“Poet?”
“He is Friar Baston, a monk who is proficient in Latin verse. He is to sing England's triumphs when the Scots are defeated. Rumor has it that he has written much of his material already.”
“Isn't that premature?” asked Margaret dryly. Although Gaveston's lands had been forfeit to the crown after his death, Edward had arranged for Margaret to have a dower worthy of her husband's riches, and she had been left very well off. Nonetheless, she frequently traveled with the queen's household now, Edward liking to keep her safe from fortune hunters and Margaret preferring the company of her sister and the other ladies to the solitude of her manors. She caught the queen's disapproving look and added, “I mean, shouldn't he wait so he can write an account of the actual battle?”
“I suppose some of what he wrote could serve for any battle,” said Isabella. “The clash of armed men on horseback, the agony of the wounded, the grief of the widowed and orphaned… He can fill in the details later.”
“And he need not wait to write about our magnificent army,” said Eleanor. She almost pitied the Scots, but wisely said nothing.
Indeed, the tail end of the procession as it left Berwick was almost as impressive as its beginning. A hundred and six carts, each drawn by four horses, and a hundred and ten wagons, drawn by eight oxen, bore the army's supplies: corn and barley, portable mills, wine in jars and casks, gold and silver, gold and silver vessels, Hugh's plate and furnishings, and those of many others. Herds of cattle, sheep, and pigs followed the wagons and carts, and more was coming by water. Two thousand knights, each attended by at least one squire and mounted on the finest pieces of horseflesh to be found in England, had answered the call to battle, and the king's best Welsh archers were there. Even the lowly foot soldiers looked somehow grand and glorious. Those churlish earls, thought Eleanor, would be sorry to have stayed away.
Berwick Castle was a sad place, though, one that Eleanor did not like to wander alone after her husband had departed from it. Nailed to the castle walls, as one of Eleanor's young pages had gleefully noted to his companion when he thought his lady could not hear, was the left arm of William Wallace, who had been hung, drawn, and quartered in 1305 on the orders of the first Edward. It was mostly gone now, but enough was visible to provide the page boys with some satisfaction and to make the ladies shudder. Worse, though, in Eleanor's mind, had been the fate of the Countess of Buchan, who had crowned Robert Bruce King of Scotland in the absence of her brother, the Earl of Fife. She had been seized and sent to Eleanor's grandfather the English king in 1306, not long after Eleanor's wedding, and had been ordered to be confined in a cage hung from Berwick Castle; other female relations of the Scottish king had been similarly caged or, if they were lucky, sent to nunneries. For years the Countess of Buchan had remained in her open cage, visible to passersby; her only comfort was a privy, to which she could at least retreat in the worst weather. The second Edward had released her from the cage in 1312 and sent her to a nearby convent. She had died only months before, aged about twenty-seven. Eleanor, gazing at the spot where her cage had hung, had said a prayer for her soul; that night, praying for her family dead, she had for the first time purposely omitted the name of her grandfather.
Much to the exasperation of its staff, Berwick Castle was full of noblewomen, either attendant upon the queen, awaiting someone's return from battle, or both: the Countess of Pembroke, the Countess of Hereford, the Countess of Cornwall, the Countess of Surrey, the Lady Vescy, the Lady Despenser. Given an emergency, all could have undergone any manner of inconvenience; none were fools or faint of heart. But no emergency being present, all expected their accustomed comfort and had brought retainers with them, as well as greyhounds (the queen), lapdogs (most of the countesses), birds (the Lady Despenser), and even a cat (the Lady Vescy). The animals did not all get along, and neither did all the noblewomen. The acerbic Lady Vescy, being somewhat older than the rest and not at all in awe of a superior title, felt free to give her opinion on any subject, no matter how irritating to the rest. The Countess of Cornwall was quick to take offense regarding her late husband, Gaveston, even when none was intended. The Countess of Surrey was quick to take offense regarding her very alive husband, John Warenne, even when none was intended. The Lady Despenser might be granddaughter to the first Edward and daughter to an earl, but she was married to almost a nobody and tended, the countesses thought, to get above her place. The Countess of Pembroke, who had yet to produce a child, even a girl child, disliked hearing about all matters maternal, which was one of the great unifying subjects among the women. The Countess of Hereford could not be around a lapdog without sneezing, and none of the lapdogs were inclined to stay away from the Countess of Hereford.
On the other hand, the staff speculated philosophically, there were certain advantages to having a castle full of women; no one had too much wine and called her neighbor a misbegotten whoreson, no one who lost at dice challenged the winner to a fight, and no one spent the evening at a brothel and then insisted on being admitted to the castle in the dead of the night. It was a boon, too, that the weather was proving unusually pleasant and dry, so complaints about fires and drafty rooms were kept to a minimum. Still, everyone agreed, it would be a good thing when the Scots were defeated and the noblewomen were claimed by their menfolk and either taken home to England or to the Scottish castles so many had been granted or expected to be granted.
Then, just as everyone in the castle was itching for news, a traveling merchant, delivering goods to the castle, told the queen's steward news so odd the steward could not believe it. Several hours later, another merchant told the steward the same news. When a bedraggled man came to the castle to beg admission a little later, telling the same incredible story, the steward had no choice but to take his news to the queen.
“Lost! Are you mad, churl? The English could not have lost the battle!” The queen was normally not a harsh mistress, but on this occasion, she rose and smacked her steward across the face, either to reprove him or bring him to his senses.
“Madam, I have heard no less than three independent accounts, the last from a foot soldier, and there is no reason to think them false! God hope that they may be proven wrong, but I could not in all good conscience keep their reports from you. They are all consistent in the larger details.”
The queen was silent. Backing off a bit, the steward continued, “From what I hear, no harm has befallen the king. I know naught about any of your ladyships' husbands. But there are some of you with brothers or nephews…”
His eye had fallen on the Earl of Gloucester's sisters. Eleanor said, with as much firmness as she could muster, “Tell us.”
“The main part of the battle was fought on the second day after the troops met. The Earl of Gloucester was killed early on the second day, charging bravely into the Bruce's men.”
He turned to the Countess of Hereford. “Your husband's nephew Henry, my lady, died on the first day, in single combat with the Bruce. Others were killed, of course—the king's steward, Sir Edmund de Mauley, Sir John Comyn, Sir Pain de Tiptoft, Sir Robert de Clifford, Sir Giles d'Argentan—”
“Not Sir Giles!” said the Countess of Pembroke. “He is reputed to be the third greatest knight in England.”
“He died bravely,” said the queen's steward. He looked at the ladies before him. “Shall I tell you what I have heard?”
The ladies, even the Clare sisters, nodded, but the queen said bitterly, “Why bother, sir? The king's poet shall return and sing of it to us!”
The steward was not noted for his sense of humor. “No, your grace. He is a captive of the Scots, or so I hear.”
“Then we had best hear it in prose,” said Isabella de Vescy with a sigh.
To reach Stirling Castle by June 24, the army had proceeded at a punishing pace, but by June 23, they had reached the forest of Torwood, near the stream of the Bannock Burn. There they had consulted with Sir Philip Mowbray, the constable of the castle, who told Edward that as he had arri
ved within three leagues of the castle within the proper time, there was no need for a battle now. No one heeded this suggestion; the English army had not pushed this far to glance at Stirling Castle in the distance and then turn back home.
As the vanguard, led by the Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, emerged from the forest, watched by Scots standing to arms in the New Park, Hereford's young nephew, Henry de Bohun, saw a horseman inspecting the Scottish troops. No unusual sight that, save that the horseman wore a crown. The Bruce himself! Bohun saw the chance to bring things to a swift conclusion. Allowing himself only a brief moment to contemplate the fame and riches that would be his, he let out a yelp and charged at the Bruce, lance pointed straight at him. The Scottish king, not budging an inch, was on the verge of being impaled when he pulled away, just far enough to avoid the lance and to sink his axe into Bohun's helmet and down into his skull.
The Scots, delighted by this promising start, charged the stunned English cavalry, which as it attempted to resist had discovered the existence of many small pits camouflaged with twigs and grass, just enough to trip a horse. Bohun's squire rushed to stand by his master's body and was promptly killed; Gilbert de Clare fell off his stumbling horse and had to be rescued by his squires. The English retreated, while the Scottish king recalled his troops. Reproached by his commanders for putting his life at risk by the unfortunate Bohun, the Bruce said only that he was sorry he had broken his good axe.
Meanwhile, Sir Robert de Clifford and Sir Henry de Beaumont were heading toward Stirling Castle, where they might have evaded notice had not Robert Bruce spotted them and reproached his commander the Earl of Moray, who should have been in a position to see them earlier, with his neglect. Moray hurriedly went to make good his mistake. Soon the English found themselves facing a veritable wall of spearmen. Charging them was in vain. When an opening appeared, it was in the ranks of the English, who fled in two directions, charged by the Earl of Moray, honor fully restored. His men, exhausted and delighted, fanned themselves with their helmets, then accepted the congratulations of their fellows. Both sides had done fighting for the day.
The English foot soldiers, encamped to the south of the Bannock Burn, had not seen the knights' defeat, but they had heard rumors, and Edward's heralds, sent to boost their morale by reminding them that victory was certain, singularly failed at their task. Their newfound pessimism was shared by one Sir Alexander Seton, who deserted in the night to the Scots and advised them that this was an opportune time to regain Scotland.
Gilbert de Clare, seeing the exhaustion of the English troops and the difficulty they were having in finding somewhere to bed down for the night in the marshy area, urged the king to rest his troops for twenty-four hours. For such sensible advice he had been called disloyal; worse, a coward. Gilbert's first impulse had been to strike the king, but with difficulty he controlled himself and instead wheeled around and left the king's tent without another word.
His troops had had little chance to sleep, for dawn on June 24, 1314, came at three forty-five. The king gave the order for his men to arm themselves. As they were doing so, he started. In the distance, Scottish foot soldiers were advancing, silently and deliberately. “What!” he said. “Will these Scotsmen fight?”
Sir Ingram de Umfraville, standing beside him, shook his head. “It is the strangest sight I ever saw, your grace. To take on the might of England—”
“And look now! They kneel for mercy.”
Umfraville shook his head. “They are asking God for forgiveness, not entreating you. These men will win all or die.”
“So be it then. Sound the trumpet!”
As their squires made haste to dress them in their armor, Gilbert de Clare and Humphrey de Bohun were arguing over who should command the vanguard. Hereford said that the duty was lawfully his because he was the constable of England; Gilbert contended that his forbears had always led the van. “And,” said Gilbert, looking toward the king, “I shall tarry here no more, for this day I shall prove that I am no coward!”
He had not waited to put on his surcoat with the chevrons of Clare, the garment that would have identified him as one of the richest men in England, worth a fortune in ransom money to any man lucky enough to take him alive. Instead, he charged straight toward the Scots, an anonymous young knight, and was promptly knocked off his horse and killed by enemy spears.
The stage had been set. More knights charged the Scots; more were killed against their spears. Wounded horses, their riders dead, trampled English foot soldiers. The English archers, with no clear line of fire, desperately tried to shoot at the Scottish spearmen, but their arrows reached more English backs than Scottish chests. At last, a group of the archers succeeded in crossing the Pelstream Burn and shooting at the Scots, with deadly results. The Bruce ordered his light cavalry to charge the archers. Few withstood the charge, and the Scots moved even farther forward.
The Scots leader sent in a fresh schiltron, his last. Coming in behind the men already in front of them, the new spearmen pushed their fellows forward, so that a wave of spears pushed the English back. The English, Edward no less than his army, continued to fight ferociously, but they were so close together they could scarcely move, and those who slipped in the pools of blood underneath them were trampled to death. “On them!” shouted the Scots. “On them, they fall!”
A fresh group of Scots had now arrived: the “small folk,” screaming “Slay!” Untrained or unequipped soldiers, laborers, even camp followers, even women, they had heard the battle was turning in their favor and were eager to join in; some for the prospect of plunder, some out of loyalty to their king, some out of a desire to tell their sons that they had fought alongside the Bruce. For many English, the appearance of this motley group, through eyes that were obscured by blood and sweat, was the breaking factor. Another cursed army! Some turned and ran.
King Edward had already been unhorsed once, but had found a mount from among those running loose, and he had not ceased to fight since entering the battle. Fiercely as he was fighting, he was in imminent danger of being captured, for Scottish knights were grasping at his horse's trappings and would have had the king if Edward had not struck them off with his mace. The Earl of Pembroke, seeing no hope of victory left, determined to get the king off the field. With the aid of Giles d'Argentan, reckoned one of England's finest knights, he turned the bridle of Edward's horse and dragged him away toward Stirling Castle, followed by five hundred knights. When the king was within a safe distance of the castle, Sir Giles looked back.
It was pandemonium. With the departure of the king and his knights, most of the men who remained had nothing left on their minds but escape. The few men who still were attempting to put up a fight were being slaughtered. Sir Giles looked at the safety of the castle and the certainty of death on the battlefield, and quickly made up his mind. “I have never left a fight,” he said, and galloped away toward the waiting Scots. Within minutes he had been killed.
Men attempting to cross over the Bannock Burn were drowning; so many that after a point those who lagged behind were able to cross to safety over the bodies of dead men and horses. The Earl of Hereford and his men made their way without much difficulty to Bothwell Castle, where the constable, upon learning of the Bruce's victory, took the earl and fifty others captive and handed them over to Edward Bruce as prisoners. The king and his party, meanwhile, were denied entry to Stirling Castle by Mowbray, who told them that if they came inside they would certainly be taken prisoner by the Scots.
The king and his men did not wait to argue, but set off toward Linlithgow, pursued by Douglas, and then toward Dunbar. So close was Douglas in pursuit that it was said that no Englishman dared stop long enough to make water. Any man who checked his speed was killed or captured, even with Pembroke's men desperately fighting off their pursuers. Finally, the party reached Dunbar Castle, where the king was admitted by the Earl of Dunbar. From there he and a few others sailed in an open boat to Berwick, to an England bowed down with shame.
Not an hour after the steward told his story, a mean fishing boat docked at Berwick Castle. As the queen and the ladies wound slowly down the narrow walk to the Tweed, the king, with no fanfare, stepped on shore. His face was nearly as grim and sad as it had been in the days after Gaveston's death. Following were the Earl of Pembroke and Henry de Beaumont—the cries of relief from the Countess of Pembroke and Isabella de Vescy echoed off the water— and a dozen or so knights. At the very end of the grim procession coming off the boat was Eleanor's father-in-law, staggering under a great weight—Mother of God! The weight was her husband!
Stepping off the path and all but tumbling down to the riverside, Eleanor rushed to her father-in-law. At any other time she would have marveled at his strength, for Hugh the elder was not a large man, and the man he carried was fully his equal in height and weight. “Sir! Is he dead?”
Hugh shook his head. “He lives—barely.” His voice was choked. “He was badly wounded—though he fought like a tiger—but I was able to bring him off with the others safely. He kept up with us with my help but developed a high fever on the boat. He has been delirious ever since.”
He lowered his son to the ground, unable to carry him farther. Eleanor bent over him, sobbing. “Hugh! My love. My poor love.”
He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, but there was no recognition in them. After staring blankly for a moment or two, he closed them again. Hugh the elder gently touched her shoulder. “Come, child. Let them take him inside.”
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