‘Ye never did,’ Bet replied scornfully. ‘Ye were a byword for sonsie, you – and every laddie for miles came to get a grip of some, which is why ye have had too many bairns.’
Maggie laughed, so that bits of her trembled like a quake, and admitted she had not been short of suitors. Then she saw the bleak of Isabel’s eyes and realised, suddenly, that this woman would trade slim for bairns at the cock of a head; her heart went out to her in that minute.
‘It is very fine,’ Isabel said slowly and Bet nodded.
‘Needs an underkirtle, mind. I have one which will fit – and some small clothes as well. Now your man is away ye might get a chance to wear them.’
Both women started to laugh, shrill and loud and Isabel, after a pause, saw there was no malice in it and joined in. Then she looked wistfully at the dress.
‘The ribbons and some of the frippery will have to go,’ she said, ‘for all your good work and fine words, I am more mutton than lamb like this.’
‘Aye,’ Maggie answered with serious and surprising agreement. ‘I was hoping ye had no grand airs, Coontess or not. I was right about that, eh, Bet? The ribbons are easy removed, your ladyship.’
A sudden breeze brought the strong smell of char, raising Isabel’s head like a hound on hare scent.
‘Well,’ she said, stripping it off and fetching the old dress she had arrived in. ‘This must do for now – I will keep yours for good. There is work to be done, is there not?’
The English had raided for food, right up to the barmkin and the garth it enclosed, where cattle and desperate, frightened folk had huddled while men shot bolts and arrows at the enemy and had them back, with thrown torches besides. In the end, the alehouse and a couple of other buildings had burned but, as Maggie declared in her booming voice, ‘Ye cannot burn my vats.’ Nor could you, for they were made of stone and only the enclosing building had flamed.
It was that, in part, which had kept Hal here – though Isabel smiled at the lie that nestled at the heart of it. He stayed because he wanted her, as she wanted him, sucking the most joy they could from the time they had left.
Now she had to see to the ruin of what was left – in every sense. The debris around Herdmanston had been cleared out, the stone thatch weights found and rescued. Now a new building would be constructed round the brewing vats, but waited for labour now that men had gone to war.
‘We’ll get no help from Dirleton or Tantallon,’ Isabel declared, ‘for Bishop Bek has shown his Christian charity by burning them out.’
Maggie and Bet looked at one another; they had not known this, for Hal had only heard the night before and told Isabel of it just before they drifted off to sleep.
‘So,’ Isabel said grimly, ‘there is only us. I am no expert in making buildings, but I daresay there are folk, yourself included, who can weave the wattle. And I can at least tread mud and dung and straw in a bucket.’
They followed her down the steps, tame and admiring as sheepdogs.
Temple Liston, Commanderie of the Knights Templar Feast of St Theneva, Mother of Kentigern, July 1298
His army was sliding away like rendered grease and the expensive loss made Edward grind his teeth. Dog turd Welsh, he thought to himself, though he had to admit that bringing some several thousands of them had been the only option to overawe the Scots, who had had a year to preen and laud themselves for having won a victory.
Victory, by God – I will show them victory, Edward thought, even if good Englishmen had long since given their forty days of service and would not be persuaded further.
Yet the elaborate supply of what army he had was broken like a bad bowstring. Ships coming up the Forth had failed to arrive, forage had scrabbled what it could, but this Wallace was as smart an enemy as any Edward had faced and had left scarcely a cabbage or an ear of rye. There were precious few carcasses of livestock, either – save for a rotted pig shoved down a well. How could you hide so many cows and sheep?
He strode out of his elaborate panoply and stood under the banners in a deliberate pose, facing the assembly of lords. The pards of England drooped wearily above him, tangling in the golden snarl of wyvern that everyone knew as the Dragon Banner, which signified no quarter. To left and right hung the banners of Saint John of Beverley and Cuthbert of Durham – for you could not have enough holy help in the endeavour of red war. He rubbed his arm, where the poisoned dagger of the hashashin had all but killed him save for the Grace of God.