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‘There is rot in it,’ Isabel said flatly and Wallace chuckled harshly.
‘I ken that, lady,’ he replied. ‘Pain, too – if ye as much as blaw on it, it hurts as bad as if ye had struck me.’
‘We will needs do more than blow on it,’ Isabel answered and Wallace’s throat apple bobbed twice, then he nodded. The smile was gone.
‘Ah spier ye, lady – fit’s gan wrang?’
The voice was thick, the accent strange from the black-carapaced Fergus the Beetle. Isabel explained as best as she thought the man would understand and he nodded, blued bottom teeth sucking his top lip, brows lowered in a frown and eyes peering from the tangle of hair and beard, his face dark from sun and dirt, sheened with grease as protection against wind and rain.
‘Ah howkit oot a daud o’ muck frae it,’ he told her. ‘Black as the De’il’s erse, beggin’ the blissin’ o’ ye, lady. Wull he gan live yet?’
‘Away with ye, Fergus,’ Wallace said gently, hearing this. ‘Leave the good wummin to her skill.’
She had water heated and brought, with cloths and a keen, sharp skewer; Wallace followed it with his eyes, then met hers. Isabel felt clammy at what she had to do to a wound that hurt with a breeze on it, but he swallowed once, then nodded.
‘Hold him,’ she ordered and his men went to shoulders and feet. She hovered the skewer over it and saw him brace – then she struck.
He howled, thrashed, vomited and fainted. The skewer went flying from her hand and skittered across the rushed flags; even as it did she knew she had failed.
It took ten minutes for him to recover. Slick with new sweat, he managed a wan grin from the whey of his face.
‘I have the idea o’ it, now, lady,’ he said and held out his hand for the skewer. ‘Ye have the strength o’ purpose but no arm for the deed.’
She handed it to him and he wrapped all but the last fingerjoint length of it in a cloth while she watched, fascinated and appalled. Could she do this if it were her suffering?
He placed the tip of the skewer gently, just where she indicated and the blue-black mass seemed to Isabel to be pulsing now. Then he nodded to Fergus and the others, who came up and placed their hands on him in readiness.
‘Bigod,’ he said, lifted one great fist and hammered it down on the handle of the skewer.
When he came to his senses for the second time she had placed both fists on either side of the punctured wound and squeezed a festering, stinking mass of green-black pus until the blood flowed cleanly. Then she washed it in clean water and bound it in a warm bran poultice and made him a drink of henbane, knotgrass and yarrow.
He drank it obediently, made a face.
‘What did ye lace into this?’
She told him.
‘I stirred in some honey,’ she added, ‘which is what you do wi’ wee boys.’
He grinned, though his face was still pale.
‘I thought ye had poured in a pint o’ my pish, rather than taste it yersel’ to find what is sufferin’ me.’
She tidied up stinking cloths and bowls, moving soft so that the men, Fergus among them, would not be woken, though she doubted a shrieking Devil could have stirred them.
‘I have no need to lick your piss, or cast your astrology,’ she told Wallace, smiling the while, ‘for it would still come out the same – yon wound had black bile in it. If ye keep the cloths clean and take rest, ye will be none the worse in a few days.’
He experimented and grinned admiringly at her.
‘Och, the pain is vanished entire already. I will sleep the night a bit an’ be gone away by mornin’.’
‘You need more rest than that,’ she argued. ‘Some decent meals would not go amiss either.’
He frowned and shook his infested tangle of hair.
‘I have not far to go. Tam Halliday at Moffat is a safe place. We go there when all else has failed us.’
She looked sharply at him.
‘You should not be tellin’ me that, where other ears can hear. That said in a kitchen is told in a hall, sir.’
He shrugged and gave her back a lopsided smile.
‘Yer husband kens fine I am headed for there. He is safe now – I am here, am I not, at his instruction?’
‘Is he so safe, then?’
The words were out before she could stop them and he cocked his head on one side.
‘Give yer tongue more Fair days than yer head, lady,’ he replied, his smile robbing it of sting. ‘He has good points, has yer husband.’
She flushed at his chiding and he sighed a little and waved one hand.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘the man is a lion in his own cause.’
‘His cause is himself,’ Isabel persisted warningly and Wallace nodded.
‘Exactly so – and so it is that he has need o’ me. His cause is the spoiling of Bruce, ever the Comyn way, which is why he needs me, to keep Bruce dangling on declaring a kingship that belongs to John Balliol.’
He paused and the smile grew broader.
‘Mind, I would not be as sure o’ the new wee Lord o’ Badenoch, Comyn though he is.’
She nodded, knowing Red John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch since his father’s death, had his own claims to the throne. A cousin to her husband and more important because of his lineage, that wee red-headed lord could be tempted – save that he was still currently imprisoned for his part in the rebellion. She had no doubt that he would wheedle his way out, as everyone else had.
She thought of Hal and wondered where he was.
‘I will let you sleep, Sir William,’ she answered, turning away with the light.
‘Have ye seen ony o’ yer man?’ he asked, soft, gentle – and vicious as a slap. It made her turn and put one hand to her throat at the sudden rush of memories. All she could do was shake her head and he gave a long, slow series of nods in answer.
‘A good man is Hal o’ Herdmanston,’ he went on, speaking low, his face almost vanished in the dim beyond her light.
‘Not a name welcomed by some in this house,’ she managed.
‘Blue’s beauty, red’s all taken, green is grief and yellow forsaken,’ he replied, half to himself and she heard his chuckle. ‘I still have memory o’ the words o’ love, ye see, for all that it seems to have passed me by.’
‘Leave,’ she said suddenly, flooded with sadness for the man. ‘Leave this land. Find a life elsewhere. Peace …’
The chuckle was dry, rasping as talons on a wall.
‘Too late.’
His eyes glazed and she knew he was looking to a future that might have been.
‘Is John Balliol worth this?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Is any king?’
Wallace snapped from his reverie.
‘There speaks the Eden serpent’s yin true friend,’ he replied, though his grin took any venom from it. He leaned forward a little, his face set, his eyes hot.
‘John Balliol is our liege-lord,’ he said. ‘To fight for anything else in this riven kingdom is simply to forge your own chains on behalf of some usurping tyrant.’
He leaned back on the pillow and managed a tired smile.
‘And if that is too fine coming from the brigand likes of me, then settle for this – too many men would bid me to a roast an’ stick me with the spit these days. I have picked my road and will walk to the end o’ it.’
She felt a wave of sorrow and, suddenly, his face formed in the sconce light as he rose up and thrust his stare at her, serious as a stabbing. For a moment she thought he had felt her pity and was ashamed of it – then realized that all the pity came from him.
‘Your road, lady, is forked an’ ye have stood at the cross for too long. Birk will burn be it burn drawn; sauch will sab if it were simmer sawn. Mark me.’
In the morning, he bid her farewell with thanks and a gift which she hid from Buchan. Then he and all his men were gone, leaving only the sour smell and the litter behind. Buchan, risen and breakfasted early, was able to take leave of his wife at the house door in daylight, as if only he and his entourage had arrived.
‘Wife,’ he said, grunting up on to the palfrey. He felt a sudden rush of utter sadness, for her as much as himself and for what might have been if matters had twisted differently. She was beautiful still, while the events of the night before and the reason for his coming at all showed the strength and skills of her. A fine countess she would have made.
Then the memories of all her stravaigin’, her slights and breathtaking dishonours wrenched pity from him and he nodded over her head, to the spider-leg thin Malise at her back.
‘Watch,’ he said and turned the horse’s head.
She stood as if dutifully mourning his going, but her mind turned Wallace’s words over and over. Wood will burn even if drawn through water and the willow will droop if sown out of season.
Five years she had resisted her natural inclinations, shackled by the knowledge that, if she stuck to the bargain, Hal would remain safe from Buchan’s wrath.
Did he still hold feelings for her, after all these years?
Could she fortress herself against the promise of them for longer?
Riccarton Chapel
Midnight
The tchik, tchik seemed like a forge hammer on an anvil in the chill dark of the place, bouncing off the hidden stones; the sparks seemed big as cartwheels. It did not seem possible for any one of them not to start a major conflagration, never mind smoulder some firestarter charcoal into embered life.
‘There are dead folk here,’ Sim Craw intoned. Lamprecht snorted; he heard the fear in the man’s voice and it pleased him to see this great beast rendered trembling by the dark and the dead. Neither of them held any fears for Lamprecht.
‘That is the usual purpose o’ a crypt,’ Kirkpatrick said dryly and his face was suddenly looming out of the dark, reddened as an imp’s in the fires of Hell, cheeks puffed as he blew the spark into a tiny blossom of flame, fed the nub end of a candle to it and then the candle to the lantern.
Light bloomed, making them blink and look away even as they crept closer to it. For all his insouciant airs, Hal thought, Kirkpatrick is as ruffled as the rest of us; he had heard the lantern’s loose horn panels rattle in the tremble of the man’s hand. Then he looked at the red-dyed devil face of Lamprecht and corrected himself. All ruffled save this, he thought.
Four stone kists glowered in the flickering shadows and Hal saw that every wall of the place was niched with small, square holes. The common folk are turfed up in the chapel yard but this place is reserved for the priests, Hal thought, with the stone tombs for the start of it then, when only the bones are left, they are stuffed in a hole in the wall. Cloistered in death as in life.
‘Is this the very kist, then?’ Sim hissed and Hal saw the only one without a heavy cover.
‘Aye,’ Kirkpatrick grunted, moving to the door at the top of three worn stone steps. It led to the inside of the chapel and Hal hoped it would be an easier opening than the one that had led to this place.
Choked with weeds and disuse, it had to be dug out and each grunt and thump of it panicking them with discovery. They had brought three of the steers with them, to pretend they were gathering them up from grazing among the dead, but it was not much of an excuse. Dog Boy had been left at the entrance, as much for the trinity of kine as a guard for the backs of the ones in the crypt.
‘Ach – it is empty.’
Sim’s voice was still a hissed whisper, but disappointment had robbed him of his fear, so that it was loud and seemed louder still in the echo of the place.
‘Weesht.’
Kirkpatrick’s scowl was matched by a notched eyebrow of Sim’s own.
‘I only thought there might be someone in it,’ he protested. Loudly.
‘I have no care if Christ’s very bones are in it,’ Kirkpatrick spat back. ‘I should have handed ye a horn and had ye announce us.’
‘Open the bliddy door,’ Sim responded in a low mutter and Kirkpatrick drew out his dagger, the four sides of it winking malevolently. Hal and Sim waited, half-crouched as if the niches of the place would erupt shrieking demons, but there was only the smell of stone and old must. Yet the square holes of the place seemed like accusing black eyes on Hal’s back.
The rending creak was a rasp along all their nerves, so that Kirkpatrick stopped at once and everyone froze.
‘No horn needed,’ Sim growled bitterly and Hal silenced him, deciding that matters had gone far enough between him and Kirkpatrick. The latter put away his four-sided dirk and heaved the door open, heedless of the shrieking grate of it.
‘Who is in here anyway?’ he demanded into their wincing. ‘A rickle of old bones, yon wee priest and Jop himself, too huddled in a hole to be a bother.’
Jop was not cowering, for they found him after creeping, mouse-quiet, through the chapel, a place as simple as a barn, no transepts, with a second-storey campanile and beams just visible in the light.
Vine leaves painted an eye-watering green adorned the corbels and capitals of pillars built into the half-stone walls and lurid, flaming scenes from the scriptures jumped out from rough white plaster on every side; Hell burned more fiery in the glimmer of Kirkpatrick’s lantern.
There was a font near the door, no more than a large bowl on a plinth and, apart from an altar on a dais, nothing else but a worn flagged floor. Above the altar was a painting of Saint Christopher bearing the Christ Child, who scowled disapprovingly at the unlit sanctuary lamp.
There was no sign of the priest they had seen earlier – but Jop was up and fiercely challenging when they came through the door to his room, up some stairs of the wooden campanile and one level below the belfry itself.
‘Who’s this – who the De’il are you?’
He was big, Hal admitted, seemingly bigger in the low-ceilinged room, already crowded with a truckle bed, a stout kist and a brazier of red coals. Copper hair, a fierce eye, big shoulders – for a moment they all three thought they had stumbled on The Wallace by accident.
Yet a second glance told the truth of it – the face was the same, but as if someone had stuck bellows in the mouth and puffed it up. The eye was fierce, but the heart behind it was not. The height was the same, but the shoulders were fatty and the belly an ale cask.
‘Jop,’ Kirkpatrick declared and hauled out the four-sided dirk, so that the big man backed away, collided with the truckle and sat so hard Hal heard it splinter.
‘Who sent ye?’ the man hoarsed out and Kirkpatrick chuckled.
‘Nobody in London, if that is what ye think,’ he replied. ‘Though ye will speak of that place afore we are through.’
‘No English neither,’ Hal added. ‘Though Longshanks will be anxious to ask you aboot the cross ye have snugged up somewheres.’
