‘Creishie Marthe,’ he explained. ‘Her man is a woodcutter from Selkirk …’
‘The Coontess,’ Hal growled and Creishie Marthe’s head came up, eyes narrowed in recognition.
‘Och – it is yersel’, yer honour.’
She scambled up, bobbed a curtsey.
‘The blissin’ o’ Heaven on ye, yer honour,’ she went on calmly, ‘but the Coontess went aff some time since, wi’ loaded ponies an’ yon nice wee brother o’ the King, Niall.’
Hal sagged with relief. Escaped – he almost laughed aloud, then Dog Boy brought him to his senses by growling and pointing to the ruin of blue and white tents nearby; in the depths of them, something stirred and cursed.
In a moment, all the men were off their horses and closing in. Sore Davey slashed expertly and the sail canvas parted like ripe fruitskin – a figure rose out of it, flailing and cursing. There was a moment of raised blades and snarls – then they all recognized the figure and subsided like empty wineskins.
‘Kirkpatrick,’ Hal declared weakly. ‘In the name o’ God, man – what are ye up to now?’
Kirkpatrick, his bruised face sweating red, hirpling still with his hurts, clutched a casket tight to him and managed a smile as he tapped it with a free hand.
‘Saving secrets,’ he announced. ‘The royal Rolls.’
Hal knew it at once and raised an eyebrow – everyone had fled in such haste that they had left the list of those in service to the King, what they had brought as retinue and how much they were owed. In the hands of de Valence, it would provide all the evidence needed as to who the Bruce supporters were.
‘Not that they deserve it, mind,’ Kirkpatrick added bitterly. ‘Half our brave community of the realm stuffed their jupons under their saddles, covered their shields so as not to be recognized and ran like hunted roe.’
Creishie Marthe had turned her attention to the yielded serjeant, and drawn a swift second smile under his chin with a dagger she’d taken. Ignoring the blood and the kicking, she was rifling under the hem of his maille for hidden wealth.
‘Bigod,’ said Chirnside admiringly to Dog Boy, ‘your choice in weemin’ is growin’ dangerous, my lad.’
Kirkpatrick saw the ring when Marthe peeled back the man’s maille mittens; the knife flashed and the bloody finger was already vanishing inside her considerable bosom when Kirkpatrick caught her wrist.
‘Dinna even think o’ it,’ he hissed into her savage glare and flourished dirk and she saw the eyes on him, knew instantly who it was and whimpered, giving up the grisly prize and the ring on it.
Hal saw it all and shot a quick look at Dog Boy to see if he had noticed that Creishie Marthe had been ‘violeted’ – but Dog Boy was staring blankly back at the whirling battle. Men sprinted past; a horseman galloped furiously further down and it was clear to everyone that the fighting was closing in on the royal tents. Creishie Marthe knew it and was already gathering her skirts and running off.
‘Jamie,’ Dog Boy muttered, gathering the reins of his garron, and Hal, half-way into the saddle of one of the patient rounceys, looked back to the black thundercloud of struggling men.
‘The King,’ he said, though he knew there was nothing that would make him drag the remains of his mesnie into that mess.
The King was in trouble and he knew it. Truth was he had known it from the moment the messenger rode up, the one he recognized as Dog Boy. It had given him and the others enough time to struggle into maille hauberk, though he had thrown the awkward leggings to one side. He had a coif attached to the hauberk and long sleeves with mittens, and now blessed the one-piece garment he had roundly cursed in the past for its weight while trying to get it on.
Dog Boy’s arrival had given him time to issue orders sending the Queen to safety, to have a palfrey saddled – his warhorses all went with the Queen, having just been fed and now useless for battle – and take up the bascinet with the golden circlet.
Balliol’s, of course, as was so much of his royal finery, though that king had never worn it. Truth was, it was a little loose for Bruce but he gave up on comfort for the advantage of being seen easily by his own side, who would take heart from their battling king.
The other side of that spun coin, he thought to himself in the sweating, belly-clenching moments before the English knights closed on them, was that being tumbled off would rip the heart out of them.