‘Oh, he is from the Holy Land,’ enthused Elton. ‘Has the shell to prove it and lots of relics and wondrous objects -here, look, noble sirs.’
He fumbled out a cord from round his neck to reveal a stamped lead medallion, a quatrefoil on one side and a fish on the other.
‘Proof against evil spirits and wandering demons.’
No-one wanted to gainsay it, for demons existed, as everyone knew. Only last year one had been caught in the Tweed, a nasty black, snarling imp tangled in the salmon nets and beaten with sticks by the brave fishermen until it finally burst free and fled, shrieking laughter all the way back to the water. A bishop had written of it, so it must be true.
‘Message?’ Hal repeated and Elton blinked.
‘Aye, sir. Came looking for Sir Henry by name. Said he had a message for him to get to the spital in Berwick. Life and death, he said.’
‘Life and death?’ repeated Kirkpatrick slowly, then curled his lip in a savage smile.
‘Death, certes – the only spital I know of in Berwick is a leper house.’
‘Christ be praised,’ muttered Bruce, crossing himself.
‘For ever and ever,’ intoned the others and did the same.
‘What could a leper house want with Sir Henry?’ Bruce added, half to himself.
‘A Savoyard,’ declared Elton, nodding and admiring his lead amulet. It took a moment for him to realise the air had frosted and he looked up to see haar-harsh faces looking back at him and then each other.
‘Savoyard,’ repeated Hal in a voice full of tomb dust and echoes. Elton nodded uncertainly, the throat suddenly constrained.
‘You are sure of this name?’
Again the nod. Kirkpatrick shifted and gave a grunt.
‘Life and death,’ he muttered.
Hal snapped from the moment and glared at him, all his suspicions flooding up in a rush.
‘Aye, right enow – death for the Savoyard if ye get yer hand on him.’
Kirkpatrick’s curse was pungent and the hand that flew to his dagger hilt was white at the knuckles. Elton gave a sharp cry and stepped back, fumbling for his own weapon – then Bruce slapped Kirkpatrick hard on the shoulder.
‘Enough.’
He turned to Elton and thanked him for his information, then waited, saying nothing, until the captain took the hint and scuttled off, muttering. Bruce turned to where Hal and Kirkpatrick glared at each other like poorly leashed dogs.
‘Sir Henry is in danger,’ he said and Hal rounded on him, ruffed up and snarling, sure now that he was right, that Bruce and Kirkpatrick were responsible for the death of the master mason and that they done it to hide some other sin.
‘Not him alone – d’ye kill us all, my lord earl, to keep your secret?’
‘Hist,’ said Bruce warningly, then let his glare dampen. ‘Time ye were told some matters.’
‘My lord,’ Kirkpatrick said warningly and Bruce waved his hand dismissively.
‘Christ’s Bones, what does it matter now?’ he declared savagely, resorting to French. Taking the hint, Kirkpatrick shrugged and fell silent.
Bruce looked around; they stood as a little knot out of earshot of everyone else. It was a sun-dappled garth, drenched with morning birdsong and bursting with budding life. Not the place for this, he thought to himself. This should be delivered in a tight-locked room of shadows and a guttering candle. He took a breath.
‘When it was clear what Longshanks intended for John Balliol and this kingdom,’ he began, ‘myself and Bishop Wishart decided to forestall him. Edward planned to strip King John Balliol and the realm of its kingship and he managed the first well enough – so well that King John, shamed wee man that he is, never wants to return here even if we conquered the English tomorrow.’
You would wish, Hal thought. Better still if King John Balliol melted away like haar in sunshine, rather than hag-haunt the throne you want for yourself. He said nothing, simply tried not to tremble with excitement and apprehension while watching Bruce scowl and search for suitable words.
‘Longshanks took the regalia of the realm,’ Bruce went on, ‘the Stone and the Rood and vestements for coronation. He broke the Seal into pieces.’
‘We all saw it,’ Hal declared, bleared with the sudden misery of remembrance. ‘A harsh day for the kingdom.’
‘Aye, well,’ Bruce declared. ‘He did not get the Stone.’
Hal blinked. Everyone had seen it, cowped off its twin plinths and sweated on to a cart to be taken south to Westminster. They had built a throne round it he had heard, so that every time Edward put his arse on the seat, he consecrated himself anew as Scotland’s rightful king.