by Jack Whyte
The stillness in the pavilion seemed unnatural, and no one, including Benstead, so much as stirred. This was a new Robert Bruce they were witnessing; a stone-faced Robert Bruce whose existence no one there had suspected until that moment. And no man there cared to be the first to try to test him. Benstead sat ashen, his bulbous eyes wide with dawning horror.
“Is that clear to you now, Master Benstead? You will address me as befits my station and with keen regard to your own. You are a clerk—an ignoble functionary raised above your proper station solely because you are a younger brother to a better man, who holds a post and title given him by King Edward.” He gazed at the loathsome man with a stare that made his eyes glitter like ice. “Hear me clearly. I will decide if and when I wish you to speak to me in future, and I find no temptation to have you do so any time soon.” He lowered his voice to an intimate, conversational level. “You have seen fit his day to usurp my authority as commander of this expedition by summoning this meeting. More than that, you had the gall to summon me like a lackey to attend it. I could have you hanged for that, you fool. Or do you doubt that?”
Benstead appeared to shudder and then raised his head in a gesture of defiance. “I am here on the order of my superiors, and what I have done I have done at their command.”
“Your superiors? This is Carrick, you blockhead, and I command here in my own earldom!” He stopped, willing himself to say no more, and when he spoke again he sounded weary and disgusted. “You are not a pleasing man, Master Benstead, and I am not alone in finding you offensive. And offensive does not even begin to describe my feelings towards you. You are a toady and a lickspittle, grovelling to everyone you think superior to you, while to those unfortunate enough to have you think of them as inferiors, you are a ruthless, abusive, and unrelenting bully. Look about you as you move throughout this encampment today and from now on. You will see few friendly faces, and fewer yet with any sympathy for you in your new estate. And make you no mistake, Master Benstead, your estate is new now. Your days of lording it around here are over. You will perform your allotted task in recording the conduct of this excursion we are on, but you will take no further part in anything having to do with its conduct and you will never again think to cross me and expect to live afterwards. Do I make myself clear?”
“But … but you can’t do that! I am here at King Edward’s direct command.”
“And so am I, you stupid man. Which of us, think you, will have the louder voice in the King’s ear?”
He allowed the silence to lengthen beyond comfort before he added, “I am waiting for your acknowledgment of what I have said, Benstead. Did you understand what I said to you?”
Benstead opened his mouth and made as if to speak, but nothing emerged.
“Well, did you? And have a care to that angry look in your eye before you answer.”
Bruce’s face remained cold and flinty as Benstead squirmed. Finally, though, the cleric nodded, his voice emerging as a strangled squeak.
“I … I heard you, Lord Carrick—hear you.”
“Excellent. Then let us be rid of you for a while.” He looked to where Benstead’s deputy, Burlington, sat head down, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. “We have nothing to discuss here, since we settled everything this morning while you were absent. But Father Burlington will record what we do say and present you with his documents when we are done. From them you may compile your own report and then you will bring it to me to read before you send it off. Now get out of my sight.”
When the man had gone and the flaps of the tent closed again, Bruce reattached his sword belt, meanwhile looking from face to face among the others, though taking care to keep his eyes away from the priest Burlington. They all stared back at him, two of them approvingly, four blankly, and the remaining half dozen with quiet hostility that might, Bruce mused, have stemmed from resentment of his youth, or from what they thought of as his high-handed arrogance, or merely from the fact that he was a Scots earl asserting seniority over a group of Englishmen. He was slightly surprised to discover that he did not care. They all loathed Benstead, he knew, but he wondered whether any of them might take the cleric’s side against him later, for political reasons. And he discovered that he did not care about that, either.
“Does any of you wish to question what I did?”
The only answer came from Sir Roger Appleton, the man whom Bruce had come to like best of all the English knights attached to the expedition. Appleton spread his hands. “I thought it was excellently done,” he said, then grinned. “The only thing I failed to see was why you didn’t come out and simply tell the fellow what you really thought of him.”
If he had expected the others to laugh at his sally he must have been disappointed, for there was no lessening in the general air of disapproval.
Bruce nodded, firmly. “Well then, shall we get on with this, even though it be a waste of time? We’re all here now, so let me verify that we are still in agreement on what tomorrow holds.” He looked at Sir Christopher Guiscard, who commanded the English forces sent to join Bruce from Berwick. “Sir Christopher. If you would be good enough to outline the plan we agreed upon earlier, we can make short work of this. I must presume that Master Benstead intended to alter what we had decided, but I cannot begin to guess at how he might have done so, though I doubt it could have been for the better. The man is a priest with not an ounce of military training or knowledge. I doubt he could erect a tent, let alone direct an action.”
Guiscard was one of the few who had not shown hostility to Bruce since this began, and now he smiled lopsidedly, though Bruce could see no humour in his eyes. “His plan was to seize some children from one of the villages nearby and threaten to hang them in front of the castle, one at a time, until Lady Douglas surrendered.”
“Christ Jesus! Is the fellow insane? He discussed this with you?”
Again the half smile flickered at the corner of Guiscard’s mouth. “He … mentioned it. No more. Master Benstead is not a man to discuss much with anyone. He thinks, he decides, and he acts, rightly or wrongly. As when he misjudged your … youth, my lord of Carrick.”
The tiny hesitation had been barely noticeable, but Bruce grinned wryly. “I fear Master Benstead misjudged far more than that, Sir Christopher. He misjudged how far he could push his scant officialdom.” He glanced around the gathering. “So, are we agreed there will be no butchering of children come tomorrow?”
“It might have worked,” Sir Roger Turcott muttered. “Not that we’d really have hanged them, of course. But the threat of it might have been enough to move the woman.”
“Hmm. Have you heard much of Sir William Douglas, Sir Roger?”
Turcott stirred, stretching his legs. “Aye. The man’s a traitorous, untrustworthy lout from what I hear. A wild animal, ungovernable and uncontrollable by anyone.”
“Aye, well, the woman we are threatening to frighten here is his wife, and she is English. He abducted her from the castle of Lord Alan de la Zouche and kept her forcibly confined. And then she married him willingly and refused to be ransomed. She has been with him ever since, equalling him in everything. Does that suggest she’ll be paralyzed by compassion at the threat of seeing a peasant child hanged?”
Turcott shrugged sullenly. “I but said it might have worked. Might have … I knew nothing of the woman involved.”
Bruce nodded. “No more do I, but I know enough to know she won’t be easily cowed.” He looked again at Guiscard. “Well, Sir Christopher, what think you?”
Guiscard sniffed and sat straight up in his chair. “I think we should proceed as planned. You, my lord earl, will handle the niceties of the negotiation, as one Scot to another.” He stopped, smiling again. “Not quite, though. Apart from being born here, I believe you are no more Scots than I am. And her ladyship is English, you said. Still, she is married to a Scot, and a rebellious one at that, so she should be open to discussion, at least. Your Carrick bowmen will be in place and prepared to sweep the walls clean should her
ladyship decide to fight. Our hundred mounted men-at-arms will back you up—an added show of strength. Should the lady prove stubborn, we will attack the place with our engines and bring it down about their ears. Should she decide to be wise, however, we will take her and her people into custody and march them back to Berwick, and burn the castle once they are all out.”
“So be it. Let’s hope to God the woman sees sense. I have no wish to spill Scottish blood. I’ll have my folk ready at dawn.”
EPILOGUE
Thursday, May 16, 1297
Thomas Beg was hauling at the last of the buckled straps at Bruce’s waist when the roaring drum rattle of the heavy downpour abruptly died away, leaving only the sluicing sound of running water being shed from the sloping roof.
“Well,” Thomas growled, “thank the Christ for that. We’ll still be arse deep in mud out there but at least we winna get soaked on top. Unless it starts up again.” He stepped away and opened the tent flaps, and stood peering out for a while and listening to the splashing sounds of unseen people moving around in the darkness. A loud clatter of falling pikes and a bark of profanity announced that someone had blundered into a pile of stacked weapons in the dark, and he turned back to Bruce. “Darker than it should be,” he said, “but there’s no use in carryin’ a torch, even if we had one. The clouds must be awfu’ thick. Are ye set?”
“As close as I’ll ever be,” Bruce answered, tugging at his sheathed sword until it hung comfortably. “Let’s see if we can find that clerkly, whining bastard Benstead, then, and make a start to this auspicious day.”
Thomas Beg looked askance at him, ignoring the heavy irony in Bruce’s emphasis. “Benstead?” he asked instead. “I thought ye put him in his place yesterday, for good. Why would ye seek him now?”
Bruce grunted, the sound heavy with distaste. “Because of what his true place is. He’s Edward’s official representative. I can’t change that, nor can I ignore it, much as I’d like to. So we’ll go and find him before we set anything in motion, see if he has anything to say. I doubt I’m going to like whatever comes out of his mouth, for the man’s a venomous reptile. But this is a matter of duty, and I owe it not to him but to his master. Come on, now, lead the way.”
“Fine, but first I’ll see to the candles.” Thomas Beg stepped back, releasing the tent flaps, but before he could reach the nearest candle the flaps were raised again from the outside and Nicol MacDuncan stepped in, dripping wet and frowning.
“Wait, Tam,” Bruce said, but Thomas Beg had already stopped. In the act of cupping a hand behind the closer wick he had half turned, eyeing the newcomer, and Bruce heard his muffled, “Uh-oh.”
Bruce spoke to Nicol in Gaelic, his tone apprehensive. “Was that you who knocked over the pikes?”
“Aye. It’s blacker than the pit of hell out there. I walked right into them.”
“What’s wrong?”
His uncle looked at him strangely. “I don’t know, Rob, but the English camp’s empty. I couldn’t sleep with the noise of the rain, so I went for a walk to clear my head. There’s not a soul in the camp, not even guards. Everything’s in place, so they are still around somewhere. They must have left in the middle of the night and nobody heard a thing.”
“Hell’s fire,” Tam swore, but Bruce stood stock-still.
“Benstead,” he whispered eventually. “He must have spent the night threatening Guiscard. I should have flogged the whoreson yesterday while it was in my mind.”
Nicol blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Treachery is what I’m talking about, and hanging children. God damn the wretched man! Tam, quick as you can. Mount up—don’t waste time with a saddle—take the road east for Annandale. You’ll come to a crossroads, less than a mile from here, marked by a big, dead tree. Jardine says it’s impossible to miss. He’ll be camped there, waiting. Bring him here. Tell him there’s no time to waste. He’ll have two hundred men with him—more, if we’re lucky. Tell him we’ve been betrayed by the English priest and I need his bowmen in an arc at the Englishry’s backs, with the others he could muster as a solid block in the centre. He’ll know what I mean. Go, now!”
Thomas Beg was through the flaps and away almost before Bruce had finished speaking.
“Nicol, get our people moving now. Armed and ready. We’ll go straight to the castle. God knows there’s no reason now to move quietly. Have your men form up on me. I’ll be waiting by the English horse lines. Quick, man!”
The men of Carrick had no need to waste time forming into disciplined blocks and ranks like English soldiers. They found Bruce in the strengthening pre-dawn light and arranged themselves behind him, watching him for instructions, and when he estimated most of them were there he gave the signal and rode forward, leading them out, knowing the stragglers would catch up quickly.
Half an hour later, with the Carrick men all soaked to the waist from running through long grass after the overnight downpour, they came in sight of the ancient keep of Douglas Castle and found the English drawn up there, facing the main gates. The great siege engines, mainly catapults capable of throwing man-sized stones that would quickly breach any but the very strongest walls, were being manhandled into their final assault positions by the sappers who tended them, and each of them was already stocked with a large pile of missiles, with more being brought up by wagons. But it was the rhythmic sound of heavy hammering that attracted Bruce’s attention, and as he turned to look for the source of it his eye was drawn to where twin teams of straining men were hauling on ropes, erecting the framework of a tall set of gallows. Even from a distance, he could see that the thing was prefabricated and knew that it had been there all along, brought north from England with the siege engines.
Nicol MacDuncan was close by his side, and behind Nicol, in the grey morning light, Bruce could sense the dozen Carrick lieutenants watching him. He gave his orders without taking his eyes from the men erecting the gibbet, watching as it reached the vertical and dropped into the slotted holes that had been dug to secure the uprights.
“Nicol, take the men forward as we arranged yesterday. Place them between the English and the castle, facing the walls. No man to look back, except you. You keep your eyes on me. I’m going to talk to Guiscard. I’ll need a standard-bearer with my colours but no one else. I don’t know if I can stop what’s happening here but I’m going to try, until Jardine’s men get here. When you see my standard wave from side to side, turn the men around and have them move towards me. At the walk, mind you. No attack, no charge. Keep your approach slow and steady and have your bowmen ready to shoot, but stop when you’re a hundred paces distant, within easy killing range for your bowmen, yet far enough away to remain clear of a sudden sally by Guiscard’s horsemen. It’s a threat I want to present here, not a challenge or provocation. We’ll spill no blood if it can be avoided. Is that clear?”
“Aye. But how will we know if we need to attack?”
Bruce grunted, then took his eyes from the gallows to look at him. “If you see me taken, or if I fall dead, attack. Otherwise wait. I am about to discover whether I’m as good a talker as I hope I am. The rest remains with Guiscard. If he’s the man I think he is, he’ll see the truth of his position when Jardine arrives and he’ll hold his men in check. I’m going now. Wish me well.”
He lowered the visor on his helmet, noted the immediate loss of vision beyond the narrow eye slit, and raised it again before he turned to face the English knights and men-at-arms. But he made no move to start towards them. Instead, he sat looking in their direction, highly aware that they were watching him, too.
The light was growing stronger with each moment, and he felt a growing tension in his chest as he stared into the distance, waiting. He was twenty-two years old, approaching twenty-three, and as he sat there he told himself he was not the callow twenty-one-year-old who had ridden to his marriage in Edward’s abbey at Westminster a lifetime earlier. He had grown since then; learned much of life and loss; he had trusted
in God and been deluded, and now, today, he knew he had been used by people he had trusted. Edward of England had used him as an unwitting dupe, without regard for his honour, his station, or his esteem. He had been sent here purely as a nominal Scot, his rank and name exploited for the most cynical of English purposes. His presence here was a sneering jest, and every vestige of authority he had believed he possessed had been scorned and belittled. He might refuse to hang Scots children here this day, but his attendance would be noted by all of Scotland, his integrity impugned beyond salvage. He thought again, fleetingly, of his grandfather and his warnings about perceptions and how powerful they were, and felt a wave of self-loathing at his own gullibility. God! Edward must have laughed inside the last time they had met, to hear the Earl of Carrick pleading for his Scots folk.
Something moved in the distance ahead of him, at the farthest limit of his sight, and he straightened slightly, peering intently until he could make out the low-lying line of heads approaching the English rear. He turned and nodded to his standard-bearer. The lad was a nephew of Nicol MacDuncan, which must have made him some kind of cousin to Bruce himself, and he found the young man looking back at him expectantly.
“Well, young Ewan MacDuncan,” he said. “We’ll take a walk over and meet Sir Christopher Guiscard. And we’ll do it slowly, since I’m in no rush to die this day. Have you noticed yet that there are men approaching from the English rear?” The young man nodded. “Good. They’re ours, so take one last good look at them and then ignore them. The English will be watching us approach them. Don’t let them see you looking at anything beyond them. Right, let’s go.”
He kicked his horse into motion and then held it to a tight-reined walk as they crossed the two-hundred-yard distance to where the English knights and their men-at-arms sat waiting for them, and as they went Bruce kept talking to the younger man. “Mind you,” he said, “I doubt they’d be concerned even if they saw our fellows coming up behind them. These are the victorious Englishry who mere months ago routed the entire Scots army and won a war within three weeks. They’ll have little fear of another rabble of Scots peasantry. Now, before we reach them—I’ll tell you when to do it—I want you to sway the standard you’re carrying from side to side. Don’t brandish it like a blazon. Let it sway, as I say, and gently, no more than that, as though you’re having difficulty keeping it upright. Do it twice. Nicol will be watching you, so that will be enough. Do you have that? Good lad.”