Robert Low - The Lion Rampant

It was simply the work of mercantiling, where a mistake would plunge you to the depths and a success make you richer than God. It was, as Isabella had long realized, the true sinew of war: gold into a muscle to fight with.

So it would be no fault of hers if the entire intricate cat’s cradle of it failed and her husband never got the money for his new invasion. So sad. A great pity that he would then have to suffer the bit and bridle on his powers by his own barons. Not her fault …

Yet, even as she flirted with the indecent treachery of it, she knew that her husband’s curbing and the fall of his latest detested favourite would need to be better planned. In the end, she would get him what he needed — God send her a sign — but let him fret a little first, as he fretted her with so many small humiliations …

‘Isabella.’

The voice turned her into the smiling face of Blanche, her brother’s wife. She smiled in return, embraced her, admired her prettiness and her dress and all the time wondered if the rumours about her adultery were true — and how God seemed so speedily to answer her.

Both Blanche and Marguerite, her brothers’ wives, were vapid creatures, bored and beautiful. She would find out the truth of the rumours, she determined, and they would tell her, for she was young and could play bored and smile and nod, clap her hands at the thought of diversion and pretty young men. Perhaps what she discovered would further keep her father from discussing loans from the Pope a little longer and that would suit her. So sad. Not her fault …

Beaumont watched the exchange, the fox-sharp smiles of his queen, the eager Blanche, anxious to ingratiate and to be diverted by something new.

Beware, little chick, he thought, my king’s wife is a snake who will swallow you whole.

The tang of burned flesh trailed through the window, bringing back the sorry mess of the Templar burnings and de Beaumont wished he also had a scented glove. He wondered what rich secrets de Molay had taken into the flames rather than hand over to Philip of France, the accursed king.

Where had all the wealth of the Poor Knights gone?

Edinburgh

Octave of St Benedict of Montecassino, March 1314

The air thrummed and cracked with the roars from hundreds of throats, enough to filter through the slit window and raise Bruce’s head a little, so that he smiled; Jamie Douglas was drilling his block. Again.

‘He is keen,’ Abbot Bernard commented wryly when Bruce voiced this and did not betray anything on his bland face when fixed with a challenging, quizzical stare. Instead, he merely moved the document a little closer and hinted that the wax was cooling.

‘He is furious,’ Bruce went on, studying the scroll. ‘Randolph has taken Edinburgh’s fortress and by as rare a stratagem as the Black himself concocted at Roxburgh. If he does not vent his spleen, young Jamie will explode.’

He looked up at his Chancellor, who was searching out a bar of wax.

‘When I seal this, the Brothers who cannot be called by name will have the fortress at Glaissery. Much good may it do them.’

‘It may do you much good,’ Bernard replied portentously and Bruce levered himself up from the table; his bones ached more and more.

‘Besides,’ Bernard continued smoothly, ‘they are known only as the Benedictine Brothers in Christ these days.’

‘So you and others of your like have convinced me — but you are Abbot of Arbroath and must make it clear to your brothers in Christ that they may call themselves whatever they choose provided there is no mention of the Poor Knights of the Temple in it. This is not a commanderie, nor will there be a new Templar Order with me as Grand Master.’

He stared at the charter and shook his head.

‘No one will be fooled by these supposed Benedictines, who wear a sword underneath their scapular — unless folk can be persuaded that the penance of Hail Mary has been replaced by something harsher and more sharp.’

The Chancellor laughed dutifully but Bruce was serious.

‘The Templars believe that because this kingdom is under interdict I can defy the Pope and give them succour. Remind them that I am not under interdict by choice, Abbot Bernard; sooner, rather than later, I will be reconciled to Mother Church and will not make it harder by giving comfort to every condemned heretic in the world.’

‘They know this, my lord,’ the Chancellor replied softly and with a taint of bitter steel in the tone, not missed by Bruce. ‘That is why they offer what they offer. There is no Order of Poor Knights in Scotland, as anyone will confess, only some mendicant Benedictines in the wilds of the north. With a deal of coin to lend and the whereabouts of an armoury to purchase with it.’

‘Whisht on that,’ Bruce declared, breaking from French in his alarm. ‘No mention here of siller or arms.’

‘Even between us alone?’

‘Voices travel, Chancellor,’ Bruce muttered, hearing the distant cries. And God is listening, he added morosely to himself. Worse still, Malachy is listening and that wee saint hates me.

His curse on the Kingdom was the unsteadiness of the crown on my head, he brooded, which makes all the folk who should be trading with us less than eager to commit. For certes, it was not possible to find one wee cunning merchant willing to loan the rebel King of Scots any sum, on any promise.

So I am fallen back on heretics and fables of Templar treasures, he thought, pushing away from the table and walking to the slit window, hands behind his back and twisting this way and that. And two auld dugs …

Far out on the green beyond the castle rock, horsemen galloped back and forth — four hundred at least, lances glittering. It was an illusion, all the same — and one Bruce had used to his advantage more than once — for these were no knights, nor even armoured serjeants. They were mounted infantry in padded coats with long, wicked spears, who finally came together like a flock of sparrows, hurling from their shaggy garrons to form up in a thick block bristling with twelve-foot pikes while the horse-holders led away fistfuls of excited, plunging mounts.

There was confusion, a few fell here and there and even from this distance, Bruce fancied he could hear the poisonous roars of their vintenars, each one determined that their twenty-man command would not be a disgrace.

He craned to see better, but could not distinguish anyone and certainly not Jamie Douglas, who was simply one man in the crowd of them. Closest to the pennant, certes, Bruce thought. At least his block has proper arms and not merely long poles — he wondered if Kirkpatrick and Hal of Herdmanston would succeed and vowed more candles to St Malachy to ensure that they did.

There was a flurry behind him and he heard mutter, turning to see his chaplain Thomas Daltoun scurrying up. Come to give the King confession? It was not on any list Bruce remembered and he frowned.

‘Your brother is here, my lord,’ the chaplain declared and Bruce’s frown started to become painful over his eyes. Edward here? He had been sent to Stirling to prosecute the siege — had demanded the command, in fact, and Bruce had relented, for he knew that he had a trinity of troublesome commanders on his hands, not just Randolph and Douglas vying for glory.

He had thought Edward wanted to devise some equally cunning and glorious way to take Stirling and, if he dared admit it, had manufactured that ploy as surely as he had pitted Randolph against Douglas for the same reason.

But Edward was here in Edinburgh — surely he could not have taken Stirling by storm?

He came in, big and bluff and broad. He nodded to the exiting Chancellor but his usual beaming grin seemed forced and Bruce grew apprehensive.