Robert Low - The Lion Wakes

The forest crashed and a new rider, like the ghost of De Jay himself, came bounding out like a stag on the run. Hal, halfway to his feet, saw that Wallace was trapped, saw the Guardian let go of the wedged sword and whirl, fumbling for a dagger.

Brother John De Sawtrey, his white robes shredded and stained, his helmet and bascinet, maille coif and all flung away, whirled a little fluted mace in a circle and his purpled face under a thorn-crown of sweat-spiked tonsure was a vicious snarl.

He saw the fallen De Jay and howled at the outrage of it until his throat corded. His head was a storm of vengeance and he dug in his spurs; the warhorse’s great rump bunched and it squealed – Hal levered himself to his feet, knowing he was between Wallace and this charging knight.

He tried to brace, but his legs trembled and his arms felt as if they had two anvils on the end; De Sawtrey rocked as the great warhorse shot forward – four strides and it would plough Hal into the forest floor.

One stride. Hal saw small twigs and acorns bounce up off the ground with the powered weight of each hoof.

Two strides. Something flicked at the corner of Hal’s eye, but he could not turn his head from the sight of the warhorse’s snarl of yellow teeth, the angry pink flare of nostrils and the great, slow-motion rise of massive feet.

Three strides – something went between Hal and the great loom of beast and rider, whirring like startled bird. John De Sawtrey flung up one hand as if arrogantly dismissing the world and then vanished over the back of his cantled saddle.

The warhorse, veering, slammed a shoulder into Hal and there was a moment of flying, a great tempest of leaves and earth that left him breathless and sprawled. Gasping and desperate, he struggled to rise, to find his sword -MacDuff’s sword, he remembered wildly. He staggered and weaved, then a shape lurched into trembling view, the crossbow across one shoulder. Beyond, John De Sawtrey lay with the black leather fletches of a bolt perched like a crow in his eye.

‘Aye til the fore,’ said a familiar voice. Hal’s head wobbled on his neck as he looked up into Sim’s badger-beard grin and, beyond, other faces he knew, twisting and sliding like heat haze in the dappled, dying light of the forest – Ill Made Jock, Dirleton Will, Sore Davey, Mouse…

‘Aye til the fore,’ echoed Bangtail Hob from the filth of his face and stuck out a hand to haul Hal back to his feet. ‘Time we were not here.’

The fires were piled high, as if to ward off all the bewildered ghosts who wandered that field and, in the dark, the moans and cries of those still alive crawled on everyone’s skin.

Edward sat in his curule chair, sullen and droop-lidded, looking at the stained, bloody rag they had brought to lay at his feet. Red jupon with a white lion, someone had pointed out; you could see it if you squinted, Edward thought, but even this man’s own mother would not know him now.

‘The Wallace arms, I am told, your Grace,’ De Warenne declared proudly, his Saracen beard a quivering silver curve as he smiled.

‘The Ogre,’ Edward declared sarcastically, ‘seems to have shed the arms of Scotland which I was reliably informed he wore at the start of this affair – yellow-gold, my lord of Surrey, with a red lion rampant.’ De Warenne’s eye flickered a little.

‘Also,’ Edward went on savagely, ‘even allowing for the exaggerations of the fearful, this giant ogre Wallace seems to have diminished. I have a court caperer whose little bauble is taller than this.’

With a sudden, sullen twist, De Warenne signalled for the body to be removed and followed it, stiff with indignation. De Lacy leaned forward, his face bloody with torchlight.

‘Possibly a cousin, your grace,’ he said softly. ‘I heard there were three such in the field here. The search goes on…’

‘He is gone,’ Edward muttered and gnawed a nail. Gone. Wallace was gone, into the damned forests where had had come from, where he fought best.

There was a slew of bloody grass studded with Scots dead like winnowed stooks – and only two English deaths of note, Sir Brian De Jay and John de Sawtrey. The Master of England’s Templars and the Master of the Scottish Templars – there is a harsh justice in that, Edward thought, chilled by the presence of the Hand of God.

He did not bother with the tally of lesser lights, dead Welsh, Gascons and foot, for they were mainly men of little or no account – but the victory he’d had here was no more than possession of a blood-slimed field near Callendar.

Wallace was gone. Nothing had been resolved.

Herdmanston

Feast of St Merinus, September 1297

She stood between the merlons and looked out and down to where the riders sat, patient as stones, while a crow circled like a slow crucifix in the grey-blue. The rider in the centre looked up as it racked out its hoarseness and, even from this height, she saw the red-gold of his beard and hair. She knew who he was and glanced sideways at Bangtail Hob.

‘Ye were right, Hob,’ she said.

‘No’ me, Lady. Sir Hal sent me to warn ye this might occur – him and the rest of the men are running and hidin’ with The Wallace.’

He was matter-of-fact about it, but Isabel knew that the running and hiding he spoke off hid a wealth of hurt, fear, blood and rough living. The fact that Bangtail Hob had managed to slither his way unseen to Herdmanston with the message was not the only miracle in it.

Below, the man with the red-gold head waved.

‘I can shoot the een oot of his head from here,’ muttered Wull The Yett, nocking an arrow to the hunting bow and getting a scathe of glance back from Bangtail Hob.

‘Away. Ye could not hit a bull’s arse at five paces when ye could see clear, Wull The Yett. Ye have not seen clearly the length of your own arm in years.’

‘Go down and tell Sir John Comyn he can come up to the yett,’ Isabel said. ‘Then escort him into the hall.’

Wull shot them both a black scowl and slid the arrow from the string.

‘Oh aye, no bother,’ he declared bitterly, hirpling his way to the stairwind. ‘Open the yett to our enemies – let the place scorch betimes, for it seems there is no respect left for a hauflin’ like myself, the least of a clekkin’ of bairns to a poor widow wummin.. .’

They ignored him, as folk always did, while his long, bitter murmur trailed behind him like damp grey smoke.

The Red Comyn heard the invite and dismounted, then handed his sword to the nearest of his men, smiling back into their warnings and anxiety. He went up the steep, cobbled incline, across the laid plank bridge and into the short arch with its opened, iron-grilled yett. There was the scent of woodsmoke and new-baked bread fighting with the headiness of broom in his nose.

Briefly, in the dim of the small hall, he was blind and took a few breaths to accustom himself before following the shuffling old servitor to where the lady sat in the high seat, as neatly arranged in Lenten grey and snowy barbette as any nun, while the glowing brazier of coals and freshly lit sconces bounced the light back off the too-brilliant gentian of her eyes.

But her hair and skin were damp from fresh grooming and her rings were loose enough on the fingers he kissed for him to know she had thinned, while the marks of sleeplessness told him much.

‘Countess,’ he said, with a formal bow.

‘My lord.’

The voice was steady, even musical, but the strain was evident in it and the Red Comyn was suddenly irritated by the whole business – he had more to do these days than play advocate in the life of his kinsman Earl of Buchan and his wayward wife.

‘I am told your father is unwell.’

The solicitous inquiry stumbled him off the track of matters, but he recovered, swift as a russet fox.