He glanced at the outraged face of his son, already gasping out protest about how he was unable to leave his own da to certain death.
‘Certain death, is it?’ answered his father, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Bigod, ye set little store by my abilities these days. Besides – there was never a thought about yer auld faither when you were clatterin’ about with a coontess and a mystery. Ye have contrived to tangle yerself in the doings of Bruce, the Balliol and Comyn an’ this Wallace chiel. As if there was nothing left for you at home but a wee bit stane cross.’
Then his father relaxed and paced a little.
‘I ken why ye do it, boy,’ he said more softly and shook his head. ‘I miss them too. Grief is right and proper but what you are doing is . . . unhealthy.’
He stopped. Hal had nothing he could say that would not bring argument and anger, so he stayed silent – in the core of him he felt shame at what he had abandoned for grief and a sense that, like some chill cloud, it was lifting off him. His father waved a metal hand into his silence.
‘There’s sense in silence. No point in blowing away like a steamy pot,’ he said. ‘I have got myself dressed in all this iron at the behest of our liege lord, who seems determined to put Sientclers in harm’s way, God bless the silly auld fool. So I have come here to this field to dance, not hold a rush light on the side. I do not have a warhorse, but I will have a wee wheen of Roslin pike to order so it is not all bad. What we should be discussing is this mystery of the Savoyard and who you should be unravellin’ it to.’
‘Wallace . . .’ Hal said uncertainly and his father nodded, pursing lips so that his moustache ends stuck out like icicles.
‘He has asked you to look at it, certes. But a Bruce or a Comyn is involved in it, for sure . . . so trust nobody.’
He looked at his son steadily, his eyes firm in the middle of their pouched flesh.
‘Tak’ tent – trust no man. Not even the Auld Templar.’
‘What does that mean?’ Hal demanded and his father rolled his eyes and flung his hands up.
‘Christ’s Balls – may God forgive me – do ye listen or not? Trust no man – Sir William asks me a deal about this affair for a casual aside. A man has been red murdered already and whoever did it is no chivalrous knight. I ken Sir William is our kin in Roslin, but he is sleekit in this, so – trust no man.’
He looked at his son, a hard look filled with a desperation that stitched Hal’s arguments behind his lips.
‘Whoever did such a kill will come at you sideways, like a cock fighting on a dungheap,’ his father went on bleakly. ‘Even from the dark.’
He clasped his son by both forearms and drew him into a sudden, swift embrace, the maille of his shoulder cold, the aillette with its shivering cross rasping on Hal’s cheek. Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, almost thrusting Hal away from him.
‘There,’ he declared huskily. ‘I will see you on the far side of this affair.’
Hal stared, wanting to speak, dumbed and numbed. He watched the armoured figure stump away into the throng, felt a presence on his shoulder and turned into Sim’s big squint.
‘Is Sir John fechtin’ then?’ he demanded and Hal could only nod. Sim shook his head.
‘Silly auld fool,’ he declared, then added hastily. ‘No slight intended.’
‘None ta’en,’ Hal answered, finding his voice. Then, more firmly, he added, ‘He will be fine, for we will be guarding his back. Seek young John Fenton, the steward of Roslin – that’s where father is, and so we will be.’
‘Good enough,’ Sim declared, glad to have some sort of plan for the day. Then he jerked a grimy thumb at lurking figures behind him; Hal realised, slowly, that they were Tod’s Wattie, Bangtail Hob and the rest, their faces shifty and eyes lowered. His heart sank.
‘Ye let the Savoyard get away,’ he said softly.
‘Aye and no,’ Tod’s Wattie began and Bangtail shushed him, stepping forward.
‘The Abbot came this morn,’ he said, ‘to tell us that a man arrived in the night and put the fear of God and the De’il both into the Savoyard. This stranger never got near our man, the Abbot says, but the Savoyard took fright and went out the infirmary drain.’
‘The what?’
Tod’s Wattie nodded, his eyes bright with the terror of it.
‘Aye. Show’s how desperate the chiel was. The spital drain, man . . .’
He left the rest unsaid and everyone regarded the horror for a silent moment. The infirmary drain was where every plague, every foulness from the sick lurked. For a man to risk himself to that, plootering like a humfy-backit rat through a slurry of ague, plague and worse . . .
‘Who arrived in the night?’ Hal demanded, suddenly remembering Bangtail’s words. Bangtail twisted his hands and cursed.