by Robyn Young
Rubbing at his neck, Fergus squinted up. The blazing sunlight slanting through the higher branches hurt his eyes. It looked as though he would have just as good a view from up there, but it would be shadier among those leaves. The heat was making his head pound. After a moment, he eased himself up until he was standing on the branch he had been straddling for the past two hours. His legs throbbed as the blood rushed into them. A voice came to him.
‘Fergus? Has the signal come?’
‘No,’ he answered, looking down into the upturned face of one of Comyn’s men. ‘I need to move. I’m going higher.’ Fergus wrapped his hands around the branch above him and began to climb, all the while keeping his gaze on the wooded hump of land in the distance, where the steward’s men were stationed. A buzzing sound told him the hornet was back, but he ignored it, pulling himself up, one bough to the next. At a fork, he shifted round to the other side of the tree. The branches were narrower this high up, but sturdy enough to take his weight. Choosing one, where the leaves gave him a clear view to the east, but shaded him from the sun in the west, Fergus straddled it and inched his way along. There was a low humming coming from somewhere. More hornets. A couple hovered around him, their drone loud. He smacked one away with a curse. It veered off. Fergus followed it with narrowed eyes, ready to swat the little bastard if it returned. He paused, his eyes narrowing further. There were dozens of them circling a long, slender branch below him. Through the thicket of leaves, he could see a large, pale sac.
Fergus tensed as he saw the nest. More hornets were drifting towards him. One settled on his leg and he batted it away. It came back, hovering around his eyes, its angry buzz filling his ears. Fergus shook his head wildly and cursed. He couldn’t stay here. The devils would distract him from his watch. Wishing he hadn’t moved, he reached for the branch above and got to his feet, meaning to walk back to the fork in the trunk and climb down to his old spot. Curling his other hand over the bough to steady himself, he felt a sharp prick. He let go instinctively and, as his hand came away, he saw the squashed remains of a hornet clinging to his palm. At that moment, he felt another sting in the back of his neck. Fergus slapped at it with a grunt. As he did so, he lost his footing. Jerking forward he struck the slender branch below, hard. There was a crack and a flurry of leaves as the bough broke. Feeling it drop away from under him, he lunged. He grabbed a branch above and hung there gasping as the bough plunged through the trees, the low drone becoming a high-pitched whine. Fergus yelled a warning, but it was too late. As it struck the mossy ground, the sac split open and a cloud of hornets swarmed up. Seconds later, the first cries of men and horses rose on the quiet.
Away in the distance, three arrows sailed into the blue sky, one after the other, above the woodland that overlooked the road to Roxburgh.
On the other side of the track, deep in the green shade of the trees, a whistle sounded from the broad boughs of a wych elm. Robert rose at the sound, his drowsiness vanishing. A glance into the tree above and a wave from his man told him it was time. At his gesture, the company, spread out on the mossy ground, downed cups of beer and ceased conversations. Scrabbling to their feet, they headed to where their mounts were tethered. A couple paused to empty their bladders into the bushes, while the squires untied the reins of their mounts. Birds, lulled by the afternoon calm, flew chattering off through the trees at the sudden action in the camp.
Crossing to Hunter, Robert pulled on his helm over his mail coif and arming cap, the steel encasing his scalp tightly. In the distance, he could hear the squeals of horses from Comyn’s camp.
‘Can’t the churls even keep their mounts quiet?’ demanded Edward. Swinging up into his saddle, he wrenched his sword free.
‘The English will hear us a mile off,’ growled Alexander.
Digging his foot into the stirrup, Robert mounted beside them, his face set. Faintly, he could hear the rumble of cart wheels. He had travelled with a baggage train before and knew the din they made on a rough road. ‘They won’t hear much over the noise of their own carts,’ he told the others, shortening Hunter’s reins into one fist behind his shield and drawing his sword with the other. ‘God willing that should cover us until we’re almost upon them.’ He squeezed Hunter’s sides with his calves, nudging the warhorse forward. His men formed up around him in a line, spreading out through the trees. As John of Atholl caught his eye, the earl smiled grimly, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Together, breaths rushing through helms and ventails, they waited.
The rumbling was nearer now, joined by the hollow clop of many hooves. Robert could no longer hear the squeals of Comyn’s horses. Pushing all other thoughts aside, he focused his mind into a single point, like an archer aiming for a target. The knights and his brothers-in-law were alongside him, the squires and the crowd of foot soldiers behind, brandishing short swords and axes. Nes was looking nervous, but had his sword out, ready to follow Robert into hell if need be. Walter was close behind. The squire on watch, whose task it was to count the time between the point the signal was seen and when they had estimated the train would reach them, shinned down the tree and nodded.
Robert walked Hunter on, his men moving with him, breaking up as they entered the tangled undergrowth. Knights ducked under trailing branches, keeping their horses on short reins. Some of the mounts tossed their heads in agitation, sensing the tension in their masters, but the men kept them under tight control. Passing through the columns of oaks and elms, Robert eased Hunter into a trot, the others following suit. The din of carts and horses seemed to fill the woods. As the trees thinned the men struck at the sides of their chargers, urging them into a canter. Branches switched past, twigs snapping, bushes tearing. Sunlight flashed through the leaves. The horses’ eyes were wide and white, nostrils flared. Ahead, through the woods, the men could see the ponderous bulks of carts and bright swatches of surcoats.
As they emerged and thundered towards the track, Robert peeled back his lips and roared. ‘For Scotland!’
The English, seeing them coming, turned their horses roughly, wrenching swords from scabbards with harsh shouts. The foot soldiers, who bore the red cross of St George, drew weapons and jostled together in front of the carts, ready to defend the precious loads. The carthorses harnessed to the ten wagons, laden with crates, sacks and barrels, neighed in fear, the drivers struggling to control them. Robert’s company struck them hard on the right side, the knights yelling furiously as they spurred their horses up the slight incline to meet the road.
Robert went straight for a knight at the front of the train, who was clad in black with a blue cross on his shield. He carved in with his broadsword, the steel flashing in the golden evening. The knight raised his shield and Robert’s blade cracked hard against the wood. The man hadn’t had time to pull up his ventail and his face was clenched with determination as he clouted the sword away and lunged at Robert’s side. His sword scraped along Robert’s shield, scoring a line through the red chevron. The knight spat through his teeth and came in again. His blade met Robert’s in mid-air, the clash of steel barely audible within the turmoil erupting all around them. Robert forced the man’s sword forward and down, the bite of metal on metal screeching. Their horses lurched together, the beasts gnashing their teeth. As his crossguard met the knight’s blade, Robert twisted, hooking the man’s sword aside and off-balancing him. Pulling back sharply while the knight was still recovering, he swung his foot free of his stirrup and aimed a mighty kick at the man’s side. The knight, already tilted in his saddle, toppled sideways with a shout. His horse’s head was pulled viciously to one side as he fell, dragging the reins with him.
As the knight landed with a crunch of mail, his destrier pulled itself free and reared up, iron hooves striking out. One caught Hunter in the neck, causing the horse to stumble, with a squeal of pain. Robert, his foot still out of the stirrup, was pitched forward, over Hunter’s bowing head. He struck the ground and rolled, just in time to avoid the stamping hooves of a carthorse. With a hiss of
breath, he grasped for his sword, pulling it from the dust of the track as the knight, who had staggered to his feet, came at him with a snarl, blood gushing from his nose. Beyond, Robert glimpsed a chaos of movement and colour as all along the track his men tackled the English. He had a second to realise that Comyn and his company were nowhere to be seen along the train’s left flank; a second for cold shock to fill him, then the knight was rushing him and he was lurching forward to counter, swinging his sword round over his head and down to the right in a brutal cut of wrath.
The fighting was fierce, the initial element of surprise that had favoured the Scots gone, the English, who had formed up swiftly, now fully engaged. Knights hacked and slashed, their horses crashing together in the close quarters. Foot soldiers hammered at one another, locked in dogged combat, men wrestling one another to the ground, stamping on fingers, slamming sword pommels into jaws, thrusting dirks into throats and ribs. Blood sprayed and horses screamed. Robert’s force was determined, but without Comyn’s company, they were outnumbered. Within moments, the battle began to turn, some of the Scottish knights forced to counter two opponents at once. John of Atholl was roaring through his helm, parrying with a knight beside him, while trying to fend off a foot soldier attacking him from the ground. One of the English knights yelled for the driver of the lead cart to break and head for the castle. Obeying, the man cracked his whip across the horses’ broad backs and they plunged forward, the wagon veering off along the rough road towards Roxburgh.
Robert was grappling with the black-clad knight when he saw the two carthorses coming at him. He threw himself to one side as the cart went thundering between them. For a moment, he was on his own on the train’s left flank, all the fighting concentrated on the right. He turned into the trees, panting for breath and yelled Comyn’s name. For a moment, he thought he heard distant shouts, then another cart was trundling recklessly past.
Edward Bruce had just punched his sword into the throat of a foot soldier who’d stabbed at his leg when he saw the carts begin to move, the drivers flicking their whips to urge the beasts on. He slammed his heels into his horse and pressed the animal after one wagon, rumbling away through the chaos. Coming up alongside the carthorses, Edward swung his sword into the straps of the harness, carving through the leather. He shouted as the driver struck out at him with the whip, which caught his horse on the rump, slashing a red line through its skin and causing it to pitch into a canter. The freed horse veered off into the woods, leaving the cart to continue with one. Neil Campbell, seeing Edward’s plan, spurred his own mount to follow, striking at the harness on the other side. A few of the Scottish foot soldiers had fought their way through the English and were scrabbling on to the wagons, climbing over crates and barrels to tackle the drivers. Two carts had turned and were trundling back down the road, the way they had come. Some of the English knights were riding with them, heading unknowingly towards the force of James Stewart.
Suddenly, from the left, a ragged line of horsemen appeared. Robert, who had hauled himself on to the back of one of the wagons headed for the castle, saw them coming through the trees, John Comyn at the van. He yelled at Comyn to take the wagons, then climbed over the sacks to tackle the driver. The cart was bouncing recklessly along the road. He lurched, grabbed the side with a curse, then pushed himself up and fell on the driver. The man struggled, but at a brutal thrust of Robert’s sword, he tumbled from his seat and went sprawling to the ground, his neck snapping under him. As the terrified horses continued, Robert dropped his sword and lifted the reins. By the time he managed to bring the cart to a halt, the rest of Comyn’s forces had emerged from the woods and were tackling the remaining English. Of the ten carts, six had escaped, four heading for Roxburgh, two back the way they had come.
Soaked with sweat, Robert jumped down from the wagon and jogged back towards his men. Tugging down his ventail, he spat dust and blood from his mouth. The track before him was strewn with bodies. A few dead horses lay among the men, one twisting feebly. For a moment, Robert thought it was Hunter, then he saw his destrier held by Nes, who was astride his own horse, the sword in his free hand bloody. Going straight for Comyn, who had dismounted on the corpse-strewn track, Robert passed his banner, fluttering limply on the tracks and stared down at the young knight from Carrick, who had followed him since Carlisle. He crouched. There was a dagger protruding from the side of Walter’s neck, the collar of his tunic awash with blood. His eyes were staring blankly into the sky.
Robert turned his gaze to Comyn, rage rushing through him. Other men were staggering to their feet, or sliding weakly from saddles. Already, his company were confronting Comyn’s forces, Atholl shouting fiercely at Dungal MacDouall. As he went towards Comyn, Robert’s wrath was so great he didn’t even notice the red welts on the faces and hands of many of the company, or the fact that they were missing several men. His blood still hot from battle, it took an effort of will not to launch himself at Comyn. Instead, he came up into the man’s face, his words spitting out. ‘Where were you? I’ve lost a dozen men, you son of a bitch!’
Comyn’s dark eyes were slits as he glared at Robert. ‘And I lost ten!’
Dungal MacDouall had forced his way past Atholl and came up alongside Comyn. His face was covered in livid lumps. ‘Hornets attacked us.’
‘Hornets?’ said Edward, standing beside his brother. ‘If it was lions I might have sympathised.’ He turned to the rest of Robert’s company. ‘We were fighting men, while they were struggling with insects!’ He looked back at Comyn. ‘How like your family to avoid a battle at any cost! What was it at Falkirk? Ants?’
As some of Robert’s men laughed harshly and Comyn flushed, Dungal stepped in, lunging at Edward. Edward ducked under the strike and barrelled into his attacker, sending him crashing to the ground. Comyn’s men shouted, surging forward as Edward straddled the Galloway captain and cuffed him viciously. Robert’s men stepped in, those who had sheathed their swords going for them again. From along the road came the drum of hoof-beats as James Stewart and his men appeared. Some of them held aloft flaming torches, tiny echoes of the evening sun, flooding the way behind. At the sight of the steward, Edward clambered off Dungal, who staggered to his feet, spitting blood. The captain went blindly at Edward, but Comyn seized him.
James stared around him as he pulled his horse to a rough stop. ‘What in Christ’s name happened?’ he demanded, his gaze going between Robert and Comyn. His eyes moved across the bodies on the track to the four wagons, two of which had been freed of their horses. ‘Where are the rest of the carts?’
Robert shook his head. ‘They made it to Roxburgh.’
James looked thunderous, but he nodded to his men who held the flaming brands. ‘Burn them.’ As the knights headed to the wagons, the steward looked back at Robert. ‘We need to be quick,’ he said, his voice tight with anger. ‘The garrison will be alerted. We cannot fight them all.’
As the men began to move, Robert grabbed Comyn’s arm. ‘It is on you,’ he seethed, ‘the deaths of my men.’
Comyn wrenched himself free.
67
On a flower-speckled meadow outside the town of Canterbury a grand tournament was under way. The lavish affair was blessed by the gold of the early evening sun, which poured its liquid light into the faces of the hundreds of spectators who lined the jousting ground, sparkling in the jewelled gowns worn by the ladies and in the polished mail and crested helms of the knights.
Scaffolds erected to either side of the ground were draped with swathes of scarlet cloth and filled with noble men and women. Lesser folk thronged the area below, sprawled on the warm grass, faces flushed with sun and ale, or else on their feet to watch the thunderous charges of the knights. At the end of the field, rising above the lists, was the royal box, fashioned in the likeness of a castle’s battlements, from which hung the alternate shields of the king and his newly wed queen.
Edward, darkly glorious in black robes trimmed with heavy gold braid, watched the knights
compete from the cushioned comfort of his throne. The fierce jousts that had enlivened the afternoon had ended and a contest of skill now formed the finale. A quintain had been set up at one end of the ground, from which was strung the wooden outline of a man, painted in the headscarf and robes of a Saracen, with a large red heart daubed on his chest. The knights were taking it in turns to charge the Saracen with their lances. As Ralph de Monthermer set off down the field, his yellow mantle with its green eagle flying out behind him, lance couched towards the quintain, the crowd followed him with their gaze. The royal knight struck the heart in the centre, sending the Saracen swinging violently round, counter-weighted by the sandbag on the other end of the quintain’s beam. Ralph plunged on past, the iron hooves of his destrier kicking up clods of earth. The onlookers cheered.
Edward’s gaze moved to the line of mounted knights at the other end of the field, waiting for the pages to swing the quintain back into position. Raised behind them, dark against the mandarin sky, was the faded dragon banner that had once been hoisted over the dusty tournament grounds of Gascony. Edward’s eyes drifted over the knights – Humphrey de Bohun, hero of the tournament, Aymer de Valence, Henry Percy, Guy de Beauchamp, Robert Clifford, Thomas of Lancaster. These young men, nurtured in his court and blooded on his battlegrounds, had come of age in a decade of war. Their apprenticeship was over. All of them had succeeded their fathers. No longer Knights of the Dragon, they had taken their places as Gawain and Perceval, Mordred and Lancelot, the names of those immortal knights carved in the oak of his table. Carved in these men’s souls. Of the veterans only the aged John de Warenne, the earls of Lincoln and Norfolk, and the belligerent Bishop Bek remained. Bold midday was here, in the fiery zeal of younger men.