Dark Hunter E-Book

Fiona Watson

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 426

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'An immersive and entertaining read' – Alistair Mabbot, The Herald The year is 1317, and young squire Benedict Russell has joined the English-held garrison of Berwick-upon-Tweed after the spectacular Scottish victory at Bannockburn three years earlier. Serious and self-doubting, he can't wait for his time there to come to an end. Living on the disputed territory between Scotland and England is a precarious existence, and as the Scots draw ever closer and the English king does nothing to stop them, Benedict finds himself in a race against time to solve the brutal murder of a young girl and find the traitor who lurks within Berwick's walls.

Leseprobe

Fiona Watson is a medieval historian and writer. She is the author of A History of Scotland’s Landscapes, Scotland from Prehistory to the Present, and, with Birlinn/John Donald, Under the Hammer: Edward I and Scotland. She was the presenter of the BBC TV series In Search of Scotland. Fiona lives in rural Perthshire.

First published in 2022 by Polygon,an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

1

Copyright © Fiona Watson, 2022

The right of Fiona Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978 1 84697 611 7eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 495 5

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

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To Nick, who sustains,and Finn, who inspires

Evil is spread widely abroad these days and he knows what he did was evil too. But he is sure it was the lesser of the two.

The Canonical Hours

Matins – around 2 a.m.

Lauds or dawn* prayer – about 5 a.m.

Prime or early morning prayer – around 6 a.m.

Terce or mid-morning prayer – around 9 a.m.

Sext or midday prayer – around 12 noon

None or mid-afternoon prayer – around 3 p.m.

Vespers or evening prayer – around 6 p.m.

Compline or night prayer – around 7 p.m.

* obviously many of these ‘hours’ vary according to the season

Chapter 1

1 May 1317

The land lies beneath a heavy darkness, the moon but a sharp sliver in the western sky. The man moves slowly, bent like a yew beneath a heavy sack, his face lost under the brim of his great hat. He is afraid the sack will betray him, its bare patches threatening to reveal the terrible thing he has done. That he had to do. But it is too late to remedy that now. He must trust to the darkness and the fear he means to sow.

He glances towards the mighty gate set in the town’s walls, still closed to keep Berwick’s inhabitants safe from the marauding Scots outside even as dawn approaches. Fixing his mind on the next step, he tells himself he must not speak more than necessary.

‘Who is it?’ A shape shifts on the wall.

‘Richard Heron.’

The shape comes down a few steps, taking on the form of a man with a spear. ‘And who’s Richard Heron, and what’s he doing breaking curfew?’

‘I work for Ralph Holme.’

‘What? I can’t hear you.’

‘Ralph Holme.’ He pushes the sack further on to his shoulders. ‘I have a mad dog in here.’

‘Ralph Holme, did you say?’

‘Yes. I have a mad dog . . .’

Another man, much broader, rushes to join the first. ‘Then get it out of here.’

The first man scuttles down, averting his gaze, as if that will protect him. He removes the great wooden bar holding the gate in place and pushes it away from him with a grunt.

The man with the sack smiles, still bent low. He moves carefully, one step, then another, muttering his thanks. He knows they will remember he went out very early beyond Berwick’s walls. They might even remember his name. But they will not know who he was. The great gate bangs shut behind him.

He has many hard steps ahead of him under the weight of the sack. It is a burden he was willing to take as soon as he knew what needed to be done. Evil is spread widely abroad these days, and he knows what he did was evil too. But he is sure it was the lesser of the two.

One month earlier . . .

‘God’s teeth, will you stop singing!’ Sir Edmund twists in his saddle to growl at me, the tip of his nose livid in the frigid air. I hadn’t realised I was singing out loud, for I know how much it irks him, but it helps to coax a little cheerfulness out of the day. The cold moves through me, taking root. I can barely feel my fingers clutching the reins, but I risk a sharp slap across the cheek if I cannot stop my teeth from chattering in time to the music in my head.

‘Useless,’ Will mouths at me.

I feel the weight of my stupidity like a millstone round my neck. But I will not let them see it.

Though this is England, it is our enemies the Scots who are most at home here. It is whispered they are devils who can move from valley to valley in an instant, trailing the smell of sulphur behind them. And they do not need to coax fire, like honest men. One glance from the Black Douglas and a house or barn will glow with a white heat. But these are just peasant superstitions and I know better.

A heron rises with a terrible screeching from the river to our left, and my heart shudders long after I see what it is. We enter a wood, the grass studded with violets and stitchwort and I am thinking it would make a nice bed for a weary traveller when Sir Edmund raises a hand. After a moment we trot on, our mounts fretful. The wagon toils behind us, Ade the driver keeping his curses to himself for once.

The silent oaks and skittish birches huddle close now, pushing away the light. In a small clearing, a young deer with a stub of antlers lifts its head and darts away, the light touch of his hooves smothered by a heavy thunder. And then we see them, riders snapping branches, cleaving the air with their cries. I struggle with my scabbard, jerking my sword free as Morial lifts his head, pulling at the reins. I pull back, pressing my calves hard into his flanks, and he settles with a sharp whinny.

Like a tide, they are upon us. I see only the front rider, black curls jerking against pale skin, glittering fire in his dark eyes. Someone shouts ‘England!’ but all else is the clang of steel on steel. Raising my sword, I feel a blade scrape the air beneath my armpit and then the riders are through in a great breath of wind. ‘A Douglas, A Douglas,’ they cry. I see now they are only three fighting men, the same as us.

‘Don’t let them get around!’ Sir Edmund is screaming, but I don’t know what he wants me to do. I turn Morial, but another rider is almost upon me. I swing my sword up and it flies out of frozen fingers, curving away with serene grace. The world shatters into an insistent throbbing in my ears as I wait for Death to claim me.

The rider drops his blade arm with a scream as blood spatters my face. ‘Damned fool!’ Sir Edmund’s blade runs as red as his face turned furiously towards me.

The riders head towards the wagon, slicing at the canvas. The pale man with black hair seizes a flagon of wine, jerks out the stopper with his teeth and drinks deep as they gallop off. We sit entirely still. Then Sir Edmund draws his arm back and hits me so hard I am thrown off my horse. I lie on the soft ground and imagine the flowers coiling around me, their fragrance lulling me to sleep.

‘Get up.’ Sir Edmund looms above me before spurring on his horse.

I pull out my sword from a foul-smelling morass and wish I were dead, just to spite them.

Some hours later we sit before a much bigger river running black and deep. I want to ask Sir Edmund about the man with the pale face and burning eyes, but by the look on his face, I risk another blow if I venture any questions. The wagon lurches down the slope and on into the river, Ade’s arm rising and falling with his whip, the oxen’s flanks trembling. ‘Go, go, go!’ cries Sir Edmund, jerking his red face at Will and me. ‘Or are you waiting for a Scottish blade up your arses?’

Will leaps into the river with a triumphant ‘Ha’, his horse kicking up great plumes of water. Morial tosses his head as I dig my heels into his flanks. The water is freezing cold, but there is something exhilarating about driving through it. In only a few moments we scramble up the far bank, grins on our faces, horses shaking and stamping. Companies of reeds along the riverbank shiver in an icy breeze, but otherwise all is quiet, distant fields lifeless under a pallid sun. The good Lord knows there should be more signs of spring, but we are now in Scotland, a sinful, forsaken place.

The others ride on. I linger a moment to watch the ducks return to the rushing waters of this river they call the Tweed. A dipper flits on to a rock and disappears below the surface. With a sigh, I stroke Morial’s black head and urge him on.

In truth, this Scotland is little different to the country we have toiled through since leaving Sir Edmund’s lands in Yorkshire. All is bleak and mournful, full of wild mountains, its people as sodden and filthy as the ground they till. The very air feels thin, as if intent on conserving what little strength it possesses. I try to conjure up black-thorns frothing with white blossom, or woods carpeted with celandine gold back home in Lincolnshire. But they seem no more real than the gardens of Jerusalem or Araby.

A shout goes up as riders gallop towards us from the east, still an agitated clump at this distance. We sit, set to stone, as they become faces and limbs. Sir Edmund spits on the ground. ‘It’s Wysham. That’s his banner.’

The company draws up in front of us, Sir John Wysham – captain of the Berwick garrison – at its head. ‘Do you have news of Arundel?’ He greets Sir Edmund with a kiss. ‘I thought he was going to cut down the great forest at Jedburgh and flush Douglas out.’ He is pale and thin, with a reedy voice that makes him sound peevish. I suppose he has no reason to feel cheerful. Though the old king – father of the Edward who rules us now – conquered all of Scotland when its fiendish inhabitants rebelled some twenty years ago, God has seen fit to deprive England of all but Berwick, which means we must have sinned most grievously.

Sir Edmund frowns. ‘You haven’t heard? Arundel crossed the border more than a week ago.’ We met the earl’s company by chance on his way south, as we rode north. It was not a happy meeting.

Sir John grunts. ‘What goes on even half a day’s ride from Berwick is a mystery to us.’

‘Then I have bad news. A few boys in Arundel’s army decided to surprise Douglas at his house at Lintalee. But that devil’s scouts saw them coming, and he left the door wide open and a feast ready for eating. So that’s just what they did.’

Sir John’s eyelids flutter. ‘What?’

‘They sat down and ate. But the Scots came back. Killed more than a score of them.’

Sir John slumps into his saddle like an empty sack.

‘Arundel was still back towards the border.’ Sir Edmund sighs. ‘Douglas didn’t run away, of course he didn’t. It was a trap. Those fools set no guard and he had them like rats in a barrel. And then he came for the main company. I don’t think Arundel even knew he was there.’ His eyes narrow. ‘We met Douglas ourselves . . .’

Sir John’s face twitches. ‘Where?’

‘Just beyond Ford.’

‘What was he doing? There should be no raids till the end of the truce.’

Sir Edmund shrugs. ‘There were only three of them. Perhaps he has a whore nearby.’

Sir John gives a tight smile and turns his horse around. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Now I know that the pale man with black curls really was the Black Douglas, a fiend just like his master, Robert Bruce, who calls himself King of Scotland. We climb a long, tedious hill, the river out of sight. The sky seems altogether vast but quite empty, as if God and the saints have left the heavens.

Will stirs at my side. ‘He should have let that Scottish dog have you, Book Boy. You’re as much use with a sword as a girl.’

‘God will strike you down, just you wait. He will come when you least expect it and He will leave you in torment for the rest of your days.’ I sound exactly like Brother Arnold berating the novices.

Will snorts. ‘No, He won’t.’

‘Yes, He will.’

‘God’s teeth!’ Sir Edmund turns and shakes his head, thankfully too far ahead to hit either one of us. ‘I’ve met cockerels with more wit than you two.’

I shut my eyes and imagine myself back in Gloucester Abbey, the ‘Deum Verum’ rising and falling like a silken tide against the quiet stonework. I mouth the words, searching for the touch of God’s infinite mercy to soothe my wretched heart in such barbarous company.

The river catches up with us and at last we glimpse a pale tower and the roofs of houses crouched behind a wall of stone and timber, all that will keep us safe from the savages outside. ‘Shut us up tight now,’ Sir John says to the men guarding a huge gateway. We pass through, the great wooden doors scraping the ground before closing with a mighty thud. Our journey is over, for better or worse.

We trot through a mess of houses on either side, pass beneath another great gateway and are finally in the town. I have heard that Berwick is a noble port, for all it is in the north, and much wealth sails in and out of it. In a broad street Sir John calls Marygate, we pass some fine, well-plastered houses two or three storeys high, their timbers in recent repair. But just as many are collapsed like old cripples, with gaping windows and holes in the roofs, gardens growing plentiful crops of decaying carts and piles of rope and broken pieces of wood. We stop in front of a large three-storey building, a patchwork of plaster giving it a rough look. An archway leads into a cobbled yard and the wagon trundles in. Leaving Will to gather Sir Edmund’s gear from behind his saddle, I retrieve our master’s chest from the wagon.

As I struggle up to the first floor, a dumpy little man with flailing arms tells me he is our steward and points me up another staircase. In a low-ceilinged chamber at the top of the stairs, I put the chest down beneath the little window. Several panes are stuffed with rags and the wooden panelling on the walls is most ill-used, but it is a comfortable room, even if the fire seems almost bereft of coals. I find the bottle of vinegar in the chest and quickly clean Sir Edmund’s sword, which lies over a stool. I can do no more without a candle or proper daylight. Putting it back in the scabbard, I spit on the leather to loosen the mud and the blood, scratching at it with my thumb.

Sir Edmund thrusts the door open and strides in. ‘Where’s Will? I need food.’

‘Here I am.’ Will is behind him, all smiles and carrying a large bowl of water. He rushes over to Sir Edmund, water sloshing dangerously near the edge of the bowl, and casts a disdainful look at me. ‘You still have your boots on.’

‘Leave Benedict be. I’ve only just come in.’ Sir Edmund sits down in the chair by the fire. ‘I saw you hanging round the kitchen, cooing at that girl. You don’t waste any time, do you?’

I grin, but now he turns his great boulder of a face on me. ‘And you’ve nothing to feel clever about. Go and fetch your chest. The steward wants it out of the way.’

I run out, cheeks on fire, but can see nothing in the dark courtyard. After much searching, I find my chest abandoned in the shadows near the back door and drag it upstairs. The others have already gone to eat, and I follow them down to the hall on the floor below. Will has finished serving and sits towards the middle of a long table. Opposite him is a dark-haired fellow, plump and sweating. Sir Edmund is at the end, leaning his great head towards a handsome man of middle years who is telling him something that has him in his grip.

I slip into the seat next to Will, who turns a cold shoulder. A skinny boy ladles some broth into a piece of bread and I slurp it down, happy to be left to eat, even if there is little to taste. The dark-haired youth follows my every bite with his eyes. I pick up the remains of my bread and he sighs. ‘Do you want it?’ I hold it out.

He grabs it like a fat pigeon and begins to crunch and chew with his mouth half-open. I try the wine and nearly spew it out, it’s so bitter. The handsome man is still talking with violent hand gestures. I tap Will on the shoulder. ‘Who’s that?’

His shoulders convulse in an extravagant sigh, but he turns to me, as I knew he would, for he likes to know things I don’t. ‘That, Book Boy, is Sir Anthony Lucy.’

‘A very fine knight,’ says the youth opposite, mouth crammed full.

‘A very fine knight who was captured at Bannockburn,’ Will says quickly. ‘But not in the battle . . .’

‘Was he?’ I look at Sir Anthony again, the narrow set of his shoulders, the delicate cut of his jaw, but can find nothing there marking out such a terrible ordeal.

The plump fellow leans towards me, crumbs flying. ‘It was in some castle with a Scottish dog in charge of it. He let them in after the battle and took them all prisoner. I’m Stephen. I suppose you’re Benedict?’

I nod, trying to stay out of spitting distance.

‘Sir Anthony is my master.’ Stephen stares hard at me. ‘Will says you’re not a proper squire.’ Will sniggers.

‘I am now, whether I like it or not.’

‘Well, you won’t like it. Nobody does. There’s nothing to do but stand on the walls, and the food’s heinous.’ Stephen belches, patting his stomach. ‘We’ll not stay long, I reckon. We’re better off nearer home, in case there’s trouble.’

My sister Elizabeth springs into my mind, bringing a chill to my guts, for his words remind me that the man my mother is married to now can do no more to protect them than wring his wizened hands. I already pray for Sir Edmund to find some proper occupation with regular pay back in Yorkshire, which is not so far from our lands in Lincolnshire. If I cannot return to the abbey, I might at least be nearer Lizzie.

Will slaps the table, glowering at Stephen. ‘What kind of cowardly talk is that! We’re here to strike at the accursed Scots before they drive us into the sea. It’s every Englishman’s duty to fight and . . . and to . . . to . . .’

Stephen starts back as if he’d been whipped. I hold my breath, trying to think of something to say to bring harmony, as Master Aquinas teaches us, for his shoulders are shaking. And yet I see now it is not anger but mirth that has a hold of him. He laughs until tears dapple his cheeks. ‘You’re going to save England, are you? Well, I’m sure we’ll all sleep soundly in our beds now.’ He sits back. ‘But I doubt your master is as foolish as you. Most of the knights here are either desperate for money or needing the king’s pardon for some sin or other.’

I nod, speaking softly since I do not wish to be heard at the top of the table. ‘I’m sure you’re right. There is . . .’ I hesitate, for I would not wish to be disloyal to my master. ‘There’s a good reason why Sir Edmund thought it prudent to enter the king’s service.’

‘Have you finished telling tales, Book Boy?’ Will’s loyalties are simple. But I suppose, since he has served Sir Edmund as page and squire, it is his affections that rule him, not his mind. I have been Sir Edmund’s squire only this last, long half-year and can see things as they are.

The scraping of wood alerts us to the rising of our masters. They settle on chairs drawn around a dying fire and Sir Edmund waves us onto the floor beside them. A deerhound lying there like an unkempt carpet turns onto its back and Sir Anthony strokes its belly with his foot. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay?’ he asks Sir Edmund.

I lean forward, not breathing. Our safe-conducts last until Midsummer, some two months away. I have prayed every day we will not stay longer.

‘It depends what Arundel decides to do now. He needs to find a way to push Douglas back so we’ve a chance of taking Roxburgh once the truce is over. I don’t want to sit here on my arse waiting for those dogs to creep up on us, but I need the money.’

Sir Anthony snorts. ‘Don’t we all! I’ve a ransom to pay.’

‘Surely the king is bringing an army to Scotland, sir?’ I do not mean to speak, but the question bursts out of me.

Sir Anthony gives me a long look. ‘The king is always bringing an army north. Every year he orders a muster, and every year he cancels it. He has no money, not without parliament giving him a tax, and he won’t do what they want to get it. We’re on our own, and that’s the truth of it.’ He takes a long swig from his goblet. ‘Have you served the king before?’

I shake my head. ‘I am newly come to soldiering, sir.’

‘How so?’

I hear Will snigger again, and Sir Edmund kicks him.

‘I was supposed to be a clerk. To Sir William Martin.’

‘The king’s Justice in Wales?’

I nod.

‘Then your family has good connections. Surely they could keep you away from here?’

‘Sir William wished to honour a debt to my father for saving his life. He paid for me to go to school and my older brother Peter became his squire. But Peter . . . he went swimming last year and drowned.’ I swallow violent feelings. ‘So, I had to take on his responsibilities. Sir William thought he’d done enough, and Sir Edmund is . . . very good to have me with so little training.’ I sound ungrateful, I know. No one else would take me.

‘Swimming,’ Sir Anthony pronounces, standing up, ‘is a very foolish thing to do. Forgive me – I was on third watch last night and am weary. But I’m glad you’re here. We need more men-at-arms, not the tailors and shoemakers they’ve got up on the walls these days. Weston would have Percival up there if I let him.’ He fondles the dog’s ears. ‘God help us if there’s any fighting to be done.’

I am confused. ‘I thought Sir John had charge of the garrison. Who’s Weston, sir?’

‘He’s a John, too, but this one’s a clerk, even if he calls himself Chamberlain of Scotland. That’s the man with the money.’ Sir Anthony strides away, still talking over his shoulder. ‘Not that there is any. Forget Wysham. He only has eyes for Alice Rydale and the road out of here. It’s Weston you should keep in with. But don’t trust him and keep a close tally of what you’re owed and what you get.’ With this torrent of advice, he and his dog step swiftly through the door, Stephen running to catch up.

Sir Edmund stares after him. ‘I hate clerks.’ It’s true. His own clerk, Thomas Fleet, made it only as far as Newcastle before succumbing to a violent ague that left his huge frame quivering like an old oak in a storm. My master looks at me and plucks his lower lip. ‘I’ll need one, though, till Thomas gets his fat arse up here. Someone good at all that bookish drivel. You can do it. Go to this Weston in the morning and don’t leave till you’re sure I’ll be paid.’ He stretches. ‘I’m going to bed. Will, you can help me.’

Will smirks past and I let them leave. Stepping into the courtyard, I am assailed by the night’s chill and hurry to the stables to bury myself in Morial’s flanks. Into your hands, O Lord. I wait. An owl murmurs a nocturnal greeting nearby and I sense he is speaking to me, but not what message he brings. For I do not understand why the Lord has cast me into a life I do not want, and for which I am entirely unprepared.

Chapter 2

The dawn edges into a heavy sky as we head east along Marygate, bells ringing for Mass. Passing the market cross, we turn left into a narrow street that staggers up a gentle incline and is called Soutergate. The houses loom over our heads like giants, their timber upper storeys almost touching the ones opposite. We pass a baker’s, alive with light and heat and the scurrying of men and boys and even women. The marvellous smell of bread vexes our bellies until we turn right into a narrow lane that Stephen tells us is called Vikerwende. The Church of the Holy Trinity sits on barren ground above it and we pick our way through slumbering graves to reach its main door.

Inside, the building is narrow, with three great windows on each side and a handsome hammerbeam roof. We worshippers gather like chessmen on the stone flag-stones this side of the rood screen with protracted yawns most do not try to conceal. I bow my head, but there is no peace amidst the jostling and coughing. Will seems to have made friends with Stephen, and they whisper loudly about what they would like to do to the pretty kitchen girl.

But now they fall silent and I follow their eyes to a small procession parting the company. At its head glides a matriarch, plump as a fattened goose, her face sweetly proportioned. At her side, a small dark creature rocks and shuffles. But they are not the ones drawing every man’s gaze. Eyes fixed ahead, a girl in a gown of apple green walks like a queen through her courtiers. Her skin is as pale as the lily-flower, with a bright flush on her cheeks, her mouth a glistening cherry-red.

I have never seen a girl as lovely. Knights and merchants move out of the way, smiles leaping to faces that were crumpled and creased only moments ago. Will starts forward, lips moist, but already this little parade has stopped beside Sir John Wysham, who takes the girl’s arm, leaning close to whisper in her ear. Her mother watches like a contented Madonna.

The priest emerges through a door on the other side of the screen flanked by two acolytes waving the incense. I sing softly, closing my eyes and letting the psalms flood my heart, which is still gripped by the girl in the green dress. Alice, wasn’t that the name Sir Anthony gave her? Alice Rydale. I want to look at her, though I know I should be thinking of our Lord’s painful sacrifice. But that is impossible, too, with Will and Stephen chattering behind their hands.

We retrace our steps, raindrops stoning our faces so that I must grasp the hood of my cloak tight at my throat. Will speaks endlessly about how he wishes to steal the beautiful girl from under Wysham’s nose. He is handsome enough to do it, but that is all, and I am tired of his chatter long before we pass into our courtyard and tramp up the stairs to the hall.

Accosting the steward to discuss our keep, Sir Edmund roars his displeasure across the room at what he is expected to pay. But the steward, for all his diminished stature, stands firm. Sir Edmund stamps his foot and barks at Will to come with him to see Sir John and tells me to go and do my best with Master arsesmart Weston, the arsesmart chamberlain, or I’ll feel the back of his hand.

I force my mind on to Master Weston. It pleases me to have been given a task Will could not manage this year or next. But I don’t understand why Sir Anthony thinks we must keep a close watch on a man so trusted by the king. And surely Sir Edmund must account for what he is paid and what he spends anyway? He is always moaning about how much everything costs, and that God surely jests if He thinks he can live on a few acres of land, what with the bad harvests and the cattle disease.

Chills slither down my back, for no one has told me where the chamberlain can be found. I run back into the hall, which is empty but for a bow-backed crone sweeping the floor. She jumps as I pass and mutters something I’m glad I do not understand.

I tarry by the screen that separates the hall from the kitchen, hoping the steward comes back. It is noisy and full of smoke in here, with a cloying stench of raw meat. The cook stands adorned with a red hat, examining a small array of dead animals laid out on a well-scrubbed table. A pretty girl with apple cheeks and sweat on her brow carries an armful of wood towards the great fire in the middle of the room, where an older woman turns the spit. Others clean pots or cut vegetables, and I imagine they are happy there, in the warmth, with each other for company.

A lad with long brown hair faces the cook across the table, twisting his cap vigorously in his hands, apron smeared with rusty streaks. He must be the butcher’s boy who brought the meat. The cook nods and the boy’s shoulders soften and drop. He stuffs his hat on his head, picks up his basket, then turns and runs straight into me. I yelp as his bony shoulder drives into my arm.

‘I’s not seeing you, sir.’ He wrinkles his nose, as if the fault is mine.

‘Is Wat bothering you?’ the cook asks.

‘Not at all. No harm done.’ The boy’s face-pulling makes me smile. ‘Perhaps you should slow down.’ I speak gently, for fear I will startle him off.

‘My master be expecting me, sir.’

‘You are a butcher?’

He bobs his head down, to hide a smile. ‘Apprentice, sir.’

‘Of course.’ And if this lad delivers his master’s meat, he’ll know who lives where. ‘Tell me . . . Wat, is it?’ He nods slowly, as if this were dangerous information. ‘Do you know where Master Weston lives?’

He nods again most gravely.

‘Excellent. Perhaps you might accompany me there? I am new to Berwick and cannot yet find my way.’ I fish inside my pouch and hold up a ha’penny.

His eyes gleam. ‘Will you be quick, sir?’

‘As quick as you.’ But already Wat has scuttled through the kitchen and out of the door. I follow him at a trot across the courtyard and down the lane to the left of our house, which is narrow and muddy but pleasant, with a small wood rising behind a wall. We seem to be moving towards the river, a sharp smell of salt and seaweed thrust into my face by the wind.

Wat turns left again into a broad street, its large buildings made entirely of stone. Opposite is a fine house, a woman kneeling to scrub the entranceway with a gentle rhythm. Wat bobs up and down, pointing at the house, and I throw him the ha’penny. He grins and runs on along the road, apron buffeting skinny legs.

I slide past the woman, two men in tight-fitting gowns not troubling to glance at me as they pass on their way out. Climbing a short set of steps, I enter a wood-panelled hall, a fire snapping brightly in a metal brazier in the middle. A young man in sombre tunic and hose bustles up to demand my business. He goes back to a desk set beneath two windows and writes something down. Then he tells me to wait on a stool some feet away.

I watch him write in a great leather-bound book. He seems to be copying the contents of a pile of papers into this ledger, and I am surprised to find I do not envy him a task that once might have been mine. He glances up and catches me, so I give him a fulsome smile, as if I am a dull-witted youth who struggles to write the shortest of love letters.

I look out of the window, a milky glow of light throwing soft shadows. Two men emerge from a door to my left. One is tall, with a sharp nose and greying hair, his pale blue gown set off by the tawny fur lining it. The other is, like the clerk, dressed in dark colours, but the brown velvet is plush and unmarked, the matching fur as glossy as the man’s raven hair. ‘So, when should we expect you back?’ this one asks the other in soft southern tones.

‘God willing, we should be home around Midsummer. And I will save the best Bordeaux for you, John.’

The chamberlain smiles. ‘You say that, Walter, but I haven’t forgotten the odious stuff you tried to sell me last time.’

‘Never send your son to do your business.’

Weston pats him on the arm and they part. I stand up, but the chamberlain is already turning back into his room, and the clerk makes no move to follow him. I go over to his desk. ‘Master Weston is a busy man,’ he says without looking up.

‘Sir Edmund expects . . .’

‘Then your Sir Edmund will have to wait. Just like you.’

The sky grows darker, rain streaking the window. A boy runs in, splashing droplets across the stone flags. He spills out a rumour that the Scots have captured a Berwick ship coming back from England with supplies. The clerk jumps up, raps on his master’s door and enters. They reappear and follow the boy out.

I sigh. On the side away from the street, the slumbering remains of a garden stretch towards the town wall. An orchard of fruit trees is still half-naked, shivering in the wind. Only the cherry gives any hint of spring’s tentative approach. Passing the clerk’s desk, I look down for lack of anything better to do. The piece of parchment he was copying lies across the ledger alongside a torn scrap on which he has scribbled numerous reckonings. I hop to the other side of the desk.

I was always skilled at making numbers add up. But I cannot make sense of those written in various hands on the originals and the copy in the ledger, for none match. They are clearly quantities of grain, wine and other foodstuffs, the descriptions tallying in both. But the numbers on the copy are always higher. I take myself on a march around the hall, thankfully before the clerk hurries back through the door and returns to his desk.

Playing with the numbers in my head, I see they form a regular pattern, the higher number on the copy around one-tenth more than the original. But what do they mean? Distant church bells ring for Sext and I feel the agony of this waiting, for Sir Edmund will be angry if I tarry or if I return without success. The clerk flings down his quill and gathers up the pile he has been working from. Sailing past me, he throws them on to the fire, which briefly erupts with a great burst of light. He closes the ledger and gives a little smile to himself before disappearing through a door at the other end of the hall.

I look out at the blustery day. It matters not one jot that these numbers danced to my tune if I don’t know why the clerk changed them. I hum ‘Puer natus in Bethlehem’, eventually letting the words spill out as I cast about for an answer.

‘What do you want?’ It is not said unkindly, but I spin round in agitation. Master Weston stands with his back to the fire, hands thrust inside voluminous sleeves. Whipping off my cap, I bow low. ‘Benedict Russell, sir. We are newly come from Yorkshire. In the garrison. Sir Edmund Darel is my master.’ I wonder if disturbed thoughts are easily read on my face. I must remember why I’m here.

‘Ah, yes. Step this way.’ He sweeps back into his room, whose walls are adorned with pictures of saints set against a dark blue background edged with clouds of golden stars. I look with joy at St Ambrose, bees buzzing around his halo, for he was the first to set choirs singing responses to one another.

Master Weston sits down behind his desk. ‘So, you are dressed like a squire, but sing like a scholar. Which is it?’

‘Both, I suppose. Sir Edmund’s clerk is at Newcastle. With an ague.’

‘I see. You have a fine voice. Where did you learn?’

‘Gloucester Abbey, sir.’

He leans back. ‘You’re a long way from there, Benedict Russell. But we must go where God chooses, must we not?’ He rummages on his desk and finds a well-thumbed manuscript. ‘Write down the names of Sir Edmund’s company and I will start his account once I have ascertained the terms of his service with Sir John.’

He motions me over to a table furnished with quills and ink and I write quickly, eager now to tell Sir Edmund of my discovery. Outside the clerk has returned, ignoring me entirely. But he has no reason to feel superior.

Sir Edmund rubs his forehead vigorously. ‘So, every payment that goes into Master Weston’s ledger is for more than what’s on the documents they’re copied from?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not a mistake?’

‘No.’

‘And what was this scoundrel copying?’

‘I think they’re bills for supplies, probably for the garrison. Grain and wine, that sort of thing.’

Will yawns loudly.

Sir Edmund throws an almond at him. ‘But then he burnt them, which shows he was up to something.’

And now I understand and wonder how I did not before. ‘Sweet Jesu! He’ll be charging us what’s in the copy, won’t he? I mean, for the food you buy us out of the king’s wages.’

‘The thieving dog!’ Clasping my shoulder, he squeezes hard. ‘Good work.’

I feel a warm glow even as my belly aches, for what if I’m mistaken? I cannot imagine why the chamberlain should deliberately deceive the king’s own men. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?’

He frowns. ‘We must speak to Wysham. He must not allow it. But first you must get proof.’ He scratches the rough surface of his ponderous chin.

I feel as if he has punched me in the stomach. ‘But how can I do that?’

‘You’re a clever lad. You’ll think of something. But we’ve got more important things to do now. Where did Wysham say we could practise the sword, Will? Mary Fields, was it? No, Magdalene. Go out the Cowgate, wherever that is.’

I groan to myself. Peter and I trained together when we were boys, but that is many years ago and I have not proved an able pupil despite Sir Edmund’s efforts to teach me, setting me against Will time and again these last months. Will has dealt me many a scratch, for he feints and parries well, dancing in and out while I lumber around trying to get near him.

We walk up towards the church, the sharp, foul smell of the sea catching the back of my throat even here. An easterly wind cuts through the gaps between the houses, sending the townsfolk scurrying about their business, heads down, cloaks wrapped tight to the body like armour. I have rarely seen faces so pale, as if this northern climate sucks the blood from a man as effectively as any leach. I wonder if it will happen to me and how I can endure this constant, pinching cold.

We walk past the church and across a wasteland full of the foundations of houses, where thorn bushes have knitted themselves into stone and timber. And yet people must live here, for canvas tents droop and flutter within the foundations, clothes drying in the bushes and fires spluttering in the damp air. The Cowgate stands open ahead of us, a couple of soldiers leaning on spears.

‘Whose tents are those?’ I ask them.

A small man with a bulbous nose and shocking red hair pulls a face. ‘Nobody you’d want to know. Beggars and thieves, to a man. If they give you some noisy lament about the terrible deeds done to them, you just come to me and I’ll give them a good kicking.’

We go through the gate, walking between rows of conical hives. The yellow blossom on nearby tangles of gorse quiver and buzz with armies of bees guzzling at the nectar. Beyond, small flocks of woolly cows and scrawny sheep graze intently on a grassy meadow, the sea showing white skirts in the distance. Two old women shuffle towards us, one nodding so often she seems to be in constant agreement with her companion. They smile and remark that it has turned out a fine day and, what with all the nodding, we can scarcely disagree.

I place my left hand at the mid-point on my sword – which belonged to Peter and, before him, our father – trying to feel its weight so it could sit unaided on my palm. I think I am ready to pounce and escape at the same time, but there’s already a fog inside my head. Will comes close, his blade a dull flash before it deals me a blow to my side. Sir Edmund throws up his arms, face glowing. ‘Satan’s arse. No!’ He grabs me and tries to put me how he wants. But I doubt I will ever be in the right place.

Sir Edmund and Will have gone to see about a new saddle in the Ness, a part of town where, according to Sir Anthony, you can buy a pair of Christ’s sandals if you so desire. It is hard to fill the long hours even now we’ve been assigned to the watch, and the day stretches endlessly ahead of me with nothing to do but practise my sword. At Gloucester, where I would spend hours reading in the peace of the cloisters or working in the garden, feeling the warm soil gather life to it, I did not know the freedom I had. For all the times I cried for my mother, for the pain and humiliation of Brother Sextus’s cane burning my fingers for fumbled Latin, for the nights I shivered beneath a threadbare blanket, I would endure it all a thousand times if I did not have to stay another minute here, where even our horses whinny and complain for lack of decent food and exercise.

What I really yearn to do is sit somewhere in perfect tranquillity. Alas, I cannot ask Stephen where to find such a place, for he will certainly tell Will, who will mock me without mercy. But I have an ally in Wat, the butcher’s boy, whose cheerful face I see almost every day and who is always happy to answer questions without comment. The monks at Gloucester were Benedictines, but he tells me there are no Black Monks here, only Franciscan Grey Friars, whose house lies in the northern part of town. After one shower has stormed past, I hasten to the top end of Soutergate before the next one blows in over the walls.

Standing at Berwick’s northernmost point, I am drawn to stand beneath the Waleysgate, as if a siren is singing to me from outside. It is surely the very edge of the known world. Beyond, the land lies quietly, coils of smoke from a few distant dwellings smudging the heavy sky. But like deadly serpents concealed beneath a pile of autumn leaves, I imagine an infinite army of Scots rising from beneath the soil, sweeping like locusts across the sleeping fields and over the town wall, into every house, every barn and workshop and on across the Tweed, destroying everything until the English nation is driven into the sea.

I shiver, the wind bringing a tear to my eyes. To my left, the top half of a church keeps watch over the friary wall. I knock on a small wooden door, the gate-keeper wheezing through my request to gain admittance. Entering the cloisters, I pause to breathe in the contented harmony of the place. But a commotion behind me drives me quickly into the church.

I stand, adjusting my eyes to the gloom. The nave is mean and narrow, crammed between two aisles along which a few columns rise. I move further in, the screen to my right and the choir beyond. An image of St Francis, dove on one hand and tiny tree in the other, rises out of the gloom on the far wall. He looks straight at me, keeping me in his gaze when I move. I smile and settle behind a column near him. I feel as if I have spent long days in the desert and have an urgent, aching thirst, for I have scarcely looked at any scripture since I left Gloucester.

I want to feel the joy that comes from sending song up towards the heavens: I will bless the Lord at all times; praise shall be always in my mouth. I sought the Lord, who answered me, delivered me from all my fears.

But that is no longer true, for He has sent me here.

A sharp rush of wind alerts me to the church door opening, and I peer round to see who is coming into the gloom. A great, black bird lurches from side to side across the floor. I shrink behind my pillar, studying it closely for sharp claws. It comes closer still and I hear it muttering: ‘Sir Gawain is a knight. He wields a sword with bite. He loves his lady dear. For him she sheds a tear.’

It is a girl. A strange misshapen creature but a girl, nonetheless. Her face is sharply pointed, skin paler than the grave, with hair of midnight black cloaking her face. She stands no higher than a child of ten, but her face is somewhat older.

I shrink further behind the pillar. There is a shuffling and grunting, then silence. I have seen her before, with her mother and gentle Alice in the Church of the Holy Trinity. I do not care to sit here any longer, for she has scattered any peace that might have descended upon me. Standing up, I see she lies on her front, hair hanging like a curtain as she examines something in her hands. Immediately her head jerks up, two large eyes gleaming like moonstone. With surprising strength, she sweeps something off the floor and pushes herself up with her arms until she sits, half-collapsed, in front of me. ‘What did you do that for?’ she asks fiercely. ‘You fright- ened me.’

‘I wanted to leave but couldn’t without disturbing you.’

‘So, it’s my fault, is it?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

She turns her face away, nose pointing towards the door. ‘Well, go now.’

‘I’ll go when I please.’ I speak loudly, for she is surely as weak in her mind as she is in body. ‘What do you have in your hands?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

I see I must be firm. ‘Tell me.’

She brings her hands out of her lap and there, carefully cushioned, is a tiny wren.

‘Oh!’ I cannot help myself. ‘What are you doing to it?’

She sighs. ‘I’m trying to mend its wing, but I’ll need sticks and strips of cloth.’

I see she has tied a red ribbon round the little creature to stop it flapping. I sit down. ‘May I see?’

‘Will you be careful?’

‘Of course.’

‘There’s no “of course” about it.’ But she places her hands over mine, releasing the wren gently.

I can feel its heart beating. ‘Where did you find it?’

She almost smiles. ‘On the ground beneath the rowan at the door.’

‘Are you by yourself?’

‘Of course not. Mother is with Brother Leonard. We sell the friars what supplies they do not receive in alms.’

I blink. ‘Your mother has a shop?’

She tuts. ‘My mother is a merchant. As was my father before he died.’

I look down at the wren, struggling against its bond, and wonder if Alice is here too.

‘Give her back before you hurt her.’

I do not like the way she speaks to me but am afraid for the wren. She reaches for the bird, and I put my hands around hers, feeling the softness above and below.

‘I am Lucy Rydale. Do you have a name?’

‘Me?’

She grins like a demon. ‘Is there someone else here?’

‘Benedict Russell.’

‘And why are you here, Benedict Russell?’

‘I am in Berwick because I am squire to a knight in the garrison. And I am in the church because I am used to them and like them.’

‘How so?’ Someone shouts outside and the girl looks up with a frown. She thrusts the wren into a pocket and pulls herself slowly upright.

‘Lucy! For pity’s sake, where are you?’ The voice seems to be coming nearer to the church. It is Alice, I’m sure of it.

The girl has just begun her ungainly shuddering across the nave when the door flies open, framing two figures against the light outside. One has the girth of a fattened pig, the other is as graceful as a willow. I wonder that these three should be so close in blood.

Alice runs to her sister and tries to gather her up. ‘I said she’d be here.’

The girl pushes at the encircling arms most churlishly. ‘Let go! I don’t need your help.’

‘Come now, don’t quarrel,’ their mother entreats, holding out a hand to her disagreeable younger daughter, who takes it with a little sigh. ‘My head hurts from Brother Leonard’s wheedling. He forgets I have mouths of my own to feed.’

The girl tugs at her mother’s sleeves and says something in a low voice. I see them glance towards where I’m standing in the shadow of the pillar. Surely this Lucy is about to call me over to make lovely Alice’s acquaintance and I think I will at least dwell happy knowing she is aware I exist. But it seems the girl does not have the manners to bring me to their notice and I would feel foolish bursting upon them like some rustic dolt.

‘What have you been doing, Lucy?’ The maiden’s voice is the murmur of a river.

‘Counting sheep and making a profit. Other than that, nothing at all.’

I see Lucy Rydale laugh as they turn and walk away without even a backward glance, leaving me angry and bereft.