And adore and fear you,
Suffer everything,
Experience everything, endure everything
More than I desire any reward.
I want to stay faithful."
For the first time words like "praise" and "adore" and "faithful" were charged with new meaning, at least emerging from the mouth of this handsome troubadour. But suddenly Maria understood. A canso. Her parents' talk of marriage. Lord Leybourne's sudden arrival.
She felt a chill run through her, as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice.
Nay, it cannot be.
Not at age fourteen. Such early marriages occurred, but mostly among the greatest houses where alliances and dynasties hung in the balance. Not among impoverished barons with little more than a name to inflate their importance. Maria looked around Fordwich's great hall, nicely proportioned but small, with wall tapestries that, while quality, were tattered about the edges. Once colorful murals had badly faded. Everything possessed a genteel shabbiness—from the shields, weapons and animal heads fastened upon its walls to the colorful family banners hanging above the dais to the rush lights and tallow candles in place of the more expensive beeswax.
Papa would not, would he?
Enthusiastic clapping accompanied the end of Chretrien's canso and he quickly launched into another.
Maria scarcely heard. Instead, her attention was focused on a future even now she was weaving, a future that would bring only... duty.
* * *
"I think that went rather well, don't you?" Henrietta asked her husband. After Lord Leybourne and his troupe had departed, the family had retreated to Fordwich's solar.
Hugh closed the romance he'd been reading. "Aye. Sir Edmund is a good man. His brood can be quarrelsome and how many wives has he outlived—"
"He is very wealthy. And by next year, after I've had more time to mold your daughter into a lady, he may make a formal proposal."
Henrietta stood by the narrow window overlooking the bailey, absently stroking her hooded saker which was lashed to a nearby perch.
"I must concentrate more on her manners," Henrietta continued. "Last night she did not wipe clean her spoon after using it. Nor did she keep both feet on the floor when reaching for a serving dish. I wish she could be more diligent, like Eleanora."
As if I am not here. Maria bent over her embroidery, which, despite her best efforts, was unevenly stitched. Beside her on a bench positioned neath a window for better light, Eleanora applied precise stitches to the hem of a sleeve.
Hugh shifted his bad leg propped upon his pillows. "What do you think, poppet?" he called. "Would you like to become Countess of Dorset?"
Maria choked down a screamed, "NO!" and did not even bother to answer. No one would listen anyway.
Chapter 3
Berwick Castle, June 1314
Richard of Sussex and Phillip Rendell entered the sprawling stable area of Berwick Castle. Berwick was perched on the border of Scotland, always a dangerous spot. Hopefully, the news Richard carried would mean trouble for their northern neighbor.
Stopping behind his half-brother, the king, who had just returned from hawking and was now relating a bawdy joke to an attentive circle, Richard waited patiently for an ending he'd already heard many times. Even if Edward had not been king, Richard would never have interrupted his story. Joke telling gave Edward a measure of happiness—rare since Piers Gaveston's death.
When His Grace finished, the knights broke into coarse guffaws. Richard glanced at Phillip, whose smile appeared more polite than amused. Crude as a London shit-raker, Edward had never achieved wit or subtlety in his stories.
"Your Grace?"
Edward spun around and grinned at Richard. "Well-a-day, brother. I've been wondering when you would arrive." Never one to stand on formality, Edward waved aside the customary obeisance and flung a muscular arm around the earl's shoulder. "What have you found out?"
"I have news, Your Grace." Richard glanced at the knights, still hovering about. All were battle-hardened veterans and most had fought with the old King Edward. But Edward II had little in common with Edward Longshanks save blood, and one could no longer be certain of loyalties. "I think 'tis best, sire, that we speak in private. In your chamber, mayhap."
"Oh. Aye, well..." Edward dismissed his companions with a vague wave of the hand. "Return to your dice, men, and do not forget to send for me during the cock fights."
The three men crossed Berwick's inner ward to the hall. At Edward's chamber, Phillip hesitated, but Richard motioned him inside, saying, "I have no secrets from you." Richard was growing increasingly dependent on his vassal. If Phillip were not absolutely determined to be bound for Venice, Richard would find him a permanent position within the Sussex household. In the world of the court, a man with no ambition other than to faithfully served his liege was a rarity.
"Aye, Sir Rendell, do come in," King Edward said amiably, tossing his gold-threaded hawking glove on a mahogany table beside a wooden model of a sailing ship. "Pour us all some wine. My throat feels as sour as a drunkard's following May Day revels." He motioned to a filigree folding table upon which sat a silver tray and goblets.
While Phillip poured, Edward held his half-finished model, a delicately proportioned galley, up to the narrow chamber window, inspecting his handiwork. At thirty years of age Edward of Caernarvon moved with the easy grace of a man delighting in physical exercise. Though he and Richard were matched in size, Edward had reached the pinnacle of manhood, while his half-brother was approaching it. Yet in Richard the sometimes over-narrow and long Plantagenet features had been ennobled. Edward might look the part of athlete, but Richard looked the part of king.
"Your Grace. My lord." Phillip handed each a goblet of vernage. Richard waited for Edward to speak. Sooner or later, his brother would address the business at hand. When he could no longer avoid it.
Edward replaced his miniature galley to its rightful place, tossed off his wine, handed the cup to Phillip for a refill, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now, brother, what would you tell me?"
"Twenty-one thousand foot soldiers have assembled from the northern counties and Wales." In the spring of the year, His Grace had issued a summons calling for an army to meet the continuing threat of Robert the Bruce. Finally, in early June, his army was coming together.
Edward grinned, his face suddenly boyish. "Twenty-one thousand. God's bones! Even Father was not able to raise so vast a force."
Richard did not comment. Edward I had been born a soldier. Two men or two hundred thousand—it would have made no difference. The mere utterance of the epithet used to describe their father, Hammer of the Scots, struck terror into the stoutest enemy heart. Richard doubted a similar reaction at mention of Edward Caernarvon—or himself. But then this campaign would be his very first.
The king drained a second cup of vernage. "And how large an army has Bruce gathered?"
"Our best guess is seven thousand. With five hundred knights."
"Christ's cross! Such numbers ring sweet to my ears. We will send those demon-bastards back to their hills!" Edward smashed his fist into his palm. "Father knew how to deal with the Scots. Crush them, run them to the ground like mad dogs. And when I do, I'll not allow them their freedom again. Ever!"
Richard glanced at Phillip, who was studying the king with unfeigned interest. Edward sounded like an undersized boy bragging about his prowess. Richard hoped the baron would not notice. Braggadocio was an unpleasing characteristic in a king.
In a mercurial change of mood, Edward said, "I wish that everyone would just leave me in peace. I grow so weary of these endless skirmishes. Between Bruce and Black Douglas they've taken back all my border castles, save Stirling. And Stirling, too, if I do not hie me north. Tell me true, if Father was such a superb commander, why is Bruce still tormenting me?"
Richard sidestepped the question. "Lord Mowbray has agreed to turn over Stirling to Bruce if we do not help him. That would mean all our b
order castles would then be lost."
As if the king actually needed a reminder. Edinburgh and Roxborough had recently fallen to the Scots, leaving only Stirling, which was the door to the Highlands. Over the last decade, the castle had repeatedly changed loyalties from King Edward to Robert the Bruce and back again.
"'Tis apparent the Scots have thrown down the gauntlet once again," Richard said.
"And England will have to pick it up."
Edward uttered the words without enthusiasm. He crossed to the window and gazed unseeing at the forest that surrounded the castle. He wanted nothing to do with Scotland. Not only were its inhabitants wild men, but its very land made him uneasy. Coin-sith—faerie dogs—were said to roam the Highlands, and Redcaps, which were the wickedest of faeries, claimed the border lands as their own. Why couldn't his father have left the Scots alone instead of seeking to enlarge his kingdom? Who would want to rule such an accursed country?
"I do not relish facing Robert the Bruce. Sometimes I wish..." His voice trailed away.
Richard wondered what Phillip must be thinking of this king who shunned the battlefield. It wasn't that Edward II was a coward. Richard had seen him face a wild boar with nothing more than a knife in hand. But Edward had not the head for war, nor the tenacity.
Neither do I, Richard thought. Though he'd long pretended otherwise. For their father, who'd been so disappointed by his legitimate son's martial ineptitude, not to mention his other weaknesses. "Why did God inflict me with such a child?" The old King often railed. "Why could not you have been my heir, Dickon, rather than someone who would rather play than fight?"
If Father had only known the truth...
Edward folded his arms across his chest and faced Richard. "What about my barons? Have they all arrived to help me war?" Though his manner was casual, the question was not.
"Most have, sire."
Picking up the detached mast to his ship model, Edward twirled it distractedly between his fingers. "Who yet stays away?"
"Warenne, Warwick, and Arundel, though they sent troops."
All named had been involved in Piers Gaveston's death.
Edward's brow furrowed. "And what about Cousin Lancaster? Has he shown his viper's face?"
"Nay."
The ship mast snapped between Edward's blunt fingers. He tossed the pieces to the rushes. "Dear Cousin Tom."
Richard busied himself straightening the silver tray, and wiping up a miniscule wine stain. He could not bear to look at his brother's face, and yet he knew Edward was no longer at Berwick Castle, but miles away and two years past. At Blacklow Hill with Lancaster and Piers Gaveston. Viewing with his mind's eye the broadsword that had run through Piers, that had severed his curly head from his slender body.
"Would you like more wine, Ned?" Unconsciously, Richard reverted to Edward's childhood nickname. "I've still a bit of a thirst."
"Cousin Thomas will pay," Edward muttered, his gaze focused on an arras hanging from the chamber's north wall. Then he shuddered, as if shaking his melancholy, and forced a smile.
"Sir Rendell, you look as though you could well handle seven thousand Scots. Are you looking forward to a bit of bloodletting?"
"I am looking forward to serving my king," Phillip said diplomatically.
Edward's smile contained more sadness than mirth. "Then you are one of the few."
Chapter 4
Bannockburn
The English vanguard, under the dual command of the Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, followed the Carse Road, which wound into a hunting ground reserved for Scottish kings. Richard rode immediately behind the two constables, who were even now wrangling over how they should proceed. A scouting party of Scots had recently been spotted, and both Gloucester and Hereford had agreed to engage them—though they could not agree on anything further. Taking a deep breath, Richard licked his cracked lips. He tried to ignore the constables' bickering, his incessant thirst, and his uncomfortably heavy armor. St. George be thanked that the June afternoon was at least mild. If the day had been hot, hell would be cooler.
Row after well-ordered row of knights, astride high-stepping Flemish chargers, continued forward, silent save for the creaking of saddle leather and the occasional ring of steel striking steel.
"The Scots have picked their ground well," Richard commented to Phillip, who rode beside him.
Surveying the terrain, Phillip nodded. "If we do not seize the Carse, our main army will never be able to pass through."
Richard's gaze swept past the River Forth and slow-running Burn of Bannock, across the flat Carse to the heavily forested Gillies and Coxert hills. Phillip was right. Edward's main army, which yet struggled miles behind, would be hemmed in on both sides.
"Strike hard and early," Richard said half to himself. His father the old king's credo. But the knights had already marched twenty miles and the Scots, besides being rested, had enjoyed days in which to map out strategy and position. An unchivalrous way to fight—but effective.
When they reached the Carse, Gilbert of Gloucester signaled a halt. A strong corps of Scots was positioned at the far end of the open field. As Richard viewed the enemies' ragged line, stunted Highland horses, and mismatched armor, he noted one knight positioned in the center of the formation. It was not the man's armor—little better than average—that he observed, nor the helm, but what was fastened above the helm. A golden crown.
Richard pointed to the knight. "Robert the Bruce!"
The knight's identity blazed through the English ranks. Stiffening in his saddle, Richard attempted to gain a better glimpse of the military genius who'd so plagued two kings.
Ahead, a young knight named Henry de Bohun yelped like a goaded dog at a bear baiting. "What luck! Bruce himself, and with no more than a handful of vermin to guard him."
Richard did not share de Bohun's enthusiasm. "I think they would not leave their king so ill guarded," he said to Phillip.
"I agree." Phillip flipped down his visor. "I smell treachery."
As Gloucester and Hereford argued over the possible meaning of the Scottish king's appearance and how to exploit this apparent opportunity, Henry de Bohun broke rank and rode toward the enemy line.
"Christ's wounds!" Phillip swore. "Henry will be split upon Bruce's claymore ere the hour's out."
Across the yellow field patched with the emerald of swampy mosses and dotted with gnarled trees, Henry de Bohun galloped. With his multicolored jupon, painted lance positioned at rest, and burnished armor, de Bohun looked the very epitome of knighthood. But, as de Bohun challenged Robert the Bruce to single combat, Richard very much feared future minstrels memorializing this campaign—as they would—would be referring to Henry in the past tense.
Accepting de Bohun's challenge, the Scottish king cantered forward astride his shaggy grey pony. From his saddle bow, he removed his battle-ax.
Not a man stirred along either line. Richard held his breath, his eyes on the brilliant de Bohun. The young knight raised his lance and charged. The spear tip bore toward Bruce's chest, though he did not flinch. When de Bohun appeared in easy grasp of victory, Bruce jerked an armored knee into his grey's ribs. The mount sidestepped just as de Bohun thundered past. Rising in his stirrups, Bruce crashed his ax down on de Bohun's head. The blade sliced through helm, past the skull beneath, cleaving de Bohun's head in two. Blood and bone exploded into the air. The dead knight fell backward, over his destrier's rump.
The English army looked on in stunned silence. Then, as in one voice, they erupted. Battle cries shattered the stillness. Lance, sword, and battle-ax swung to battle ready, and of one accord, the cavalry galloped toward the Scots. Richard and Phillip rode side by side.
The first line engaged the enemy. They fell back. The English pursued. Swinging his broadsword, Richard had little time to notice anything save the warriors in front of him. But one thing he knew. Though the Scots fought, they gave ground too easily.
Are we heading into a trap?
Suddenly, the Engli
sh line gave way as the earth collapsed beneath the knights' destriers. Animals and riders plunged into cleverly hidden trenches that had been lined with pointed poles.
"Pits!" someone screamed.
The Scots had indeed picked their spot well, and with plenty of time to dig their traps. Richard jerked Excalibur to the right, away from the pits, even as a forward knight plunged into a hole and was brutally impaled. Excalibur careened toward a second destrier, struggling to veer away from this latest danger. Behind, an English knight slammed into them. Excalibur stumbled. Richard was nearly unhorsed and flung into the abyss. Excalibur righted himself. The line seemed to slacken and the stallion broke free. Richard glimpsed Phillip ahead, swinging his mace over his head. To Richard's left, a claymore flashed. Reacting instinctively, he swung his blade, lopping off a man's head. One for Henry de Bohun.
The Earl of Gloucester's herald suddenly called retreat. Richard was more relieved than surprised. The troop began their withdrawal. The English would meet their enemy on the field of Bannock again on the morrow. God grant that this time they would be better prepared.
* * *
The morning of June 24, 1314, dawned clear and cool. In the morning shade, some squires dressed their lords in battle armor while others tended to nervous destriers; groups of archers, cradling their six foot longbows, silently awaited orders. Richard made a full private confession, readying his soul for the possibility of death.
Who will God listen to this day?
Richard stared at his half-brother's broad back, which was covered with a magnificent jeweled tabard. The English outnumbered the Scots three to one, and possessed far superior weapons, not to mention baggage support trains that stretched twenty miles to the rear.
How can we fail?
A large circle of barons knelt before a priest who administered the final blessing. Richard recognized Bartholomew Badlesmere, a veteran of the dead king's Welsh campaigns, silent Hugh Despenser, and the dark Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, who'd brought with him a troop of Irishmen. All of England's barons were here at the burn of Bannock. All save Thomas Lancaster, who remained safely hidden away in his castle at Pontefract.
The Lion and the Leopard Page 3