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

‘Are ye feared, laddie?’

The soft voice stung Bruce and the Auld Templar saw the lip come out.

‘I might hurt you, sir.’

‘You may dream of it,’ the Auld Templar chuckled, then his face grew set and dark. ‘I will come at ye, sirra, in the count of three. There will be blood on this yard and if ye don’t fight me as if ye meant it, it will be yer own, I swear. Mak’ a warrior of ye, yer da declares, even if it kills ye. So set to.’

Bruce felt the prickle of anger and fear.

‘Three,’ said the Auld Templar suddenly and came at him, so that Bruce yelped, barely managing to deflect the overarm broadsword stroke in a bell-clang shock that stunned his whole arm. What followed was the most intense three or four minutes of his life to that point, a whirr of blades scything like light and, at the end of it, the Auld Templar cursed and hurled himself away, sucking the back of his hand, where Bruce’s blade had nicked him.

Bruce, panting and wild-eyed, watched him suck and spit, then chuckle, his grey beard splitting in a smile.

‘Now ye ken what it is like when some enemy aims to kill ye. Now here is what ye do to thwart him.’

He remembered it all in the time it took Fulk to flick out the dagger from the small of his back and bring it round in a wicked snake-strike aimed at Bruce’s throat.

Kirkpatrick called out, sharp and high, but Bruce did not shy away from the stroke; the Auld Templar’s lessons were strong in him and he stepped forward into the attack as smooth as dancing and slammed his armoured forehead into Fulk’s face. The Gascon dagger ground off the rim of Bruce’s bascinet helmet and hissed harmlessly over the maille aventail.

The Gascon, with no maille or helmet, went reeling away, spitting blood and pungent curses. The man with the banner started forward only to stop short, as if leashed by Sim’s great bellow. He paused, half-crouched and scowling, looking at the great, spanned crossbow pointed at him.

‘At this range, chiel, it will rip ye a new hole in your arse,’ Sim declared, smiling amiably, even though he knew it was unlikely the man understood him.

Fulk struggled like a beetle, finally righted himself and sat up; his men were milling, seeing their leader go down and shouting out, collecting weapons.

‘That was well done,’ Fulk said, climbing to his feet, a lopsided bloody smile on his face. He spread his arms in apology. ‘I had to try. You are a fair ransom and we are mercenaries, when all said and done. I would not have lasted long as leader if I had passed up this chance. Now, of course, matters are worse for me.’

‘You are a fool,’ Bruce said and Hal saw that rage had switched him to French. ‘I have a writ from the lord who pays you – if you had succeeded, he would have hanged you. There was no reason for blood to be spilled here. There still is not – walk away.’

Kirkpatrick had reined round and was galloping off, but Bruce did not turn at the sound, though Fulk did, knowing the man was going to fetch more men. It had been a bad day, dumped on his nethers like a child in front of his hard men. There was only one way back from that …

He drew his sword and Bruce sighed.

‘My lord …’ Hal said, concerned that an earl was putting his life at risk in a brawl. Sim kept the crossbow levelled at the banner-carrier, while the Dog Boy sat his mount, eyes wide, mouth open.

Fulk came forward, all at a rush, so that Bruce barely had time to clear his scabbard and parry the brief flurry of strokes. That had been the mercenary’s best chance, though he did not know it at the time. What followed, Hal saw, was a lesson in fighting.

Fulk was powerful and skilled, fought like a mercenary, without finesse and out to finish matters as swiftly as possible. He cut left, right, feinted, slashed at the legs, and Bruce, stepping backwards, weight on the back foot, met each one; blades clanged, sparks flew.

The Gascon paused then, breathing heavily, realising he faced a different temper of opponent than usual. Yet the man was an earl, a Tourney fighter, unused to the real world …

He started on a new series of cuts and slashes, found himself, shockingly, face to face with Bruce, who had stepped inside the arc of the sword. A hand took his wrist; Bruce spat in his eyes and stabbed downward with his own weapon, so that the fine-honed point went into the instep of Fulk’s left foot.

Blinded, the agony a shriek that went all the way to the groin and belly of him, Fulk staggered away, flailing wildly though he could not do much since his swordhand was gripped in what seemed like a forge vice. Bruce followed, jerked savagely and tore the sword from the Gascon’s grip as the man dragged screaming pain across his face, raking his own nose and forehead with his maille-backed gauntlet in an attempt to get Bruce’s spit out of his eyes.

He cleared them, but had time only to see Bruce’s sword go up and shied away from it. His own, in Bruce’s left hand, came up in a whirling stroke, wet and ugly, that took him under the armpit, cut the arm, half the chest and all life bloodily away.

The Gascons growled and started forward – then stopped. Kirkpatrick came pounding up with a score of riders behind him, Bangtail and others to the fore with their wicked Jeddart staffs waving.

‘We are leaving,’ Bruce said to the banner bearer. ‘You may have this offal when we are gone.’

He wiped Fulk’s blade clean on the man’s own jupon, smearing a red slick through the three green larks. Then he drove it into the ground, sheathed his own, mounted and rode off, his back to the Gascons in as pointed a gesture of scorn as anyone had seen.

‘By Christ, he can fight, though,’ Sim said admiringly as they caught up with each other, trailing in his wake and surrounded by the warm, safe, leather and horse stink of their own men. Bruce heard it and half turned, smiling wryly.

‘The German Method,’ he said and saw their bemused looks. Then he laughed and spurred ahead, so that only Kirkpatrick saw the tremble in the hands that held the reins so lightly, for he knew The Bruce as he knew his own hands, knew the fears in him were the same as other men and that the greatest one was not the Curse of Malachy, but failing to be anything less than best.

Kirkpatrick also knew that Bruce, for all he treated his henchman like a loyal dog, had long since relied on the skill, discretion and care Kirkpatrick lavished. Bruce thought he knew why the Closeburn noble did this and would have been surprised to find that Kirkpatrick, though he had once thought the same, was no longer as sure that it was only for advancement.

That night, with the fires sprouted like red flowers in the dark, Bruce came down to where Hal sat with the rest of the Herdmanston men. That itself was strange, for he had a panoply to shelter in, a great affair of blue and white with ropes as complex as ship rigging and a whole bed frame in it – he was a belted earl of the realm and used to the style of it.

Yet he arrived into the middle of the Herdmanston clutter, so that the chat died like a smothered candle.

‘I would share fire and a cup, if you have it,’ he said in careful English and with a lopsided smile, then waved a leather bottle in one hand so that it sloshed. ‘In case the cup is empty, I brought something to fill it.’

‘Welcome and doubled,’ Hal answered, realising Bruce was drunk. Since there was little else to do but be polite, he smiled and offered the earl his own seat by the fire. Yet Bangtail and the rest sat, awkward and silent, even when they shoved out their horn cups to have the contents of the bottle splashed waveringly in it.

‘Is Fitzwarin not joining us?’ Hal asked politely and Bruce, his face pure as a priest’s underclothes, announced that the Lord Fitzwarin was playing chess with Kirkpatrick. Hal did not say more; he knew already – as did everyone – that the haughty and annoying Fitzwarin, forever harping on about his kinship with De Warenne himself, grated on Bruce. No-one would be sorry to see the arse of him vanish over a horizon.