Robert Low - The Complete Kingdom Trilogy - The Lion Wakes, The Lion at Bay, The Lion Rampant

‘Christ’s Wounds,’ Thomas declared, watching Malise leave. ‘You would think the year was all good crops and peace. Our lord is at odds with the English again and his enemies are everywhere.’

It had been a moment of crushing despair for Thomas when the Lady had admitted a Bruce into the sacred centre of The Hardy’s Douglas, but nothing more than he expected from the woman, who did not have much inkling of what that meant. Nor cared, he thought.

Mind you, he had expected better from the hard-eyed Sientcler lord from Lothian with his blessing of good men -but then another Sientcler, a Templar no less, had stood on the Bruce side and, of course, that high and mighty family had no thought for Douglas then, only themselves.

As if to make a mockery of it all, the Earl of Buchan had arrived at the gates not long after to find Bruce on the stone gatehouse battlements, making sure his red chevronned surcoat was clearly visible. That had been worse still, for the Comyn and Bruce hated each other and none of them, as far as Thomas knew, supported the cause of his master, Sir William.

He had stood beside the Earl of Carrick and the Herdmanston lord, Sir Hal, looking out on the patient riders on mud-spattered horses, armed and righteous and wanting entry. Bruce, Thomas recalled, looked young and petted – more two than twenty-two – and he’d felt a momentary spasm of concern about how the Earl of Carrick would handle this affair.

There had been two others on the wooden battlements -Bruce’s sinister wee shadow, the man called Kirkpatrick, who had nodded to the giant called Sim. That yin had needed nothing more than the nod to foot one worn boot into the stirrup of his great crossbow and, scorning the bellyhook, drag the thick string up by brute force and click it into place. Thomas had been impressed by the feat, yet mortally afraid of what might result.

He recalled the riders’ pale faces looking up, framed in arming cap bascinets and maille coifs, their great slitted helms tucked under one arm and shields pointedly brought forward.

‘Open in the name of the King,’ one had shouted, urging his mud-spattered horse forward a little. Davey Siward, Thomas remembered, with John of Inchmartin behind him – a clutch of Inchmartins had been there, in fact.

‘Which King is that, then?’ Bruce had asked. ‘John Balliol, in whose name you attacked me and my father in Carlisle last year? Or Edward of England, whose army you are supposed to be with? I should point out that I am here because Sir William Douglas has also absconded from that army and King Edward is less than pleased.’

Which was as sure a seal on the fate of Douglas as any Thomas had heard and he burned with indignation. Before he could say anything at all in his master’s defence, a light, easy voice rolled sonorously up like perfumed smoke.

‘Is that a shivering cross I see? Could that be young Hal Sientcler from Herdmanston?’ the Earl of Buchan had asked. Thomas remembered the way the Lothian lord had unconsciously touched that engrailed blue cross on his chest. It was an arrogance, that symbol, signifying a Templar connection and allusions to the Holy Grail, as if only the Sientclers held the secret of it beyond Jesus himself.

‘Sir William of Roslin is also here,’ the Lothian lord had replied and Thomas knew he had done it deliberately, hoping a mention of the Auld Templar might unlatch the situation a little. Buchan had sighed a little and shook his head, so that the sweat-damp hair stirred in the bold wind.

‘Well, there it is,’ Buchan answered. ‘God’s Own Chosen, the Sientclers, together with the Young Himself of Carrick, all descended here to punish a wee woman and her wee sons. Such we have been driven down to, Bruce.’

There had been a clipped, frosted exchange after that, Thomas recalled, but more to score points than for any serious questioning of intent. Buchan presented his Writ from King Edward, permitting him to go home and contain the rebels of Sir Andrew Moray. Bruce had taken his time to study it, letting Buchan savour the fact that he had no more than sixty riders, too few to tackle a castle like this, stuffed to the merlons with Carrick men.

Some had grown impatient and Sim had spotted it, for which Thomas had been grateful and furious with himself for having been so lax.

‘Is that you there, Jinnet’s Davey?’ Sim had called out in a friendly voice, and the man with a crossbow in one hand and the reins of a horse in the other looked guiltily up.

‘Yer da back in Biggar will be black affronted to see you in sich company,’ Sim chided, ‘and about to shoot from the cover of other men’s back. If ye try I will pin your luggs to either side of your face and slide ye aff that stot ye are riding.’

Thomas remembered that more for what he overheard, whispered by Bruce to the Lothian lord.

‘I have only a little idea what he said, but the sentiment seems fine.’

Thomas marvelled at it anew. The great Earl of Carrick, heir to the Bruces of Annandale, speaks court French, southern English and the Gaelic – thanks to his mother – but he has poor command of English as spoken by a good Scot.

Yet the gates of Douglas had opened and Thomas, feeling the slow burn of resentment at having had his charge swept from under him as if he was of no account, had been forced to watch as the Ward bustled, rang with shouts and horse-snorts and neighs. Bruce had stepped forward, the red chevron on his surcoat like a bright splash of blood, his arms expansively wide as he and the stiffly dismounted Buchan embraced like old friends well met.

Well, now they were all gone and the Lady and her bairns with Bruce, Thomas thought. Poor sowls – God ensure that they go where Bruce promised, to The Hardy at Irvine. No matter if they did, or ended up in Bruce’s power, or whether the Earl joined with patriots or the English, or whether Sir William The Hardy won or lost – Thomas swore that the fortress of Douglas would not fall as easily again.

He rounded on Androu and pointed an accusing finger.

‘From this moment Douglas is in a state of war, man,’ he declared. ‘I want yon Lothian man and his dugs gone from here in short order – I do not care if it puts them into danger. I do not trust any of that Lothian lord’s chiels and do not want any Lothians inside looking out for Sientclers coming back here, having wormed their way into the English peace at Irvine and looking to advantage themselves.’

Androu had not thought of the Sientclers turning their cote and wanted to defend them, to point out how they had come originally, at considerable risk, to defend the place. He opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish, but the words would not marshal themselves in any order.

Thomas frowned down at the retreating back of Malise Bellejambe, then rounded on Androu like an unleashed terrier.

‘And as soon as that ill-favoured swine is on the far side of the ditch, that yett is closed and the bridge raised, to be lowered only on my say.’

He turned away to stare out the slit window, high in the great square bulk of keep.

‘When The Hardy comes back,’ he said, half-muttering to himself, ‘he will find his castle ready for war.’

Androu, who could see Tam’s mind was made up, scurried to obey.

When the bridge trembled, Dog Boy paused, then looked at the guttering torch. Gib whimpered and it was only then that Dog Boy understood what the tremble meant. They both heard the rasping thump, felt rather than saw the supports being windlassed back. Then the massive counterweight shifted and Gib gave a moan, dropped his pot and went for the rope ladder, elbowing Dog Boy to the clotted floor of the pit.

At the top, Gib shoved at the unresisting trapdoor, then started beating on it, screaming. The counterweight, a great long roll like a giant’s stowed sleeping blanket, started a slow, downward swing, dragging the outhrust, unseen beams attached by chains to the moatbridge, hauling it up.