Dunbar thought it best to grip the hilt of matters a little tighter.
‘Your folk may depart with honour and their lives,’ he said curtly to Hal. ‘You must hand over the Countess and yourself to the mercy of myself and the Earl of Buchan. Your fortress will be slighted.’
There was a pause, an indrawing of breath and no more, while everyone waited to see if Herdmanston would capitulate.
Patrick hoped he would not; though the prospect of storming the place was bloody, he wanted it with all the eager, frantic fervour of his twenty-two years; he had never been at such a matter before and Malenfaunt saw that and sneered at it. The wee earl’s son would find the truth out at cost – if he lived at all, Malenfaunt thought to himself.
He had avoided such engagements, for the prospect of dying at the hands of a grimy-handed cottar for some pointless heap of stones was not chivalrous enough – yet the high-chivalry tourney with Bruce, who could have killed him, brought back the sweating, shrieking moment when he had thought death would happen.
He knew he had babbled and pleaded for his life then and the yellow memory of it soured his life like vomit, while the sinuous wriggle and flap of his own forked tongue, the result of what Bruce had done instead, repulsed him.
The only two who mattered in this were horns-locked at the eyes, cold and unblinking as basilisks until, finally, Hal spoke into Buchan’s unflinching glare, though it was Patrick of Dunbar he addressed.
‘I am fine where I am,’ he said softly. ‘Besides – I have only just fixed matters from the last time I was raided. I would liefer have the place unsullied.’
‘I am your liege lord,’ Patrick declared loftily, then realized he actually was not and hastily corrected himself.
‘My father is. You owe him fealty and explanation for your constant turncoating. I have offered you more honour and mercy than you deserve …’
‘Save your words, he does not care – he is Bruce’s man now.’
Buchan’s voice was a whip that lashed Dunbar to silence.
‘If you do not give in now,’ he went on, never removing his eyes, ‘it will be the end of you. I will nail your entrails to a post and walk you round them until your life unfolds. I will allow that wanton bitch to watch, then throw her to my men and, when they are done, to the dogs.’
Patrick shifted and bleated protest at this, but Hal finally snapped his gaze from Buchan and rested it on the Dunbar lordling.
‘Dinnae fash, Patrick,’ he said companionably. ‘Ye have taken up with bad company, for if Christ Himself walked among ye, the Earl of Buchan would deceive Him.’
Malenfaunt stirred then and made a long series of gabbling sounds, increasing in fury because he realized no-one could understand him. He was wrong and the astonishment in it stunned him to silence.
‘My lord Malenfaunt declares,’ Malise Bellejambe said at the end of it all, seeing the blank faces, ‘that he has a writ from King Edward giving Herdmanston to himself. He has come to take over his fortress and desires you quit-claim from the place immediately.’
The silence and stares made him frown and he turned into the equally incredulous face of Malenfaunt.
‘What?’ Malise demanded. ‘That is what you said, is it not?’
Malenfaunt nodded, his eyes wide as a dog who has found someone without a whip.
‘I hold Herdmanston,’ Hal answered with a growl, ‘and will do so. If ye wish me or mine, nobiles, then you must exert yerself and do yer utmost.’
‘Come away in,’ said a new voice, lilting and smooth and so instantly recognizable that Buchan visibly jerked.
She came to the back of Hal, russet head proud and eyes blazing on her husband’s face.
‘There is little point in speaking with a man who would throw his wife to all his dogs,’ she added in French and laid a hand gently on Hal’s shoulder. Up on the roof, the Dog Boy saw the shift in the saddle and even from there, the rush of blood to Buchan’s jowled face turned it almost black.
Buchan saw Hal’s sudden smile at her touch as a glittering curve of leering triumph against him and all his walls broke. With a sharp cry, almost the scream of a girl, he raked the sides of the great warhorse; taken by surprise, it reared and pawed, then surged forward. Buchan’s blade was raised high and capable of striking Hal’s ankles, bringing him tumbling off the steps.
A dark shape slammed his horse on one shoulder, sending it skittering sideways. Davy Scott saw Patrick of Dunbar’s furious face as he balked Buchan’s horse with his own and he brought up the spanned latchbow he’d held, quiet and hidden, down one side of his horse, away from the sharp eyes of Sim Craw; if he shot Hal of Herdmanston now, Buchan would reward him richly …