by Young, Robyn
The commanders came to the edge of the trees, boots splashing through the slush, breath misting the air. A few of the archers that formed a ring around the knoll nodded tautly in greeting. Most kept their eyes on the distance, bows ready in their hands. Edward followed their gazes.
Before him, the mound dipped down into a large, snow-covered plain, spiked with coarse grasses that thrust up from the underlying marsh. The mud was still churned in places where the enemy’s cavalry had tilted futilely at their ranks, but in the plummeting temperatures of the last few days it had become crusted with a hard layer of ice. Here and there, the rigid limbs of horses and men stuck up out of the snow. Beyond the plain, about a mile to the north, a large column of men had appeared. At this distance they were just a dark mass against the white, but Edward had seen enough armies to know the scouts’ estimates weren’t wrong. Above him, the branches of the trees rattled like bones in the wind. It was picking up. The sullen sky augured another fall.
‘Mostly infantry,’ murmured Malcolm, his eyes narrowing on the approaching force. ‘They’ll not be so hindered by the marshes. They could break through our lines. Overrun us.’
‘We have two score light horses at our disposal,’ countered Neil, looking at Edward. ‘The ground is frozen. We could charge them.’
Edward nodded slowly. ‘We might be able to scatter them, keep them disorganised, before our own foot soldiers attack in strength.’
‘I fear you overestimate the valour of our infantry, Sir Edward,’ Gilbert cautioned. ‘Our men have been without food or shelter for weeks. More importantly, they have been without their king. Just as Robert has weakened so has their courage. You’ve seen it as well as I have. I believe his absence, more than mere discomfort, is what caused so many of the cowards to slip away these past days.’
Edward looked back through the trees to where the men were gathering, hoisting weapons in frost-bitten fingers, shrugging shields over shoulders slumped with exhaustion. It was still a large force, but not as mighty as the one they had led out from Castle Tioram in the autumn, sickness, injury and, now, desertion stripping their ranks. It had been a source of great frustration for Edward to see how much of their will was bound up in Robert’s own – that all their fates should be determined by him alone.
‘King Robert is their champion,’ finished Gilbert, unknowingly putting voice to Edward’s thoughts. ‘It was his valour at Loudoun Hill that inspired them – that caused so many of them to flock to his banner. We need him to lead them in the field again. To put fire in their hearts.’
‘In that case, Sir Gilbert,’ murmured Thomas Randolph, ‘we need a miracle.’
Edward looked sharply at his nephew. Then, he was off and moving, hastening back through the trees.
‘Edward!’ Malcolm called after him.
But Edward didn’t turn, sprinting towards the king’s tent.
Earl John of Buchan, head of the Black Comyns and former Constable of Scotland, reined in his muscular roan courser and lifted his hand for his men to halt. His knights, dressed in black as he was, spread out around him, all eyes on the knoll that rose from the plain, knotted with trees. The enemy were clearly visible, their tunics bright against the white of the snow.
Comyn fixed on the distant figures hurriedly forming up between the trees at the sight of his army. His dark eyes glittered. Back in Banff, where he’d retreated to gather a force of foot soldiers, he had been tense, worried that in the pause Bruce and his men would move on, only to reappear outside another of his strongholds. But his apprehension had vanished earlier that morning when the scouts who remained in the area reported that not only had Bruce’s army been here since the Christ Mass, but that the king himself was rumoured to be deathly ill, incapable even of rising. Several deserters caught slipping from Bruce’s encampment confessed to the scouts that the king hadn’t been seen in days. Some believed he was already dead. With this news, sweet music to his ears, Comyn had roused his troops, leading them with renewed resolve on the road to Slioch. Bruce’s position, which had proven too indomitable for his cavalry, was now a prison in which Comyn would trap him. The scars that webbed the earl’s hard face puckered with his smile. How long he had waited for this.
Bruce’s ambitious toad of a father and his proud, stubborn grandfather had been thorns in the side of the Comyn family for years, but nothing had prepared the earl for the wounds inflicted by Robert himself: the brutal murder of his kinsman in Dumfries, the attack on his house and abduction of his weak-willed wife by Atholl; the crippling humiliation of Isabel’s betrayal in crowning his hated enemy. Bruce’s seizing of the throne had toppled the Comyns from the seat of power they had held for decades. The Black Comyn had thought, after the routing of Bruce’s forces at Methven and the ambush in Lorn by John MacDougall of Argyll, that they were finally gaining the upper hand. They’d had Bruce on the run, a wounded animal, beaten and surrounded. No one should have been able to come back from that. But, somehow, the bastard had.
In the autumn, his army swelled from the triumphs at Glen Trool and Loudoun Hill, freed from the threat of English assault by the recent exodus of the new king and his men, Bruce had swept north through the Great Glen like a storm surge, sudden, unexpected – devastating. Inverlochy, the great stronghold of the Red Comyns, had fallen first, assailed from land and water, the galleys of Lachlan MacRuarie and Angus MacDonald attacking from Loch Linnhe. When the castle fell the ships remained, forming a barrier that would prevent any attempt by John MacDougall to come to Buchan’s aid. The path clear to the very heartland of the Comyns, Bruce had moved on. Next it was the turn of mighty Castle Urquhart, guardian of Loch Ness. Then Inverness. Then Nairn. The Earl of Ross, one of the Black Comyn’s allies and the man responsible for the capture of Bruce’s womenfolk, had been so overwhelmed the coward had offered the enemy a truce, before slinking away. This had left Comyn alone, standing between the rebel king and his total domination of the north-east of Scotland. Repelling Bruce’s assaults on Elgin and Banff, he had set out to meet him.
Now, here on this plain under this bruised sky, with only an expanse of snow between him and his enemy, Comyn scented victory. Bruce’s men, holed up in this frozen wilderness at the mercy of cold and hunger, were losing heart – that much was clear from the desertions. If the man himself could no longer lead them they would surely quail in the face of a determined assault. One push and this could all be over. The time was ripe. England no longer had a formidable king, or one who seemed bent on controlling Scottish affairs. John Balliol remained in exile in France, but if Bruce was crushed there was a chance Balliol could be returned to the throne. Then, the Comyn family would regain their place of power behind it.
The clink of weapons and the crunch of boots in snow filled the air as the infantry fanned out around the company of knights, readying themselves. The horses snorted, their breath pluming before them. The afternoon sky was darkening. A raw wind flurried the drifts on the plain and snatched at the men’s clothes. A few flakes began to fall. The earl rolled his shoulders, stiff under his hauberk and coat-of-plates, as he waited for the last men to move into position. He was now sixty and his muscles were less capable of bearing the weight of his armour, his formidable bulk having softened somewhat these past few years. But, inside, he felt as strong as he had in youth. His desire for vengeance was a potent force, pumping new life through him.
As the infantry formed up, the Black Comyn spurred his courser down their line, his harsh voice echoing across them as he told his men that their enemy lay dying in those trees, his men leaderless, faltering. Now was the time to destroy him and vanquish the rabble that had overrun their towns and plundered their lands. Now was the time to end Bruce, once and for all. Their earl’s fierce words ringing in their ears, the men of Buchan set out across the frozen fields, grim of face and confident in step, hammers, maces and spears gripped in their fists. The Black Comyn urged his horse back to his knights, watching as the foot soldiers filled the plain before him, advancing
on the wooded knoll. His infantry would breach the enemy’s position, scatter Bruce’s forces, then he and his sixty cavalry would ride them down.
The snow was falling faster, a storm of swirling white whipped by the wind. Arrows darted from the trees as the first lines of Comyn’s soldiers came into range. Men ducked, those with shields raising them to protect themselves. A few screams sounded as barbs punched into flesh, but the mass of infantry moved on, quickening their pace over the ice-crusted marshes.
The cry of an eagle sounded somewhere above. Comyn glanced up, blinking into the blizzard. Just then, a roar resounded across the plain. One of his knights shouted in alarm. The earl looked sharply back as out of the trees came a host of riders. Forty, maybe fifty strong, they charged down from the knoll and on to the plain, heading for his infantry, snow gusting around them. Comyn’s eyes widened as he saw, at their head, a yellow banner lifted, the red lion of Scotland rippling across it. Beneath it rode the king, his surcoat – emblazoned with the royal arms – unmistakable.
‘Sir!’ called one of his knights, his smile gone from his face. ‘Is that Bruce? How is it possible? They said he was dying!’
The Black Comyn had no idea. Maybe the bastard had made a miraculous recovery, or perhaps those deserters had lied to draw him into a trap. Either way, it did not matter. Robert Bruce was clearly far from death’s door, riding fast and furious towards the faltering foot soldiers. With him, their surcoats vivid against the snow, rode Gilbert de la Hay, Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell, Thomas Randolph and the knights of Carrick and Annandale. Behind the cavalry Bruce’s infantry came pouring, hundreds upon hundreds of them, swarming on to the plain.
Coming to his senses, the Black Comyn slammed his spurs into the sides of his horse. The courser took off, thundering into a gallop. He wrenched his sword from its scabbard as he rode, his men riding with him. But it was too late. Bruce and his knights had already smashed through the first lines of infantry.
Men were sent flying. Weapons thrashed and spun. The crack of iron on steel resounded. Blood arced, black against the snow. With the king’s men cutting a swathe through them and his foot soldiers coming rushing up behind, Comyn’s men began to panic. As some, caught up in the violence of the king’s furious charge, scrambled to get away from the stamping horses and plunging swords, those behind started to flee. Now, the Black Comyn and his knights found themselves riding full tilt towards their own ranks. Comyn yelled at the brigands to turn and fight, but all he saw were faces stretched with fear and his men scattering before him.
Edward Bruce slid down from his sweat-soaked horse. His legs felt weak, trembling from the exertion and the shock of the battle, but inside he was soaring, triumph coursing through him. As he handed his broadsword to a squire, he realised his gambeson and surcoat were sodden with blood – none of it his own. Men were crowding around him, more pushing in through the trees, their voices lifted in elation. Others had been left on the plain to despatch the dying, overseen by Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell, but the battle itself was over. The Black Comyn and his knights had fled the field, leaving hundreds of foot soldiers to be butchered by Robert’s forces.
‘My lord.’
Edward turned to see a middle-aged man, gripping a blood-streaked spear. His face was alight with adoration. He knelt in the snow, bowing his head.
‘My lord, never have I seen such valour in all my life.’
There were many calls of agreement.
‘Long live the king!’
The lone shout was swiftly taken up by others. Knights, lords, squires and peasants, all began dropping to their knees around Edward. He viewed them through the eye-slits of his great helm, grinning as they cheered him, feeling a heady rush of pride. So distracted by their praise was he that it took him a moment to realise Nes had emerged from the crowd. The knight nodded subtly, tilting his head towards the king’s tent. Punching his fist into the air and eliciting another loud cheer from the men, Edward turned and followed Nes through the trees.
Inside the makeshift tent, he saw Robert’s head had been propped up on blankets. His eyes were open, focused for the first time in days, although his face was still deathly pale and slick with sweat. Robert’s eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of the man entering the tent, clad in the royal arms.
Now, concealed from the crowds, Edward removed his helm and crouched beside his brother. ‘You’re awake.’
Robert licked his cracked lips, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained surcoat. ‘What happened?’
‘I led us to victory. The Black Comyn’s army was routed.’
‘Comyn? Is he dead?’
‘No. But we killed many of his men.’
Robert sank back, his eyes closing. His breathing was shallow. After a moment, he looked back at Edward. ‘We cannot stop. We have to finish it.’
Edward nodded, his face uncompromising. ‘I will, brother. I will.’
Chapter 35
Westminster, England, 1308 AD
The council had been in session for two hours and tempers were starting to fray. As one of the pages hovering on the edges of the Painted Chamber came forward with a jug of wine to refill empty goblets, Humphrey de Bohun caught the man’s eye and shook his head. With a nod, the page returned to his place, his bright silk tunic making him appear as though he had just stepped out of the gaudy mural on the wall behind him. Humphrey looked back at Aymer de Valence who was still speaking, his voice raised, face flushed. There was no need to add more fuel to this fire.
‘This is the third such message we’ve received in as many weeks.’ Aymer stabbed a finger at one of the pieces of parchment furled on the table. There were several of these letters scattered between the silver platters, littered with remnants of food. All bore seals of Scottish magnates – Earl John of Buchan, William of Ross, David of Atholl. ‘It is clear our allies in Scotland are becoming increasingly desperate for aid in their struggle against Bruce. He is winning his war, damn it! We must act now, before it is too late. If he defeats his enemies in the north and east there will be nothing standing between him and our garrisons at Aberdeen, Perth, Edinburgh and Stirling. And if he takes those castles, what then?’ Aymer looked around the table at Ralph de Monthermer, Robert Clifford and Guy de Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick. ‘He will turn his attention to England. That is what.’ His eyes settled meaningfully on Henry Percy.
Percy nodded in support. ‘We cannot allow Bruce to consolidate his position any more than he already has. I agree with Sir Aymer. We must strike while he is still vulnerable.’
Both men turned their attention on Piers Gaveston.
The young man, reclining in his high-backed chair at the head of the table, showed little reaction to their stares. His black eyes drifted to one of the platters of meat and cheese in front of him. He drew his knife from its sheath, the mother-of-pearl hilt glimmering in the jewelled light coming through the chamber’s stained-glass windows. The dagger was a present from Edward, who had lavished gifts on Piers since his companion’s return from exile, the most extravagant and unpopular of which had been the earldom of Cornwall. The ire among some of the older barons, simmering beneath the surface at the young man’s rapid promotion, had boiled over last week when Edward, preparing to set sail for France to marry Isabella, had made Piers regent of the realm.
As Piers set the tip of the dagger on the table and began to twist it idly round, Henry Percy glared at him.
Aymer half rose from his chair, planting his palms on the table. ‘We have received reports that Welsh and Irish recruits have been joining Bruce’s army since the summer. He has been using the Prophecy of Merlin against us, saying that the king’s death marks the dawning of a new age, and that the Britons will rise to take back their lands. They are calling him King Arthur for Christ’s sake!’ He swept a hand towards Guy de Beauchamp, Thomas of Lancaster and the others. ‘We are knights of the Round Table. Bruce stole our precious relic and is now twisting our sacred prophecy for his own ends. He must pay f
or this!’
As Guy and some of the others nodded in agreement, Humphrey recalled, wryly, that Aymer had never been so committed to the beliefs of their brotherhood while the king was alive, focused on fighting the enemy with his sword rather than with prophecy. How strange, he thought, that it was him now sitting here in silence, unmoved by this impassioned speech. Only a year ago he would have been the one making it.
‘Will we continue to do nothing while our enemies band together against us?’ Aymer demanded. ‘While Bruce lays waste to all we have laboured to achieve?’
Piers stabbed his dagger forcefully into a lump of cheese. ‘The king was very clear, Sir Aymer. While he is in France I am to prepare the city for his coronation, not start a war.’ He sat back with a shake of his head. ‘Let the Scots fight among themselves. We will not waste any more of our resources on futile endeavours in the north.’
As Piers plucked the cheese from the tip and chewed it nonchalantly, Thomas, who until now had been sitting in stone-cold silence, slammed his fist on the table, upsetting several goblets and making Henry Percy start. ‘How much have you taken from the royal coffers for your new tournament armour?’ Thomas pushed the words through his teeth. ‘Or that Arabian broodmare you bought at Smithfield? Or your attire for our king’s coronation? Decked with a hundred pearls – so my squires tell me!’ He stood abruptly, his grey eyes flashing in the prisms of light coming through the windows. ‘And you have the gall to speak of wasting resources? You, Gaveston, are the greatest wastrel in our realm!’
For a long moment, Piers stared at Thomas, saying nothing. Silence swelled to engulf the chamber. Tossing the half-eaten wedge of cheese on to the table, the young man rose to meet the earl, his chair screeching on the tiled floor. ‘The king was also very clear, Lancaster, about who held the authority in his absence.’ Piers’s voice was low. ‘Be aware that by insulting me, his regent, you are insulting him.’
