As Socrates reached them and took up position snarling under the belly of Gil’s horse, the axeman leapt on to the earth dyke at the side of the road, checked his rush, and grinned at them past the blue steel axehead. It was longer and wider than his flat big-featured face, the hooked point at the back of the blade the same shape as the scrap of beard on his chin.
‘Come on, then,’ he taunted, and growled back at the dog. ‘Are ye up for it? Who’s first? Or will ye just lay down yir weapons the now and gie us yir packs? Grrh!’
‘Vot does he say?’ asked Johan. Maistre Pierre beyond him, watching the axeman, translated absently into a mixture of French and High Dutch, and the sergeant shook his head.
‘Vy ve should do zis?’ he asked.
‘Because there’s four of us,’ said the big man, grinning again, ‘and only three of you can fight. Because Maidie here,’ he kissed the axeblade, ‘says ye should.’ The three swordsmen jumped on to the dyke beside him. ‘Because we’re coming to get yez!’ he shouted, and sprang forward at Johan, who deflected the swing of the axe with a sweeping blow of his long blade, following it by a kick to the man’s shoulder. He slid away from it, and Gil had time to think, He has fought mounted men before, and then he was dealing with two swordsmen at once, his horse squealing as a parried stroke caught it a glancing blow on the shoulder. Below it Socrates leapt growling for the nearest man’s thigh.
It was all very hectic for several minutes. The man on Gil’s left was hampered by the dog, and by his own crossbow slung on his back. He was further discouraged by a boot and a backhanded dagger-blow, and Luke contrived to urge his horse forward and strike him down, leaving Gil to manage his own horse and parry the attack on his right. This man was good, and had also fought mounted men before, but Socrates was now slashing with sharp teeth at his thighs and codpiece. Moreover, the grizzled warrior who had taught Gil and his brothers swordplay had been at least as good, and Gil had not wasted his free time when he was in France. Standing in the stirrups as his mount trampled screaming in circles, he blocked the swordsman’s attack, aware on the edge of vision of Johan’s horse reared on its haunches and punching with iron-shod hooves at the axeman while its rider’s sword beat the axe aside. More blacksmithing noises beyond them suggested that the mason was well engaged.
Then, as Gil seized his chance and disarmed his opponent in a move old Drew would have approved of, the axe flew sideways, its haft split in two, and with an agonized cry the axeman fell, first to his knees and then, when Johan’s sword descended on his helm, into the dust and gravel of the track.
‘Run, Baldy!’ shouted Maistre Pierre’s opponent, leapt away from his attack and set off downhill in the general direction of Edinburgh. Gil’s opponent, leaving his weapon in the dust, dived between Gil’s horse and Luke’s and over the dyke, and followed him. Socrates soared after them and set off in pursuit. As Gil whistled furiously for his dog the mason turned his horse as if to join the chase, looked at his companions, looked again at the fleeing men, reined back and sheathed his sword.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘They are persistent.’
‘But alvays run avay,’ said Johan. He had already dismounted, and now kicked the axeman accurately in the fork, nodded approvingly when there was no reaction, and knelt beside Rob, who had fallen from his horse some time since. Tam, unable to kneel, was standing over him, holding his bonnet with its St Christopher medal, tears running down his face.
‘He’s away, sir,’ he said. ‘Dead and gone. I showed him my St Christopher, but it never held him back.’
‘He looked on it earlier,’ said Luke, ‘for I seen him. Maybe he’s no gone yet.’
Johan stripped off his heavy gloves and touched Rob’s face with gentle fingers. Gil dismounted and dropped to one knee opposite him, taking up one of the limp, bloody hands. Socrates returned, to sit down at his master’s side panting and nudging his long nose under Gil’s other elbow. Gil patted him, but his attention was on his servant.
‘Rob?’ he said. Rob’s eyes opened, staring unseeing at the sky. His lips moved, but only a faint bubbling sound emerged. Now Johan was asking the urgent, familiar questions about repentance and salvation, taking the answers for granted, almost as if he was a priest. The hand in Gil’s was growing colder. It gripped his, briefly; the bubbling stopped; Johan sketched a cross on Rob’s brow and muttered, ‘Dominus deus te absolvet,’ and Gil crossed himself, not sure if Rob had heard the words or not. He would hear nothing more, that was certain, though he still stared unseeing at the white clouds above him until Johan closed his eyes with that gentle touch.
Tam crossed himself stiffly, flinching as his bruised elbow twinged. Luke and Maistre Pierre were standing by, holding the reins of the horses. Gil stayed where he was, holding Rob’s slack hand and looking down at the empty face, at the bright blood caking on his throat and on the neckband of his shirt. A Lanarkshire man, he thought. Born in the Monklands, ten years or so older than I am, fought as a mercenary alongside Matt in the wars in Germany, travelled to Rome so he told me once, and came home safe. And here he is, killed by robbers on a hillside in the Lothians. And in a twincling of an eye Hoere soules weren forloren. Why?
‘Nur Gott weisst,’ said Johan, gripping his shoulder briefly, and he realized he had spoken aloud.
‘This one’s deid, maister,’ said Luke, pointing to the man they had taken down between them. ‘I never killt him, I think one of the horses tramped him.’
‘Zis vun not.’ Johan stepped over to the axeman and kicked him again. This time he elicited a groan. ‘Ve take.’
It was some time before they were back on the road. Luke, it turned out, had a slash on the arm, and Gil’s horse was now drooping and shivering while the cut on its shoulder dripped into the dust. These had to be dealt with, by Maistre Pierre and Johan acting once again in committee. Gil stepped away from the group, leaving Tam still standing over his colleague’s body, and stared out at Edinburgh. Socrates leaned hard against his knee.
Someone has died, he thought, caressing the dog’s soft grey ears, because of an action I took. If I had never set out for Roslin, he would be alive now. Despite Johan’s efforts, Rob had died without confession, unshriven. Gil had his own views on the importance of that, preferring to trust in the all-merciful justice which Rob now faced, but to the man’s kin and friends that would matter.
‘What kin had he?’ he asked, turning to Tam.
The man wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He’s an auntie in the Monklands, near to my folks, for he mentioned her more than once, but I’ve no more notion than that, Maister Gil.’ He managed a shaky grin. ‘It comes to us all, soon or late, maister. He’d ha wanted to go quick like that.’
Gil nodded. But maybe that was too quick, he thought.
They stripped the dead thief of his effects. Boots, sword, crossbow, all went into the Hospitaller’s pack along with the remains of the axe; the Order could make use of them. Rob’s body was wrapped in his own cloak and tied on his horse, but the other was left by the roadside. Someone might come out from Roslin to bring him in for burial, or might not. Maistre Pierre stood by him for a few minutes with head bent, fingering his beads. The axeman, coming back to full, blasphemous consciousness, found his arms bound and a rope about his neck, its other end tied to Johan’s saddle.