by Robyn Young
“Keep still,” ordered Edward irritably, leaning forward to dip the white linen cloth he held into the water. He withdrew it and dabbed at his face. It was uncomfortably humid, the tent seeming to have collected the heat of the past few days. He had told the pages to light incense to mask the smell of sweat and steel that clung to the air over the encampment, but even so the place still reeked. Edward glanced over at John de Warenne, who was reclining on a cushioned stool tearing greedily at a chicken leg. There were brown sweat rings under his arms, staining his tunic. Edward had a sudden urge to have the page toss the basin of water over the earl, who must be a primary source of the stink.
The tent flaps parted and a portly man in black robes entered. It was Hugh Cressingham, the senior clerk. “My lord,” he said, greeting the king in his shrill voice, “the last of them are coming down.”
Edward dropped the cloth in the basin and rose. Pushing past the page, he strode outside. In the distance, beyond the siege platforms, which were being dismantled, a line of people were filing down the steep hill from the castle gate. Shading his eyes, Edward could just distinguish the garish colors of his guards’ uniforms from the dreary dress of the locals. He looked beyond them to the castle walls where plumes of smoke curled.
“Bishop Bek is making sure the place is searched for any stragglers,” Cressingham informed him, as John de Warenne came out to stand beside them.
Tossing the gnawed chicken leg to a hound sprawled in the sun, the earl wiped his greasy fingers on his robe. “Bek is becoming quite the little emperor,” he remarked, belching.
Cressingham, who always kept himself impeccably neat, frowned disdainfully, his chubby chin dimpling as his lips pursed.
Unaware of Cressingham’s disgust, de Warenne swiped viciously at a fly. “Well, just as long as he’s making them hurry. The sooner we leave this dung heap the better. God damn these flies! Why do they torment me?”
Cressingham looked as if he wanted to answer, but glancing at the king seemed to think better of it. “Are you going to let all the survivors go, my lord?”
Edward clasped his hands behind his back as he surveyed the men, women and children trudging down the hill. “Of course. Who else will plow the fields and mill the grain and collect the wool that will help to fill our coffers? We must leave a labor force.”
“A good point,” said de Warenne.
Edward kept his eyes on the survivors. “From here we continue to Stirling. It is the last obstacle.”
“The last?” asked Cressingham.
“Stirling is the key to the north,” de Warenne answered. “Its castle guards the crossing over the Forth. If we take Stirling, we take Scotland.” He smiled contentedly.
“Before the feast of St. Michael I want this kingdom on its knees before me.” Edward turned to them. “When it is subdued I shall make a progress through the towns and cities so that every man will see their new lord and do me honor. Our laborers from Northumberland will soon be finished building Berwick’s fortifications. When the town is rebuilt it will serve as our headquarters here in the north. I want both of you to take up chief positions.”
John de Warenne’s smile faded. Cressingham, however, looked like an eager schoolboy who has just been told he has passed his examinations.
“We will talk more when . . .” Edward trailed off, seeing two royal guards approaching. Between them they were holding a man. He had a leather bag over one shoulder. “What is this?”
“A messenger, my lord,” said one of the guards. “He says he has come from Balliol’s camp.”
Edward studied the messenger, who was looking at him grimly. “What is the message?”>
The guard handed over a scroll. As Edward gestured, Cressingham stepped forward to take it. He read the text.
“Well?” said Edward impatiently.
“Balliol says he will renounce the treaty he made with Philippe.” Cressingham looked up at the king. “He offers unconditional surrender.”
A smile twitched at the corners of Edward’s mouth. “By St. Michael’s Mass did I say?” He glanced at the earl. “I think it may be sooner. Write a response immediately,” he said to Cressingham. “Tell him we accept his surrender. Once I have stripped that rebel of his crown I will have every man of noble birth in this kingdom come to pay homage to me.”
“And then, my lord?”
“Then I will return to England,” replied Edward with a frown, as if the answer was obvious. His gaze moved back to the grim-faced messenger and now the smile spread full across his face. “Truly, a man does good business when he relieves himself of shit.”
11
Midlothian, Scotland
JULY 5, 1297 AD
The forest was cool and shaded, its dense canopy an effective barrier against the midday sun. Insects hummed in an air drowsy with the sweet smells of summer. In a clearing, a hart was grazing. As it lowered its head to the grass, antlers smooth as bone, Will edged his horse closer. The lymer, tethered to the horse’s crupper by a long leash, gave a barely audible whine. Silencing the hound with a tap of his crop, Will checked the hart. The beast had raised its head and stood poised, scenting the air. One of its dark eyes fixed on him, positioned a short distance upwind by a patch of nettles. He sat still in the saddle, letting his horse graze, his green tunic and hose making him one with the trees, his face masked by leaves strung from a circlet of bound twigs on his head. A faint breeze rustled the undergrowth and the leaves fluttered against his forehead. The hart returned to the grass, but it was wary now, muscles tensed. It had caught Will’s scent on that breeze. As he inched the horse nearer with gentle nudges of his knees, the hart began to move slowly downwind, in the direction Will intended. It was troubled, but had no face for its fear, just another four-legged beast that moved close by and showed no sign of aggression. Will, all his attention on the hart, his peripheral vision obscured by the mask of leaves, didn’t see the trailing branch until it switched past his face. He raised his hand instinctively and in so doing knocked off the circlet. The hart’s head jerked up at the movement. Then it was off, hurtling through the trees.
Will swore and kicked his horse after it. “It’s heading straight for you!” he shouted, narrowly avoiding smashing his kneecap into a tree trunk, as his horse cantered on through the wood, the lymer streaking excitedly behind.
David, some distance downwind, his back pressed against a tree, glanced to his left at the shout. The hart was charging toward his hiding place. He set his jaw as he drew the yew bow, which curved taut with a soft creak, the arrow fixed and ready. Suddenly, the hart veered off its course and headed right. David drew in a breath and turned, the bow, almost six feet in length, swinging round in front of him. Narrowing his eyes, his vision fixing on a point just ahead of the animal, he let go. The arrow sprang forward, straight into the hart’s path as it careened through the undergrowth. The barbed tip plunged into its side, punching through its rib cage. It bellowed and reared up, then crashed down on to its side, twigs snapping beneath it. David ran across, drawing a dagger with his free hand ready to dispatch the animal, but the hart was dead, its hind legs twitching spasmodically.
“A clean kill,” he said, rising and stowing the dagger in its sheath as Will pulled up alongside.
Dismounting, Will shook his head admiringly. “You shouldn’t have even hit it the way it came at you.”
David shrugged, but flushed with pride.
“It was my fault,” Will admitted, as they trussed the animal’s legs and, together, heaved the carcass over the saddle. “I’m afraid I’m still more of a hindrance than a help.”
David reached into a leather bag strung from his belt and brought out a piece of soft yellowed cheese, which he fed to the lymer, ruffling its long ears. “It just takes a while.”
“A while? You’ve been teaching me for a year.” Will laughed.
David grinned. “Well, I suppose you are a bit slow, being so ancient.” He shouted and tried to duck as Will cuffed him about the head.
“This old bag of bones could still best you in a fight, boy.”
David’s laughter faded. As he turned away, Will cursed inwardly.
“We should get home,” murmured his nephew, taking the hound’s leash.
Leading the horse, the hart’s head swinging lifelessly, Will followed him through the trees. “Did I ever tell you I was kept back from my knighthood?” he said, after they had been walking for a while.
David glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“When I was your age, I was kept back.”
David stopped walking. “Why?”
“I pilfered the Eucharist,” said Will with a half smile, remembering Everard kicking him awake as he lay curled in the sacristy of the Paris Temple, the priest’s wrinkled face glowering down at the empty chalice and crumbs of the host scattered around him.
David didn’t return the smile. “Then it was a punishment?” He shook his head, a hank of blond hair falling into his eyes. “It isn’t the same. I’ve done nothing wrong.” He carried on walking, pulling hard at the leash as the lymer tried to launch itself after a rabbit that went bolting off between the trees.
“It will happen, when things change.”
“When will that be?” David demanded. “When are things going to change? How?”
Will didn’t have an answer for him. They lapsed into a taut silence broken only by twigs splintering under their feet and the startled chirping of birds.
As they made their way out of the forest into the languid heat of the afternoon, Will was struck again by how strange it was that everything around them seemed so peaceful; the hills bathed in golden light, tall grasses swaying, flowers dusting their clothes with pollen. It was all so markedly at odds with the events of the past year that it felt almost offensive for the landscape to carry on as if nothing had altered. Yet the seasons still turned and the days flowed by, and it was only in Scotland’s people where the changes were etched. For some, it was true, life went on mostly as it had, except now it was just that little bit tougher. For others it was harder by far. But for everyone there was a sense of things having paused, as if they were all waiting for something, refusing to believe what had happened, unable to move forward, even though it was now a year since Edinburgh had fallen to Edward’s army. A year since Scotland had become an English fief.
While Will had left Edinburgh with his sister’s family, heading for the Midlothian estate, the English Army moved on to Stirling. They later learned the castle had been abandoned by everyone but the gatekeeper, who handed over the keys to an undoubtedly triumphant Edward. With the crossing over the Forth secured and the last of Scottish resistance broken, the king advanced north as far as Elgin on a royal progress, making sure that at each town and castle he rested at, every prominent landlord in the area came to pay him homage. They heard that Edward received Balliol at Montrose, where the Scottish king gave his formal surrender and was stripped of his royal arms. The man Edward chose to be his puppet king, who had rebelled and cut free of his master’s strings, was sent, subdued and humiliated, to the Tower in London. With him went the seal of Scotland, broken in four. In one final, devastating act, Edward had the Stone of Destiny removed from Scone Abbey and conveyed to Westminster. This ancient rock, the seat of crowning for the kings of Scotland for over four hundred years, was more than just a relic: it was the symbol of a nation, and with its removal and interment in England, Edward thus sealed his conquest. By the autumn, Berwick’s fortifications were complete and the town, rebuilt over the mass graves of its people, became the new center of government. Leaving John de Warenne as lieutenant of the realm and Hugh Cressingham as treasurer, along with a vast number of English bureaucrats and officials to run the country, Edward returned to England.
One saving grace, that came later, was the release of a number of the Scottish magnates imprisoned in England, David Graham, Sir Patrick’s heir, among them. These men, along with fifteen hundred of their countrymen, had been forced to do fealty to Edward and now owned their estates in his name, but minor landowners, such as Duncan, had been allowed to keep their holdings running much as they had before. For most of the time, Ysenda and the children remained at the Midlothian estate, rather than in Kincardine with Duncan, having found that it was far enough away from the main centers not to be taken much notice of by the English justices under the hated Cressingham.
Approaching the house up the steep track, sweating with the climb, Will and David saw a plume of smoke rising into the haze.
“Looks like our supper’s on,” said Will, feeling his stomach growl at the promise of food.
“Go on in,” said David, taking the horse’s reins. “I’ll see to the unmaking.”
Sensing his nephew, who had been quiet since leaving the forest, needed to be on his own, Will let him lead the horse with its burden to the barn, the lymer barking exuberantly at his heels. In the paddock, Tom, their manservant, who had remained at the estate all through the war, was feeding their two goats. They had lost three during the winter and hadn’t yet been able to replace them. Food had been scarce, most of the harvests either having been destroyed or else having withered in the fields while the men were away at war.
Heading round to the back of the main house, through the herb garden his mother had planted, Will pushed open the door.
Ysenda was chopping sage at the kitchen table. She looked up as he entered. “Did you catch anything?”
“Your son did. A hart.”
She smiled. “That should last us a good long while.”
Will kicked off his boots. Pulling up a stool, he sat at the table, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. His skin felt tight. “Duncan’s not back?”
Ysenda shook her head as she scraped the sage into an iron pot where a broth was bubbling away. Her sandy hair curled around her forehead in the heat.
The herb smell reminded Will of his mother and, for a moment, he closed his eyes, listening to the knife grate against the wood, held within the memory. Everyone else here had their tasks that kept them busy, kept them from thinking about the past, or the future. David had his hunting, Ysenda the running of the estate, Duncan his work under Sir David Graham in Kincardine, Tom and the girls their allotted duties. They all had a place, something to do. He was the only one who didn’t fit, who flitted from task to task, helping each of them in turn, but ultimately aimless. He felt suspended, hanging frozen like the rest of Scotland, waiting for something to change. For the string to snap.
“Is the food ready?”
At the singsong voice, Will raised his head from his hands to see Alice come skipping into the kitchen. He smiled at his niece, then went still, his gaze locking on a tiny silver pendant that swung to and fro from her neck. He stood, the stool tipping to clatter back behind him. Alice halted at the sight of his rigid face, her own smile fading. Ysenda looked round.
“Brother—” she started to say, but the rest of her words were cut off as Will strode to Alice.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
“What?” Alice’s eyes grew wide.
“The pendant! Where did you get it? Have you been looking through my things, girl?”
“Will!” exclaimed Ysenda, setting down the stack of bowls she was carrying.
“It was Margaret’s,” said Alice, clearly terrified as Will loomed over her and snatched up the pendant from where it hung against her chest. “She gave it to me last month when I turned thirteen. Father gave it to her when she was my age.” Alice looked round as Margaret came into the kitchen. “It was yours, wasn’t it!” she blurted.
Even as she was speaking, Will turned the pendant over in his hands and realized his mistake. Instead of a man with his foot on a serpent, there was the delicate outline of a woman, crowned by a cross. St. Margaret of Scotland. He remembered now: her sister presenting it to her with much ceremony and a rare smile from Duncan.
Margaret plucked the pendant from his palm. Holding her sister’s shoulders protectively, she glare
d at him.
“What is wrong with you?” said Ysenda in a low, fierce voice, coming up alongside him.
“I’m sorry,” Will murmured. “I thought it was . . . I’m sorry.” Returning to the table, he righted the stool. He sat, recalling the moment when he had handed the St. George pendant to the trader in St. Albans, the day after his desertion. How could he have forgotten? Ysenda returned to the broth, but her eyes kept flicking to Will as she stirred it. Margaret took up the bowls and began to set them around the table as Alice slid on to a stool, fiddling self-consciously with the pendant. Margaret slammed Will’s bowl down in front of him, making him wince. He had only just started to form a bond with his elder niece and now he had gone and ruined it.
The door opened and David entered, his earlier despondency replaced by a broad grin. “Look who I found.”
“Father!” said Alice, as Duncan headed in behind his son. She threw herself into his arms and he staggered back with a grunt of surprise.
“Anyone would think I’d been gone for a month.”
“It feels like it,” said Ysenda, kissing his cheek.
The tension in the room dispersed gradually, Duncan shrugging off his traveling cloak and David standing his bow up by the back door, while Ysenda spooned broth into the bowls.
“Venison soon,” she said, with a smile toward David as she sat. “We’ll feast like kings.”
“We’re the lucky ones,” said Duncan wearily. “God be thanked.” They all bowed their heads as he murmured a prayer.
Will raised his spoon, then let it fall, finding his hunger had gone.
“It must be better now the harvests are coming in?” asked Ysenda, watching her husband eat.
“It would be, if the treacherer let people keep enough to feed themselves.”
David smiled coldly as his father used the nickname most Scots were calling the treasurer, Hugh Cressingham.
