The Trail of Blood
Prologue
October 11th, 1516
It was a body all right. They could see that now. But what was so strange about it? Why did it look so different from all the other cadavers they had seen round here, hacked to death on battlefields, stabbed in their homes or battered by the roadside? Perhaps it was simply the location – on a dismal island, right on the border between the two countries. Or maybe the morning light was playing tricks on their tired eyes. There was just something about it that sent an uncommon chill through their marrow.
The steam drifted up off the water as the two bailiffs rowed their little coble across to investigate. It had been raining, and the river was swollen. They had to work hard against the current. As they did so, they kept an eye on the banks and the island itself, for it was covered in thick scrub that could conceal any number of enemies. When they neared the shore, they paused to draw their swords and laid them against the thwarts. Then they carefully dragged the boat onto the shingle, ensuring it was stable before picking up their weapons and crunching over the pebbles.
Now they could smell it, that unmistakable stench that signalled the end of earthly life. And they were not the only ones: the flies buzzed around the remains in an ominous cloud, as if the soul were trying to escape. Slowly, the idea of any killer being nearby receded in the men’s minds, so they relaxed their guard. Instead, they covered their noses and mouths as they crept forward, more fearful of disease than of attack.
Only once they had picked their way over the last line of rocks did they see what was wrong. They had not been mistaken: the body had been defiled. Or rather, its extremities had. For the body was all that there was left. There was no head. Or arms. Or legs. It was just a lumpen torso in a blood-soaked shirt.
“Well, this is a new one, even for this place,” coughed the older man, trying not to gag through his sleeve. “We’d best tell the warden.”
“What warden?” replied his companion grimly. “He’s been chopped up, too, remember?”
Chapter 1
Two days later
Antoine de Lissieu rode right up to the entrance of Holyrood Palace, as was his privilege. He had been summoned to Edinburgh at short notice, and as he handed over Carbonel to a stable boy, he mulled the potential reasons why. Over the years, he’d learnt that an urgent request was rarely a good sign, so while he dearly hoped that he might be released from his responsibilities in Scotland, he knew this was unlikely.
It wasn’t that he hated his adopted country – although Hell’s teeth, he would never get used to that icy wind which now whipped in from the German Ocean. The chaotic politics meant that there was always something to keep a man busy. The soldiers were generally dependable. And, of course, thanks to the long-standing alliance with his homeland, there was decent claret aplenty. But as he approached his fortieth year, his prospects surely required him to leave this boggy wilderness and return to Paris soon.
When Antoine reached the palace gates, the sentries saluted him and allowed him to pass without question. Two pikemen fell in behind him and followed him around the quadrangle to the governor’s office, where they handed him over to Lord Albany’s bodyguards. He noted that they were more numerous than usual. One went through the familiar ritual of knocking three times before waiting a moment and opening the immense, panelled doors. “The Chevalier de Lissieu, my lord.”
While much of the palace was still under construction, this room was well-established, and there was no denying that it was impressive. Huge tapestries from Flanders hung on the walls, and an iron chamber clock from Germany presided over the hearth. On the far side, the window had been designed to showcase the great crag of Arthur’s Seat.
Scotland’s Governor sat in front of it, reviewing a stack of ledgers. He rose immediately and extended his arms – an action which, along with his thick furs, made him look even more bear-like than usual. “Ah, my friend, it’s good to see you! You’ve come at the perfect time to rescue me from these tiresome accounts…”
Antoine noted Albany’s jovial tone but took it as another ill omen. He had helped him clamber his way to power after the carnage of Flodden three years ago and knew that he often disguised his ruthless ambition to achieve his aims. He was being softened up, then. But for what end?
“I am glad to be of assistance, my lord,” he said. “You deserve some repose after all the recent strife. Talking of which, what brings me here?”
Albany smiled and crossed the parquet floor to place a hand rather too heavily on Antoine’s shoulder. “All in good time, my friend. As you say, we have been busy recently, so let us relax awhile before we turn to affairs of state.”
The governor took Antoine by the elbow and guided him back to the door, where he instructed two of the bodyguards to escort them to the garden. It sounded like a delaying tactic to Antoine, but he had no choice but to follow all the way round the other side of the quadrangle and out through an iron gate. As the guards opened it, the cold hit him more forcefully, for the bitter wind was now laced with spits of rain. He believed that the local word for this particular combination was yillen, although there were so many terms for specific varieties of foul weather that he might be mistaken.
Undeterred by the elements, the party went down a trellis walkway, through a small herb garden and into a meadow that was being reworked in the modern style, for next spring. The trout pond had been drained, and the terracotta pots moved indoors, so there were few signs of life. However, as they passed through a newly made arbour, the silence was broken by a tremendous roar. Antoine instinctively reached for his sword, but when he looked to the guards, they were strangely relaxed. Albany gestured for calm. “Welcome to our new menagerie!” he declared, with a grand sweep of his arm.
They moved into the section beyond, where they encountered a group of labourers erecting a cage. In a nearby enclosure, a handful of monkeys huddled together in some straw, and in another, an antelope stood forlorn. Further on, there was a brick wall built at waist-height. Albany led the party to the edge and pointed down into a deep pit, where a lion was chained to a post. Its mane was tatty, and its ribs were visible through its tawny hide, but it still appeared magical enough to Antoine, who had never seen such a creature before.
“Well, what do you think?” said Albany. “This is just the start, of course, but one day, I hope we’ll have a collection of animals to rival any in Europe.”
“It is wonderful,” replied Antoine, who was genuinely enchanted. “A little bit of Africa in this icy kingdom. I only hope you’re feeding it malmsey to warm its blood!”
“Ha!” said Albany. “It’s a little weak now after its long journey. But it’s a fighter, I can tell that. If it makes the spring – God willing – it will soon be roaring in the local tongue.”
“Yes, it will be our own lion rampant,” mused Antoine. “A symbol of all that you’re doing to get this country back on its feet. But what about a humble beast like me? What role shall I have in the new menagerie you’re building? I’m eager to learn your thoughts, for I doubt you asked me here just to display your new pet.”
As the words left his mouth, he worried that they could be interpreted as impertinent, so he was relieved when Albany’s fearsome temper did not show itself. Although perhaps he detected a slight sharpness in the Governor’s reply, a signal that the true business of the day was about to be revealed?
“A new pet never dislodges a faithful friend. And you are something of a unique creature, with qualities that go far beyond our latest arrival’s brute strength. Qualities which we need right now.”
Antoine gave a modest bow. “These are trying times, my lord, but at least we are at peace.”
“For the moment perhaps. But our truce with the English expires at the end of next month. On St Andrew’s Day, no less! And to make matters worse, your own king does not wish to antagonise them by signing a new accord with us. So we are in a very delicate position. Potentially without friends – and with our enemies ready to pounce.”
Albany turned to catch his eye. There was a coldness to his gaze that Antoine had not seen in him before, the look of a powerful man who was under threat. “That is why I have asked you here, in the hope you’ll accept a new appointment. One that is crucial to this country and its very survival as a realm.”
Antoine doubted that he would have much say in the matter but quickly went over the possibilities in his mind, just in case. The most favourable outcome would see him resuming his ambassadorial duties – this could enable a temporary mission to France, if not a permanent return. Alternatively, a naval position might afford similar opportunities. More likely, though, it would be an administrative role in Edinburgh – taking over those ledgers for which Albany had no appetite. He dreaded this prospect. But in fact, the news was far worse than this.
“To get to the point, I wish you to be the next Warden of the Eastern Marches and bring order to that lawless region, once and for all.”
Antoine’s whole body tightened. The Marches were a notorious hellhole, run by corrupt warlords and bandits, not civilised men like him. Reivers, they called them, for bereavement was their stock-in-trade. This was a position without prospects, a role without hope. Still, he had to tread carefully and cite objections that did not smack of self-interest.
“Sir, I am flattered by your proposal,” he began. “But what do the troubles of one savage region have to do with the great affairs of state you mentioned a moment ago?”
“Everything,” replied Albany. “It is a tinderbox at the best of times. Now, one spark could set Scotland and England ablaze. And France, too, if we’re not careful.”
Antoine frowned. “Even so, I can’t help worrying that I am miscast. When you took off Lord Hume’s head last week, I assumed the warden’s job would go to one of his kinsfolk, as it always has. Or at least to a local we could control.”
“There are no suitable candidates left,” Albany muttered. “We took one brother’s head the next day. The other brothers are exiled or cannot be trusted – and the rival chiefs are no better.”
“But surely the appointment of a stranger will only rile the natives?”
“Who knows? After all, you can rise above their petty feuds in a way others cannot. Perhaps they will see advantages to having a foreigner at their helm?”
Antoine doubted it: many Scots already had misgivings about the number of strangers Albany was bringing in. However, he knew better than to mention this. He stroked his beard, now flecked with its first grey he had noticed recently. “And what about the English? Won’t they be upset to see a Frenchman on their border?”
“Not if you play to your strengths,” said Albany firmly. “You might be a war hero back home…”
“I hardly—”
“…but here you are a diplomat. The perfect man to pour oil over troubled waters.”
The rain was getting heavier, and the two men drew their cloaks about themselves. “Very well,’ said Antoine, hunching his shoulders. He had handled enough negotiations to see that the conversation was over and he must salvage what he could. “I will do my best, as ever, and just pray that Paris gets to hear of it.”
Albany smiled like a hunter might on cornering a deer. “Listen, my friend – if you can stabilise the Marches at this sensitive time, King Francis will be very grateful. Not only will he call you home, but he will also give you great rank. And more coin than you can carry.”
Turning back towards the palace, he fixed Antoine in that cold stare again. “All I ask is that, before you feast at his table, choke down this one last meal for me. And do it cleanly. Otherwise, we will all be devoured.”
There was another roar as the keepers threw a sheep’s carcass over the wall of the den. The lion plunged on it greedily, chewing through the ribcage and then dragging out the liver, heart and lungs. Soon, the slippery flesh was smeared all over the animal’s great maw and the muddy ground was spattered crimson.
