Finally, the tense situation came to a head at one of the meetings in the great chamber at Edinburgh Castle.
“Out with it, man!” Archibald Douglas roared. Leaning forward on the table, he glowered at Albany, huge hands splayed, his very moustache seeming to bristle with his unbridled fury. His manner was insolent; he had no care that he spoke to a prince of Scotland. “What is it ye really want, Albany? If it is the crown, say it clear and let’s be finished with pretences! Do ye wish to usurp James’ throne or what? If aye, just make it clear now, if nay, tell us what ye do truly want! We are dancing around here like women or clerics, afraid to speak plainly as men!” He glanced at the two clerics, the Bishop of Dunkeld and Archbishop Sheves, who frowned at his disrespect but held their peace.
Duke Alexander’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in fright as he stared into Lord Archibald’s granite-hard visage. The word ‘usurp’ and the obvious hostility of Archibald, Earl Colin and the other assembled lords had unnerved him. “I…if my brother James, the King, can be made to see sense and return to ruling Scotland without his favourites, I will be content with that and drop my claim. My main concern is, and always has been, the return of my unlawfully stolen lands and titles. I am certain James stripped them from me only on the advice of his evil counselors, who bore me ill will.”
Earl Colin rose from his seat and stepped towards Albany, wearing a triumphant grin. “Then this ruckus will be done with, and you will swear allegiance to your brother, the rightful king?”
“I will.” Albany’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
So, it was over. Albany had capitulated. The Scottish lords were hooting with mirth and slapping each other’s shoulders. King James, imprisoned in luxury somewhere in the vast black castle of Edinburgh, would soon be seated on the throne again, though with a host of new, hardheaded advisors to tell him what to do.
Black-visaged, I sat tensely in my seat, mulling my position. I could not storm or sack Edinburgh; I had made promises, and the castle itself could withstand a siege for months, maybe years. Money to pay the troops ran dangerously low, dwindling by the day; soon there would be no food. There had been little enough to begin with, due to the failure of last year’s crops. I had applied to Edward for a license to buy victuals anywhere in England, Wales or Ireland, no matter the asking price; but I was not in any of those countries and importing goods would be dangerous and slow. Once all supplies were gone, mutiny and desertion would inevitably occur, especially once men learned my objective of placing Albany on the throne had been thwarted. The ‘big army’ of James was reported to be gathered in an unknown location too; no word had come of its dispersal, and the Scottish nobles were ominously tight-lipped on the subject. With James being eased back into power, this force would surely act at his commandment again.
Even with Albany’s cowardly defection, I strove to keep my composure. “My Lords, if the Duke of Albany is satisfied, then so must I be, although the King of England will not be pleased by this news. However, there is still the matter of the dowry of the Princess Cecily.”
Earl Colin nodded; I was relieved there was to be no argument over this, at least. “The dowry can be dealt with swiftly, my Lord of Gloucester. Of course, we will return the lassie’s…I mean the Princess’s dowry to the English King. It’s a great deal of money, but we have here the city provost, Walter Bertram, who, without the King’s presence, might underwrite the sum.”
He clicked his fingers and a burly man in rich merchant’s dress swaggered forward from the wings, a golden chain of office clinking round his neck. “Master Bertram, are you still capable of making good your promises? The arrangements for the return of the dowry are ready to be made in the presence of all the great lords gathered here today, the members of the high council of Scotland and Richard Duke of Gloucester.”
The provost came to the table, eyes swiftly scanning the documents Earl Colin placed before him before signing them in a bold hand. It was clear the return of the dowry had been anticipated in advance and arrangements already made with Bertram. I would have been happier to see James’ seal on the documents but as he was not yet quite free, that was not going to happen.
“And Berwick?” The ownership of the ever-contentious town might prove a thorny issue. Reaching down, pretending to scratch my leg, I felt for the hilt of a small dagger concealed in my boot. Forbidden in any English council chamber, I thought such a weapon might be a necessity here in the event of…unpleasantries. I was taking no chances.
Earl Colin laughed a booming laugh and slapped his thigh with a massive hand. “If ye can take it, including the citadel, ye can keep it! It’s half English anyway!” He spat onto the matted straw lumped over the flagstones.
Albany was lurking in the shadows, a limp rag in soiled finery. “And you, your Grace.” I struggled to keep contempt from my voice. “What of the oaths you have sworn to my brother, King of England? Do you still agree to hold to the conditions of the Treaty of Fotheringhay?”
Duke Alexander looked sullen; the other Scottish nobles glared daggers at him. “I do.”
And that was the best I could manage. I bowed and left the chamber.
The Scots were eager to be rid of me.
The English army left Edinburgh soon after the agreement was signed regarding Cecily’s dowry. Before we marched south, I made over forty men knights banneret for their loyal support—Walter Herbert Earl of Huntingdon, my good servant James Tyrell, efficient Richard Ratcliffe, my friend Robert Harrington, Ralph Assheton in his black armour, my kinsman Herbert Greystoke, William Redeman who helped me clear the York fishgarths a lifetime ago, and many other loyal men. Oh, and Edward Woodville, the Queen’s brother, whom I loathed near as much as Dorset, being cast in the same sly, lecherous mould. I could hardly leave him out, though….much as it would have pleased me.
Upon the departure and disbanding of a portion of my forces, some men returned home by land, others by sea down the rocky coast. Francis Lovell and I, planning to return to Berwick to finish our business there, took the overland route, skirting the towns and villages we had burned upon our way to Edinburgh.
It was uncomfortable going; not only were the Scottish midges eating us alive, we sensed increased hostility from those we encountered in the landscape. Word had spread that James had returned to power and that the English army was withdrawing; many Scots hailed this as a victory for their side, although in truth it was not. We prayed they would not come out armed and try to take vengeance.
Relief flooded all our hearts as we crossed the border into England.
Berwick Castle still held.
Stanley and Lord Elrington’s men were attempting to construct a makeshift bridge so that they could hammer the gates with rams, while sappers were busy at their deadly, dangerous work undermining the corner towers by tunneling below them. Periodically arrows rained from the walls, to be met by a return volley from our forces. Grappling hooks were thrown up, but there was little for them to fasten on, and those few that found purchase in the crenellations were swiftly cut down.
Fully armoured, I sat on my steed beside Lord Stanley who reeked of sweat and gunpowder. Cannons were roaring below us on the slopes at the foot of the castle. “Has any word come from Lord Hailes?” I asked. “Any sign he will capitulate? He must realise he battles in vain.”
“Still refuses to speak with us. I would imagine the supplies must be running low, however…and we have thrown a dead horse into the water supply.”
“They still might hold out longer if they have tuns of ale stored in the cellars. I grow impatient.”
“As do we all.” Lord Stanley licked the dust off his rather thick red lips.
I wanted to hit him.
I was saved from further discourse with Stanley by the sound of someone crying my name. My heralds were guiding a scout towards me, pushing through the press of men. I knew his name, Matthew; a pewter Boar was pinned to his jerkin; I had left him near Edinburgh to watch the movements of the Scots after my depa
rture. The fact he had come so far, so swiftly, implied events of grave import were afoot.
“My Lord of Gloucester, look to yourself!” he gasped, and it was then I noticed the shaft of an arrow, roughly broken off, sprouted from his side. Blood patched the dark leather of his tunic. “The Duke of Albany…now back with his kind…he has raised an army and is marching hence to relieve the Castle of Berwick!”
“Bloody traitor!” I shouted in rage. By Christ, I had not foreseen this; Albany’s behaviour before the council in Edinburgh was so cowardly I truly believed he would have slunk back to his newly-restored estates and kept his head low. However, it appeared he was now currying favour with his brother’s lords, perhaps to avoid his own version of Lauder Bridge, only with Bell-the-Cat’s noose growing tight round his neck. “Do you know how far he has marched, how many men?”
Wincing in agony, the messenger was now slumped between the heralds, who propped him up as best they could as he gasped, “A huge army. Coming towards the Lammermuirs…Oh God, the pain…I cannot breathe…”
Hastily I shouted to those gathered round. “Help this man! Take him to a tent. Call Dr Hobbes; tell him I would have him treat this loyal servant of mine as if he were treating me.”
Barely conscious, the wounded messenger was borne away towards the distant line of the surgeon’s tents. White with anger, I summoned a herald to my side. “Have you heard all? The faithless Albany rides for the Lammermuirs with an army, seeking to go back utterly on his word and relieve the castle’s defenders. I trust you to bear Duke Alexander this message….there will be no retreat from the men of England. Berwick is ours, town and castle. If he dares to come to Berwick with his army, I myself will fight to my last breath in defense of my men, and if I lay hands on him, I will see he suffers a traitor’s death. Hung. Drawn. Quartered. Now go, and God speed you!”
I turned back to Stanley and I knew my face was fearful to behold, for even that seasoned old warrior took a step away from me. “Now let us deal with this fucking castle!”
The gateway to Berwick castle was full of blood. It trickled between flagstones bent into bowls by long wear, and lay glistening in gullies like precious wine. Heaps of bodies sprawled around the entrance to the gate, under a crooked portcullis wrenched upwards into an awkward position and affixed there in open position. A pot that had contained boiling water sprawled on its side on an upper platform, dripping a slow hiss of steaming spray.
The dead were both English and Scottish; great loss of life had occurred on both sides when we took the castle at last, storming its defenses in a sudden night raid.
One last time, I had attempted to make terms, first with benevolent terms, then, when that failed, threats. No answer came from the castle. The gates remained shut and barred.
My patience reached its limit…and in the back of my mind was the bleak knowledge that Albany might ignore my warnings and continue to march towards Berwick to aid the castle’s defenders. If he arrived, not only would we be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, but also hemmed in by his forces. There was no time to lose.
Therefore, once full night had fallen I gave the signal and the assault began in earnest. The gatehouse was undermined; the nearby walls scaled in a vicious all- out assault with ladders and hooks. At the same time, a false attack with much yelling and torch-waving was staged at the castle’s postern gate to divert the defenders from the main deployment of my men, allowing several warriors to scale the wall. Once a number of us were inside the bailey, the gatekeepers were slain and the portcullis raised, allowing men entry from the deep dry moat. The buildings of the inner ward were put to the torch, causing immediate confusion and panic amongst those holed up inside.
Now those buildings were reduced to rubble, and the somber keep belched foul black smoke from a fire set on the lower level. A scaffold, hastily erected at first light, already groaned beneath bodies as I made good my promise to take a life for that of each Englishman who had fallen.
I played with the idea of making Lord Hailes pay the ultimate price for his folly in refusing my terms, but decided against it; his execution might stir up even more anger along the borders, and we were still in perilous territory with Scots all too near.
I had Hailes dragged before me, despondent, heavy-faced, bleeding from a shallow head-wound. By the look in his eyes, I believe he expected to be instantly put to death.
“Lord Hailes, you defied me long and brought doom upon your own captains and men,” I said. “You deserve to die, but no, I am not going to execute you. Instead, I will give you horse and bid you leave…to tell all the lords and nobles and clerics of Scotland that Berwick was, and ever shall be from this day forth, English. And may they look upon you as a shameful beast, who condemned his own to death, then was let loose without penalty.”
“I am not afraid to die!” roared Patrick, Lord Hailes. He was a young, foolish man, having replaced his aging grandfather at Berwick only that year.
“I know,” I said, “but death would be too good for the likes of you. Live with your shame. Now get you from my sight!”
Hailes was bundled on to a horse and driven through the wrecked postern gates with jeers following him.
I went out after and stood watching his departure. “What now?” said Frank, coming up behind me, his armour both bloody and ashen, striped red and black.
“A few more days to bury our dead and make sure the peace here will hold…” I told him, “Then we go. There is no more we can do in Berwick…or in Scotland.”
After making two more men knights bannerets for their bravery in breaching the citadel, I then received what I had awaited with baited breath—a letter brought by speediest courier from fickle Albany, lurking in an unknown place within the misty Lammermuirs. “You misread me, my Lord of Gloucester!” he had written in spidery, shaking hand. “I was never coming to relieve Berwick, to break my vow to his Grace King Edward and destroy the treaty. I merely played the game to be away from my enemies in Edinburgh. There is no army rising against you…”
Smiling coldly, I tore the worthless Duke’s letter into many fragments and hurled them over the walls of Berwick castle where the breeze carried them out across the river. Doubtless word had reached Albany that the citadel had already fallen and hence he had abandoned his treacherous plan and dispersed his forces. No matter. Our alliance was over, and he could fight with the good and great of Scotland and meet his death by subterfuge, battle or headsman for all I cared.
My work here was done.
I returned to my familiar, loved lands by way of Newcastle, staying for a brief spell in Sheriff Hutton, where my son John was still most disappointed that I had not brought him a Scotsman’s head as a trophy of war. The boy had grown even taller and broader, and there was an added fierceness to his manner. “I will get a Scotsman’s head for myself soon,” he told me in complete seriousness. “I have been practicing with my wooden sword everyday and I am good.”
And Katherine; since I visited Sheriff Hutton last, she had blossomed like a flower and looked less like a little maid than a young woman. She had even plucked her brows, which made her deep blue eyes appear all the more vivid. My little poppet! I did not know whether to be proud or horrified. She moved sedately in her gown, no longer throwing herself upon my knee, and even her dog Nosewise seemed more subdued, heeling to her command…till he got close enough to thrust his infamous, questing nose into my hand in a vain quest for some morsel.
Once I had rested and attended to castle business and the welfare of the children and the household, it was on to Middleham, where Anne awaited me in the Great Hall, with our son at her right hand in violet and silver, the trim on his doublet marked out with pearlescent white boars. Anne had hired a troupe of musicians for my homecoming and they played sweetly as I entered the Hall, the returning champion, the beater of the Scottish peril.
No mention was made of the failure of Albany’s claim, nor did any ask why I had not besieged Edinburgh castle itself—questions I knew might be
asked by some, for such was the way of men, eager to criticise when they themselves had not set one foot into danger.
“How have you fared without me?” I asked Anne later. We had dined with guests, then again in our own private apartment after they had departed. Decent-tasting food cooked well. And the best wine…I drank plenty of it, trying to forget the stomach-churning stuff carted along on campaign.
“Well enough. You are gone often enough that I must learn.” I caught a hint of peevishness in her voice.
“It is my duty,” I said stiffly. “To the King I am ever loyal.”
“Duty, loyalty, you keep telling me about duty and loyalty.” She put down her cup and her arms came up round my neck, and her hands tangled in my hair. “I know all about duty too. Surely you understand that I fear for you on such campaigns. And miss you when you are not here, my dearest lord. To be such a loyal wife is my duty to you.”
“Are you going to be dutiful and loyal tonight, my lady?” I kissed her mouth, savouring the taste of her lips, the scent of her flesh. She had bathed before I arrived, and her ladies had scented her skin orange and jasmine.
“When have I ever said you nay, my Lord?” she whispered against my cheek. “Not once in all these long years. Am I am wanton?”
I caught her hand, pulled her towards the bed. Fresh posies of flowers and herbs hung from the rails, fragranced the sheets. The best linen had been laid out, the bugs beaten out of the canopy and drapes with their suggestively impaled Fetterlock and Ragged Staff.
Appropriate tonight, I though with ribald humour.
I blew out the nearby candle.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 35
