‘Whit is a jetton?’ Sim demanded.
‘A wee tally note, stamped by the Templar seal and – well, well, the Earl of Buchan’s mark,’ Bruce explained, grinning more and more broadly. ‘The Earl has clearly deposited the money at Balantrodoch and now anyone with this document can go to any Templar Commanderie from here to Hell itself and put a claim on hundred and fifty merks of silver. See? You mark off the sums given to you in these wee boxes. Like a chequerboard, which is how the Templars reckon up the sums. The jetton are really the wee counters they use to shuffle from box to box to keep track of it all.’
They all peered and murmured their awe.
‘Usury,’ Sir Henry Sientcler said, as if trying to spit out dung. Bruce smiled grimly.
‘Only the Jews have usury, my lord of Roslin. The Templars say this is not money lent, but a person’s own money, held in safety for him. Still – they make a profit on the transfer.’
‘What is this jetton for?’ demanded Hal, beginning to see the possibility. ‘In this case?’
Bruce blinked, bounced the parchment in his hand and his smile broadened further.
‘For the ransom of a Countess, for certes,’ he said, then offered a wry smile. ‘I have about four good warhorses that cost as much. Cheap for a Countess of Buchan.’
Hal began to smile, but Bruce saw the muzzle curl of it.
‘Ransomed by this wee tait of writing back to her husband,’ Hal said, with a slow, grim smile. ‘By a man this Malenfaunt will never have seen.’
‘What about Lang Tam?’ demanded Bangtail, which sobered everyone in an instant.
‘We will take care of him, if you permit,’ Abbot Jerome declared. ‘Both for your rescue and the fact that the folk here feel, in part, responsible for his death. They did not know who was who when they attacked, ye ken.’
‘He had brothers and a sister at home,’ Bangtail argued bitterly.
‘We can scarce cart his remains, Bangtail,’ Sim answered, but gently. ‘Enough for his kin to know he has a Christian burial in a fine house of God.’
Bangtail looked at Sim, then away and shivered at the memory of the inmates of this fine house of God.
‘Best make like a slung stone,’ Sim declared, ‘rather than stand here like a set mill.’
‘I would be joining you for the fight of it,’ Henry Sientcler declared mournfully, ‘but I am under parole and so cannot raise a weapon against the English.’
‘If it is done right,’ Bruce said slowly, looking at Hal as he spoke, ‘there will be no fight in it – but, by God, there will be discomfort for the Comyn. Isabel MacDuff will be freed and Sir Hal may take her into his care.’
He laughed with the sheer joy of it.
‘Everyone is made happy,’ he declared, beaming.
The sudden, sharp sound of pealing bells made them all freeze and cringe.
‘In the name of God . . .’ Sim began.
‘The alarm,’ Kirkpatrick declared, but Lamprecht, to everyone’s astonishment, started a mirthless laugh and rattled off another sibilant trill of his strange tongue.
Hal only caught the word, repeated several times – guastamondo.
Kirkpatrick, his face pale and sheened in the flickering light, turned and translated.
‘This Lamprecht came across to London from Flanders,’ he growled, ‘and hurried on north, to York and then here. To be first with his wares.’
He ripped a medallion from round the pardoner’s neck, fierce enough to jerk the man and snap the cord.
‘To peddle worthless shite such as this to the feared and desperate.’
‘Swef, chiel,’ Bangtail muttered uneasily, ‘lest God takes offence.’
‘This dog is an offence,’ Kirkpatrick snarled, then wiped his sweat-sheened face as the bells hammered out in the background.
‘He says he came across with someone named Guastamondo and has beaten the news of it by a week,’ Kirkpatrick declared and would have said more, save that Bruce forestalled him.
‘Guastomondo ,’ said Bruce softly. ‘My father told me that was the name he had in Outremer. The Breaker of Worlds.’
Even the bells paused as he stopped and looked round them all, his face serious as plague.
‘Edward is back in England.’
No-one spoke for a moment, then Sir Henry cleared his throat and touched Hal’s arm.
‘We had best stir ourselves. This will put a heart we do not need into the garrison.’
Hal did not reply. He was staring at the medallion swinging in Kirkpatrick’s fist and reached out to grasp it. Then he fixed his stone gaze on the pardoner.
‘This,’ he said, holding the amulet up to dangle like a dead snake. ‘Tell me of this.’