They scampered from the place, half-dragging the man while his comrade sat on, oblivious, in the reek from the burning knight.
When they had reached their own camp, dumped the Welshman and told their tale, there were dark looks flung at the archer; as Gib’s Peggie said, even if it was a Templar steeped in sin it was not the Welsh who should be burning him but the Holy Mother Church and after guilt had been established.
Few, Hal noted, had ever liked the Templars, the supposed Poor Knights who arrogantly flaunted their wealth and power. No-one now questioned that these same knights were steeped in sin and he wondered how long it would be before the Inquisition writ stretched to nobiles who bore any semblance of the Templar cross, or had connection to them. The shivering blue cross of his own shield glowed like an accusation when he glanced at it.
The Auld Templar of Roslin, he added to himself, was well out of it these days but he had foreseen the ruin the Order had brought on itself the day they charged down Wallace at Falkirk, led by a brace of venal Masters who thought more of Longshanks’ favour than their vows.
Most disturbing of all, of course, was the fact that it threw a harsh light on all men of God – for if the Templars, who were priests when all said and done, could be so condemned, what of the wee friar? The bishop, the cardinal and – God forgive the thought – the Pope?
More pressing problems drove such thoughts away with the flies. The English, it had been noted, were on the move, north and east towards Perth. Hal wanted away from here, to where the Scots army was assembling; the archer would be missed soon enough and Hal did not want to be near when the searching commenced – but there was time for a swallow of small beer and a bite of bread.
Good bread, but not as good as the stuff in France, as Jamie loftily pointed out.
‘They make it with cheese in. Shaped in a ring and mair pastry than dough. Gougere, they call it an’ it is a recipe from angels themselves, you would swear.’
The others nudged each other and Sore Davey cleared his throat.
‘Is that the way of it right enough, Sir Jamie?’ he asked, bland and innocent as a nun at prayer. ‘Bigod, you are the one for style in France. Is it there you learned to comb shite in yer hair?’
The laughter was long and loud, so that Jamie, dark and bristling, looked on the point of exploding – until he saw Dog Boy’s grin and subsided with a rueful one of his own.
‘Lesson learned,’ he said to Sim, who nodded and handed him a leather flask of water, then helped him clean his curling hair, though a deal of lovelock had to be roughly hacked off with a knife, with much expression of disgust, which added to the chuckles.
Hal watched the Welshman, bound and afraid and miserably smeared with his own shite, which no-one offered to clean. Not that it would have mattered – after an hour, everyone mounted and moved off, the prisoner half-trotting, half-dragged behind Wynking Wull; each time Hal looked guiltily at the Welshman’s bruised face and bloody flayed elbows and knees, the smell of the burning knight came back to him, driving all mercy out.
They followed the English army for an hour or more, tracking them by cart ruts and the ordure, horse and human, which slimed their trail. There were sick and runaways, too, most of whom fled at the approach of a band of riders; those who were too weak or stupid were ridden down and killed by men with the stink of burned flesh still cloyed in their nostrils.
It was a fair-sized force of several long hundreds, Hal thought – but no King Edward in it. Satan has sent his lesser imp, de Valence to pitchfork us back to order.
Another hour convinced Hal the English were headed for Perth and he decided to break off following them, cut away with their prisoner to Scone, where he hoped the Scots were still assembling. He was growing wary with the approach of night, sure that the English would have heard of their dogged presence and be taking steps against it with their own light horse, the prickers and hobilars Hal did not want to meet.
They came up over a small rise, with the last of the day breathing itself out into a muggy dusk of insect whine and zip and halted, the garrons fretting, flicking tails and tossing their heads against the vicious bites.
Dirleton Will, scouting ahead, suddenly appeared, flogging his garron in a dead run into the pack of them, pointing behind him.
‘Horse … three prickers chasing a lone man,’ he panted. ‘They will be on us in an eyeblink.’
There was a flurry of panic and scowls, brandished weapons and a few shouts but they had barely sorted themselves when the lone rider bounded up over the brackened lip of the rise, checked a little at the sight of them, then plunged down like a grateful bird to a nest.