by Robyn Young
The banner bearer stared at him bemusedly, unused to being given orders by a bishop. Bek strode over to him. Already cheers were rising, spreading out like ripples in a pond. “Get that flag up, or I’ll ram the pole up your arse!”
The banner bearer lifted the king’s flag and began waving it frantically. The cheers grew louder, drowning out the taunting chants from Berwick. Edward turned back to the youth and brought down the flat of his blade, his jaw locked in anger.
The dubbing continued for some time, each man’s knighthood ushered in with louder, more fervent applause than the last, until the plain around Berwick resounded with the roar of eight thousand men. It was the Earl of Surrey who first noticed the ships gliding into the estuary beyond the town. He frowned, rising in his stirrups to get a better look, then swore and kicked his horse toward Edward, who was knighting the last of the youths.
“My lord!” The earl pulled his horse up, pointing to the ships as he caught the king’s attention.
Edward’s gray eyes widened at the sight.
Bek was hurrying over, having also seen them. “Why are they attacking? We haven’t given the signal!”
“The cheering,” said Edward suddenly, “the banners. They think we’ve begun the assault.” Barking orders to the nearest commanders, he strode to Bayard.
There was a general scrabble as word spread, men rushing to their horses, those who were already mounted tightening shield straps. The newly knighted youths sprinted for their chargers, hearts hammering with anticipation. Archers pulled arrows from quivers and infantry drew swords or hefted maces as the knights moved into position, warhorses stamping and jostling.
In the distance, down by the Tweed, the sky brightened as a hail of flaming arrows went shooting into the air from the town. They arced silently toward the lead ship. Edward strained forward in his saddle. Even at this distance, he could tell something was wrong: the ship was stalled, dead in the water. He swore viciously as he guessed the vessel had run aground on the mud banks. As the fiery missiles struck, the white mainsail went up like a torch. “With me!” Edward roared at his commanders, digging his spurs into Bayard’s muscular sides.
The English cavalry followed, cantering down the broad slope toward the town. The Earl of Surrey led the vanguard with the king, the two of them streaking ahead. Their right flank was headed by Brian le Jay and the Templars, white mantles flowing, the hooves of their horses drumming the earth. The left was commanded by Bek and the warriors of St. Cuthbert’s Land, the bishop’s cloak blooming behind him, violet as a bruise. The archers loped along behind, heading for a point just beyond the small hillock where Edward had surveyed the town. From there, they would cover the knights and the infantry, now pouring down the hill. On the Tweed, the ship’s decks were burning, yellow flames billowing, fanned by the breeze coming off the sea. Screams drifted on the air, but Edward and his men didn’t hear them over the thunder of their charge.
Two more ships were moving in to aid the first, but Berwick’s soldiers were racing from a postern gate onto the mud, where they hacked the men fleeing the burning ship to pieces. More arrows sprang into the air, hissing into the water around the approaching vessels. Another ship ran aground and the defenders yelled in triumph. After the arrows, bundles of flaming wood were tossed over the sides of the floundering galleys by the men on the banks. They struck the decks and began to smolder. Dry timbers crackled into life, faster than the crew, themselves trying to dodge the arrows, could extinguish. Men jumped overboard to escape the flames, only to find themselves sucked into the sticky mud by the weight of their mail. Smoke was pouring off the first vessel, making it harder for the English to see the soldiers rushing toward them, their lightweight leather armor allowing them to cross the waterlogged mud flats in safety.
Edward steered Bayard straight, heading for the point where the broad ramparts dipped down, creating a gateway in the defenses that led onto a narrow path, banked up with earth and stones from the fosse. The gate that had been set there was tall and wide to compensate, but a timber barrier couldn’t keep out eight thousand men, especially men whose honor had been challenged. Edward’s temper burned, striking livid color in his cheeks. The insults of the townsfolk rang in his ears and the sight of his own ships blazing on the river drove him into a fury that would only be quenched with blood. All chance of mercy that Berwick’s citizens might have hoped for had gone. Now they would suffer his wrath in full.
As the men neared the ramparts, arrows slammed down around them. One struck a knight in the chest. He arched backward with the force and tumbled from his mount, to be trampled by the destriers that rode on over him. Other arrows clattered off helmets, or stuck fast in mail shirts and coifs. Several hit horses, which wheeled and bucked, throwing their riders violently from the saddles and crashing into the mud. Edward raised his shield, but the missiles streaked past, none coming close. Behind them, the Welsh archers began to launch at the earthen ramparts, sending arrows curving over the palisade to stab down at the defenders huddled behind. Drawing closer to the fosse, Edward slowed his horse, allowing two of his commanders to ride on ahead with their best knights and the new-bloods. It was hard for him to do so; his rage made him want to spur Bayard on to punch through that stockade himself, but the thirty knighted youths were as keen as hounds, nostrils filled with the scent of quarry. He would use that eagerness. These young men only knew the controlled thrill of the tournament field. They hadn’t yet experienced the chaos of a battlefield; hadn’t learned to fear it. They were arrogant, bold and reckless. They would tear through the barrier to get at the meat inside, or die trying.
Bek and a veteran commander of many a battle under Edward, including Lewes and those in Wales, ordered four of their knights on across the bank that spanned the fosse. All had grappling hooks ready in their hands. One took an arrow in the neck and fell from his horse, still holding the reins. He tumbled down the steep embankment with a cry that was cut short as his horse, squealing in terror, collapsed on top of him. The other three knights launched their hooks at the top of the gates. Arrows whistled over the ramparts from the Welsh archers. There were screams beyond the stockade as they struck home. The grappling hooks held fast and, lashing the ropes around the pommels of their saddles, the knights spurred their horses back across the fosse. The ropes snapped taut. One of the grappling irons broke clean through the rotting timbers and flew down to bounce along the ground behind the mounted knight. The other two held for a split second, then pulled free with a sharp crack, bringing the top half of the gate with them to reveal the startled faces of several soldiers.
“The gate’s rotten!” yelled one knight, as behind the ruined barricade some of the defenders began to flee. Others held fast, drawing back bowstrings to propel arrows through the breach.
“On!” shouted Bek, driving his horse toward the gate. The beast leapt up at the last moment, launching itself over the jagged timbers. One of its hooves caught on part of the gate but smashed straight through it as the horse went hurtling into the street beyond. The archers within scattered as Bek’s men followed, one by one, charging up and over. Behind came the new knights, baying for blood, racing one another to be the first in. One horse baulked at the last minute and veered around, crashing into the side of the gate that had remained intact. The wood buckled with the impact, although the gate didn’t break, and the rider lost control of the beast, which stumbled down the embankment, taking him with it. After him, two more knights faltered, both managing to wheel their horses around and back across the path.
Edward’s impatience exploded into urgency. Kicking into Bayard’s sides, he stormed the gate. The massive destrier leapt the broken barrier in one graceful movement. Seeing their king enter, the knights drove themselves madly forward, one armored horse punching straight through, the remaining weakened timbers spraying inward, leaving a splintered gap, through which the stream of men became a flood.
The confidence of Berwick’s young soldiers, who had been taunting the
English from the ramparts, melted into horror as the metal-clad knights plunged into the streets around them, faces hidden behind expressionless steel or else snarling with savage glee as they brought sword blades and axe heads swinging into skulls and necks. They weren’t used to the giant destriers, which the knights used against them as weapons—toppling, crushing, trampling—and their armor consisted mostly of leather; only their knight-commanders had mail. Flesh, pale and vulnerable, was exposed to the iron of arrow tips and spear heads. The defenders’ backward scrabble became a rout as the knights overwhelmed them.
One soldier sprinted away, blowing hard on a horn. Two young knights followed him, eyes alight with the exhilaration of the chase. The first pounded up behind him, his sword chopping down at the defender’s back. The man veered off at the last moment, darting into a narrow side street. The knight cursed as he barreled past the opening and his comrade took up the pursuit, using the channel of the street like a jousting list, couching his lance in the crook of his arm, bracing himself for impact. He caught the fleeing soldier in the back, between his shoulder blades, the tip of the lance piercing leather, muscle and bone, driving clean through him. The momentum swept the man off his feet for a few seconds, the knight still holding the lance, until the strain was too much and he was forced to let go. The lance crashed to the floor, and as the knight rode on, one of the iron-shod hooves of the destrier came down on the man’s head, bursting it like fruit. Another landed on the horn and shattered it. The knight rode on into the streets, drawing his sword and following his comrades, eager for another target with which to prove his prowess.
The horn had signaled a general alarm, but the garrison who rallied and rode out under the command of William Douglas were too late to stop what had started. Doughty they might be, but there were only two hundred men under Douglas. Against eight thousand they were a row of pebbles set against the incoming tide. With a lack of coordinated soldiers to fight, the English cavalry blooded themselves elsewhere, chasing the defenders, many of them farmers and fishermen, into the narrow streets, where the butchery began in earnest. In their wake, infantry broke down the doors of houses, pushing and shoving one another to get inside, the lure of plunder, rape and slaughter urging them on. Veteran commanders directed younger knights to herd the fleeing inhabitants into open squares so the rest of the knights could get at them more easily. Some locals had erected barricades, from behind which they shot arrows and stones at the knights, but for every man they felled, ten of them were killed, struck by hurled spears and axes. The defenders on the mud flats of the Tweed attacking the ships, three of which were now aflame, drew back as more vessels glided in, cautiously now, the captains aware of the treacherous mud, and the crews disembarked to storm the weak defenses along the banks.
No one found on the streets of Berwick was spared the sword, whether young or old, man or woman. A group of boys raced through a riddle of alleys, followed by whooping soldiers. They cried out in terror, skidding to a halt at a dead end behind a church. One crouched against the wall, making himself as small as he could, as the seven knights chasing them brought their snorting warhorses to a halt at the mouth of the alley. One of the knights called out, promising to spare them if they surrendered. The boys crowded in around one another, panting with fear. One bent and picked up a stone, but didn’t throw it. The knight called out again. Warily, the boys stepped toward the knights, all but the youngest, who remained huddled against the wall. He watched as the others reached the end of the alley. He kept on watching as the knights steered their horses in around them, locking them into a killing zone. Swords rose and fell and blood sprayed across the walls of the buildings as the boys were cut down. The youngest sprang to his feet and, in desperation, tried to climb the church wall. He made it halfway, his fingertips tearing on the rough stone, before the sound of hooves clattered up behind him and he felt something punch solidly into his back. As he fell, his red felt cap slipped from his head.
The killing continued throughout the day and on into the night. Edward himself, along with the Earl of Surrey and five hundred knights, pushed Douglas and his soldiers back hard, until they were forced to retreat inside the castle. Douglas was one of the last through the gates, his roars of frustration sounding above the screams that echoed across Berwick. Inside the Church of St. Mary’s, bodies of the townsfolk who had sought sanctuary and who had been butchered when the knights had broken through, were dragged out into the street to make way for the king, who set up camp inside as evening drew in. Around the town fires raged, pushing back the darkness. The bloodstained faces of the knights were ghoulish in the crimson light.
By dawn, the Red Hall, owned by the Flemish merchants, was aflame. Inside, over forty men huddled together, hands clasped over their mouths against the suffocating smoke, eyes weeping. They had held firm against the English, shooting volleys of arrows from the upper windows of their hall into the ranks on the street below. One man, more by luck than judgment, had launched an arrow that shot straight through the slit of one knight’s helm and pierced his eye, killing him instantly. The merchants’ relish over his feat became all the greater when word went up that the knight killed was none other than a cousin of King Edward. But with no chance for surrender and nowhere to run, they were no more than prisoners in the hall. Now, over the fierce crackle of flames, the merchants could hear the knights who had barricaded the doors and set the fires laughing and shouting abuse.
As morning dawned, pale and cold, Berwick lay shrouded in smoke. Bodies choked the narrow streets and the stink from opened corpses was revolting, turning even the hardest warriors’ stomachs as their horses slipped and skidded in the gore. So much blood had been spilled that it had run down onto the banks of the Tweed, where, as the dawn tide rose, the river turned red. The butchery had become weary now, almost perfunctory. The knights and their mounts were tired; battle-lust faded, fury spent, honor regained. But still, Edward refused to give the order to halt the assault.
After hearing Mass in St. Mary’s and breaking his fast, the king rode out to survey the carnage. Bishop Bek went with him, as did Brian le Jay, who, several hours earlier, had asked the king to bring an end to the butchery.
“My lord,” the English master had reasoned, “this town is on its knees. Is it not time to finish it?”
“We must make an example here,” the king replied. “Let all Scotland know what awaits them if they insist on challenging my authority.”
Le Jay had gone to protest, but Bek warned him away with a quiet reminder of Edward’s violent temper and what had befallen other men who had argued with him when he was in such a black mood.
The Templar master now rode at Edward’s side in a tense silence, his knights riding behind him, steering their horses around the carcasses that littered the ground.
Ahead, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, but whoever had uttered it was obviously in horrendous pain. The company rode on toward the noise, which stopped momentarily, then started again. It was a terrible, almost animal sound, filled with agony. As the knights trotted their horses around the side of a building, they saw its cause. A young woman was dragging herself along the street toward a shoe-maker’s, the doorway of which had been battered down, leaving a gaping hole that led into darkness. Her belly was huge and swung from side to side as she crawled forward on her hands and knees. The back of her white dress was scarlet with blood, although whether this was caused by the wound to her side, visible through the rips in the gown, or the act of childbirth in which she was clearly engaged, wasn’t certain. Behind her a soldier picked himself up off the floor, where he seemed to have fallen, or to have been pushed, and with a shout of anger snatched up his sword, lying several feet away. Before any of the company could call out, he ran forward and began to hack at the woman. Her screams cut off as the sword rose and fell.
Sickened by the display of mindless savagery, le Jay turned to Edward. “End this, my lord. Call off the assa
ult and rein in your men.”
The king, who had sent two of his men to pull the blood-splattered soldier back from his frenzied attack on the woman, arched an eyebrow at the English master. “Are you giving me an order?”
“I am giving you a choice,” replied le Jay harshly. “Call off the assault or I’ll withdraw my support. You will have to continue this war without my men and without the use of Balantrodoch.”
“Your grand master commanded you to aid me.”
“Grand Master de Molay commanded me to help you put down a rebellion, not murder pregnant women in the street.”
There was silence, broken only by the sound of the soldier’s sword clattering to the ground and the noises of his retching as he bent over beside the mutilated woman and her half-born child and began to vomit.
“My lord,” said Bek, his voice quiet with caution. “Perhaps this has gone on long enough. We mustn’t spend ourselves on one town, not when we have other battles ahead.”
Edward glanced at him, something shifting in his gray eyes, some spark of reason entering his flat stare. After a long moment, he nodded. “Send orders to the men that the assault is ended, then deliver word to Douglas that if he surrenders himself to me I will spare the lives of his soldiers. Search the houses. Any women and children you find alive are free to go, but you will kill any man who will fetch no ransom. These people will breed no more sons to defy me.” Turning his horse, he paused beside Brian le Jay. “You have your way today,” he murmured, “but talk back to me again and I’ll have your head.” His voice rose as he addressed Bek and the others. “When the streets are cleared we will begin work on refortifying the defenses. Berwick will be rebuilt as an English town.”
Later that morning, the scattered forces, exhausted and bloodstained, came to order as the word went out for the assault to be raised. Men dressed their wounds, said prayers over dead comrades. Others returned to their captains with saddlebags stuffed with jewelry and silver. Down on the riverbanks, men worked in lines, tossing corpses into the Tweed. It was backbreaking work, for over eight thousand inhabitants had perished. The bodies tumbled slowly over one another in the current, clogging the estuary like thousands of enormous dead fish. Gulls and crows swooped and dove, picking a feast from the waves.
