by Robyn Young
“I would see it myself one day.”
Will, lost in his thoughts, stared at his nephew uncomprehendingly.
“Acre,” said David, laughing at his blank expression. “Were you even listening to—” As a horn blew on the walls above them he broke off and leaned out, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Look!”
Following his nephew’s finger, Will saw a column of riders moving fast up the hill, pennants flying out behind them in wisps of color. On the wind, he heard the throb of hooves.
“It’s the king.” Grabbing Will’s arm, David drew him from the battlements. “Come, let’s tell Father. You’ll get your audience now.”
But his nephew’s prediction proved premature, for as Balliol’s party came sweeping up the track to the castle, funneling through the arched gates into the courtyard, Will found himself pushed roughly aside by a guard. He caught a glimpse of the king as he was helped down from his horse by a squire, but was afforded no more royal attention than the grooms who came forward to take the tired horses, as Balliol and the magnates headed quickly through the doors of the Great Hall, which thudded shut behind them.
Almost five hours later, Will was pacing the courtyard near the castle stables. There had been a great deal of coming and going since King John’s arrival: servants and messengers hurrying in and out of the hall, occasionally followed by an earl or a lord, surrounded by knights. As the hours crawled by, it had been all he could do to stop himself striding in and demanding to speak to the king.
“Campbell.”
Will turned. His hopes rose momentarily at the sight of Duncan, then sank as he saw the expression on his brother-in-law’s face. “Did you speak to Sir Patrick?”
Duncan nodded.
“Well?”
“They wouldn’t listen.” Duncan had the grace to sound apologetic as he delivered the crushing news.
Will pushed on, refusing to believe that all he had done had been for nothing; that these men could be so obtuse. “You relayed my words exactly? You told him Edward intends to take Berwick, then, using Balantrodoch as a staging post, he’ll take Edinburgh?”
“Sir Patrick gave the information to Balliol, but the king and his men have made their plans and they’re going to keep to them.”
Will slumped on one of the water barrels stacked outside the stables.
Duncan heaved a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I think they’re wrong.”
Will couldn’t even summon the energy to feel grateful for this unexpected support. “It was all for nothing.”
Duncan sat beside him and folded his muscled arms. “They’ve been working toward this for months, Campbell. Everything has been put in place. The treaty with France has been agreed, the border defenses have been bolstered.”
“All their defenses will count for nothing if Edward punches his way through at Berwick.”
“Sir William Douglas will be defending Berwick. He is one of the most fearless knights in this realm. If what you say is true and Edward will attack the town first, he’ll have a hard task on his hands.”
“If what I say is true?” echoed Will. “They believed me, didn’t they?”
“They were suspicious,” admitted Duncan. “They had a spy in Edward’s household trying to find information on his strategy, but it is feared he was discovered. Several of the magnates thought you could have been sent by Edward to sow seeds of confusion, getting us to move our forces into one town, leaving the rest undefended. Some thought you should be arrested.”
Will stared at him.
“But Sir Patrick vouched for you on my pledge.” Duncan shook his head. “I hope you don’t prove either of us wrong.” He stood. “The magnates are planning to attack Carlisle. For the past year, it has been defended by the Bruce family, who have betrayed their country to fight for Edward. It seems they weren’t willing to relinquish the estates they own in England. Seven earls will be going and I’ll be leaving soon with my lord, but I’ve secured David a place here, helping to defend the castle. He’s not ready for this battle, not yet.” His chin jutted. “I want you to bring my wife and daughters here. If Edward does attack Berwick and if . . .” He inhaled quickly. “I want to know they’ll be safe.”
“You want me to be their guard?”
“You owe Ysenda that.” Seeing the defeated agreement in Will’s eyes, Duncan nodded, then walked away.
Will rose, about to head in the direction of the barracks, where he’d been stationed in a cramped, drafty dormitory with forty soldiers, when a man, who had been watching his exchange with Duncan, approached.
“William Campbell?”
Will nodded warily, eyeing the large sword strapped to the man’s back and wondering if Duncan’s promise that he wouldn’t be arrested would hold true.
The man, who had thick reddish hair and brown eyes, had a gravelly voice. “I am Sir Patrick Graham.”
Surprised, Will inclined his head.
Sir Patrick smiled. “If all I hear of you from my man and his son is true, it is I who should be bowing. Unfortunately, most of my countrymen do not share my gratitude for your sacrifice in coming here to warn us. I did what I could to convince them otherwise, but they are set on their course.”
“I thank you for your support. I know it was a risk to give it.”
“The risk to our kingdom is greater.” Patrick sighed hard. “I fear the enmity of the magnates toward King Edward has made them too eager for battle. That eagerness has grown into confidence. True, the men of the realm are doughty fighters and the magnates have spent the past few weeks rousing their battle lust, but it is all a question of numbers in the end. Something I believe your father, being a bookkeeper, would have understood?” His smile broadened at Will’s astonishment.
“How did you know him?” Will studied Patrick’s face. The man didn’t look much older than thirty-five and his father had been dead for almost as many years.
“I didn’t. My father had business with the Templars at Balantrodoch over the grant of a piece of land. James Campbell brokered the deal on behalf of the master of Scotland. My father was grateful for his impartiality during the negotiations and, after the deal was done, swore he was in James’s debt. They kept in contact for several years before James left Scotland. My father never heard from him again, but years later he still remembered his assistance with gratitude, for when he pronounced me his heir he told me that I held part of my lands in thanks to James. Your father never called upon that debt, and when Duncan told me who you were and why you had come, I felt I should honor it.”
“Thank you,” murmured Will, unsure whether he was thanking Patrick for his backing, or for the uplifting memory of his father his words had stirred.
“I am afraid that we do not have the troops to defend ourselves adequately against Edward’s army. Unfortunately, neither one of us can do anything about that now. All we can do is fight and pray God is on our side. To that end, I would have you with us, Campbell. At the very least you are an experienced soldier. Add to that your knowledge of Edward and his strategy and I believe you could prove yourself most useful. I will see that you are given a suitable position in the defense of Edinburgh, if you will stand with us?”
Robert’s words came back to him, telling him he wouldn’t find justice, only war, but Will pushed them aside. “I’ll do more than stand.”
8
Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
MARCH 30, 1296 AD
Together, the four boys scrabbled up the ramparts, hands digging into the hard-packed soil, which was covered with bristly grass that scratched their bare knees. The mound stretched left toward the castle, perched over the banks of the Tweed, and right in a broad earthen ring around the town, all the way to the sea gate. It was crowned with a timber palisade, set deep in the ground, with slits for lookouts at intervals between the stakes. The boys crowded around one of these slits, their breaths misting the air. Before them, the ground fell steeply into a narrow fosse that had been dug out to encircle the town. Beyo
nd this trench, fields rolled gently away, dotted with houses and farms. It was a damp, dull morning, but with no fog to obscure the landscape the view was clear, all the way to the army that covered a shallow hill, less than a mile to the northeast. At this distance, the boys couldn’t pick out details. All they saw was a mass of men and horses, interwoven with vivid banners and the glint of steel.
“How many?” whispered the youngest, who wore a red felt cap.
One of his comrades squinted, as if trying to count. On the still air, they could hear faint sounds of shouting, baying dogs and the metal discord of a host of armored men moving into position. “Hundred thousand,” he pronounced, after a moment.
The youngest boy’s mouth opened in an astonished circle, but his brother, the oldest of them, shoved the one who had spoken. “Fool. There’re no more than ten.”
“Ten thousand?” whispered the youngest, the discrepancy between the two numbers offering no consolation.
“They won’t get near,” said his brother scornfully, yanking the red cap down over his eyes. “Our archers will shoot them down.” He dug a stone out of the earth by his knee. Standing on his toes, he lobbed it over the palisade in the direction of the army. “English dogs!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, as the stone disappeared in a patch of bushes just beyond the fosse.
The other two grinned and got to their feet. They had heard some soldiers shouting insults at the host on their way to the ramparts. Hands clinging to the top of the stakes for purchase, they hauled themselves up until they could peer over the top. Their voices joined with his.
“English dogs! English dogs! Come here and we’ll cut your tails off!”
The youngest pushed the cap back on his head. Their voices were high-pitched, strained. Even as they laughed, he sensed the fear beneath their bravado. Suddenly, the top of the stake his brother was clinging to snapped off. He was only saved from falling backward down the ramparts by grabbing the boy next to him. As he steadied himself, they fell silent, staring at the piece of timber in his hand, the rot within visible in the crumbling edges of the shard.
“You up there!”
The boys whipped around to see a company of soldiers below, wearing the colors of the town garrison, under the command of William Douglas.
“Get down,” barked one of the soldiers.
They half clambered, half slithered down the mound onto the muddy street.
“Maybe they could take our place?” suggested one of the men, chuckling.
“Get away home to your mothers,” snapped another, cuffing the oldest boy round the head.
OUTSIDE BERWICK-UPON-TWEED, SCOTLAND, MARCH 30, 1296 AD
King Edward’s face was set as he surveyed the earthen ramparts of the town. There was a pressure behind his eyes, a mild, burrowing pain. He sniffed once, hard. The dank cold of the north didn’t agree with him and he’d come down with a sickness several days into the campaign. He wasn’t often ill and the lingering ache in his head was making him irritable. There were hoofbeats behind him as Anthony Bek, the bishop of Durham, rode up to join him on the hillock half a mile from the town. The bishop’s violet robe was swept back over one bulky shoulder, revealing a splendid coat of mail and a broad-bladed sword, sheathed at his hip.
“The ships are ready in the estuary, my lord. They await your signal.” Edward glanced at him. Iron-willed man of the Church Bek might be, but war suited him even more. He displayed all the pomp and swagger of a military general in his command of the army he had brought with him from St. Cuthbert’s Land. Bek was a virtual king in his bishopric, his territories forming part of the northernmost defenses of England. Edward had appointed the bishop lieutenant of Scotland six years earlier, when his son was set to marry the Maid of Norway. Bek had since been instrumental in the planning of the war.
Edward turned his attention back to the town, with its maze of timber buildings huddled behind the palisade, interspersed here and there with squat, stone churches. Beyond, the North Sea was a slice of pale silver, fading into the ashen sky. It was hard to imagine this humble burgh, bordered on the far side by the sluggish Tweed and the mud flats of the estuary, was the richest town in Scotland. The inhabitants, twelve thousand or so, were made up of Scots and a thriving community of foreign merchants, many from the Low Countries, who shipped the hide and wool from the area to Flanders and Germany, in return bringing back cog-loads of red Flemish bricks.
“Some of the men have heard the townsfolk shouting insults.” Bek’s nose wrinkled as he surveyed the town. “These people have no idea of chivalry.”
“Then we shall show them,” responded Edward. He raised a gloved hand and pointed at Berwick. “There.”
Bek strained his eyes against the distance. “The ramparts are lower,” he observed.
Edward nodded. “The scouts have found a path has been built up across the fosse, covered in animal tracks. I expect it’s where they lead cattle to pasture. It is where we will enter.” With a firm nudge of his calf and a tug on the reins, the king turned his warhorse, Bayard. The beast’s massive head was encased in armor. “Come. It is time to knight the new-bloods.”
With faint jeers from the town following them on the wind, the two men rode back to the broad slope where the English Army was arrayed for battle.
The bulk of the cavalry and infantry was made up of two hundred of Edward’s tenants, who, according to the laws of feudal service, had each brought a fully equipped company of knights. This force, more than eight thousand strong, was augmented by conscripts of Welsh bowmen and the Templars under Brian le Jay. All of them were eager to shake the morning chill from their stiff bones, keen to prove themselves to their king.
They had advanced on Berwick three days after Easter, slightly later than Edward planned, due to a brief skirmish at the town of Wark. Here, the campaign began inauspiciously when the town’s lord, an English nobleman, deserted to the Scottish side. First blood was spilled by the Scots, who made an attack on Wark, forcing the king to divert his army to relieve the town. This done, Edward forded the Tweed at the village of Coldstream, swearing to make an end of what the Scots had begun. Berwick’s great bridge had been washed away in a flood two years earlier and the village was the nearest crossing point. Following the English Army by sea were more than forty galleys that had sailed up the coast from East Anglia. They were now lurking in the mouth of the Tweed, below the town.
Last night, messengers had come with news that the Scottish Army was heading for Carlisle, far to the southwest, but Edward diverted no forces. Carlisle was a well-defended city, commanded by one of his staunchest Scottish vassals, Bruce of Annandale. He believed it would hold, but even if it didn’t it provided a useful and unexpected diversion for the Scottish Army, who had left the way to Edinburgh wide open. The only thing that stood in the king’s way was this colony of Scots and foreigners. For Edward, the sooner they were crushed and his campaign was advancing to victory, the better. He hated the cold north and it vexed him greatly that if Alexander III’s granddaughter hadn’t died none of this would have been necessary.
Six years earlier, with the approval of the pope and the wary agreement of the Scottish magnates, he had arranged the marriage of his son and heir, Edward of Caernarvon, to the infant queen, ensuring England’s future dominion over the realm. But with her unexpected death, all his plans came to nothing and instead he was compelled to exert years of effort and money in securing his hold on the kingdom. He thought by choosing Balliol, whom his spies had assured him was the weakest of the claimants, his control over the Scottish throne would be set, and it might well have been if the magnates hadn’t risen against him in rebellion. Now he would have to subdue them by muscle rather than guile, as he’d been forced to do with the Welsh, and he despised them all the more for it.
Like King Philippe, his cousin and rival, Edward had a desire for control. As king of England, he saw it as his right to subdue his disorganized neighbors and bring them into his dominion, creating one strong feudal empire
, to be ruled over by his heirs for generations to come. A senior royal clerk, a domineering, yet efficient man named Hugh Cressingham, had spoken of it as smoothing out the ruffles on a cloak; straightening the hems. Edward liked the description. And by the end of this day, the crease that was Berwick would be leveled.
On the slope in front of the vanguard, which was commanded by the earl of Surrey, thirty young men were waiting, restless with excitement. They fell silent as Edward and Bek approached. Edward dismounted, ignoring the proffered hands of the squires. After finalizing the plans for the assault with the Earl of Surrey and the other commanders, the king strode up to the youths, noble sons of landed men all. They dropped to their knees, heads bowed, as he unsheathed his sword. The army fell into a near hush for the solemn moment, disturbed by the barking of dogs, the clink of weapons and the snorting of horses. Edward moved up to the first, his sword naked in his hand. Two clerks lingered at the king’s side, to discreetly remind him of the youths’ names. Edward raised his sword and laid it on the shoulder of the young man, who swore the oath of fealty faultlessly in a clear voice that carried to the men behind. Dubbed, he rose; a knight, and a man, as yet un-blooded, but ready to prove his worth. A cheer rose from the ranks and he grinned broadly. As the cheer died away, a distant chant could be heard, coming from the ramparts of Berwick. The king frowned as he approached the second youth. He lifted his sword, but paused distractedly as he heard his name within the chant. He cocked his head, listening intently. It came again.
“Edward of England, march home on your longshanks! Edward Longshanks, turn your tail, you English dog! ”
The youth looked around uncertainly as a flush mottled Edward’s cheeks.
Bishop Bek gestured to the officers behind him. “Cheer for your king,” he growled. “You,” he snapped at the man who bore the king’s banner, emblazoned with its three golden lions. “Get that up!”
