The three hobilars who rode after him, closing in like harrying wolves, suddenly found they had charged into a pack of hunting dogs. Jamie Douglas, Dirleton Will and Mouse led the rush on them and there was a moment of squealing, flailing and blood which Hal tried to ignore as he faced the lone rider.
Browns and muted greens made the man a shadow in the shadows, the worn patch of him at odds with the way he carried himself and the voice he used to greet them; the way he moved was as slow and careful as a strange dog.
‘God be praised,’ he said.
‘For ever and ever.’
The tension slackened a little because men had weapons ready and Sim’s big latchbow, spanned and quarrelled, was level, though it weaved and wavered with the irritated movement of his horse.
‘Unsmart that monster,’ the stranger said with a foreign lilt to his voice that Hal knew was French, ‘for if it goes off now, the dance of it is as likely to hit yourself as me.’
Sim scowled, though he lowered it and the stranger brought his arms carefully in, resting both hands lightly on the front of his saddle. Jamie Douglas plunged up on his excited, bouncing garron, grinning and waving a bloody sword.
‘All dead,’ he declared in French. ‘English hobilars … is this who they were chasing?’
Hal was suddenly irritated by the young lord of Douglas, but he managed a smile.
‘My lord James of Douglas,’ he said to the saturnine rider, trying to be elegant in French himself. ‘I am …’
‘Sir Hal, the lord of Herdmanston and friend of the King,’ the man declared with a twist of smile.
‘I know you. My name is Rossal de Bissot,’ he added and Hal’s eyebrows went up at that, for he knew the name well, suddenly saw the face more clearly.
‘You brought the Rood,’ he answered, breaking into English, seeing now the carriage of the man, a Templar travelling in secret; the one broiled alive on his horse leaped to his mind and his throat so that, before he could stop, the mention of it burst past his lips.
De Bissot nodded, his eyes hard in a blank face and his accented English was terse and clipped.
‘You saw the abomination?’
‘I smelled it,’ he answered and Sim Craw growled that he had seen it. Hal’s eyes told de Bissot all that was needed and he sighed.
‘It is a heathen thing from Outremer,’ he said, flat as a blade. ‘Crusaders brought tales of it back and the Welsh took to it when their lands were invaded. A Cantref Roast they call it there and they did it against every English knight they could ambush during the wars. Left them like markers to put the fear in, like a gaff on a fish.’
‘Aye, weel,’ grunted Sim, squinting to understand the man’s way of speaking, ‘they had reason, no doubt.’
De Bissot turned glassed eyes on him and nodded.
‘In the name of God,’ he said, ‘I have ridden down fleeing women, burst the heads of children, thrown old men on the pyres of their own homes, committed more bloody ruin on the unarmed and innocent than any priest can stand to hear in confession.’
‘In the name of God and against the heathen,’ Hal attempted, but the fish stare swung blankly on to him.
‘I did it against the Welsh, who were not considered Christian enough for mercy. This is one reason the Order is cursed by God.’
Folk shifted uneasily at this confession; it was one thing to hear the gleeful, whispered rumours, another to have one of God’s own soiled angels admit his heresy.
‘No man, cursed or other, deserves to be cooked like a haunch.’
The Dog Boy’s voice was firm and sure, cutting through them all to place a ghost of smile on the shadowed face of de Bissot.
‘The one they did it to here was called Jehan de Chaumont, a brave knight of the Order, who sacrificed himself so I might escape.’
‘Escape?’
Rossal de Bissot nodded, broke back into swift French.
‘My task is to try and preserve as much of the Order as I can from the ruin it has brought on itself. The Comyn are working against me and are now friends of the English – so their enemies are my friends. The Comyn would prefer me removed from the world, so your king sought to see myself and young Jehan – may God wrap him in His Arms – safe to France, but a certain Malise Bellejambe had different ideas. He is the …’
‘I know who he is,’ Hal interrupted, feeling the sinking stone drag down to his bowels. ‘Malise Bellejambe fell out of Satan’s arse at birth and has been trying to find his way back ever since. He snared the wrong man – not the first time he has made such a mistake, but ruin for your friend, de Chaumont. Do you need help on your journey?’
‘I do not,’ de Bissot replied levelly, rising heavily to his feet. ‘I thought you might care to know – the man your king sent with us was taken and is now a prisoner. Bellejambe and some Comyn riders are taking the man to Berwick. If you wish to save him, you must move swiftly.’
Hal knew the name as if God had whispered it in his ear, but he asked anyway.