hoof rot and murrains – famine was coming with the winter and it would be hard.
He muttered as much aloud, so that Jamie Douglas turned to him. Expecting the uncaring rasp of the Black’s hatred of all things English, Kirkpatrick was surprised.
‘Sair,’ agreed James Douglas. ‘The price of bread will be crippling. The poor always suffer worst.’
Hal, face pebbled and eyes burning, turned at last from trying to see her through the miles and mist. Kirkpatrick nodded and smiled, aware – as he had been since he had hauled Hal to his feet beside the body of Badenoch – that he had been responsible for the Lothian knight’s crazed pursuit of that lord.