A small cheer arose somewhere in the solemn crowd. A good sign.
“I will allow no looting or defouling of the women,” I continued. Another cheer and relieved faces, especially those of the fat, wimpled matrons in the windows above. “But…” I made my face serious, “if there is renewed resistance, or any harm or offense offered me or mine, you would do well to remember deeds of old, in the time of another King Edward, first of that name.” I glanced around, gaze taking all the folk within the square. “People of Berwick, do you remember the Red Hall?”
A gasp went through the crowd, a ripple of fear. Back in the reign of the first Edward, Berwick had been stormed and captured with great loss of life. The Red Hall had contained a guild of Flemish merchants. Foolishly, they had taken a stand against the King—and he had them burnt to death in their hall, before slaughtering most of the civilians of Berwick, ceasing to kill only when a woman heavy with child was hacked to death before his very eyes.
“I see your memories are long. Submit to me without further delay, and avoid the same fate that befell those unfortunates. Men said the first King Edward’s rage at the disobedience of this town was as great as that of a wild boar chased by dogs…Well, do not tempt this Boar to similar anger.” I pointed with my gauntleted hand to my banner, flapping noisily in the stiff breeze off the river, the Boar fierce with his goring tusks and reddened eyes.
Used to switching from one nationality to the other, and with many remembering life before Marguerite handed them over to the Scots like a lavish Christmas gift, the folk of Berwick were not fools, nor were they unduly stubborn like those Flemish merchants and rebellious townsfolk of centuries past. They capitulated almost at once, and the fight was over.
Except for the castle. The drawbridge remained up; the curtain wall bristled with archers. Patrick Hepburn, Lord Hailes, was cloistered within, a rat holed up, and he would not send a contingent out to treat. In fact, my request for parlay was met by derisive hoots and a shower of arrows that fell harmlessly into the moat.
“It will have to be a siege,” Lord Stanley muttered to me in his deep, drawling voice. He shaded his heavy-lidded eyes with a hand and stared at the castle, appraising the situation. “A siege could go on for a long time.”
I shrugged. “So be it. They have dug their own graves if they hold out too long. We will dig in, starve them out, poison their water supply if we can find it.”
“Sieges cost money, my lord,” said Stanley smoothly, stroking that infernal beard of his that made him resemble, at worst, Satan, and at best, a shifty goat.
“I know well they cost money,” I snapped, annoyed that Thomas Stanley implied that our finances were lacking and a siege might be a waste of revenue. It was true, to an extent—money for such campaigns was always scarce, but we could not claim complete victory over Berwick unless the castle fell.
I called a herald to me. “I want a message taken to the castle. If they refuse to parlay and continue to hold out against us, they must expect the worst. The choice is theirs.”
Then I glanced over to Lord Stanley. “You are doubtless the most experienced commander here. And you seem to be the most aware of the intricacies of besieging a fortress.” Stanley’s thick eyelids lifted, revealing those dark brown orbs that unnerved me in their blankness. He seemed to think I was offering him an unexpected compliment.
“Therefore, I would lay it on you to besiege the castle of Berwick while I fare on to Edinburgh with the Duke of Albany. If Lord Hailes capitulates within a few days, spare the defenders and do as you see fit with the captains. If they continue to resist, or cause us harm, kill them all.”
Stanley’s eyes bulged for a moment and he made a little strangled noise deep within his throat. It was an enraged noise, which he promptly hid with coughing and more beard-pulling. Then his usual unnerving calmness descended once more and he gave a neat little bow. “As you wish, my lord Duke.”
He was probably, secretly as relieved to be out of my company as I was to be out of his. Leaving him to prepare for the upcoming siege, I returned to my pavilion. I would rest a short time, then it was on to Edinburgh. Summoning Albany to my side, I told him of my plans.
“Are you ready, my Lord Duke,” I said to Alexander, would-be king of Scotland, “to claim your crown?”
The weather had grown warm and the Duke was wiping his face nervously on his sleeve. I had seen him puking after the limited fighting in the town; it seemed he had little real experience of warfare. “Y..yes, my Lord of Gloucester,” he stammered. “My…my crown.”
“Good,” I said, “for we march toward Edinburgh on the morrow. We will burn all towns along the route, in hopes it will provoke your brother into forthright action.”
Albany was licking his lips and fidgeting. “My brother is more interested in his jongleurs and artisans than war. He has surrounded himself with them. Perhaps we should treat with him before anything rash is done…”
Flinging back my head, I laughed. “Jongleurs and artisans? Well, should James bring milksops to the field instead of fighting men, it should be a short battle, eh, Albany?”
“Maybe, my Lord Duke,” the Scot said sullenly, folding his arms over his chest in a defensive manner.
I knew he was not trustworthy, but now my blood was up. He would play his part, by God; I would make sure of it.
“I bid you good night,” I said to him, although it was nowhere near night. He could find his own diversions. I was going to summon Francis to my tent and take council with him; maybe some of the other mostly loyal friends and servants too—James Tyrell was with us, and Ratcliffe and Scrope.
Albany glanced at me, then abruptly stalked away. He realised he had, more or less, been dismissed.
I watched him go through the painted flaps of the tent with their boars and roses. The fair day was dying, and on the horizon storm clouds bubbled like the steam from a witch’s cauldron.
The march west to Edinburgh had begun. Henry Percy split away from our forces to continue harrying the border, burning farmsteads and villages and capturing peel towers. I moved on towards Kimmherghame, then veered in a northerly direction and towards Edinburgh, again firing the local towns in order to provoke the confrontation I craved.
Spies told me that King James was encamped at Lauder Bridge. What by God’s teeth, was the man doing, lurking like some miscreant and refusing to come forth to battle? Where was this ‘great army’ that had been whispered about, causing such consternation in England?
A messenger galloped in, sweat-streaked, his face aflame with excitement. “My Lord of Gloucester, there is news!” he panted, flinging himself down before me. News of great import!”
“Well, what is it?” I asked with impatience. I was hot under my armour; the heat in Scotland was unusual that summer, and midges and flies bit any exposed flesh and added to the itch and chaffing.
“King James, the Scottish king! He has been taken!” Babbling words spewed from the messenger’s mouth.
“Taken? Taken where? What are you talking about, man?”
“Some of his own have risen against him, your Grace! Archibald Earl of Angus, Archie Bell-the-Cat they call him…he has apprehended the King at Lauder Bridge and hung his favourites! Aye, hung them by the neck from the bridge itself.”
“Jesu!” I stuttered. I had not foreseen such an act, although I knew James had fallen in popularity, and that the nobles despised his lowborn friends.
Next to me, Albany had turned white. This should have been a moment of elation for him, but he looked as if his eyes might suddenly roll back into his skull and his body flop from his horse to the ground in a faint.
Reaching out a none-too-gentle hand, I steadied him. “I was right then, was I not, my Lord? A short battle to dispose of gleemen and artisans! But I thought we would be doing the fighting, not that it would be done for us!”
“So…” I turned back to the messenger, who was taking great gulps of water from a proffered water-gourd “Where is King James now?�
�
“Archie Bell-the-Cat and the other lords are taking him to Edinburgh castle, your Grace.” The man stopped drinking, water funnelling down his bearded chin.
“Good. Exactly what I wanted to hear. For that is where I am going too.”
Edinburgh, largest city in Scotland, was a great, dark, sprawling place. The castle stood on a conical hill, stark and sere, rampart upon rampart rising towards the heavens, the walls seemingly unbreakable. I frowned; that fortress would be a vile place to lay siege to, if it came to it. Enough supplies, and the defenders could last indefinitely; even Warwick’s great cannons of yore would have had little effect on such stonework.
Stalwartly the army pressed forward, filling the main road that ran through Edinburgh, a spine passing through the body of the town. 12,000 souls were rumoured to dwell there…and most of them seemed to be pressed to the windows of the houses than jutted over the street. It looked a prosperous place; the little wynds that ran off from the main street were full of tradesmen—websters and tailors, bakers and fleshers, candlemakers and cordwainers. The church had presence too; Greyfriars in dove-coloured hoods and black Canons from nearby Holyrood priory all watched the march of the English army with wary eyes.
Little resistance met us upon entrance, and heralds had been dispatched in advance to that louring black castle on its high summit. Our enemies here were swift to send word they wished to treat, and I had hopes that maybe the lords of Scotland, holding James as prisoner, would indeed accept the Duke of Albany as their new king.
Due to this hope, I kept my army well in check. Stern words were spoken to all divisions: “Any man who burns will be punished unto death. Any man who ravishes a woman or slays a man who bears no arms against him shall also meet with death. Any man who raids a home or commits theft or assault, especially within the holy church, will be clapped in chains and brought to the Duke of Gloucester for due punishment.”
My admonishments appeared to work; although my forces were large, spilling into the side streets, no rumours of misdoings had reached my ears thus far. I was eager to let the folk of Edinburgh know that, provided they did not attack my soldiers, they would be safe from harm.
Up ahead, through the murk that hung over the city, the spire of St Giles rose in splendour. It was the main church, or kirk, of Edinburgh, rumoured to have nigh on fifty altars within. Nearly one hundred years before, English forces under another Richard, that unfortunate King who was second of that name, had burnt part of St Giles and the nearby Town Hall. The church had since undergone rebuilding, and its churchyard spread out around it to form a green space where people met and traded and passed gossip. Today the churchyard bristled with anxious townsfolk and a scattering of lepers and cripples who had attached themselves to St Giles, the patron saint of such unfortunates.
A churchyard was as good a place as any to make a proclamation, for so many souls gathered there, and, if one was fortunate, the presence of the clergy at the House of God might forestall any violence that might be brewing.
Riding in amongst the graves, I sat mounted before the great, carved church doors, the archway with its stone angels soaring behind my head. Again, as in Berwick, the proclamation was given out; that if my army was left unmolested so should the good people of Edinburgh be left unharmed.
Audible sighs of relief ran through the gathered throng, and ran in little ripples amongst the folk clustered in the yard and in the tight wynds of the town. Although a few hissed and shouted abuse, their fellows snarled at them like angry dogs and elbowed them back into the crowds. No one, it seemed, wished to see fair Edinburgh burn through pride.
I carried on, as a conqueror, towards the castle, my forces streaming out around and behind me. The banner of St George forged on ahead, along with Edward’s Sunne; and my White Boar, streaming out from my standard bearer’s hands, ran raging along the sky.
As we ascended the street leading to the stronghold’s gates, I noticed a large body of foetid water lapping the base of the castle rock, making a partial defense for both castle and town. Dull as slops, it reflected a greyer sky. Stench rose from it in what passed for Scottish summer warmth, while strange wisps of mist curled on the surface, shimmering in the dull light. My scouts informed me that this water was the Norloch, an artificial lake created on the orders of James back in 1460, following his accession to the throne after his feckless father blew himself to pieces showing off a great cannon. James had been but eight years old at the time, the same age as I was when my own father died; but pah…children should not sit on a throne. Playing around with water, and creating a great cesspool in the centre of town when proper defenses, such as stalwart walls, should have been constructed instead. I dreaded to think what evil humours wafted out of the Norloch to harm the people of the city.
“God in heaven, what a reek!” Francis Lovell whispered to me, rising close. “It smells as if every chamber pot and privy in Edinburgh is emptied into that…that Norloch.”
The Duke of Albany, well used to the pungent aroma of the town, glowered at us both. “Norloch is a useful place, my lords. We execute criminals on the banks, away from the main part of town.”
“And I am guessing you hurl them in the water, by the smell!” said Francis, raising his fingers to hold his nose.
Albany frowned, and rubbed at his gorget as if imagining his own head being severed and tossed in the Norloch. Anxiously I watched him; now that the hour of his possible eminence was here, a marked fearfulness gripped him. Was he afraid of the people he hoped to rule? That could prove fatal indeed. What in God’s name was wrong with him, when we had come so far?
The road became steeper; the castle gates thrust up in iron strength with great drum towers standing adamant on either side. A wind arose, hurling away Norloch’s rancorous odours of decay and ordure. A single beam of sunlight threaded through a cloud, lighting up the cross on the Saltire, the emblem of St Andrew, as it fluttered upon the castle’s bastions.
The great gates opened, a wheel creaking as the portcullis was drawn up, its jagged teeth gleaming.
We were in.
The Scots were hard men, even those who belonged to the Church. In the dim, old-fashioned council chamber of Edinburgh castle we faced each other over a great oak table scored with dagger marks. There was Archibald Bell-the-Cat, Earl of Angus, burner of Bamburgh, big as a mountain with a long, drooping grey moustache and thinning tied-back hair. Colin, Earl of Argyll, was the main speaker, nigh as big as Archibald in size and red as a fox, his broad face freckled and creased like crumpled parchment. The representatives of the church were Archbishop Sheves and the Bishop of Dunkeld, dour men with suspicious eyes that darted about in rat-like fashion and mouths that pursed with disapproval at the proceedings. I knew Archibald and Earl Colin mocked me behind my back, marveling that I was so small in stature compared to my illustrious brother. “Wee Dick,” my spies told me was their favourite taunt…but let them jeer. David killed Goliath, after all.
As for spies, not only mine roamed abroad, seeking information on the enemy; the Scots had their own, lots of them. A delegation arrived at my pavilion in our military camp at Lennoxlove; I was sent pipers, and entertainers, and all manners of Scottish food and drink, which I shared with Francis and my fellows — after the items were scrutinized for poison. Oddities given us for table were ptarmigan and capercallie, a bird of the highland regions, and trays of a filling, spicy meat dish mixed with oats
However, that was not all. Along with the entertainers and the food, to show their ‘hospitality’ the Scots lords sent a pack of ‘servants’ whose eyes were too sharp and whose hands had to be watched. We spent a good deal of time devising ways to pass false information back to their masters and hoping it worked. I made sure the spies believed I had written to Ned asking for additional troops and funding, although I had not. If the Scots realised my finances were low and that I was growing fearful of mutinies over pay and victuals, my position would be a dangerous one.
Negotiations con
tinued. The Scottish lords grew more hardheaded by the day, less willing to listen. It soon became clear they had no wish to see Albany on the throne, thinking him treacherous, feeble and unmanly; a laughing stock. Though inclined to agree with their appraisal, I could not say so for obvious reasons. The terms of the Treaty of Fotheringhay had also leaked out—one of their spies must have got lucky—and the great of the land were dancing with fury.
“Scotland will never be subject to Edward IV!” the cry went out, even within my presence, which gave me grave cause for concern. My hold on the situation was slipping. I took to wearing armour beneath my garments when in the Scots lords’ presence and even elsewhere, in case of assassins. Tales abounded of how the Scots would treacherously slaughter their enemies even at table; not so many years ago, the Lord Chancellor of Scotland had invited the sixteen-year-old Earl Douglas and his younger brother to a banquet with the ten-year-old King James II, father of the present king. Halfway through the feasting, a black bull’s severed head, the token of death, was carried in on a blood-soaked platter and placed before the terrified young Earl, whose clan had fallen afoul of the Crown. The two Douglas brothers were seized, dragged to a nearby hilltop, and executed. I took care, heeding the lessons of history; I had no wish to meet a similar fate.
The Duke of Albany, Lord Alexander, who should have stood at my shoulder and pressed his claim, began to prove an irritation and a concern. As days passed and the Scottish council hardened against him, he grew increasingly distressed, skittering around the place like a cornered deer, and speaking not of his glorious future as King of Scotland but only of his lost lands and titles.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 34
