Robert Low - The Lion Rampant

‘I will finish you, Lothian.’

His breath was fetid as a dragon’s; Hal remembered watching Bruce in a fight long ago and spat his own sourness into Malise’s face, which made the man roar and tug. Malise tried to bite and gouge.

A mistake, Hal thought, clinging on with a panicked sense of his failing strength, the sear of the old wound along his ribs, the trembling ache of his wrist — he has turned rabid …

Malise, in a maddened, careless fury, tried to butt Hal; then he swung round, tumbling them both into the water in a spray fine as diamonds. Spitting and growling like soaked dogs, they rolled apart and came up looking for one another.

Hal turned an eyeblink too late and took a blow meant for his throat on his wildly flung hand, so that Malise’s forearm smashed into the wrist Badenoch had damaged at the Pelstream fight. The shock and pain made him cry out; Malise gave a bellow of triumph and kicked, but the water hampered him enough to cushion the blow. Yet Hal, off balance, stumbled and fell, floundering.

Malise gave an exultant howl and started forward — only for something to drop round his neck and haul him up short, so that he almost fell backwards. Furious, puzzled, he twisted round in the grip of what felt like a noose — into the wet, grim face of Isabel, her hair a Medusa of wild wet snakes over her face and the arbalest held in both hands.

She had struck with it, but it was spanned and she had missed, dropping the loop of a prong and the taut braided cord over Malise’s shoulders like a noose; there was no quarrel in it, for she had dropped that. He saw the lack, looked at her and snarled. He started forward and she pushed back, keeping him away as he came hard up against the braided cord. He reached up his dagger-free hand and started to lever it over his head.

‘You will burn in Hell,’ he screeched and she heard the wild, strange cry, almost like a plea — and all that he had done to her, all the foul things he had poured on her body and in her ears, washed up like old sick. He saw it in her eyes.

‘Then I will meet you there,’ she said and pressed the sneck.

The arbalest bucked and thrummed. The string took Malise in the throat like a ram, crushing apple and pipe and forging such a searing pain that he shrieked away from it and tore free, ripping the weapon from her grasp. He fell in the water, floundering free of the tangle of the arbalest and rolling over.

She picked up Sim’s legacy, planning to club Malise with it, but instead she stood and watched him gasp. Like a fish, she thought. Drowning in air. Hal climbed to his feet, staggering a little, and she moved to him, supporting him, aware that riders were approaching.

So near to escape … She wondered if she could find Malise’s dagger in the spate and stones of the Tweed, for she would not go back to the cage. Not with breath in her …

The riders came up and a great grin split the face of the leader, the black hair plastered to the diamond-netted beard.

‘Bigod, ye made it then. Who is that chiel?’

The Black Douglas. Isabel sagged, so that now Hal had to hold her up.

‘Malise Bellejambe,’ he answered numbly and now he saw Dog Boy and Parcy and the others. He thought of Sweetmilk and felt the souring loss of him.

‘Is it, bigod?’ Jamie Douglas said, looking down at the man making gug-gug sounds as he tried to suck breath into a throat long past caring, floundering in the rush of river. ‘I thought he would be bigger.’

Kirkpatrick came up, half staggering and with blood all down his face.

‘Time,’ he began and could not finish it.

‘Past time,’ Jamie Douglas agreed, ‘for we have fired the Forge. Mount up and let him drown here.’

But Dog Boy was off his horse and wading to the side of the gasping Malise. He looked down at him, looked down into the desperate rat eyes of him and, when he had recognition, nodded slowly.

‘Aye,’ he said, strangely gentle. ‘Ye mind me, I can see. The wee boy from Douglas. You poisoned the dogs and red-murdered Tod’s Wattie.’

Those old sins washed back into the fevered brain of Malise and he tried to explain that he had not meant to kill the dogs nor Tod’s Wattie, which was a lie. But all that came out was a horrible rasping gurgle that appalled him — as did the blade appearing in the man’s hand. The lurch of harsh realization sucked the final strength from him and he knew he had no future to speak in.

He saw flames flare and the Witch, outlined stark and eldritch as she turned on the back of the horse, her wet hair blown by a rain wind into a halo of snakes. The sudden sharp fear that he had lost her, his only love, was swamped by a sharper, disbelieving sorrow that everything would go on as before, save that now he would not be part of it.

Dog Boy slit the ruined throat, one hand over the man’s eyes to still him, as you did with a dog that was too old or done up to live; the blood skeined away in the spate like an offering.

Then he rose up and went silently to his horse, swung up into the saddle and splashed back across the ford to safety without a backward glance.

Herdmanston

Feast of St Anthony, Father of All Monks, January 1315

It had started snowing on St Andrew’s Feast and had scarcely stopped since, so that the world was all rime and white drape. Birds fell from under the eaves, killed by cold and leaving no more than a brief hole in the snow piled up round Herdmanston.

Folk moved slowly, less to do with the difficulty of forcing through the sifted banks than with the lack of energy. They were living now on nettle roots and burdock, which helped fill the belly and tease out the largesse of Herdmanston’s lord, who still had oats and barley to give in a world where gold was easier to come by.

God’s world starved and froze and those who knew the truth of it blessed the fact that they huddled round Herdmanston, where there was still food and warmth to be had.

Hal was in the undercroft looking at stores and calculating what he could keep as seed for next year, for he was sure that every villein and cottar on his land was eating their own stocks. They kept the weans in the dark as much as possible, to fool them into staying under poor covers and sleeping, but when they woke and wailed, bellies griping, Hal could not condemn parents for feeding them with next year’s hope.

The calling summoned him up into a welcome heat; the undercroft was colder still than anywhere else, even the yett hall which needed a constant charcoal brazier to keep Parcy Dodd’s teeth from rattling out of his head.

Swathed in wool, his face mottled like spoiled mutton, Parcy was out on the short stretch of walkway, manhandling the wooden bridge between it and the stairs. Below, sitting like a pile of washing on a rouncey, a familiar face squinted up into a clear, cold sky with enough blue to make a robe for every Virgin. A blood-sun sparkled diamonds from an endless world of white.

‘Kirkpatrick,’ Hal said and the man acknowledged it, before waving to the even more shapeless bundle on an ass.

‘It would be good for myself and young Rauf here to sample some of your warm hospitality.’

Hal waved them up, sent Horse Pyntle to see to the mounts and brought the pair into the hall where the fire was banked. Folk, contriving to find work close to it, parted to let Hal and his visitors come up.

Hal waited while the pot of wine that stood near enough the flame to keep it warm was emptied into cups and seared with a hot iron, Mintie grinning at the trembling youngster called Rauf as she stirred in spices.

‘This’ll thaw your cods,’ she said, handing it to him, and he nodded, speaking in bursts between the chitter of his teeth.