There were no other folk here, kept away even during such an important feast day in one of the popular priories of London, which showed the power of the Comyn and Bruces. Plantagenet will hear of it, all the same, Red John thought, which is a risk worth taking to find out what happened.
Above all he wanted to know what had happened – Bellejambe had arrived back, staggering and broken, having dragged himself away from St Olave’s before the King’s men came down on it and found outraged priests and the dead body of a pardoner. Bellejambe did not know how the pardoner had died – or how Bruce’s man had survived – but what information Lamprecht had was now lost to them.
Which was an annoyance Red John thought with a sharp pang of bitterness. But at least droop-eyed Edward Longshanks knows nothing of any Comyn involvement in the matter – else I would not be here, he thought. There was annoyance, too, at how he had been left to pick up the pieces while the Earl of Buchan, ostensibly seeking out his wayward countess yet again, had used the lie of it to flee to his own lands, just in case.
There was a flurry, a clack of leather on smoothed flagstones; Red John’s men, bland in plain clothing, stiffened like scenting hounds.
Bruce had arrived.
He came up swiftly, with the air of a man with better things to be doing, but that was mummery – Bruce was swift because he wanted this dangerous liaison over with, for a whole ragman roll of reasons.
Yet there was savour in the moment, handed to him from the wreck of a bad day which had brought Kirkpatrick hirpling home with tales of riot and chase, brawl and murder – and a Templar, who had arrived in time to kill Lamprecht and save Kirkpatrick.
‘The Templar knight has the Rood and the contents of the pardoner’s scrip, gilt reliquary, Apostle jewels and all,’ Kirkpatrick had said, once James of Montaillou had finished tutting and treating and left them alone.
‘He tells me his name, which is Rossal de Bissot, and that he will bring the Rood when the time is right.’
He paused and eased himself gingerly in the chair; the sweat popped out on his forehead, fat drops that he dashed away with an irritated hand.
‘It seems the Templars are up to their neck in this.’
A neck on the block, beset by rumours of papal displeasure and French spies actively seeking proof of heresy, as Bruce pointed out. Which was no soothe to Kirkpatrick’s bruised pride and cracked ribs, Bruce saw. The taste of failure was bitter in the man’s voice; Bruce heard and it was best that he knew all was not lost – just the opposite, in fact.
‘Rossal de Bissot is clearly working for the safety of his Order,’ he informed the whey-faced Kirkpatrick. ‘Bissot is a much-revered name within the Poor Knights.’
‘Aye, weel – revered or not, he will not be backwards in coming forwards,’ Kirkpatrick answered sourly. ‘He will want advantage from handing you what you seek, my lord – it is not wise to mire yourself in the doings of the Poor Order.’
Bruce said nothing, merely stroked his injured cheek, perpetually hidden now under a plain hood. It was clear that this Rossal was holding Lamprecht’s loot; the Apostles were gone – save the one the pardoner had handed over in a loaf – and, worse still, the Rood was gone and it was little comfort that it lay in the hands of the Templars. Still, the Bruce involvement in all of it was safely locked up behind the kist of Lamprecht’s dead mouth.
Best of all, the Comyn had been left floundering and, shortly after speaking with Kirkpatrick, Bruce had sent out word for a meeting with that family – and then dispatched his brothers and Kirkpatrick back to Scotland.
He had also sent off Elizabeth and her women, which had been a more disagreeable task altogether; he had not even seen his wife, only Lady Bridget her tirewoman, who had informed him that her mistress was not inclined to leave the comfort of London for the cold north.
He had bitten down on his angry tongue, though enough anger spilled into his eyes to set the tirewoman back a step and pale her cheek. His quietly delivered ultimatum had been taken to his wife, and very soon he could hear the flurry of them packing – but the victory in it was a sour taste.
Now he clacked across the floor to Red John, leaving a suitable hem of his own mesnie at the fringes of Rahere’s tomb. He studied the frowning wee man with his red-gold curve of beard quivering as if he barely held some unseen force in check. He looked like a man in the wrong clothing, from the foppish hat on his close-cropped head down the silk and fine wool to his vainly-heeled boots – Bruce was wary; this was the man who had sprang at his throat before and the memory of it burned shame in him still.
‘Was he one of yours, the man killed in the riot in the Cheap?’ he asked and Red John curled his lip in something which might have been sneer or smile.
‘He was not. That was one of Buchan’s own, a fine man from Rattray who will be much mourned – how is your own man? I hear he was much battered about.’
‘He is in good health. More so, I understand, than your Bellejambe.’
Red John smiled, warmly this time.