blew a sour gust of smoke to its nostrils. It stepped sideways in a series of small, nervous steps until the man drove his spurs back so savagely that he pierced the padded trapper and made the destrier stand shivering in fear. ‘What she is’ – the man spoke to Thomas and pointed his whip handle at Eleanor – ‘don’t matter, but you’re a Scot.’
‘I’m English,’ Thomas said again. A dozen other men wearing the badge of the black axe had come to gaze at Thomas and his companions. The men surrounded the three Scottish prisoners who seemed to know who the horseman with the whip was and did not like the knowledge. More bowmen and men-at-arms watched the cottages burning and laughed at the panicked rats that scrambled from what was left of the collapsed mossy thatch.
Thomas took an arrow from his bag and immediately four or five archers wearing the black-axe livery put arrows on their own strings. The other men in the axe livery grinned expectantly as if they knew this game and enjoyed it, but before it could be played out the horseman was distracted by one of the Scottish prisoners, the man wearing Sir William Douglas’s badge who, taking advantage of his captors’ interest in Thomas and Eleanor, had broken free and run northwards. He had not gone twenty paces before he was ridden down by one of the English men-at-arms and the thin man, amused by the Scotsman’s desperate bid for freedom, pointed at one of the burning cottages. ‘Warm the bastard up,’ he ordered. ‘Dickon! Beggar!’ He spoke to two dismounted men-at-arms. ‘Look after those three.’ He nodded towards Thomas. ‘Watch ’em close!’
Dickon, the younger of the two, was round-faced and grinning, but Beggar was an enormous man, a shambling giant with a face so bearded that his nose and eyes alone could be seen through the tangled, crusted hair beneath the brim of the rusted iron cap that served as a helmet. Thomas was six feet in height, the length of a bow, but he was dwarfed by Beggar whose vast chest strained at a leather jerkin studded with metal plates. At the giant’s waist, suspended by two lengths of rope, were a sword and a morningstar. The sword had no scabbard and its edge was chipped, while one of the spikes on the big metal ball of the morningstar was bent and smeared with blood and hair. The weapon’s three-foot haft banged against the giant’s bare legs as he lurched towards Eleanor. ‘Pretty,’ he said, ‘pretty.’
‘Beggar! Down, boy! Down!’ Dickon ordered cheerfully and Beggar dutifully twitched away from Eleanor, though he still gazed at her and made a low growling noise in his throat. Then a scream made him look towards the nearest burning cottage where the Scotsman, stripped naked now, had been thrust in and out of the fire. The prisoner’s long hair was alight and he frantically beat at the flames as he ran in panicked circles to the amusement of his English captors. Two other Scottish prisoners were squatting nearby, held on the ground by drawn swords.
The thin horseman watched as an archer swathed the prisoner’s hair in a piece of sacking to extinguish the flames. ‘How many of you are there?’ the thin man asked.
‘Thousands!’ the Scotsman answered defiantly.
The horseman leaned on his saddle’s pommel. ‘How many thousands, cully?’
The Scotsman, his beard and hair smoking and his naked skin blackened by embers and lacerated by cuts, did his best to look defiant. ‘More than enough to take you back home in a cage.’
‘He shouldn’t say that to Scarecrow!’ Dickon said, amused. ‘He shouldn’t say that!’
‘Scarecrow?’ Thomas asked. It seemed an appropriate nickname for the horseman with the black-axe badge was lean, poor and frightening.
‘He be Sir Geoffrey Carr to you, cully,’ Dickon said, watching the Scarecrow admiringly.
‘And who is Sir Geoffrey Carr?’ Thomas asked.
‘He be Scarecrow and he be Lord of Lackby,’ Dickon said in a tone which suggested everyone knew who Sir Geoffrey Carr was, ‘and he be having his Scarecrow games now!’ Dickon grinned because Sir Geoffrey, the whip coiled at his waist again, had dropped down from his horse and with a drawn knife, approached the Scottish prisoner.
‘Hold him down,’ Sir Geoffrey ordered the archers, ‘hold him down and spread his legs.’
‘Non!’ Eleanor cried in protest.
‘Pretty,’ Beggar said in his voice that rumbled deep inside his huge chest.
The Scotsman screamed and tried to pull himself away, but he was tripped, then held down by three archers while the man evidently known throughout the north as the Scarecrow knelt between his legs. Somewhere in the clearing fog a raven cawed. A handful of archers was staring north in case the Scots returned, but most were watching the Scarecrow and his knife. ‘You want to keep your shrivelled collops?’ Sir Geoffrey asked the Scotsman. ‘Then tell me how many there are of you.’
‘Fifteen thousand? Sixteen?’ The Scotsman was suddenly eager to talk.
‘He means ten or eleven thousand,’ Sir Geoffrey announced to the listening archers, ‘which is more than enough for our few arrows. And is your bastard King here?’
The Scotsman bridled at that, but a touch of the knife blade to his groin reminded him of his predicament. ‘David Bruce is here, aye.’
‘Who else?’
The desperate Scotsman named his army’s other leaders. The King’s nephew and heir to his throne, Lord Robert Stewart, was with the invading army, as were the Earls of Moray, of March, of Wigtown, Fife and Menteith. He named others, clan chiefs and wild men from the wastelands of the far north, but Carr was more interested in two of the earls. ‘Fife and Menteith?’ he asked. ‘They’re here?’
‘Aye, sir, they are.’
‘But they swore fealty to King Edward,’ Sir Geoffrey said, evidently disbelieving the man.
‘They march with us now,’ the Scotsman insisted, ‘as does Douglas of Liddesdale.’
‘That ripe bastard,’ Sir Geoffrey said, ‘that shit of hell.’ He stared northwards through the fog shredding from the ridge, which was being revealed as a narrow and rocky plateau running north and south. The pasture on the plateau was thin and the ridge’s weathered stone protruded through the grass like the ribs of a starving man. Off to the north-east, beyond the valley of mist, the cathedral and castle of Durham reared up on their river-lapped crag, while to the west were hills and woods and stone-walled fields cut with small streams. Two buzzards sailed above the ridge, going towards the Scottish army that was still concealed by the fog which lingered to the north, but Thomas was thinking that it would not be long before troops came to find the men who had run their fellow Scots away from the crossroads.
Sir Geoffrey leaned back and went to return his knife to its scabbard, then seemed to remember something and grinned at the prisoner. ‘You were going to take me back to Scotland in a cage, is that right?’
‘No!’
‘But you were! And why would I want to see Scotland? I can peer down a jakes whenever I want.’ He spat at the prisoner then nodded at the archers. ‘Hold him.’
‘No!’ the Scotsman shouted, then the shout turned to a terrible scream as Sir Geoffrey leaned forward with the knife again. The prisoner twitched and heaved as the Scarecrow, the front of his padded gambeson now sheeted with blood, stood up. The prisoner was still screaming, hands clutched to his bloody groin, and the sight brought a smile to the Scarecrow’s lips. ‘Throw the rest of him into the fire,’ he said, then turned to look at the other two
