The Kingdom Series Books 1 and 2: The Lion Wakes, The Lion At Bay. Robert Low
in one hand, cake in the other, wanted to rub the affected bit but could only wriggle it, looking warily from the man to Fergus, who jerked his head silently at him to go. Heedless of the blood on his hands, Dog Boy crammed the honeycake in his mouth, then darted for the kennels, holding his puny biceps.
‘You are?’ Fergus said and the man lifted his head haughtily.
‘Malise Bellejambe,’ he declared. ‘Sir Malise Bellejambe,’ he added pointedly. ‘And you will lose a kitchen full of honeycakes if you keep that attitude with wee thieves.’
‘Sir,’ Fergus declared, in a tone that made it clear he did not believe the title for a moment. ‘I remember you from before. You came with the Earl of Buchan. Now you are back. Whit why?’
Malise wanted to force the man to his properly deferential knees, but managed a shaky smile instead.
‘The Countess has become strayed from his entourage,’ he said. ‘The Earl fears she may have gotten lost and is mounted on yon great beast of a warhorse, which is not one for a woman to ride. The roads are no place for a woman alone.’
He paused and smiled, as if a little ashamed of his lord’s indulgences in letting his wife gallop around the country astraddle a warhorse, without escort or even chaperone. The memory of her escape burned him – Christ’s Bones she was a cat-cunning imp of Satan. Stole away while they all slept and managed to take the damned warhorse with her; Malise had been in a panic since, for he knew Buchan would suspect that their sleep was fuelled by drink and that they had been less than watchful. It was the truth, but not what Malise wanted to have to tell his master.
‘The Earl has sent me to guide her back. I thought she might have returned here.’
There was silence for a moment, for all remembered the noises of the Earl punishing his wife, and Fergus thought, vehemently, that it was scarce a surprise that the Countess had run off. Wisely, he did not voice it.
‘Aye – as to that I could not say,’ Fergus declared instead and rounded on the silent, still, open-mouthed scullions, raking them with his eyes until they became a sudden flurry of activity.
‘No such lady is here,’ he added. ‘The Douglas Lord and Lady, bairns and all are gone elsewhere. Thomas the Sergeant is left as steward, so you would be wise to speak to him.’
Malise stroked his chin as if considering it.
‘There was a quine,’ he said. ‘Agnes, I believe her name was. Acted as tirewoman to the Countess when she visited here. I would speak with her.’
His diffidence was a lie, for he knew the trull well enough to remember the sway of her hurdies and the lip-licking promise it gave. It was desperation to seek her out in the hope that she knew where the Countess had gone – but Malise was all rat-frantic now. Fergus raised an eyebrow.
‘She will be here somewheres,’ he said. ‘As I say – best to talk to Thomas and let him ken you are nosin’ around his charges like a spooring dog.’
The warning was sharp and Malise felt the sting of it burn him. He inclined his head, gracious, polite, innocent as a nun’s serk.
‘My thanks,’ he said, fixing his eyes on Fergus’s own. ‘I will remember you for it.’
Stepping out from gloom to bright, he squinted against the light, then spotted the skinny runt of a thief, scuttling like a rat across the Ward towards the stable block. Aha, he thought, the little listening mouse hears much. If I were he, I would run to warn this Agnes, whom he no doubt kens …
Dog Boy half turned and saw the weasel-faced stranger look directly at him, then stride purposefully on. He gibbered in fear, the pain in his arm burning in stripes like the man’s fingers.
He remembered that the hard blow on the side of his head had been made by the hilt of a dagger and the panic made him fumbling careless. He turned, half-stumbled, dropped the pot and went to pick it up, then realised how close the man was. He left it and ran. More convinced than ever of Dog Boy’s intent, Malise followed after.
Agnes, pulling her shift straight and picking straw from her hair, was coming out of the stables, leaving first to try to put some face on the unavoidable gossip. She was dreamy and sticky, the sun seemed like honey on her skin and she started to adjust her cap when Dog Boy sped round the corner and skidded to a halt.
‘Man,’ he gulped.
‘What troubles ye, my wee chook?’ Agnes purred with a grin, which froze as Malise stepped round the corner. With a whimper, Dog Boy turned and sped away.
Malise smiled, which made Agnes’s stomach lurch.
‘You are Agnes,’ he said and it was not a question. Agnes trembled, recovered and drew herself up a little.
‘Aye. You are the Earl of Buchan’s man. Malise. I mind you from before.’
She did, too, conscious then of his eyes griming over her and not liking it any better now.
‘Indeed,’ Malise replied and looked her up and down so that Agnes felt her skin ripple; she became aware, suddenly, of Tod’s Wattie’s stickiness on the inside of her thighs and prickled with a sudden shame that, just as suddenly turned to anger against this Malise for having driven away the fine moment of before.
‘I thought you left with the Coontess,’ Agnes declared haughtily and forced her legs to move, looking to get round and away from him. Malise stepped forward and blocked her.
‘I did,’ he replied and his eyes were like festering sheep droppings on her face. ‘Fine slippers ye have, mistress.’
Agnes dropped her head to look and felt him grip her chin, his fingers like the hard, horned beak of a bird. She was so astounded at it that she could not move or make a sound.
‘Too fine slippers for you,’ Malise added, soft and vicious in her ear, his breath tickling the stray strands of her sweat-damp hair. ‘They belong to the Coontess, if I am not mistaken.’
The fingers ground her jaw and, suddenly, let her go. She stumbled on weakened legs and would have fallen, but his hand shot out and held her under one arm, hauling her upright.
‘You ken where she has gone,’ Malise said and Agnes saw his other hand, resting on the two-lobed pommel that gave the weapon at his belt its name – bollock dagger. She felt sick.
‘She gave me the slippers,’ she heard herself say. ‘Afore she left …’
‘She came back, did she not?’ Malise persisted, his mouth close to her ear; his breath smelled like stale milk. ‘Ran to here – who better to shelter the hot-arsed Bruce hoor than Douglas Castle’s ain wee hot-arsed trollop, eh? Who was her tirewummin when she was first here.’
‘Never,’ Agnes said, feeling the fingers burn. Her head swam and she swore she heard the snake-slither of the dagger leaving the sheath. ‘Came back.’
‘Ye will tell me,’ Malise started to say, then something clamped on the back of his neck and jerked him backwards. Loosed, Agnes crumpled in a heap.
At first Malise thought a horse had bit him and struggled, cursing, to get free. Then a second hand swam into view, a huge grimed affair with split nails which snaked out of the dazzle of sun and locked on his throat, instantly cutting off his breathing. Choking, kicking, Malise looked up into the big, round face of Tod’s Wattie, boar-eyed with rage.
‘Ye cantrips ye,’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll maul the stanes with ye, ye bauchlin’ wee bastard. I’ll dunt ye some manners …’
Desperately, Malise half-fumbled out the dagger and Tod’s Wattie spotted it and roared even louder. He shook Malise left and right like a terrier with a rat and Malise felt the world whirl and turn red at the edges. The dagger clattered from his fingers and his vision blackened and and started to narrow.
‘Drag a dirk out on me, is it?’ Tod’s Wattie shouted and flung