Lies of the flesh, p.1
Lies of the Flesh, page 1
PRAISE FOR F. J. WATSON’s DARK HUNTER
‘Watson, a medieval historian, brings to vivid life the sights,
sounds and smells of this fourteenth-century world, especially
the claustrophobic, volatile atmosphere of Berwick, with
encroaching danger outside the walls and treachery nestling
in the nooks and crannies of the streets’
Daily Mail
‘Dark Hunter offers a fascinating glimpse of how the
Scottish Wars of Independence may have been perceived
from the other side’
Allan Massie, The Scotsman
‘A lifetime of extensive research has resulted in the firm grasp
of period detail that makes Dark Hunter an immersive and
entertaining read’
Alastair Mabbott, The Herald
‘An excellent medieval mystery novel that is pacey
and full of tension’
Scottish Field
‘Captures beautifully the time and essence of the fourteenth
century . . . a book to be enjoyed by the fire on a cold evening’
Historical Novel Society
‘Brings the tension of a dangerously claustrophobic
fourteenth-century Berwick-upon-Tweed to life’
Dundee Courier
‘The historical background in this novel is impeccable’
Scots Magazine (Book of the Month)
‘A masterful debut novel’
Bookliterati
Fiona J. Watson is a medieval historian and writer specialising in medieval warfare in particular and Scottish history more generally. Her many publications include Macbeth: A True Story (2010), A History of Scotland’s Landscapes (2018), Traitor, Outlaw, King: Part One. The Making of Robert Bruce (2018) and Scotland’s History (2020). A former senior lecturer in History at the University of Stirling and presenter of the BBC TV series, In Search of Scotland, Fiona is now venturing into historical fiction to make the most of the limited evidence for medieval Scotland. Her first novel, Dark Hunter, was published by Polygon in 2022.
First published in 2024 by Polygon,
an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.
Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.polygonbooks.co.uk
I
Copyright © Fiona Watson, 2024
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 674 2
eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 671 3
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.
Typeset by Initial Typesetting Services, Edinburgh
To Margaret Elizabeth Watson
1940-2024
And Nick and Finn, as always
For a list of characters, real and imagined, a glossary of
terms that might be unfamiliar to some readers and
the author’s historical notes, please turn to page 337.
Part One
Chapter I
August 1314
His father wanted only boys. So a boy was what his father got. For twenty years Francis Hilton has done as Andrew Hilton told him to do, acting out in deed and word what a son should be. In outward form he looks the part. If he is naturally short of stature, he has worked hard at manly pursuits to become broad of shoulder and thigh, skin stretched tight over the muscular flesh beneath. For as long as he can remember, he has wrestled boys his own age into the ground, disarmed them of sword or spear with nimble skill, rode longer and faster when they were taken out to hunt. He has been intent on mastering them, certainly, but it is his own nature he fights hardest.
And yet his father watches him still, eyes murky. Andrew Hilton always looks away quickly enough, so Fran can’t return his glance with one of his own that might act upon him as a gauntlet thrown full in the face. This is your fault. Everything about me, everything I am, you chose to shape. If I disappoint you, it’s not for want of practice or effort.
And now his father is dying, fallen from his horse and clutching his side when he returned from Warcop. He was carried into the main chamber where he lies now, as if under an enchantment intent on draining the life out of him. Or so says Jack, the kitchen boy, sent to find Fran up among their cattle on the high pasture because he is fleet of foot. He delivers his message in one shrill torrent of words, shivering as the rain rushes over the hilltops and throws itself at them. Fran turns away from Jack and Harry Sowerby, the bailiff, to gaze upwards at the great fells. But they have nothing to say to him, with their heads hanging in the clouds. His dog, Dolfyn – a restless greyhound with a sleek blue-grey coat – nuzzles his hand, but for once Fran doesn’t notice.
He begins to run, his mind pelted with all the things he never said, all the questions he never asked. Of course, his father is no longer a young man; the days when he is up before the first glimmer of dawn are a rarity now, the nights when he sits close to the fire, complaining of this ailment or that ache, grown ever more numerous, even though he is only in his middling years. But what does any of that matter? Fran finds it impossible to imagine himself without his father.
Turning abruptly into the courtyard, his feet scarcely touch the ground. He charges through the front door, leaps at the staircase, shaking off mud like a dog. Some of the outdoor servants stand in the way like abandoned furniture, shrinking back to let him past. He calls out to them to cease their lamenting, for his mind is disordered enough without having to listen to them.
In truth, they have enough to worry about already. These past weeks they’ve all been sniffing the air, scanning the horizon, interrogating strangers at every opportunity, eager for news of the Scots coming this way (if by ‘eager’, we mean desperately hoping there will be no such news). Many from Westmorland left their homes to join the king’s army more than two months ago. Everyone was so sure the great campaign would bring victory to the English and a halt to Scottish raiding. Instead, it ended with disaster in a fearful battle somewhere far to the north on the feast day of St John the Baptist. King Edward himself was forced to ride like a demon for the border, leaving his men to find their own way home, if they could. There will be no help for the people of northern England this year.
And Fran knows, as almost no one else does, that those lamenting now have even more reason to raise up their voices. And he understands then it is true what Jack said. The old man is going. Has perhaps already gone. And probably no time for a priest to minister to him, though surely Will – Father Warcop – has been sent for.
He throws open the great oak door, strides in so forcefully that the wall hangings are set a-flutter, Dolfyn at his side. All round the room candles blink and dance and he wonders who thinks them so well supplied with coin that they might waste it while daylight lingers, however lightly clad. He feels the eyes turn upon him, the taut figures gathered there, watching, waiting. But he desires only to see him, to know for certain if all is undone.
His father lies on the long table, a blanket pulled over him up to his chin, pillow beneath his head. Fran walks slowly now, seeing himself move through the horrified gathering. He does not need to seek out any last flicker of life. The sound his father makes grips the room, each hoarse breath proclaiming that Death has Andrew Hilton firmly in his grasp.
As Fran reaches the table, he feels a hand on his arm and knows it is his mother. Shaking her away, he moves to the other side and gazes down upon a face so familiar that he has scarcely looked at it these many years. For his father is a feeling within him, a constant presence, his moods as knowable as the weather written in the sky.
But now his eye traces those imprints upon the flesh that define Andrew Hilton for everyone else. Fran wants to stretch out his hand, to trace the sharp ridge and bulging tip of his nose, so opposed to each other they seem to have been married together in error or perhaps for divine amusement; to stroke the pale line of knotted skin that stretches from the hollow of his left cheek down beneath his lips, a wound sustained – so says Harry, the bailiff – not in the heat of battle, but from a glass bottle thrown by Andrew’s own father; to feel the innocent smoothness of his right eyelid that has always hung unnaturally over the eye itself, obscuring its piercing glitter. But Fran feels so completely unmoored he dares do nothing to expose his thoughts and feelings. Not yet. Not until he knows what he should do.
His father’s skin is the colour of old rope, but clammy, as if he lies beneath the heat of a violent summer sun. And always that terrible rattle. Fran feels his heart gallop. Reaching for his father’s hand beneath the sheet, he grasps fingers that weigh upon his own not with their usual strength but from an absence of will. He cannot bear the pity of it, and yet he would not have any of it cease, for that would surely be forever.
For a moment, his father’s eyelids seem to settle further, but slowly they are raised like insecure drawbridges, though his gaze cannot find Fran’s. Alas, if Andrew Hilton wishes to speak, he has not the means to breathe and talk. Fran forces himself to keep hold of that ethereal hand even as the pressure of words lodging in his heart clamours to be let out. And yet what does he wish to say? His father can no more guide him now than he can impose his will.
The hand in Fran’s feels cold. But that is not what distresses him, f
Someone coughs. Fran jerks up his head without thinking to find his mother looking at him from her seat opposite. Christian Kirkbride seems composed, if a little pale, still wearing the old blue tunic she uses when she’s in the garden, a smear of dirt darkening her cheek. A curl of red hair – faded now to autumn gold – has slipped out of her coif to hang disobediently over one shoulder. Lowering her head with the least extravagant of movements, she directs his gaze back to his father. And Fran sees that Andrew Hilton’s soul has been stolen away even as he grips his hand, that he holds on to an earthly substance devoid of meaning and already, no doubt, falling into decay. He sinks down into his father’s great chair, Dolfyn coming from under the table to rest his long, sleek head on Fran’s knee.
He knows he should rise, address his household and bring direction, if not comfort. And yet he cannot bring himself to let go of those fingers, gentle now, to begin the dismantling of his father’s hand upon his life.
‘My son . . .’ It is a fragile, quivering cry. He turns his head to find his mother now in a state of some disorder, leaning heavily on Hawise, her maid. But her eyes gleam like a cat’s. ‘I would ask you to help me to my chamber.’
That she dissembles is not in doubt. But to what purpose? If she had not kept silent all these years – face immobile, hands clasped tight on her lap – Fran might imagine she has an opinion on his next steps. He certainly wishes she has some words of wisdom, for the abyss once filled by his father’s constant barks of instruction, the smothering solidity of his judgement, has already taken away so much of the ground beneath his feet. Until this moment he has thought of his mother only as the gloomy fount of songs and stories about her native land just north of the border. But Scotland is an unknown country now, thanks to the war.
He sits on for several moments, trying to arrange his thoughts, but the whispering has already begun across the room, his mother’s harsh breathing trumpeting her apparent distress. He forces himself to get up, to go and stand over her. ‘Are you unwell? Would you like something to drink?’ He tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice, off his face. He doubts he succeeds.
And anyway his mother shakes her head, draws a faltering hand across her brow before stretching it out to grasp his firmly. She will have no problem getting into Heaven, whatever her sins, with an act like that. He glances at Hawise, whose gaze mixes tenderness with grave misgiving. There is no help there. Next to her, Sarah giggles, rocking her body quickly from side to side. He places a finger gently to his lips and Sarah smiles at him as if he is the most pleasing thing she’s ever seen.
All four of them gather themselves to leave the room. But though Fran is the one in front, still holding his mother’s hand, she is the one steering. They pass through those familiar faces, some tearful, others entirely still, as if the enchantment has spread beyond his father to overwhelm them all. Only his mother remains untouched. And then it strikes him that, for her, some other enchantment must have been broken.
As soon as the solar door is closed, his mother bolts it quickly, gesturing to Hawise to stay close by, bidding her listen carefully for someone coming. Pushing a hand into Fran’s back, she brings him to the cushioned seats set opposite each other in the recess beneath the window.
Fran clings to the view outside. Turning away from his mother, he lets his eyes drift over Murton Pike dappled with a sudden thrust of sunlight, thinks on the bilberries that carpet the moorland slopes, imagines cramming a handful into his mouth, tasting their sweet tang, juice oozing over his lips and staining them blue. And then his mind turns to the cattle up there now, well away from their small patch of barley hard-won from the hillside.
A great heat tears through him as it hits him that now he is responsible for keeping the shaggy beasts safe, not to mention the crops that will help to feed them through the winter. He buries his hands beneath his thighs, kneading the cushion below. His thoughts gallop hither and thither, resting for a moment on Sir Robert Clifford, who owns their land and led many knights of this country to Scotland in the great army. But Clifford was struck down in the battle near a place called Stirling, his vast wealth and great name counting for nothing among those savages.
‘You’re not listening.’ His mother is leaning forward, tugging at his tunic.
‘Hush, woman.’ He throws off her hand and sits as far back as he can, as if he is once more a child pouting and moping because his misdemeanours have brought him a beating. Dolfyn stands up, turns round, looks up at him as if desiring they go somewhere else. ‘I shouldn’t be here anyway. They’ll talk if I’m gone so long among women.’
She blinks and they stare at each other as if each speaks a language the other doesn’t understand. ‘I’m glad to hear you say it.’ She speaks slowly, cautiously, settles back on her cushions again.
He sighs. ‘You have dirt on your face.’ Leaning forward, he rubs at her cheek with the sleeve of his tunic.
She catches his arm, shakes it. ‘You need to under-stand—’
‘I understand perfectly. How could I not?’ Leaping up, he begins to pace around, kicking up the rushes laid upon the flagstones. ‘And since when have you cared? You’ve always been perfectly happy . . .’
She throws him a savage look, eyes darkening to cool green. ‘You know nothing.’ It is a low growl. ‘But it cannot be cured now.’
He studies her face, the pale skin adorned with a galaxy of freckles, the vulnerable flesh at her neck and the plump softness that has settled there, across her belly, swelling her hands. She was very young when she married, but now she seems to be settling into her middling years as if it were her vocation. It confuses him that his resemblance to her even beyond the colour of his hair or the angular prominence of his bones has long been accepted by friends and strangers, though his father never commented on it. He wonders how much he would look like her younger self if he had spent his days out of reach of sun and wind, his hands never sullied by the daily grind of metal or leather.
She settles herself back, hands on her lap, a picture of good manners. ‘Let’s not dance around any longer. What do you intend to do?’
There is nothing simple about the question, even as he has known these past minutes that she was bound to ask it in her newly determined state. He sits down again, licks dry lips. ‘There’s only one thing to be done.’ Throwing this at her, he hopes it might bring some relief. That he could grow comfortable inside his skin is unimaginable. But these words whisper of possibility, of another future. He feels the tranquillity of it, still out of reach but now in sight.
Her hands jump in her lap. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You still have a choice. For pity’s sake, you shouldn’t rush into anything that might . . . You want to be utterly sure before you—’
‘Do you know what it’s like to offend God?’
‘Don’t bring God into this. It was your father’s decision. And now it must be yours.’
‘You’re telling me nothing should change?’
She shifts in her seat, draws a thumb across her lips, stretching them into something wildly deformed. ‘I’m telling you to think carefully before you do anything. You’re far too quick to judgement. Don’t forget you won’t be the only one—’
The slap across her cheek leaps across the room. As Dolfyn gives a little yelp, Hawise gasps, almost leaves her place at the door to rush to her mistress but thinks better of it. In the sharp silence that follows, the only sound is Sarah babbling away at her own conversation.
