To refuse the challenge was unthinkable yet to take it was perhaps foolhardy. But he must take it. He could imagine the rejoicing there would be in the English ranks if it was said he was afraid to ride out against the young knight.
He had to go into the attack and he had to act promptly.
He heard the gasp of those around him as he spurred the grey mare and rode out to meet de Bohun.
‘Madness, madness!’ murmured Douglas and he thought: Where will this day end? Randolph on the point of being taken by the English, the King accepting this unequal challenge― The hoofs of the warhorse pounded the earth as de Bohun, lance ready, came thundering towards Robert the Bruce.
The Scots watched with fear, the English with exultation. There was scarcely an English soldier who did not wish he was in de Bohun’s shoes. His name would be remembered forever.
Then the surprise. The lance should have pierced the Bruce’s heart but it did not for with incredible agility he swerved at the important moment. The lance thrust missed him and raising himself in his stirrups Bruce lifted his battle-axe and brought it down on de Bohun’s head which was all but cleft in two.
The Bruce back to his men. They surrounded him.
‘My lord, you could have been killed. This could have been the end.’
He looked rueful. ‘I have broken my battle-axe,’ he said, ‘It was a good one.’
Inwardly, he was exultant. He could imagine what effect this would have on the enemy and his own soldiers for that matter.
They would regard it as a good augury and when a small army faces a large one, auguries are very welcome.
Douglas had witnessed the King’s adventure and, considering it extremely - rash, decided that he would himself take action. He was not going to let Randolph be entirely annihilated by Clifford’s men no matter what Bruce said.
If the King could act rashly an impulse so would Douglas. The King had risked his life for a gesture. Well Douglas was going to do all in his power to see that Randolph did not lose his.
He summoned his men and rode swiftly towards the castle where the fighting between Randolph and Clifford was still going on, but as he approached he could scarcely believe his eyes for the ground was littered with the English dead and he could see that Randolph was not only holding his own, but winning the day.
‘Hold!’ cried Douglas. ‘We will not help him. To do so would be to take from him the honour which is his.’
He was right, even as he stood there watching, the English cavalry— or at least that which could get away― was galloping off with some Scots in pursuit.
It was like a miracle.
Randolph had driven off the proposed attack on Stirling.
‘God is smiling on us this day,’ said Douglas.
* * *
Night fell on the camps. The English had been sobered by the death of de Bohun and the defeat of the cavalry on the way to the castle, but not unduly so.
They outnumbered the Scots and the spirit of Great Edward marched with them.
On that Monday, the twenty-fourth of June of the year 1314, as dawn broke the Scottish army heard Mass performed by Maurice, Abbot of Inchaffray.
Every man was on his knees. Edward, from afar saw this and remarked to Robert de Umfraville, ‘Do you see? They are kneeling.’
Robert, Earl of Angus since the death of his father in 1307 and who had fought against the Scots on many occasions and as Earl of Angus was regularly summoned to the Scottish parliaments, knew Scotsmen well and he answered.
‘Yes, my lord, they kneel. But to God, not to us. I tell you this, my lord, that army will either win the day or die on this battlefield.’
‘We must see that they die on the battlefield then, Angus.’
‘My lord,’ went on Angus, who had become anglicised and believed that the alliance of Scotland with England would be advantageous to both countries and had therefore sworn fealty to the English crown, ‘I know the Scots. They will be great fighters but they lack the discipline of your army. If you feign to retreat beyond the encampment they will rush forward to attack and fall out of order.’
‘Make semblance of retreat!’ cried Edward. ‘Never.’
In his shining armour he felt supreme. He thought momentarily, I wish Perrot could see me now.
He was going to win. He was going to confound them all, those who had been critical of him and had sworn that he could never compare with his father.
He glowed with excitement as he sounded the call to charge Gloucester and Hereford prepared to advance towards the right wing of the Scots which was under Edward Bruce.
Gloucester muttered: ‘I shall go ahead of you, Hereford.’
Hereford retorted, ‘My lord Gloucester, that will be my place.’
‘You mistake me, my lord,’ cried Gloucester, ‘if you think I shall follow where you lead.’
As they argued, the Scots advanced and Gloucester with a small company of men rode forward. It was folly for they found themselves surrounded by Scots and without sufficient support to withstand them. Thus the wrangle had put both Gloucester and Hereford at an initial disadvantage.
The battle had begun.
The English should have had the advantage. Their cavalry was magnificent, but the Scots employed the custom of the schiltrom which was a formation like a hedge with each man holding his twelve-foot spear before him, so that even the heaviest cavalry must hesitate before throwing itself against those formidable spears.
The archers provided the worst hazard for the Scots and even the schiltrom could not withstand those showers of deadly arrows which kept falling and decimating them. The Scots however carried battle-axes beside their arrows which meant that when they had exhausted their supply of arrows they could rush forth with their axes and wreak havoc.
The hours passed and the battle raged. Bruce’s spirits were high. Luck was on his side. He had chosen the right place in which to fight and he was on his home land. The English were exhausted by their journey north; they were not in their native land. There was not a Scotsman who would not have died that day for Scotland for who knew what his fate would be if he fell into the hands of the English?
The sounds of battle were deafening. The knights shouted their war crimes as they plunged into the fray and spear clanged against spear in the deadly conflict; arrows flying through the air pierced the horses’ flesh, driving the creatures to madden before they died, and the air was filled with the groans of the wounded and dying men; banners trailed on the ground among pennants and broken spears and the grass was spattered with the blood of Scots and English.
And still the battle persisted.
The Scottish army had in its wake the camp followers― men too old for battle, women who wanted to be with their men, young children not of an age to fight but who were eager to see how the battle progressed and to be on the spot when the victory was complete, perhaps to take a share in what booty was available. In any case they would not stay in their homes while Scotland’s future was being decided.
Bruce had ordered them to remain hidden by the hill and with them was the army’s baggage and extra supplies of which they were in charge.
There was no doubt that the battle was going in Scotland’s favour.
Gloucester had been killed so had Sir Robert Clifford and Hereford had been taken prisoner.
The King’s bodyguards clustered round him and the Earl of Pembroke cried:
‘My lord, it is unwise for us to stay longer. We must leave the field without delay.’
‘I shall not desert my army,’ cried Edward fiercely.
But Pembroke took the bridle of the King’s horse and went on: ‘I am responsible for your safety. My lord, consider what would happen to England if you were to fall into Bruce’s hands.’
‘Where my army has died so shall I if need be,’ replied Edward. .
‘Nobly said, my lord. But we must think of England without a King. Nay, if you will not come willingly then must I take you by force.’
; The knights closed round the King. They agreed with Pembroke The battle was lost, that was clear. The King was in danger. His only hope of survival was in flight.
Edward was desolate. Why should ill luck so dog hi,? Was there nothing he could do which would succeed? If his father had been here― No, no. It was no fault of his. Bruce was a genius just as Edward the First had been. None could stand against men like that. There was something superhuman about them. They could not be judged by the standards of other men and it was no use deploring the fact that one could not stand up to them.
He felt sick with disappointment.
The day had begun so gloriously. He had had everything on his side. But Bruce was his enemy and men like Bruce, Wallace, his own father Edward, were feared and respected; they had half-won their battles before they had started them.
Dejected and disconsolate the King allowed himself to be taken from the field. He almost wished that he might be have been slain and so he might have been if Bruce had been able to give chase.
They rode to Linlithgow and finally reached Dunbar. There they found refuge for a while before they were able to take ship for Berwick.
It was a miserable homecoming for Edward. He could not stop thinking of all that had been lost— the lives of so many men, thirty-thousand some declared. So much lost apart from lives, arms, horses, apparel, vessels of gold and silver, treasures― all gone. And perhaps chief of all— honour. None would respect the King of England now. And he must return England where it would be said: ‘Ah, if it had but been his father!’ The theme of his childhood and youth. It was hard on an unworthy son to follow such a father. He must live in the shadow of greatness which made his shortcomings the more conspicuous.
In Scotland, there was great rejoicing.
‘For years to come,’ said Robert the Bruce, ‘Scotsmen will glow with pride when they talk of Bannockburn.’
THE KING IS WARNED
THE King was in despair. Nothing had gone right since the murder of Gaveston, he mourned. Oh, for a return of those happy days when he and his dear Perrot had danced and conversed so gaily! Why could people have not let him alone? Why did they have to take Perrot from him? He often dreamed of the last ordeal of Perrot. How had he felt when they had taken him out to Blacklow Hill? A common soldier had run him through his heart; another had cut off his head; Those brave bold knights had dared not do the deed themselves. No matter. They were the guilty men. He would never ever forgive them, and at their head was Lancaster.
Lancaster was his enemy, and since Bannockburn, Lancaster’s power had risen. It was said by some that Lancaster ruled the country now.
Lancaster was too rich, too powerful and too royal. He had too grand an opinion of himself and since he had the titles of Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury (in addition to those he already possessed) he saw himself as the most important man in the country. It was amusing that his wife― through whom he had come by the titles of Lincoln and Salisbury― did not think so much of him. There were rumours that that marriage was in such a parlous state that the lady was seeking a means of escape from it. Good luck to her, thought Edward viciously.
Lancaster had refused to come to Bannockburn although he had acted within his rights by sending a token force. Would it have made any difference if he had come? Would the battle have been won instead of lost? None could truthfully say and yet that was exactly what people were saying. Unpleasant rumors were in circulation. If Lancaster had been Edward’s son instead of the son of his brother― God in heaven! thought Edward. Lancaster wants to rule this country.
And there were many who would support him.
Bannockburn. Disaster, defeat, disgrace to the crown and to England!
Edward knew that all through his life and perhaps after, people would talk of Bannockburn. Ever since King John had been involved in conflict with the barons that company of ambitious men had had grand ideas of their own importance. They would not allow a man to be a king. They wanted him as their figurehead to move this way and that as pleased them.
It was a wretched life. And no Perrot to enlighten it!
Perrot had never really had a proper burial. He would give him a grand one.
He would have a tomb made for him so beautiful that it was worthy of him— one of which Perrot himself would approve. He would give himself up to grief and be thoroughly wretched and he would forget those rebellious barons gathering about him crying Bannockburn. Bannockburn― as though it were all his fault.
How humiliating it had been to fly from the field of battle as he had been obliged to do. He would never forget it: riding fast with Pembroke beside him, making for Dunbar and pausing for a brief respite there before taking ship to Berwick. The horror of it, with the entire army in flight. Many of them were drowned trying to cross the Forth; many of them fell in the pits which Bruce’s men had dug; the amount of treasure that was lost horrified him. Rarely had there been such a disaster in English history. All his father’s victories had been wiped away in one great blow.
At Pontefract, Lancaster had been waiting with an army― men who should have been beside their King at Bannockburn and Lancaster could not hide his satisfaction at the sight of the fugitive King.
An army! Why had he assembled an army? It was because, he had implied, he believed that if Edward had been successful in Scotland he would have turned his victorious army against Lancaster and those earls who had not been with him at the battle.
Then Edward must ride, side by side, with Lancaster to York, where a parliament had been called. Was there no end to the humiliation an unkind fate was heaping on him?
In York he was made aware of his subject’s contempt. He wanted to shriek at them when they continually invoked his father’s name. Great Edward, they called him as though to differentiate between him and his ineffectual son.
I will be revenged on them all one day, Edward promised himself.
He was clearly told what he must do, and it was maddening to realize that he had no alternative but to obey. He must confirm the ordinances; he must receive back into favour those earls with whom he had recently been at cross purposes.
That meant the murderers of Perrot and most humiliating of all, he was informed that his allowance would cut to ten pounds a day.
He listened quietly but inwardly seething with rage.
Lancaster was contemplating him blandly. Edward was King in name but Lancaster was in command now.
* * *
Lancaster faced the King. Edward was thinking: Perrot has always hated you. He knew you meant me no good, my cousin though you might be. But perhaps it was because you were my cousin and so close to the throne that you always believed you would make the better king.
Lancaster was indeed thinking how feeble Edward was and he was still exulting in the defeat at Bannockburn. Surely that showed the people the kind of man they had as King. How many English were saying this day: ‘If only Lancaster had been the son of Edward the First.’
It mattered little now. He was in command. Edward was aware of that for it was obvious.
‘My lord,’ said Lancaster, ‘there will have to be some change of office. I have long felt— and others share my view― that those who hold the highest posts in the country are not worthy of them.’
Edward wanted to scream with rage. He controlled his anger and said coldly:
‘It is not an unusual state of affairs for those who would rule to dislike a king’s friends.’
‘Ah, if they were but your friends, my lord, none would rejoice in them more than I. It is as you know, dear lord and cousin, my earnest wish to serve you.’
‘I am glad to hear that,’ answered Edward grimly.
‘So, my lord, it is agreed that Walter Reynolds having bestowed on him the high office of Canterbury should relinquish the Great Seal. One cannot expect him to serve two such great offices in the manner demanded of them.’
So Walter was going now. Thank God he had given him Canterbury. They could not oust him from his archbishopric
.
‘And whom would you bestow the Great Seal, cousin?’
The sarcasm was lost on Lancaster. He had never been a man to look for subtleties. He had the answer promptly.
‘I― and others agree that John Sandale should have the Seal.’
Sandale. A good churchman and one of Lancaster’s men.
What could he say? It was true Walter held both offices and many could agree that he had not the qualifications to do so. In fact, a great many thought it was unfortunate that such a worldly man should hold the office of Archbishop of Canterbury. Edward knew he dared not protest.
Lancaster triumphantly went on to mention other members of the King’s household whom he thought it would be better to replace.
Inside, Edward writhed with shame. Yet what could he do? Who was there to stand with him now? Those who had supported him at Bannockburn were no longer esteemed by the people. They shared the shame of defeat. Pembroke and Hereford had emerged from the battle it was true, but shorn of the honours they had won in the past. Gloucester who might have stood beside him was dead. He would never forgive Warwick for the part he had played in Perrot’s murder and any case, Warwick’s health had deteriorated so much that he was a sick man. He could not be sure of Warenne, whose loyalty fluctuated. His political life reflected his domestic affairs which were invariably in a turmoil. His marriage with Joan of Bar, the only daughter of Edward the First’s daughter Eleanor and the Count of Bar, was unhappy and he was at this time living with Matilda de Nerford, the daughter of a Norfolk nobleman— a fact deplored by her family and the Church itself; and the Bishop of Chichester had threatened to excommunicate Warenne if he did not mend his ways. He was attempting to get his marriage with Joan annulled on the time-worn pleas of nearness of kin.
Meanwhile he continued to live with Matilda who had already borne him several sons.
The Follies of the King Page 16