They went up, creeping from the snoring hall, stepping carefully over the sleepers; the friar stirred and yelped like a bairn in some deep dream and Hal stopped like a deer with a scent, one foot half-poised in his felted socks.
He had his boots round his neck because Nichol’s cobbling had resulted in new, thick leather slats for grip, which now clacked like nails, loud as a bell in a rimed silence such as this cold hall.
The sleepers here were all of Closeburn’s least – the servants, the dogs and the ill-considered guests; Kirkpatrick wondered if the friar was dreaming some idea of what the future held, when daylight revealed all that had happened.
Hal stepped on, his breath grey-blue smoke; they wreathed out and up, Kirkpatrick’s soft, deer-soled boots making no sound. Hal envied him as the cold seeped chill through the wool and into his feet.
They went along the corridor, the sconces burned to dark ash now, crept to the corner and poised, trying not to breathe, harsh with the tension. This was where the guard had been – Kirkpatrick, his mouth dry, risked a look, drew back and put his lips close enough for Hal to feel his hot breath on his ear.
‘The servant only – across the door. We will needs deal with him.’
Hal locked eyes with him, knowing what Kirkpatrick meant. He shook his head, mimed a blow and Kirkpatrick, after a pause, shrugged. He moved close to the sleeping bundle across the threshold, knelt and put the fluted dagger in the man’s heart at the same time as he smothered his mouth. There was only a brief whimper and then stillness, so that when Hal came up, all bristling with silent outrage, Kirkpatrick straightened, wiped the dagger and shrugged.
‘Always best to mak’ siccar,’ he hissed and opened the door.
The room was warm, the brazier on a slab still glowing like a fierce red eye. There were three beeswax candles in tall holders streaked with old meltings and the light was a glow on the two men, heads almost touching, bent over the chess set; they looked up with astonishment as Hal and Kirkpatrick stepped in, the latter dragging the body of the servant and closing the door.
‘Who in the name of God are you?’ demanded one, starting to rise, but Kirkpatrick was round on him like a stoat on a rabbit, the long dirk winking like gold in his fist.
‘Easy, kinsman,’ he said with a vicious grin and Sir Roger, the Master of Closeburn, sat down heavily, one hand at his throat.
‘Black Roger,’ he said faintly.
‘The same.’
‘Where is Isabel?’ demanded Hal, looking round in bewilderment and then at the other player. ‘Who are … wait. I ken your face.’
‘So ye should,’ Kirkpatrick declared and moved swiftly to disarm his namesake of his dagger. ‘Yon is the wee man who treated us both at times, for injuries gained in the service of his liege lord.’
‘The physicker,’ Hal said uncertainly. ‘Bruce’s doctor.’
‘What do you want here?’ demanded the Master of Closeburn, recovering enough to try and reassert himself; Hal saw him clearly for the first time and was struck how like Kirkpatrick he was. You could not miss the kinship, Hal said to himself, though the Master was older, heavier of face and body.
It was a marvel Kirkpatrick had not been spotted the minute he stuck his face inside the castle – but then the face had been black as a Moor’s and no-one would have given a wee cheapjack a second glance. Still – Hal now knew why Kirkpatrick had looked so sweated, having to stand with all eyes on him and the possibility of his likeness to his namesake kinsman imminent.
Kirkpatrick nudged him impatiently out of this, indicating for him to search the physician for arms and, when that was done, turned back to his namesake, now sitting upright and tensed as if to spring.
‘I would unlatch that look,’ Kirkpatrick said, ‘if I were you, kinsman. A word or deed misplaced will see you trying to stuff yer blood back in yer throat with both hands.’
‘Whit why are ye here?’ Sir Roger demanded again, though he unclenched a little.
‘He is here for me,’ said the physician quietly and Kirkpatrick chuckled and nodded. Hal looked from one to the other, then back to Kirkpatrick.
‘What is this? Where is Isabel?’
‘Isabel?’ repeated Sir Roger. ‘Isabel who?’
‘Coontess o’ Buchan,’ Kirkpatrick answered smoothly, then threw something on the desk, where it tinkled and spun slightly; a ring, Hal saw. The physician reached out one hand and lifted it as though his fingers had suddenly become fat sausages that did not belong to him.
‘I took it from Creishie Marthe at Methven,’ Kirkpatrick said, ‘who had fresh cut it aff the finger o’ a wee man-at-arms whose shield told his allegiance – Closeburn.’