Kirkpatrick shrugged.
‘Bruce has made his peace with the Lord of Badenoch. There is no feud.’
That was news to everyone, including Wallace, who sat and scratched the remains of his beard, so clearly wanting one long enough to stroke that Isabel almost laughed.
‘There is, it seems,’ he said, the aloes of it so thick that every mouth could taste the bitterness, ‘no good reason for my remaining in the Kingdom. Everyone wishes me quit of it.’
He offered a twisted smile.
‘One day you may find as I do, gentilhommes, that it is not so easy to be quit of this kingdom. Only in death.’
Kirkpatrick took in a deep breath. Wallace would do it; he would go. In all probability he would go to France and use the same method he had used before, tried and true; for a moment, he felt the sharp, sick pang of what he was doing – then shoved it ruthlessly to one side and pushed the heavy bag forward.
‘My task is done,’ he declared and Wallace laughed, though it was cold.
‘I would thank you for it,’ he replied lightly, ‘but here I am, thinking you had a sharper argument if I had refused.’
Kirkpatrick did not even blink, merely held out his arms, hands dangling loose at the wrist, in an invitation to be searched. Isabel knew there was no hidden steel on him and, with a leap of fear, realized she could not be so sure of Hal, even though everyone had already been examined, save her.
Wallace caught her eye as he turned his head. There was a pause, then he focused on Hal.
‘And you, lord of Herdmanston,’ he said heavily. ‘Is your task done?’
Hal felt the moment, the iron rods of Bangtail and Falkirk’s wood and Stirling’s brig all twisting and forging to a point, sharp as the weapon hanging on the wall. He felt the hilt of it in his hand already, burning his swordfist as if suddenly fired red hot by the rage in him. He wondered if he could get to Wallace’s own sword in time, before the battle-honed Wallace reacted. He was weakened and weary, but he was still Wallace, a giant with fast hands and strong wrists; Hal remembered him at Scone, whirling the hand-and-a-half in one fist.
The moment passed; the tension deflated and Kirkpatrick found he needed to breathe.
‘In the name of Bangtail Hob, my task is not done and I will needs live with that,’ Hal hoarsed out, meeting Wallace’s gaze. ‘But yours is. Get ye gone, Sir Will. Your price for freedom has cost too many good folk their lives and the promise you made for it stays unfulfilled.’
He turned and left like a cold wind. Isabel saw that the slash of those words had wounded Wallace deeper than any dagger could, saw the stagger in the man, like a ship caught sideways in a gale. Then he recovered and drew up a little in his seat, managed a shaky smile.
‘Ye’ll need a strong hand with yon yin,’ he said to Isabel and she nodded, his face blurring through the springing tears, so that she turned away.
Kirkpatrick was left alone with him and the thought was bitter irony. Once this would have been an opportunity needing only a moment and a blade …
Instead, he nodded to the fallen giant and left. The true weapon was snugged up under the real coin in the bag, as vicious as any knife, a winking red eye of betrayal. Wallace would nurse his pride against need and would never consult the innards of that bag until forced to it. In truth, Kirkpatrick thought, he would not consult it at all; the men who would come in the night, sooner rather than later, would do that.
Outside in the drenched night, Kirkpatrick sucked in a breath and twisted a small, half-ashamed smile on his face. He now knew the true name of at least one of those jewelled Apostles – a ruby called Judas.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Herdmanston Tower
Invention of St Stephen, August, 1305
Lammas came and went, with trestles on the green groaning with meat, bread and cheese. The harvest had involved everyone, lines of men with scythes, gaggles of women and bairns gathering and tying and stooking.
Hal, stripped to the waist, joined in and, for some hours, reduced his world and the problems in it to a green wall and an avenue of amber stubble. Sim Craw on his right, Ill-Made on his left. Blisters swelled and broke on his hands, life became pain, in the back, across the shoulders.
At the end of it, Hal was sorry to have to leave, drenching himself with water from a bucket handed by a giggling Bet’s Meg, while the men competed for the kirn, the last cut of corn, and drank deep of Maggie’s new brew, frothed and thick as soup.
Increasingly mazed, they threw their scythes at the last stand until Dog Boy cut it through; grinning, he presented the sheaf to Bet’s Meg, who would make it into the kirn-baby, a sure sign that she was next for wedding.