Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  Edward sat back with a long exhalation. He closed his eyes, feeling his daughter’s cool hands clasp over his. He had been beside himself with rage when Aymer de Valence had told him of the affair, but in the weeks since, seeing his daughter’s grief, that fire had cooled.

  ‘I love him, Father.’

  Opening his eyes, Edward saw the tears streaming down her face. After a moment, he laid his hand over hers. ‘Peace, daughter. I will send the order for Sir Ralph’s release today.’ As Joan gave a sob of relief, he continued. ‘When he arrives we will discuss marriage terms.’

  Joan’s cries strengthened. She kissed his hands, now laughing through her tears. Finally, managing to collect herself, she rose. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  As Edward watched his daughter go, his gaze was drawn to his son. Now the crowd was clearing, he could see the prince was leaning against the far wall with Piers Gaveston. The two were deep in conversation, their heads close. The prince smiled at something Gaveston said and clasped his shoulder. The king’s eyes picked out the movement of his son’s thumb, moving in slow circles on the velvet of Piers’s mantle. Edward’s calm faded. For a time, he had noticed, with growing concern, the closeness between the two young men, but he had been too preoccupied to deal with it. Now the war with Scotland was over, he would turn his attention to a matter he had left too long unattended: the marriage of his son and Isabella of France.

  PART 5

  1304–1306 AD

  The brightness of the sun shall fade at the amber of Mercury, and horror shall seize the beholders. Stilbon of Arcadia shall change his shield; the helmet of Mars shall call to Venus.

  The seas shall rise up . . . and the dust of the ancients shall be restored. The winds shall fight together with a dreadful blast, and their sound shall reach the stars.

  The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth

  Chapter 38

  Stirling, Scotland, 1304 AD

  The sun was rising over the scarred ridges of the Ochil Hills. As the first crimson rays touched the battlements of Stirling Castle a bell began to toll, the echoes rolling down from the craggy heights on which the fortress stood, before fading across the marshes and meadows that bordered the banks of the River Forth. The encampment stirred to life, the low voices of waking men lifting over the crackle of flames as fresh logs were tossed on to fires that had burned to embers during the night. As cooks went to work at cauldrons and spits, smoke thickened into a haze over the English army, sprawled across the slopes between the castle and the royal burgh.

  Robert walked through the camp, shielding his eyes as the sun poured its gold across the castle rock, blazing in the banners hoisted above the sea of tents. Men emerged from their billets bleary-eyed, stretching and yawning as they set about their business. A few nodded as he passed, but most ignored him, preoccupied with their own routines. The bell had ceased its tolling and the clanking of chains now took its place as the siege engines were readied for another day of violence.

  On the edges of the camp, past the tents, animal pens and supply wagons, stood carts loaded with stones and lead stripped from the cathedrals at St Andrews and Perth. Beyond, sixteen engines rose from points around the hillside, their frames dark against the red dawn. Already there was much activity around their bases, the engineers making any necessary repairs or adjustments while the crews heaved stones into the slings of trebuchets and the spoon-like beams of the mangonels. The whole area was protected by wooden screens covered with bundles of twigs lashed together to deaden the impact of any incoming missiles.

  After three months, the machines were as familiar to Robert as the faces of the men who manned them. The Parson, the Thunderer, the Conqueror, the Bull: each one shipped or hauled from across Scotland for the last siege of an eight-year war. Beyond, the walls of Stirling Castle were bathed in the sunlight, revealing every crack and scar. From the siege lines a path wound steeply up grassy plateaux to a bridge, which spanned a ditch below the castle’s outer walls. The stone walkway ended abruptly in mid-air, several metres from a massive gatehouse, the drawbridge shut up over the entrance. The bridge and path were strewn with rubble, as was the hillside. Arrows protruded from the banks of the ditch and snatches of cloth switched in the breeze where bodies lay half buried in the debris. Robert scanned Stirling’s walls, searching for any new damage done since he’d last looked. It had become a routine; something to mark the passing of days while he waited, his impatience running high like a fever inside him. Four months gone and he’d heard nothing.

  His attention was drawn to a group of men gathered beside two twenty-foot mangonels – the Victorious and the Thunderer. Among them was King Edward, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. His surcoat was blood-red in the dawn light, the three golden lions shimmering. The king was talking to one of his chief engineers. Close by was Humphrey de Bohun, who raised a hand on seeing him. Crossing to the earl, Robert sensed an air of excitement, the men talking animatedly as they drank wine the king’s pages had conveyed from the burgh beyond the camp. Approaching, he realised three new carts had arrived in the night, two of which still had oxen harnessed to the front. Globe-shaped clay pots were being unloaded from one. Wads of material were stuffed into their necks. From the back of another cart, men were hefting off large wooden barrels.

  ‘A fine morning,’ Humphrey greeted with a smile.

  ‘What’s this?’ Robert noted how carefully the men were handling the pots. Once unloaded the clay containers were being stacked up next to the Thunderer.

  ‘The king’s surprise.’ Humphrey motioned to a page, who came over bearing a jug of wine and a goblet that was filled and handed to Robert.

  Robert had heard of the surprise Edward had planned for Stirling’s garrison, but other than the rumour it was something the king had discovered on crusade, he’d been told nothing more. Whatever it was, he knew Edward had been impatient for it, increasingly so, the engines, although impressive in number, managing only to chip away at the castle’s walls. Stirling, perched on its precipice guarding the only bridge over the Forth, had remained impervious.

  The castle was defended by a small garrison of Scots, captained by a man named William Oliphant, who had stayed defiant in his refusal to surrender, stating during negotiations that he held Stirling for John Balliol and would give it up only when ordered by him. Well-supplied, he and his men had dug in deep. Believed to be sheltering through the worst of the bombardment in caves hidden within the bedrock, they would slip out between onslaughts to shoot arrows at their attackers, picking off unwary engineers. Robert had witnessed, with grim satisfaction, Edward’s growing frustration as the siege had worn on without sign of end. The king was so close to victory. Most of Scotland’s magnates had surrendered, new ordinances for government were being drawn up and Edward had control of many of the kingdom’s castles. But Stirling and William Wallace – missing since the failed raid on the Forest – continued to defy him. Both were vital to his dominion over Scotland.

  ‘Careful!’

  The shout had come from the chief engineer. Two men hoisting one of the barrels off the cart had lost their grip, letting it crash to the ground. Robert saw a fine, yellow-grey powder gushing from a split in the barrel’s side.

  Leaving the king, the engineer crossed to them. ‘Get every grain of that picked up. Christ on His cross, do you want this whole camp to burn? My lord,’ he called, turning to Edward, ‘I suggest you move back a distance.’

  As the king and the assembly of earls and knights retreated, Humphrey fell into step with Robert. ‘Greek Fire,’ he murmured.

  Robert looked at him, surprised. He’d heard of the substance from his grandfather, who had seen it employed in the Holy Land. Greek Fire, favoured by the Arabs, was a volatile mix of oil, saltpetre and sulphur, which would burn on almost anything and was said to be only extinguishable with sand or urine. The old lord had spoken of its awesome power – thunder of God he had called it. ‘A Saracen weapon? Here in Scotland?’


  ‘Needs must,’ answered Humphrey. As they came to a stop a safe distance from the siege engines, he nodded to the barrels. ‘God willing, this siege will be over by the end of the day.’ He turned to Robert, his green eyes alight with passion. ‘Then, that will be the end of it. Our kingdoms are united, as they once were under Brutus. Now, we can start to rebuild its former greatness – all of us. In time, Britain will be the stronger for it, you will see, my friend.’

  ‘Warwolf is ready.’

  Robert and Humphrey looked round at the voice to see Ralph de Monthermer behind them.

  ‘The king intends to have it drawn up this afternoon.’

  Thomas of Lancaster, overhearing, turned with a keen smile. ‘Once the Scots get a taste of the beast they’ll be out on bended knees, begging for mercy.’

  Only a few months ago, Robert knew these men would have weighed his response to such talk, searching for any sign of loyalty towards his countrymen. No more. After two years, he was one of them, even trusted by the king to be involved in negotiations with the Scots for the new government. Humphrey treated him like a brother and Ralph, recently engaged to Lady Joan and due to inherit the earldom of Gloucester, had sworn he was in Robert’s debt after learning he had exposed Aymer de Valence’s betrayal. For his part, Valence had left Robert well alone. The knight, standing with Henry Percy and Guy de Beauchamp watching the engineers, hadn’t spoken to him or Humphrey since the Forest raid.

  ‘To victory,’ said Humphrey, raising his goblet.

  As Thomas and Ralph lifted their cups, Robert joined them.

  A horn was blown, sounding across the encampment. The crews manning the trebuchets heaved on the winches, the chains grinding round, drawing up the great baskets filled with lead. The other end of each engine’s beam seesawed to the ground, where the sling could be loaded with a stone. Those at the mangonels – all except the Victorious and the Thunderer – levered stones into the spoon-like beams pivoted over the frames.

  One by one the siege engines began to move, like giants coming to life, their wooden arms groaning up and round to fling their loads towards Stirling’s walls. Stones smashed into the battlements and corner towers, mortar and masonry exploding. After the last missile hit there was an eerie pause, the only movement the clouds of dust drifting into the air. Then, the beams were arcing back round and the engineers shouting orders as more stones were rolled forward to be loaded.

  This time the crews at the Victorious and the Thunderer joined in the preparations, placing several of the clay pots in the hollowed-out bowls of the two beams. Men wielding burning brands stepped up to each engine. As they touched the flames to the wads of material in the necks of the pots fire sparked, dull against the sun’s glow. The skyward end of each beam was hauled down through a complex system of ropes, causing the loaded end to arc upwards and slam against a padded crossbar. The flames brightened in the rush of air as the pots were hurled over the castle walls towards the buildings beyond. Each one shattered as it struck with a burst of fire that seemed to gush like liquid over everything it touched, while all around stones shot from the other engines crashed and pounded against the outer walls. Smoke billowed beyond as Greek Fire surged across the rooftops. Robert, watching with the others, understood why some believed the substance to be sorcery. It was disturbing – fire behaving like water, against its nature. Many of the noblemen standing with the king began to clap, awed by the sight.

  Edward gave a nod to his chief engineer, who turned to bark orders at the crews of the Victorious and the Thunderer. Now, instead of the clay pots, the barrels were loaded on to the mangonels. Once again the men with the brands came forward, this time lighting a short piece of rope that protruded from the side of each barrel. Stones from the trebuchets began to hammer the walls in rapid succession. The beams of the two mangonels were released in unison, the barrels sent hurtling towards the castle, ropes flaming behind like the tails of comets. One of the barrels missed its mark and slammed into the ditch. For a few seconds nothing happened, then there was an almighty bang that resounded around the hilltop, soil and rock blasting into the air. The second barrel sailed over the parapet and impacted with the roof of the castle’s chapel. There was another thunderous explosion, accompanied by sounds of crumbling masonry.

  Robert, standing with his cheering comrades, gripped his goblet and forced his face into a jubilant expression.

  ‘Like taking a hammer to a turtle’s shell,’ observed Thomas of Lancaster. The king’s nephew shook his head, impressed. ‘God curse them, but the Saracens know how to break down a castle.’

  ‘Where is my son?’

  Thomas turned at the king’s sharp question. ‘I believe he is practising for the tourney, my lord. I saw him heading down to the meadow just after sunrise. With Gaveston.’

  Robert noticed Thomas’s face tighten as he spoke the name. There was no love lost between him and Piers. He had once heard Lancaster speak in a low, disgusted tone, after a little too much wine, of the unnaturalness of the friendship between his cousin and the Gascon.

  ‘He should be here to witness this.’

  ‘I will summon him, my lord.’

  As Thomas moved off, Robert caught sight of two men approaching, flanked by royal guards. One was short and slender, dressed in black robes trimmed with silver, his tonsure gleaming with sweat from the stiff climb up to the camp. Robert recognised him with a thrill. It was William Lamberton, the Bishop of St Andrews. The tall, athletic youth beside him was James Douglas, confident in his stride despite the armed escort. The young man, whom Robert once spared from King Edward’s clutches, had been with Lamberton at St Andrews four months ago, when the bishop and most of the magnates had submitted to the king. On learning of the mass surrender, Robert had returned to Edward’s court to ascertain what the unexpected events would mean for his plan. It was there that the bishop had sought him out.

  Lamberton took no notice of Robert as he was led before King Edward, his gaze going briefly to the beleaguered castle. ‘My lord,’ he greeted, raising his voice over the din as more stones and barrels were catapulted into the walls with ear-splitting explosions, followed by cheers from the watching English. ‘I bear a message.’ Closely observed by the royal guards, the bishop reached into a leather bag he carried and pulled out a roll of parchment. ‘The High Steward of Scotland, Sir James Stewart, wishes to enter your peace. He has set his seal to this surrender.’

  Robert listened keenly to this news. So, Lamberton had done as promised and found the steward? Robert hadn’t expected James’s surrender, but it made sense: keep the king appeased and his gaze turned from any possible danger. He felt a surge of impatience. Did the bishop bear the news he had been waiting for?

  Edward unfurled the parchment and scanned it. After a moment, he handed it to one of his knights. ‘I will consider this. As you can see, I am otherwise occupied.’ The king gave a thin smile. ‘Stirling’s commander does not have the sense of his countrymen. He will rue that today.’

  The king turned back to watch the onslaught, leaving the bishop standing alone. As explosions continued to rock the mountainside, Lamberton’s gaze settled on Robert.

  The two horsemen faced one another on the meadow. Dew glimmered beneath the hooves of their horses as the animals stamped and shifted. One of the riders was gripping the reins tightly, struggling to hold his horse steady, while a page stood close by waiting to hand him a red lance. He wore a quilted gambeson, greaves on his legs, vambraces on his arms and a plain iron helm. A curved red shield covered the left side of his body.

  At the other end of the meadow, the second rider sat at ease, leaning back against the cantle as his courser champed at the bit. The reins were looped in his gloved left hand over which a black shield, painted with a white swan, was positioned, his arm pushed through the strap at the back. He wore mail chausses on his legs and a black leather aketon studded with silver, drawn in at his waist by a belt. A helm crested with swan wings covered his face. Seeing his opponent w
restle his horse into position and reach for the lance, the man held out his hand to his own page, who passed him his weapon. His fingers curled around the ash shaft, gripping the black lance just beneath the steel disc of the vamplate that protected his hand. Pricking the courser’s sides with the barbs of his spurs, he goaded the animal into a gallop.

  Away across the meadow, Edward Bruce watched as the two men hurtled towards one another. He could feel the pulse of hooves in the soil beneath his feet. Around him, the men of the prince’s household – most of them sons or grandsons of knights and earls – cheered them on. On the periphery, pages and squires waited, bearing the burdens of shields and helms so their young masters could pass around wine and enjoy the sport unencumbered. Shielding his eyes against the gold of the rising sun, Edward observed the lances swinging down to level at one another, the gap between the horses closing rapidly. The black lance was straight as an arrow, the red bouncing with the tumult of the charge. Behind him he heard a couple of men exchanging coins, but most didn’t bother. The outcome was clear.

  As they came together, the rider with the black lance thrust forward in his saddle, jabbing savagely at his opponent’s red shield. He caught it dead centre. These were lances of peace crowned with coronels, the three-pronged iron heads spreading the force of impact. Even so, the strike managed to shatter the shield as well as the lance. The splinters flew up into the face of the rider, who was tumbled back out of his saddle. As the rider in black galloped on past, his opponent went slamming into the grass, his horse continuing without him. He rolled to a stop and lay still among the shards of his shield, his pages running to help him. At the other end of the field, the winner brought his horse to a prancing halt, lifting his broken lance in triumph.