‘We sent out decoy ships, Brother, did we not?’
Rossal, stroking his close-cropped chin, nodded uneasily.
‘Two from Leith and another, the Maryculter, two days before we sailed ourselves,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘It could be the Maryculter.’ He looked at Pegy Balgownie. ‘Can you tell from here?’
‘A cog is a cog,’ Pegy said, after a pause. ‘Twenty-five guid Scots ells long, six wide, with fighting castles and a sail – they look much similar, yin to another. Nor do we fly any flag … but the captain of the Maryculter is Glymyne Ledow, as smart a sailor as ever tarred his palms on a rope. He might ken me and my Bon Accord.’
Hal did not see how, since the one that approached them was the same as the one he was on: an ugly, deep oval bowl with a pointed bow and a squared stern and two fighting castles of wood rearing at both ends. The prospect of a fight on it did not fill him with confidence.
‘Mind ye, he would ken it as the Agnes,’ Pegy went on, peering furiously up at ropes and sails, as if to spring something to life, ‘though it is presently named Bon Accord.’
He paused and beamed at Kirkpatrick.
‘After the watchword on the night our goodly king took Aberdeen.’
‘Very apt and loyal,’ growled Kirkpatrick dryly, ‘but of little help.’
‘I named it Agnes,’ Pegy went on, almost to himself, ‘after my wife.’
He paused again, before bellowing a long string of instructions which sent men scurrying. Then he hammered a meaty fist on the sterncastle.
‘She was also a wallowing sow who could not be made to move her useless fat arse,’ he roared at the top of his voice. Someone snickered.
Rossal’s quiet, calm voice cracked in like a slap on a plank.
‘Mantlets to the babord,’ he said and the black-robed figures sprang to life. Rossal smiled, almost sadly, at Hal.
‘Assume that this is not the Maryculter and not friendly,’ he said in French. ‘Brother Widikind, please to escort the lady to the safety of below and guard her well.’
The big German Templar blinked, paused uncertainly, and nodded, the forked ends of his black beard trembling with indignation. Do?a Beatriz, with a slight smile, swayed to the companionway that led below, the dark Piculph at her back.
‘That’s a tangle of “nots” ye have there, Brother,’ Sim said, unwrapping his swaddled bundle and bringing the bairn – a great steel-bowed arbalest – into the daylight. ‘I hope you are mistook.’
Unlikely, Hal thought. If Pegy Balgownie could not tell the Maryculter from any other cog, then the reverse held true – yet no ship would flaunt that Beauseant banner of the heretic Templars unless it knew at whom it was waving.
‘And if it is not the Maryculter,’ Kirkpatrick finished, after Hal had hoiked this up for everyone to consider, ‘then it is flying a false flag in order to gull us anyway.’
‘Which means it expected us and was lying in wait,’ Hal added and the rest was unspoken: we have a traitor, who might even be aboard. He met the eyes of Kirkpatrick and Rossal, saw the acknowledgement in them – saw, too, a lack of surprise that thrilled anger into him; this pair have knowledge kept from me, he thought bitterly. As if this old dog was not capable of learning the new trick of them, or did not matter in the scheme of it.
Kirkpatrick, oblivious to Hal’s bile, sucked a whistle through his teeth and grinned at Sim.
‘Bigod, man, that is a fearsome weapon you have. Sma’ wonder the Pope has banned it.’
‘Holy Faithers has scorned this, our king, the Kingdom an’ these Templars,’ Sim growled back. ‘Seems to me like every wee priest who sticks on yon fancy hat wants to put a mock on something.’
‘Lord bless and keep ye,’ Kirkpatrick answered, signing the cross over Sim, but it was hard to tell whether it was in chastisement or admiration, while his wry smile did not help.
‘God be praised,’ Sim answered, checking that the winding mechanism of his fearsome beast was oiled and smooth.
‘For ever and ever.’
The rote reply went almost unnoticed, while Sim worked methodically.
‘Are you fit for this?’ Hal asked and felt a fool when Sim looked at him and frowned, all trace of sickness burned away by the fire of imminent action. He said nothing, but his look hurled the same question back and Hal was not so sure he could answer it truthfully.
‘Aye til the fore,’ Sim said suddenly, grinning at him, and Hal felt the rush of years, like a whirl of leaves in a high wind. Still alive – the greeting that they had given one another as they staggered, amazed at the miracle of it, out of other lethal affairs.
Aye til the fore. The names of all the others who had fought reared up in his head and he wondered where they were – those he had last seen alive, at least. Sore Davey and Mouse; Chirnside Rowan and Jeannie’s Tam and a handful of others. Auld men, he thought, like me. If they lived yet.
Then he thought of Dog Boy and wondered where he was and if he was safe.
Herdmanston, Lothian