A stocky, cadaverous man wearing a studded jack and a green hood shouted instructions and the Welsh obeyed Addaf, fetching more wood, more lit torches, fanning the flames while the pyre sputtered and smoked; the edifice rocked a little as the desperate knight struggled.
The Welshman and the abbot from Rome had bristled and scowled at each other when they had met, one making warding signs as well as the cross with string-calloused fingers, the other crossing himself and offering a clasp-handed prayer. Like barely leashed mastiffs, de Valence thought wearily; my money is still on Addaf, the Welsh archer they called Mydr ap Mydvydd – Aim the Aimer.
‘Madness,’ Abbot Alberto spat. ‘This is madness. The Pope shall hear of it.’
‘The Pope shall hear of the mischief of the Order,’ de Valence retorted, irritated now. ‘Besides – if you find the evidence you seek, what will become of those Templars Holy Mother Church finds guilty?’
There was silence, no-one wanting to admit, of course, that they would burn, no differently from what the Welsh were doing now.
‘You may have the other one when we capture him,’ de Valence added in a conciliatory fashion. ‘One Rossal de Bissot by name. Once the King’s justice has finished with him.’
‘They should not be party to secular justice,’ the abbot persisted. ‘They are of the Church and only the Pope may punish them. He will hear of this.’
‘You have mentioned that once already,’ de Valence spat back, then leaned forward a little in the saddle. ‘Be assured, dear Abbot, that the Pope may be deafened to complaints by all the accusations against the Order. That and the sound of victory over his excommunicated enemies, which forgives all sins.’
‘The end does not always justify the means,’ intoned the abbot, drawing himself up. Behind him, a coterie of monks and clerics nodded and clasped pious hands.
Go home, Aymer wanted to say. Go home and help Galeazzo and all the other Viscontis dominate Milan and the Pope. Leave the serious business of the day to fighting men, who can see the madness in this and in everything to do with war yet persist in it, like a peasant ploughing a stony field.
The madness was necessary, too. Lamberton had given in at Scotland as well – but not before he had sent off all the men he could to Bruce – while the siege of Cupar had secured that arch-priest of dissent, Lucifer’s Own secretary Bishop Wishart.
Resplendent in maille and helm, the recalcitrant old dog had dared plead the safety of his Holy Vestements, in an irony that would not be missed by anyone there, especially those who knew that the siege engines he had used to capture Cupar in the first place had been made by timbers sent by King Edward himself for the repair of Glasgow’s cathedral.
There was no time for the qualms of an abbot, whether he be a Visconti, papal spy or Christ’s Own Right Hand, for it was doubtful if King Edward would allow that to interfere with his own form of burning vengeance. Let the little Visconti pick the irony out of that, Aymer thought savagely.
A sudden high yell slashed through the stream of his thoughts, followed by cheers; the coterie of clerics crossed themselves and muttered prayers as de Valence stared into the furious eyes of the abbot, as burning as the sudden leap of flame from the pyre.
‘Justified or not,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘We have, it seems, reached the end.’
He closed the visor of his new-style bascinet and hauled the surprised horse round, then set off at a frantic pace, almost blind and only eager to move, to course blood into him and all thoughts out.
Up on a hill, belly flat and peering through wet fronds, Hal, Sim and Jamie Douglas looked at the smoke-stained wood and the figures round it. De Valence was easily seen, in his blue and white striped mantle decorated with a ring of red birds – barry of twelve argent and azure, an orle of ten martlets gules Hal translated to himself.
The others were less easy to work out – a lot of arguing prelates, a host of ill-dressed Welsh rabble trying to light a huge fire and a wary knot of serjeants, who galloped off after de Valence. Hal had no idea what was going on.
‘I could have shot yon aff his fancy stot,’ Sim muttered, moody at having been told to hold his fire by Hal, who gave him a sour sidelong glance.
‘Which would have had us all looking like hedgepigs,’ he grunted. ‘Yon are Welsh bowmen – they have stacked their bagged weapons in shelter while they hunt dry wood for their fire.’
Sim’s eyebrows went up and he looked, then nodded admiringly.
‘Full price to ye – I missed that. Bigod, it is lucky for us they are so frowning over makin’ a heat for themselves. Not that it is chill, as anyone can tell …’
‘We should take a look,’ Jamie Douglas declared eagerly. ‘There are only a brace o’ them left – see there.’