Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘He is well blown,’ agreed his companion, considering the bloated belly. ‘I think so too. That would account for the time the crows are said to have been here. Well, there is no more to be done.’ He backed away, and called over his shoulder, ‘We are both wrong, Rob. Neither a sheep nor a dead man, but a pig. A great boar, overturned in the ditch.’

They turned to tramp back across the rough grass to join the men. Rob said, ‘The burgh serjeant’s boar — ’

‘Maister Gil!’ said Tam urgently. ‘Look yonder!’ He gestured at the stand of trees where the crows were still circling and cawing.

Gil looked, and exclaimed sharply. He lunged forward to leap into his saddle, drawing his whinger as he found the stirrups, wheeling the horse about with his knees. His mount danced sideways, snorting, as the first of the men on foot reached them, and Gil was just in time to hack at the hand attempting to snatch his rein. The man fell back, shouting, but two more sprang past him, one armed with a sword, one with a cudgel, and joined in the fight.

Clashing metal behind him told Gil there were more attackers, but his attention was fully occupied. His horse, which was certainly not battle-trained, flattened its ears and plunged away from the swords. He collected it with seat and heels, managed to turn it, and charged down on the mêlée round Tam, who was already bleeding from a cut to the head. As Gil arrived he took another blow from the cudgel which made him cry out. Beyond him someone had fallen, and Luke and Rob were holding off another swordsman, who was leaping about their plunging horses slashing wildly with his blade.

‘Pierre! Over here!’ Gil shouted.

‘That’s them right enough!’ gasped one of the assailants. ‘Go for the packs, Willie.’ He ducked as Gil’s whinger whirred past his face, and two things happened almost simultaneously. Up the hillside from the direction they had come hurtled a low grey silent form which sprang at the man with the cudgel, knocked him over, and seized him by the throat; and as Gil struck away a blow aimed at the dog’s back a horn blew further up the hill, and four horsemen appeared round the curve of the track, approaching fast, light catching on their drawn swords.

‘Get the packs!’ shouted someone. ‘Cut the straps, Willie!’

‘No time!’ answered the man who was fending off Gil’s attack. ‘Get away! Save yersels!’

As the newcomers swept down towards them the attackers broke and ran in all directions, leaving three men lying in the grass. One was Tam, who had fallen off but had somehow kept hold of both sets of reins, one was the man who had gone down first and still lay unmoving, and the third was pinned down by a triumphant Socrates. The dog had a large paw planted firmly on the high leather collar of his captive’s jack. His entire set of white teeth was on display, and he was growling, very quietly, every time the man stirred.

‘Good dog!’ said Gil. ‘Leave. Leave it.’

Beyond them, Luke and Rob were grinning at each other, and Maistre Pierre, still afoot, was sheathing his weapon in a businesslike manner.

‘I apologize that I did not come to your aid, Gilbert,’ he said, ‘but I was somewhat distracted. How many were there? We had certainly four at this side.’

‘And these two, and two more who ran,’ said Gil. He looked at the approaching horsemen, who had turned off the track and were now moving purposefully towards them over the grazing-land, and did not sheath his whinger. ‘Eight all told, I suppose. Tam, can you rise, man?’

‘Aye, maybe,’ replied Tam, making no attempt to do so. ‘My head’s broke, and I think I got kicked in the knee. They were after the packs, Maister Gil. What’s in them, that they were so eager to get them? What did you fetch from Stirling?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gil absently, still watching the riders.

The newcomers slowed as they reached them; they wore black mantles over well-worn, well-maintained armour, and the fishtailed Cross of St John showed white on each man’s left shoulder. Two of them separated and moved past the scene of the attack, one to each side in a practised way. They turned, and all four halted.

‘Maister Gil,’ said Rob uneasily, ‘what’ll we do?’

‘Good day, messieurs ,’ said a tall man with a dark, neat beard like Maistre Pierre’s. He bowed slightly over his horse’s neck and his sharp eyes scanned them all, missing nothing ‘Raoul de Brinay, at your service. I regret that I must ask you not to move. Except,’ he added with a gleam of humour, ‘perhaps to call the hound off his kill.’

Gil looked round at de Brinay’s men, each with sword drawn and ready, each as relaxed and watchful as their leader. He exchanged a look with Maistre Pierre, and sheathed his whinger.

‘Keep still, Rob. We are peaceful travellers, sir,’ he went on in French. ‘We have done no wrong. Even if we are on St Johns land, I do not think you have the right to hold us like this.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed the Hospitaller amiably, ‘but I feel compelled to ask you what are you carrying, to attract such a band of thieves?’

‘I wish I knew,’ said Gil.

‘We are seeking a shipment of books,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘and have travelled from the west in pursuit of them, but we have not found them so far. We have nothing of value in our packs.’ His right hand moved on his knee.

‘Let us make sure,’ suggested Sir Raoul, unbending slightly. He nodded to one of the men beyond Gil. ‘Johan? And you may as well leash your dog, monsieur , and tend to your servant if you wish it.’

Gil dismounted, gave his reins to Rob, and dragged Socrates away from his prisoner, praising him lavishly. The man scrambled to his feet, despite the dog’s threatening snarls, and would have made off, but a small movement of the bare sword of the nearest rider appeared to change his mind for him, and at a word from Sir Raoul the same rider lighted down and bound the thief’s wrists.

‘De Brinay,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Are you from Brinay itself, sir?’

The Hospitaller glanced curiously at him, and nodded. ‘I am. You know it?’

‘I have built there, before I was a master. Repairs to two columns in the church nave. You must be the brother of the present lord.’

‘His cousin.’

The man addressed as Johan had removed his mailed gauntlets and was searching their packs quickly and economically, feeling each of the saddlebags and moving on to the next. The horses fidgeted, and both Luke and Rob watched him warily as he felt expertly at their scrips, but neither dared to say anything. The two purses in Gil’s pack caused him some interest, but when he had ascertained their size through the heavy leather saddlebag he went on. Finally he met his leader’s eye again and shook his head, the light glinting on his grey steel helm.

‘Nicht hier,’ he said. ‘Nur Kleingelt.’

There was a short exchange in a language which Gil took to be High Dutch, though he only caught one or two words. The other two St Johns men watched, bare swords unwavering, and Gil wondered what Robert Blacader would say to hear his quite generous contribution to expenses described as small change. He bent over Tam, but decided there was little wrong with him besides a sore head, and bruising on shoulder and knee. The remaining man had a lump the size of a duck egg on his skull and was just beginning to stir; Socrates eyed him suspiciously but made no comment.

‘Sir Raoul,’ Gil said at last. The Hospitaller turned to look at him. ‘If I tell you our story, you will see that you have no reason to hold us.’

‘Who said I was holding you?’ said Sir Raoul very politely. ‘I should be enchanted to hear this history, sir. Is it long?’