Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  After Alexander offered up a lengthy prayer that had Humphrey’s knights shifting impatiently, the feast began. The wine flowed and the murmur of voices grew louder, the guests more flushed and animated with each passing hour.

  Robert sat in silence, hardly eating, his head hazy with drink, the faces of the gathering blurring in the candlelight. He wanted to know why Humphrey had come here, but the earl seemed in no hurry to come to the point, regaling Bess and Elizabeth with a story of a peasant boy from the Low Countries who had fought and won three tournaments in the guise of a knight to win the love of a shepherdess. It sounded to Robert like nonsense, but the women were hanging on every word and when Humphrey finished, Bess pulled him close to kiss him. When she drew back, lips glistening, he came in for more and she pushed him away playfully, laughing at his ardour. Grinning, Humphrey drained his goblet and raised it for the pages to fill.

  As Robert caught Elizabeth’s eye she blushed, clearly discomforted by the display of affection. He recalled their wedding night, his passion dying as he lay on her and saw the fear in her eyes. They had only consummated the marriage last week. It had been a quick, tense affair, him willing himself to react to her taut, unmoving body, her with her head turned from him, arms wrapped over her breasts. Afterwards, before he drifted into sleep, Robert thought he heard her crying. She would not, now, be Christ’s virgin bride.

  There was a screech of a chair as his father rose to retire. Unsteady on his feet, the lord blamed his years, but it was clear he was blind drunk. ‘You will stay and entertain our noble guests,’ he told Robert thickly. ‘I only pray you have not forgotten how, after all the months spent living with outlaws.’

  ‘Even among outlaws, Father, my conduct befitted my rank. I wish I could say the same for a lord too drunk to hold himself upright in his chair.’

  As his words cracked out the hall fell silent. Men glanced uncertainly at one another. Others hid smirks in goblets, clearly hoping for sport, or some gossip to take back to Westminster.

  The Bruce seemed to reel at the insult, causing Alexander to rise quickly and catch his arm. Robert’s younger brother turned on him, his glare fit to melt steel. ‘How dare you insult our father! He has maintained your inheritance all these years, while you deserted your own family to join rebels and thieves. Now you return to claim it when it suits you!’

  ‘If you want to give lectures,’ said Robert, ‘then go back to Cambridge.’

  ‘Peace, brothers.’ Edward leaned in to refill Alexander’s goblet. ‘It’s been years since we’ve all sat at the same table. Let’s not ruin the moment just yet.’

  Ignoring his brother, Alexander escorted their father from the hall. Edward shrugged and drank from the goblet himself. Elizabeth, who had half risen, flinched when Bess put a soothing hand on her arm.

  Bess turned to the steward. ‘Do you have any minstrels?’

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ said Edwin, looking relieved to have something he could deal with. He crossed to the hearth, where two men were sitting on a bench, sharing a mug of ale. At his command one took up a flute, the other a lyre.

  As the notes drifted over the company and the hum of conversation started up, Robert poured himself more wine without waiting for the page to do it.

  ‘You should treat him with respect.’ Humphrey was staring at him coldly. ‘Whatever you think of him he is still your father. The wound will be deeper than you know when he is gone.’

  Robert went to retort, but stopped himself as he thought of Humphrey’s own father, who died on the battlefield at Falkirk. ‘Why have you come here, Humphrey?’

  For a moment, the earl looked as though he wasn’t going to answer, then he sat back, gripping his wine. ‘I thought it good to clear the air. The king has forgiven you. I want to do the same.’ He didn’t meet Robert’s gaze as he spoke. ‘But I do need to understand what brought you back to England. Why you submitted to the king.’

  ‘You were there at Westminster when I gave my reasons.’ Robert was surprised by Humphrey’s reason for coming. He hadn’t expected the earl ever to want to forgive him. Edward’s own forgiveness was purely political. It made sense for the king to pardon him, perhaps believing it would persuade other rebels to give up the fight. Not Humphrey, whose friendship he had so gravely betrayed.

  ‘What happened in Ireland, Robert? What made you change your mind? You said you were attacked?’

  Robert was suddenly alert. Was the king trying to find out something about the attack?

  ‘Do you know who assaulted you?’ Humphrey pressed.

  ‘No,’ said Robert, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much. His thoughts were foggy. What did he want the king to think? ‘No,’ he repeated, more forcefully. ‘My attacker was killed by Ulster’s men before I could find out.’ That was good; let the king feel secure. He wondered how far the conspiracy went. Was it possible Humphrey knew any of what he himself suspected – that the prophecy might be nothing more than a lie that masked Edward’s naked ambition and the murder of Scotland’s king? Or was he a true believer, as Robert had always thought? ‘It was strange that my attacker used a crossbow. It is an unusual weapon, don’t you think?’ He paused to take a sip of wine. ‘Though of course the Gascony regiments use it commonly. King Edward’s men.’

  Humphrey’s face clouded. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I’m just making conversation.’

  Humphrey set down his goblet. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake to come here.’

  ‘Perhaps it was,’ Robert agreed. His voice roughened. ‘You make merry in my father’s hall less than a year after you and your men burned my earldom. You sit here, drinking my wine and eating my food, when months ago you were setting torches to my home, imprisoning my men, overseeing the slaughter of farmers and their wives and children!’

  ‘You rose in arms against us. We were quelling an insurrection led by you and your men, in defiance of a king to whom you pledged allegiance. You broke your oaths, Robert. What in Christ’s name did you expect? That King Edward would do nothing?’

  ‘Humphrey,’ said Bess sharply. Neither man listened.

  ‘You stand on the border between our two kingdoms,’ Humphrey continued, his face livid in the candle flames, ‘hopping from one side to the next as it suits you. I say that makes you a man without conviction. A coward!’

  Robert stood abruptly, his chair toppling behind him. He stumbled as the drink rushed to his head and then grabbed for his broadsword, which wasn’t there. While he was fumbling for the blade, Humphrey punched him in the face. Robert rocked back with the impact, but managed to stay upright. He straightened, holding his jaw, then went at Humphrey, hands clutching around his throat.

  As Bess and Elizabeth cried out and knights began to rise around the hall, the two men staggered sideways, locked together. Losing their balance, they crashed into the trestle, which broke beneath their combined weight, sending platters, jugs and goblets clanging to the floor. They wrestled in the debris, punching and kicking at one another. Robert managed to straddle Humphrey and caught him with a fierce cuff, before the earl grabbed a silver plate and clouted him round the head. Robert rolled with the blow. Feeling something wet and warm sliding down his cheek, he grasped his face, thinking the bastard had wounded him gravely. His palm came away brown with goose fat.

  With a snarl, he drew back his fist. Just then, a cold shock struck him from behind. Robert swayed over Humphrey as water cascaded down his face and neck. Turning, he saw Bess standing there, as furious as a storm, holding one of the silver basins the servants had brought for guests to wash their hands in. He had got the worst of it, but Humphrey hadn’t been spared. Flailing beneath him in the wreckage, he too was soaked. Pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, Robert got to his feet.

  Seeing his brother, his wife and all the men and women in the hall staring at him, he felt a rush of shame. He had attacked another earl, his former friend, brawling like a common thug in a tavern. As greasy water dripped from his nose, he held out his hand t
o Humphrey. After a pause, the earl accepted it and hauled himself up. The two of them stood there dripping, under the baleful glare of Bess.

  ‘Humphrey . . .’ Robert began. He reached up distractedly as a piece of swan fat slid down his cheek.

  The earl’s mouth twitched in what might have been a laugh, but the sound didn’t come.

  Chapter 22

  Courtrai, Flanders, 1302 AD

  Struggling across the plain came three thousand foot soldiers, black with mud and blood-splattered, soaked with sweat in the midday heat. The wounded were helped through the mire, across ditches and water-filled trenches, grunts and cries punctuating the clamour of their coming. They left a wreckage of fallen swords, axes and the bloody meat of comrades in the churned earth behind them. A roar sounded at their backs from the nine-thousand-strong horde of men arrayed in front of Courtrai Castle, who thrust spears and maces into the air, as French trumpets continued to sound the retreat.

  Count Robert d’Artois watched his exhausted infantry come, paying little heed to the jubilant cries of the Flemish that rolled like a wave in their wake. A veteran warrior, a feted champion of tournaments, he had been sent here by King Philippe to crush the uprising that had consumed Flanders. The jeers and howls from the rabble of weavers, fullers and dyers did not cause him to quail. Armed with spear and club, they were clad for the most part in leather aketons, the only adequate armour among them worn by the small number of noblemen who led them. Artois smiled. The churls thought they had won. Behind him, on the marshy plain, waited two and a half thousand knights, lances held aloft, the July sun gleaming on their basinets and iron helms and flashing in the embossed bridles of their warhorses.

  After the infantry had funnelled between the ranks of the French destriers, the call of the trumpets faded to be replaced by the slow pounding of drums. Artois snapped orders at his commanders, orders that were taken, echoing, down the line. Some horses reared in expectation as the knights shortened reins and shifted in their saddles, gripping their lance shafts. As he pushed down his helm, Artois’s vision was narrowed to two slits of field carved by ditches, beyond which were the bristling ranks of the Flemish. The castle, where a beleaguered French garrison was holed up, rose behind over the waters of the River Lys. As he dug in his heels, the sting of his golden spurs impelled his destrier towards the Flemish lines.

  With Artois came lords, counts, knights and squires drawn from Normandy, Picardy, Champagne and Poitou. They came with the snap and flutter of banner, in crested helms and billowing surcoats, their shields decorated with a blaze of arms: snarling yellow leopards and soaring red eagles, crosses and fleurs-de-lis. They came with the thudding of drums to avenge the massacre of their countrymen in Bruges and raise the siege on their comrades in Courtrai Castle. They came outnumbered, three to one, leaving infantry and archers behind them, assured in the knowledge that each and every one of them, armoured, trained and blooded, was worth ten foot soldiers apiece.

  The French infantry had fought well, battering the Flemish with a determined assault. Artois suspected they might have won had he left them to it, which was why he had recalled them. No self-respecting commander would allow the honour of victory to go to foot soldiers. They had worn down the enemy. Now, he and his noble comrades would finish them.

  The plain was a riddle of trenches, gullies and swampy pools, some natural, others dug by the rebels. It was unsuitable terrain for heavy cavalry. Arriving two days ago, Artois and his commanders had studied the battleground in front of the castle with some concern until, by good fortune, they found a local man willing to draw them a map of the field, with all its pitfalls, for an exorbitant sum. By use of this map, the count had employed his infantry to ford some of the deeper ditches with branches cut from trees and beams stripped from local houses. It was by these crossings that the cavalry now picked their way slowly, purposefully, towards the enemy, the knights leaning far back in their saddles as they urged their horses down muddy banks, then spurred them up the other side. The rebels’ jubilant roars had faded. They were silent as they watched the French come, their ranks drawing in. Flies twitched over the opened corpses in the mud before them.

  By the time the cavalry forded the last trench, the neat ranks they had started in were broken. Artois, compelling his horse across the wide ditch on to firmer ground beyond, realised, with fleeting unease, just how close the rebels were; how short a distance he and his men had to kick their horses into a charge. He forced his disquiet aside, unwilling to entertain the prospect of turning back before such low-born sons of villains. They would quail. He was sure of it. Across the last few yards of open ground, he and his men pricked their horses savagely and, with furious cries, lowered their lances and charged.

  The guildsmen of Ghent, Ypres and Bruges tensed as the knights surged towards them. Steadied by the shouts of their commanders, led by the sons of their imprisoned count, they brandished long spears and iron-headed clubs, many of which were flanged or spiked. Breath hissed between teeth, along with snatches of prayer. Eyes narrowed in desperate concentration. Legs trembled and, here and there, bladders voided. As the ground before them was swallowed up by the great wave of knights, those with spears thrust forward with a roar.

  The French cavalry crashed into the Flemish lines, but without enough momentum the impact, although brutal, wasn’t devastating. Many guildsmen went down in those first seconds, chests, necks and faces pierced by lance tips, ribs and skulls crushed by the hooves of rearing horses. Men screamed as they fell, throats and stomachs opening to spill their contents, bowels emptying into the welter of blood and mud. But the Flemish weren’t the only ones death snatched from the field. In the clash, scores of knights went down, their horses speared in mouth and eye, the squeals of the animals joining the shrieks of riders pitched from saddles into the barbed lines.

  After the front lines thrust in with their spears, those behind smashed and buffeted at the French with clubs. The knights’ helms were no match for these two-handed weapons that came crashing in to stave heads and break jaws, spikes and flanges ripping holes in gambesons and mail, tearing at flesh. The guildsmen used the weapons on the horses too, with terrible effect, turning the proud animals into sprawling masses of pulped bone, skin and brain. One horse, head lolling obscenely on its shattered neck, rampaged through the crowd before collapsing.

  Quickly, the marshy ground grew treacherous with the dead and dying, giving the French little room to manoeuvre in the crush. The Flemish attacked relentlessly, allowing their assailants no chance to fall back. Those knights who did manage to wheel away found themselves floundering into hidden bogs. Others, caught up in the chaos, tumbled blindly into the deep, water-filled trench at their backs, dragged down by the awful weight of their destriers.

  Compelled by the shouts of their leaders, fired by the scent of victory, the Flemish fought on, their ranks closing over the fallen. Exhausted and bloodied, many ravaged by wounds, they refused to tire. The French had occupied their country and these past years they had suffered the brutality of the king’s men. Now, their rage was released, compelling them beyond the limits of body and mind. With every hammering blow, every arm-wrenching stab, they downed another knight. No mercy was given. No prisoners taken.

  In the heart of the battle, Count Robert d’Artois, unhorsed and bleeding, found himself surrounded. Throwing down his sword and pulling off his helmet, he raised his hands in surrender, knowing he was finished. Expecting to be taken captive, his sweat-drenched face registered utter surprise as his head was wrenched back by one man and his throat took the full thrust of another’s spear. As their commander collapsed, gargling blood down his surcoat, the remaining Frenchmen began to abandon the field. Those who made it across the swampy plain, to where their infantry and archers were already turning to flee, were pursued by the Flemish.

  In less than an hour, the weavers and fullers of Flanders had crushed the flower of French chivalry, killing more than a thousand of the king’s best men, leaving the f
ields outside the town of Courtrai drenched in blood and littered with golden spurs.

  Picardy, France, 1302 AD

  John Balliol stared down at the maps and letters spread across the table, hands splayed on the wood. The corners of parchment lifted in the warm wind coming through the open shutters. Beyond, the valley of the Somme was drowsy with summer. Cattle sheltered in the shadows of trees, the pastures baked brown.

  Balliol glanced up, distracted by the faint voices of servants, stringing coloured flags around the courtyard outside. That evening he was hosting a feast for his vassals from the Picardy estates during which he would command them to join the French force he would be leading to Scotland. Edward, his son and heir, he had set in charge of one of the companies, satisfied to see the young man’s enthusiasm for the coming struggle. The great hall was lavishly decorated, food prepared and barrels of wine delivered – everything had been readied for the occasion. Everything, that was, except the army.

  He had heard nothing for weeks now of the men the king had promised him. Balliol knew Philippe was preoccupied with trouble in Flanders. He had tried to tell himself that once the king had put down the rebellion he would turn his attention to the matter of Scotland, but such thoughts had done little to mollify his impatience. The oppressive heat had frayed his temper further.

  The maps beneath his palms traced the outline of his kingdom, which he hadn’t set foot in for six years. The letters, most of which bore the seal of his brother-in-law, the Lord of Badenoch, were charged with hope, conveying the strong support for his return among the barons of Scotland. Balliol had come to France a broken man, humiliated by defeat and incarceration. But over the past year these messages from Comyn, along with Philippe’s pledge, had wrought a change in him. Smoothing over the cracks in his faith, gradually they had made him whole again. He was ready to return home, eager to regain his honour and dignity; to reclaim the throne for himself and for his son.