The Lion and the Leopard

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Following the benediction, King Edward inspected his troops, his manner as nervously buoyant as that of his high-stepping white charger. Sensing easy victory, he laughed and joked and belittled the enemy. "We'll rout them in an hour!" he boasted.

  "Be wary of their schiltron," Roger Mortimer warned, referring to the circular phalanx with pikes to the fore and ready reserves in the center so favored by the Scots.

  Mortimer was a Marcher Lord from the border counties and known to be a deadly fighter. '"Tis a wicked formation. And if they possess only a handful of cavalry they will use their pikemen."

  Edward waved a negligent hand, dismissing with his gesture the martial prowess of an entire nation. "A legion of pikemen is no match for one knight. Besides, I have planned it all. We cannot fail."

  Because of the narrow area in which the English had to maneuver, Edward had divided his troops into three lines, or battles. One battle would follow another. Gilbert of Gloucester had been picked to lead the first wave.

  His Grace motioned to a waiting herald. "My Lord Gloucester is ready. Send forth the summons."

  The sun was low, the air still edged with night's chill, when the Earl of Gloucester and his cavalry galloped across the Carse. Behind them line after line of foot soldiers marched up the rough Carse toward the Scots who were positioned in several circular schiltrons.

  "A St. George! God wills it!" cried the English knights as they thundered forward, toward the waiting pikes with their pointed metal heads. Suddenly, portions of ground collapsed, plunging knights and chargers into more hidden pits.

  Not a second time, Richard thought, watching from the sidelines.

  "God's teeth," swore Phillip. "Did we learn nothing?"

  Other English soldiers met caltrops—four-cornered spikes concealed in the grass which pierced the vulnerable center of stallions' hooves. Racing on, the main battle slammed against the Scottish line, which held. Gloucester fell back, reformed, charged again.

  Waiting, Richard felt as if worms gnawed his stomach. Today was his first real battle, and fear warred with eagerness. Beside him, King Edward shifted impatiently in his saddle. His gauntleted right hand bounced on the pommel in nervous rhythm; his blue eyes swept the chaotic field, willing Gloucester to break through the line.

  "Our archers!" His Grace turned to Richard. "They will provide Gloucester with the victory." He motioned to a herald. "Send the order round. My archers are to cross the Pelstream burn and hit Bruce's flank."

  After the bowmen moved to obey, Edward signaled his second battle forward. Most of the lords, including Phillip and Richard, were part of this wave. The battle moved out, with Edward keeping well to the back.

  A king must be well protected, Richard thought. His position makes sense.

  But their father had always ridden in the lead. Edward I had never asked his troops to do or risk what he would not. Richard himself rode to the fore, though his every instinct cried for the far safer position an entire line could provide. He glanced over his shoulder at Phillip. At least Lord Rendell, who was a veteran of many battles, would be near and would look to his safety more effectively than Richard's squires.

  As the second battle moved slowly forward, rivulets of nervous sweat coursed down Richard's chest, back and arms. His inner gambeson stuck unpleasantly to his underclothes. Gloucester's troops still had not penetrated the Scottish schiltrons and, if the second English line continued they would meet, not Scots, but Edward's own foot soldiers. Richard's throat felt dry from fear as well as billowing dust. He licked cracked lips and tasted blood.

  Gloucester's cavalry struggled forward. Suddenly the line surged. The English had penetrated the schiltrons! A cheer rose from the second wave and accelerated when His Grace gave the order to engage.

  Phillip caught Richard's attention, pointing down field where the third line was moving forward.

  "They've already been ordered up," he shouted above the din. "We'll be caught between the third battle and Gloucester's men."

  A chill hand squeezed Richard's heart. Already he could see the faces of the foot soldiers leading the third wave. If the forward battles did not successfully push into the Scottish ranks, all of them risked being trapped like rabbits in a snare. Richard's gaze met Phillip's. Phillip shook his head as if to say, "What can be done?"

  He was right.

  If death awaited them on the field of Bannock, they had no choice but to ride forth and embrace it.

  * * *

  Scots surrounded Richard, clinging like leeches to a wound. On all sides, screaming, wielding claymore and battle-ax. The earl swung his sword with relentless precision, acting and reacting on an instinctive level instilled by years of training. Encased in a steel tomb, his helm providing limited peripheral vision, Richard's battlefield extended directly in front, a few feet to either side. He was totally blind to the back. Thank God for Phillip.

  The line struggled forward. England's cavalry were as much in danger of killing one another as their enemy. Ahead, Richard glimpsed Gloucester, suddenly down, an ax through his cuirass. Gloucester's maddened destrier trampled him beneath, then was itself felled by a stray arrow.

  Shouting off to the flank, where Edward had ordered his archers. "On them! On them!" the Scots yelled, attacking the bowmen from behind. A rain of arrows dropped English foot soldiers like meadow grass before a windstorm. English arrows dropping English troops. Shafts thudded into Richard's padded surcoat. Men began to panic, searching for a place to hide. But where? Hills encased them on either side, as did the burn of Bannock, now filling with the morning tide. Scots ahead, English behind. Trapped in the middle, Richard could not have run, even if he would. He glimpsed Edward on the line's edge, more spectator than participant.

  The shower of arrows ceased.

  Knights shouted, "Bruce has routed our archers! We are done for."

  Scots emerged from all directions, materializing from the ground, multiplying a hundredfold. Robert the Bruce, who'd been holding back his reserves, now threw them into action. With Gloucester dead and England's ranks badly depleted, the line slowly, inexorably gave ground. A swell of corpses hampered their retreat. Horses stumbled over slopes slippery with blood; foot soldiers slid on guts and dismembered limbs. Bodies floated in the pulling tide of the river, Bannock; wounded soldiers floundered and drowned. The Scots pushed relentlessly, a silver river swelling and breaking over English ranks.

  The second battle fell into the third. The entire line wavered. Richard felt it even before he saw it, and even more, sensed the change in himself. From a measure of confidence, to rising panic that threatened to paralyze him. He wanted to throw down his sword, turn, and flee all the way back to London. Bannockburn was lost, and Richard knew they were lost with it.

  Glimpsing Edward's jeweled tabard, he tried to edge Excalibur toward his brother. The line was buckling. Bruce and his men pressed harder. Richard saw Phillip behind him, surcoat studded with arrows. Richard pointed with his sword toward Edward. Nodding, Phillip spurred his horse. Forcing a path toward the King, Richard moved against the tide of retreating Englishmen. Edward, surrounded by his earls, was well protected.

  An arrow pierced Richard's thigh. He jerked the shaft upward, his brain exploding in agony. Shaking his head he forced his mind beyond the pain, his eyes to the mild June sky, to silent Gillies Hill which was silent no longer. The hillside teemed with Scottish reinforcements, scrambling from the forest toward the English flank, toward the king himself. With this latest screaming Scottish wave, Edward's entire army collapsed like a rotten drawbridge.

  Jerking his reins, Richard wheeled Excalibur to a halt. Phillip had also halted, eyes on the Scottish reinforcements. Richard pointed. The Scots, those who had turned Bannockburn into a complete debacle, were not worthy knights, but camp followers. Fletchers, cooks, wagoners—men and women waving broken pike handles, broomsticks, and crutches topped with petticoats, clouts, and tattered cloaks.

  "Sweet Christ! I do not believe it."

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p; Phillip's and Richard's eyes locked. Then, as of one mind, they closed the gap between themselves and the king. Edward's earls were already leading him from the field. Hugh Despenser held his charger's reins.

  "Father would not have left," Edward said to no one in particular. He sounded more bemused than angry.

  Furious with his brother's incompetence, the entire folly, himself, Richard shouted, "But you are not Father. Now get yourself to Stirling Castle before you are captured and of no good to anyone."

  Richard read hurt in his brother's expression, but he was too angry to care. Shame burned in him like poison. England would never live down this tragedy, and Edward was responsible. He was Edward's half-brother... if only he'd fought harder... if he'd not been afraid...

  Richard turned to view Bannock's field—the trampled English banners, men struggling and drowning in the burn, the sea of bodies. He slammed his gauntleted hand against his pommel.

  Bannockburn!

  The name would be spit like a curse at him and Edward. It would haunt their children's children. He knew it. Richard felt like crying. Instead he spurred his horse and, with Phillip at his side, followed his sovereign from the field.

  Chapter 5

  Stirling Castle

  King Edward and his royal guard of five hundred fled toward Stirling Castle as if Satan and all his legions nipped at their heels. They had detoured to the left of the Scottish line and then north toward Stirling, hoping to pass unnoticed. It proved a vain hope. Scots, led by Bruce's brother, Edward, repeatedly engaged them. Riding at the tag end of the line, Richard and Phillip bore the brunt of the attacks. Richard felt as if he'd been fighting forever, as if he'd died and gone to hell and endless skirmishes would be his eternal punishment.

  Seemingly from nowhere, Edward Bruce appeared, cutting off the route to freedom, thundering down on the English king who was surrounded by exhausted troops. Hugh Despenser and several other knights formed a ring around Edward, repelling several charges. Edward also fought, expertly wielding his mace, but an English knight fell, providing opening. Richard raced to close the iron ring, but he was too late. One Scot was already grabbing for the king's reins, another for Edward himself. His Grace beat furiously at the Scot reaching for his bridle. The line broke and the king fled toward Stirling Castle with the Scots at his back.

  Richard felt he had not the strength to follow, or raise his sword another time. He looked over his shoulder, seeking Phillip. Riding toward Richard was a Scot, dressed all in black, without identifying surcoat or mark of any sort. He sat astride a destrier black as his armor. Richard's limbs turned to water. He could not tear his eyes from this faceless knight. Death, bearing down on him. Death, raising its sword to smite him.

  Yelling a warning, Phillip spurred his horse, trying to cut off the Scot. Life returned to Richard's limbs. He jerked Excalibur to the left. Too late. The claymore whistled past Richard's exposed head, hit his cuirass. He felt a searing pain along his chest. The blade shimmied over the breastplate, slicing into Excalibur's arched neck. The grey collapsed. Struggling from the saddle, Richard tried to leap, stumbled. His body would not properly respond to his commands. Wetness, along with white hot pain, spread through his inner gambeson.

  Wheeling his horse, the black knight returned for the kill but Phillip intercepted. Knee to knee, the two hacked and parried. Phillip's destrier attacked with hooves and bared teeth. The Scot's horse panicked and Phillip's sword dispatched the black knight to heaven or hell.

  Not Death at all, Richard thought groggily. He bleeds as copiously as any man.

  Spurring his destrier toward Richard, Phillip held out his hand. "Grab hold!"

  Richard tried unsuccessfully to pull himself up.

  "Hurry!" urged Phillip.

  Those Scots not otherwise engaged with stragglers from Edward's royal guard were already looking to them. Realizing Richard's weakness, Phillip leapt from his horse and helped the earl mount.

  Richard slumped in the saddle. Phillip whirled to face two oncoming Scots. "Go!" he shouted to Richard. But Richard could not. Far in the distance he heard Phillip's voice. He shook his head, trying to bring the world back to clarity.

  Where am I? What is happening? I must...

  Richard's world went black.

  * * *

  A cooling wetness trailed along the burning line of Richard's wound, which snaked around his right pectoral muscle. Though it was much easier to keep his eyes closed, to hover in a vague nether world, he forced them open to a patch of deepening sky. The wetness relieved the burning sensation. Phillip was cleaning his wound with an undershirt. Once white, the material now showed scarlet. Scarlet like the blood of the hart they'd killed at Wirral Forest. Only this was not an animal's blood but his own. Richard attempted to raise his arm. His limbs, though relieved of their armor, felt like sacks of grain. His thigh, where it had been pierced by an arrow, throbbed relentlessly.

  Phillip's grim expression eased. "The wound is clean, m'lord. 'Twill leave a magnificent scar for some woman to remark upon."

  Phillip used his helm to bring Richard water. Raising the earl's head, he eased a trickle down his throat.

  "We are near the road to Stirling Castle, m'lord. I will take you there."

  Richard nodded, or thought he did.

  What is at Stirling Castle? Father? No, Father is dead. "Boil the flesh from my bones," The old king had said before he died. "And carry them before you into battle."

  We did not do that, did we? And we lost the battle and Piers Gaveston was recalled...

  * * *

  "I did not allow His Grace entrance to Stirling," Lord Mowbray said. "And I regret I canna help you either. Stirling Castle belongs to the Scots now, as was agreed before the battle. To the victor the spoils, sir."

  Mowbray, who was castellan of Stirling, might be a loyal Englishman, but he was angry at his king for losing Bannockburn, and angry that he was forced to such an unenviable position. "This entire business leaves a sorry taste in my mouth, I can tell you that."

  Phillip turned from Mowbray to Richard, stretched upon a makeshift litter. Above the mantle that covered him, the earl's face was white, his mouth set in a painful line. Though the mantle was heavy and the early evening mild, Richard was beginning to shake.

  "His Grace rode for Dunbar. Perhaps you could catch up with him," Mowbray pressed.

  "My lord Sussex would die ere we lost sight of the castle." Phillip sized up Mowbray. A plain face without guile, a man not given to subterfuge, caught up in the complicated world of politics. Mowbray had agreed to turn Stirling Castle, an important strategic stronghold, over to the victor of Bannockburn, and he would keep his word.

  "You have a physician here," Phillip said aloud. "You must see to m'lord's needs."

  Is that the sound of horses galloping up the road toward Stirling? Is Bruce even now riding to claim his promise?

  "Bruce would not murder the king's own flesh and blood, would he?" Phillip asked abruptly, a plan forming.

  "I do not understand, sir."

  "If Richard of Sussex should perchance fall into Bruce's hands he would be held for ransom, would he not? And what a fine ransom would be paid."

  "I suppose so, but..."

  "If Bruce found Sussex already at Stirling, would he not see that my lord receives the best of care? The earl of Sussex would be worth much more to him alive than dead." Phillip fell silent, considering. If he left Richard the earl would be well cared for, and Phillip could ride for safety. He had no fear of falling into enemy hands. One man could hide forever in Scotland's hills.

  Richard's breathing was shallow and rapid. Blood seeped through the woolen mantle.

  "Take him inside Stirling, sir, and care for him," said Phillip. "M'lord is generous. When he recovers you will be properly rewarded."

  "But what about you? What will you do?"

  If Phillip stayed, he would also be ransomed. The Scots, so everlastingly poor, would be eager to enrich Scotland's coffers. No, Phillip would
not be risking death—at least not death by a sword. But imprisoned in a dungeon without sky to see and roads to travel, would that not be another kind of death?

  "Well, sir? Will you stay or go?"

  Phillip looked down at Richard, then raised his eyes to Mowbray. "I will stay with my lord," he said.

  Chapter 6

  Fordwich Castle, 1317

  Fordwich Castle contained the most celebrated cherry orchard in the south of England. A grand sight it was during Eastertide, with row after row of cherry trees exploding in brilliant white blossoms and the spring air heavy with their fragrance. In 1300, Hugh and Henrietta d'Arderne had held their wedding feast in the orchard, and the surrounding divertissement had since been dubbed the Cherry Fair. Held annually, it attracted members from the kingdom's most powerful houses. Once Edward II had even attended the jousting events, though he'd soon left, grumbling that tournaments merely provided an excuse for his barons to gather and plot against him.

  In conjunction with Fordwich's activities, nearby Chilham Castle, owned by the powerful Lord Bartholomew Badlesmere, conducted a fair that sold everything from bolts of cloth and Venetian cut glass to the pewter and vests and cambrics of traveling peddlers. As the festival grew in extravagance, however, it had created an alarming drain upon the d'Arderne family's already precarious finances.

  In addition to all other expenses, costly gifts must be distributed to each important guest, and the floods, rotting crops and famines so characteristic of the winters of 1315-16 had hit Fordwich as brutally as any demesne. To finance the current Cherry Fair, during which the d'Ardernes would announce their daughter Maria's betrothal to Sir Edmund Leybourne, earl of Dorset, Hugh had been forced to sell their Sturry townhouse, the Leopard's Head.

  I will accept my fate gracefully, Maria d'Arderne thought, gazing out the window of her bedchamber. Soon Edmund Leybourne and his troupe would arrive, bringing bustling life to the near deserted bailey.