Lion at Bay by Robert Low

then removed it again.
    ‘It is from the Westminster,’ Lamprecht had said, his voice reverently low. ‘From the
furfanta
– the swindler. Pardon … the robbery. Of the King’s treasure.’
    In the quiet of the cell no-one had spoken, for they had all heard of this, taken delight in it if truth was told. While Longshanks ravaged up and down Scotland, a nest of thieves – his own canons of the minster among them – had stolen the Crown treasure from Westminster. That had been almost a year ago and the howling rage that was Edward had not diminished, if the arrests and racks and beheadings were anything to go by.
    Nor had it all been recovered. Pieces of it were turning up all over the country – and abroad, too, Bruce had heard. Yet this was singular. This was part of the reliquary of the Black Rood, taken from Scone on the day Longshanks stripped John Balliol of everything that made him a king and a man and the Kingdom of everything that made it a realm.
    ‘
Si
,’ Lamprecht had said, as if reading Bruce’s thoughts. ‘I have this from Pudlicote man. For … some small services.’
    ‘Who is Pudlicote?’ Kirkpatrick had demanded and Bruce, turning the rubied cross over in his fingers so that it flared bloody in the light, knew the answer.
    ‘Baron of the thieves,’ he had said darkly. ‘Clever in the planning, stupid afterwards in spraying Crown jewels all over the county as if they were baubles. He paid the price for it – his flayed skin is nailed to the door of the Minster now.’
    ‘Si,’ Lamprecht had agreed. ‘Pudlicote is discovered – all is lost.
Cosa bisogno cunciar? Pardone –
what am I to do?’
    ‘What DID you do?’ Kirkpatrick had asked.
    ‘Ran,’ Lamprecht had revealed. ‘Ran with Jop. Jop had half, I have half. Six Apostles each and we go our way. Jop comes to the north.’
    The rubies, all twelve, were known as the Apostles, said to contain the very blood of Christ – but even they were not as valuable as the sliver of dark wood they had decorated.
    ‘And the Rood itself?’ Bruce had demanded. Lamprecht, pausing, tried not to look sly. Failed. Then he had shrugged his rat-boned shoulders and offered a brown smile.
    ‘Jop knows where relic is. Piece of Holy Cross which is of this land.’
    He had then managed, at last, a sly, knowing look.
    ‘Bishops of here will want it back. Jop, he will not tell me where it is –
cane. Cornudo.’
    ‘This Jop,’ Bruce had said slowly. ‘A small man. Bald.’
    ‘He is not. Big. Fat belly. Much hairy. He is man who bears the standard.
Ti credir per mi, mi pudir assicurar per ti.
’
    ‘I do believe you,’ Bruce had answered grimly.
    ‘
Ti star nobilé, è non star fabbola
– sorry, permit me. As you are noble, this is no fable. I have no money. For this piece and the information, I ask only a paltry. A twenty pound of silver.’
    That had all but choked Kirkpatrick and made Hal blink. That price would keep Sim Craw for a year in England – six months longer if he stayed north of Berwick.
    ‘Does Jop have the Rood?’ Bruce had demanded.
    ‘If not, he know where,’ Lamprecht had replied. ‘I cannot get in to him. You go to where he is – you know this place?’
    ‘I do,’ Bruce had answered, then handed the gilded prize back, which surprised Hal – but not Kirkpatrick, who knew that possession of such an artefact would result in punishments from Edward that Hell would balk at. He scowled, however, when he realized the sixth Apostle was staying with Bruce – but at least a single, flawless ruby of price was explainable in the purse of an earl.
    ‘If Jop helps us, you shall have twice the price,’ Bruce had declared and Lamprecht’s grin was wide and foul. It did not waver when he was told that he would have to go along, for that had been taken into account in his planning – was the necessary risk in it.
    There were more questions – the Kirkpatrick man especially was all lowered brow and suspicion, wanting to know why