The Lion Rampant (The Kingdom Series)

by Robert Low

  He was a knight and a landed lord. He was the Sire of Herdmanston, auld or not, and folk depended on him. Neither he nor the Kingdom was done yet …

  The horn blasts racked him, flared his nostrils, brought his head up like a warhorse.

  They crowded into the sweating tent while the horns farted and blared. They stank of staleness and leather and oiled maille, clanked when they moved and were stiff-ruffed like strange hounds, trying to sniff another’s arse to take the measure of the meeting.

  The Scots lords gathered, the high and wee and as many as could be brought together, fretting to be away and attending to their mesnie as the men gathered for muster. Hot and anxious, hungry some of them and weighted with fear, Bruce thought – but not as bad as the ones opposite, if Seton was to be believed.

  His brother Edward, broad face already framed by a maille coif, grinned from one side to the other as he chatted to Jamie Douglas and young – God in heaven, painful young – Walter Steward; both of them would be raised by the King, as was the custom before a battle. Young Walter would become a knight and the Black, lisping when he spoke and gentle as any woman now, would be elevated to banneret.

  Edward Bruce did not trust Seton, even when he had sworn on his life, on being drawn and quartered, that what he said was true; the English were exhausted and demoralized by the marches and defeats of the day before, the capture of Thomas Gray and the death of Hereford’s nephew. Their foot was still straggling in and they believed the Scots would flee, not fight.

  ‘A trap,’ Edward had growled and Seton, bristling like a routed hog, had sworn he spoke the truth.

  Drawn and quartered, Bruce thought. Does Alexander Seton know what it means? He remembered Wallace, remembered watching the bloody horror of it, the moment when he hung there, with the blood pouring down his thighs and pooling underneath him because the executioners had already emasculated him, slit his belly open and let his entrails out.

  Alive still, he made only one protest, when the pair of muscled men grabbed his arms, forcing his chest out so that the executioner could reach in the belly and up to grab the heart.

  ‘You are gripping my arms too hard.’

  Bruce bowed his head. A stranger’s hand is fumbling at the very core of you and you can say that. God keep you at His right Hand, Will Wallace.

  The other thought rattled the lid of the black chest, burst briefly out – until he was gone, I could not set my foot on the way to the throne. Then it was wrestled back into the dark and the lid slammed on it, leaving it to coil and writhe with all the other sins he had committed to get to here.

  Here, to this tent, with these lords, he thought wryly. In a month I will be forty years old. In an hour or two I might be dead, if these men do not fight and we fail. Dead. Not captured … the thought of capture brought a lurch of terror that almost doubled him; by God, he thought, I will not suffer like Will. Not that. They can stick my head on a London spike, but I will not be paraded like an entertainment of offal.

  Nor fled … victory or death. Yet there was the nag of that, like his tunic catching on a nail as he went through a door, hauling him up short. The thought of returning to flight and harrowing if he failed, ducking back to heather and hill and outlawry, was a crushing weight – but if he stood and died rather than flee, then everything was for nothing. The deaths of his brothers, all those who had loyally served him and paid for it with lives and livelihoods … all the sins which bulged that chest in his head and, though he tried hard not to believe it, breathed out their foulness so that each one showed in the wreck of his face for all to see. All suffering made worthless if he gave in to noble death at the point of sure defeat.

  And Elizabeth, his wife, lost to him for ever. Not that there was love in it – Christ’s Wounds, her father’s Irishmen stood opposite with the English – but the flower of the de Burghs held the chalice of Scotland’s future.

  If his disease permitted such matters as an heir by then, of course. He wondered about the others, the soft night bodies that consoled him, the Christinas and Christians and ones with no name that he could recall. They were not repelled by the rumours, he noted. More to the point, none of those women had been felled by his very breath, poison to all if he was truly a leper. And one at least had conceived him a son, a fine boy – but that had been a time ago and the lad was now old enough to be a squire. A king, he thought wryly, if I die and brother Edward with me.

  The nobiles would never permit it, of course; young squire Robert Bruce was too bastard to be a king and if the worst happened here – as it might – then the Kingdom would be plunged into more chaos.

  He felt the sour weight of it all, crushing him into the shape of a throne.

  The crowded tent waited, shifting impatiently and wondering why they were here. They were here, Bruce thought, because I need them to fight and need to have them believe it is their own idea and not mine. I have led them to this ring, but they must dance to my tune, so that I know they will follow the steps and not jig off in entirely the wrong direction.

  ‘We have lost brothers, friends, relatives,’ he began and the murmuring died. ‘Others of your kin and friends are prisoners. Prelates and clergy of this kingdom are closeted in stone.’

  He saw that he had their attention and told them what Seton had reported.

  ‘If their English hearts are cast down, the body is not worth a jot. Their glory is in heavy horse and heavier carts,’ he went on, while the air grew thick and still; outside, he heard the great, slow drone of men moving and talking.

  ‘Our glory is in the name of God and victory.’

  He had them, could sense it swell like a fat prick. He told them he would fight and watched that chase itself across their faces. He told them they did not have to agree with him and that if they all believed it was right for them to withdraw, then he would do it, with a heavy heart.

  ‘If you stay to fight with me, my good lords,’ he added, ‘know that this is a just cause and so a divine favour is with us, that you will garner all the great riches the English have brought with them, while your wives and children will bless you for defending them.’

  There were shouts, now. ‘God wills it.’ ‘St Andrew.’ Even a growled-out ‘Cruachan’ from Neil Campbell.

  ‘The enemy fight only for power,’ Bruce added. ‘Take no prisoners or spoils until all is won, my lords. Know also that all previous offences against me and mine are pricked out for those who stand with me this day and that the heirs of all those who fall will freely receive their just inheritances.’

  It was, he knew, a jewel of plaint, pitched perfectly between honour and greed.

  ‘Are you with me?’ he demanded and knew the answer before the roar flapped the sides of the panoply with a dragon’s breath.

  Addaf watched them butcher the horse in the stream, so that it ran red with blood all the way back to the sea. It had been worth a year’s wages, he thought bitterly, and had foundered trying to cross the tidal-swollen, steep-sided curse of a stream the night before; there were half a dozen more, slipped off the makeshift bridges of boards and tumbled to expensive ruin, unveiled as bloated, stiff-legged feasts for flies when the tide sucked the water back.

  Men moved stiffly, red-eyed from lack of sleep. Most of the men-at-arms and knights had lain fully armoured by their bridled horses, starting fitfully at every noise, for everyone thought the Scotch imps of Satan would use the night for some foul, unchivalrous attack.

  Now they levered themselves up, all the fine surcotes and plumes and trappers streaked with dust and dung, snatching bread or a mouthful of wine if they were lucky or had clever squires.

  Addaf had not slept, nor many of his archers other than the eight who had been sent to eternal rest, ploughed under by the Van horse the day before. Now the remainder stretched, gathered their gear and moved like a black scowl into the day, smouldering still at what had been done to them.

  They would not fight, Addaf thought. Not after being ridden over by the pig English, but it
probably did not matter, since it seemed only the disarray of heavy horse would take to the field. He hoped that was so, for he did not want to put his men to the test.

  Ironically, it would be Y Crach who fired them up, with his demands to do God’s work. I will have to deal with him, Addaf thought, sooner rather than later. But the thought crushed him with weariness.

  Sir Maurice Berkeley would have been surprised to find that he was in agreement, at least with the latter part of Addaf’s reckoning. The foot, exhausted from a long march – and still struggling to the field – were littered like fallen trees, Hainaulters, Genoese crossbowmen, Cheshire archers and all.

  Only my Welsh dogs, Sir Maurice thought, are fit to get to their feet and draw a bow, and he did not much like the lowered brows of them; he was angered at what had been done to them by Gloucester and Hereford, but kept that choked.

  He was glad to be quit of the Van, back with the King’s Battle and assigned to the Earl of Pembroke’s retinue: the further his Welsh were from the mesnies of Hereford and Gloucester the better. He wished he could keep his son and two grandsons out of it as easily.

  Just as well the Scotch won’t stand, he thought.

  Addaf glanced at Sir Maurice, seeing the blackness on the man. The Berkeleys should have that chevron on their fancy shields turned up the other way, he thought, as a better representation of the scowl between their brows.

  Mounted men worked the stiffness out of horses and their own muscles, calling out the bright, shrill ‘Je vous salue’ one to another. These were the ones who had risen early and found a priest who could take their confession and shrive them – now the priests were too busy taking Mass as the sun filtered up, for this was the Feast of St John.

  Sir Marmaduke had mounted Garm, feeling half-dead and chilled; enjoy it, he growled to himself, for it is the best part of the day, which promises to be hotter than Hades – and better half-dead than entirely so.

  He turned as a ragged wave of shouting spread from head to head; Sir Giles d’Argentan, splendid in scarlet and silver, cantered through the throng, heading for the mass of horse out to the front. He smiled and waved right to left, the perfect paladin leading the King to battle.

  Edward followed, even more splendid in scarlet, the three gold pards glowing in the rising light. To his left, de Valence kept pace with him and, trailing behind, came the royal mesnie, a little bedraggled but still grinning.

  Thweng fell in beside Sir Payn Tiptoft, who raised a gauntleted hand in greeting.

  ‘Dieu vous garde.’

  Thweng returned the compliment, but he had hands full of reins and shield and lance, so it was an awkward fumbled affair; Tiptoft’s squire, he saw, rode unarmoured at his master’s back, carrying lance and shield both, but Thweng liked his own squire, young John, too much to place him at such risk.

  ‘Will he speak, d’ye think?’ Tiptoft demanded and Thweng knew Sir Payn referred to the King. He did not think so and saw the headshake and frown when he said as much. No holy banners from Beverley and no rousing royal speech. No knightings either – every custom and usage of battle, it seemed, was being ignored.

  He saw the King rein in suddenly, forcing everyone to hastily follow; horses veered and swerved and there were muted curses and a clatter of arms and armour. Perhaps he realizes he should have done more, Thweng thought as the King screwed round in his saddle and flung one triumphant hand to the east.

  ‘The sun, my lords,’ he yelled out, his coroneted helmet flashing with the first rays of it. ‘Come to look on our glorious victory.’

  There were cheers, soon fading, and they rode on with their shadows stretched thin and leading them on.

  Addaf watched them go; it was clear that the foot were being left to their own for now and he was not sorry for it. He saw his own shadow, turned and stared, narrow-eyed into the first rays of dawn.

  Right in the Scots’ eyes, look you, with them lit up plain as day for any one-eyed squinter to hit – well, once the horse had pinned them, the bowmen would finish them. Not those silly little slow-firing Genoese crossbows either, nor the plunking Cheshire men, but the steady volleyed mass shafts of his veteran Welshmen – and if hatred of the pig English made his men tardy, then the thought of plundering Scotch would put wings on their heels.

  He felt the sun soak warm glory into his stiffness and almost smiled.

  Nyd hyder ond bwa – there is no dependence but on the bow.

  ISABEL

  There were fires all last night beyond the walls of the castle and town, the old way of celebrating Midsummer’s Eve. Even in the town they lit wakefires and danced and drank – I could hear them and smell the stink of the bones they threw in to ward off evil spirits. All it did for me was bring a harsh memory of the poor girl they burned. The night never got truly dark and early in the morning Constance brought boughs of greenery, for every house and shopfront is decorated with garlands and birch branches. Tonight, she told me with hugging delight, there will be a parade of men, with weapons and torches and mummers – and naked boys painted black to look like Saracens. And services and Mass, she added, remembering God just in time. If you wish to be shriven, she told me, I can fetch a priest.

  I do not need to be shriven. I need freedom, O Lord. Your Son, blessed Jesus Christ, restored Lazarus to life after four days. You Yourself preserved Jonah in the belly of a whale, drew out Daniel from the lion’s den. Why then, O Lord, can You not liberate me, a miserable wretch, from this prison?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bannockburn

  Feast of St John the Baptist, June 1314

  They formed up at the edge of the woods, a great, fat line muted but not silent, a soft noise like a stirring beast, composed of the muttered drone of prayer and orders, the jingle and clatter of arms and armour, the creak of leather, the crack and rustle of branch and undergrowth.

  Dog Boy, cloistered in the deep ranks of Jamie’s command, itself part of the massive block commanded by the King himself, saw only the rust and filth-streaked gambesons of the men in front. He squinted between their shoulders, into the sun, seeing a forest of silhouetted spearshafts and a sparkle of firefly lights in the distance.

  It took him a long time to realize, with a cold-water shock, that the sparkling was the sun bouncing from gleaming spear point and helmet to burnished armour. The Enemy.

  There were a lot of them, a great glowing sea that curdled his bowels, made him look right and left to find Parcy Dodd, Troubadour, Sweetmilk, Horse Pyntle and the others, a cage of shoulders and tight grins, grimed calloused hands flexing on the sweat-polished shafts of their weapons.

  A great block of such men was no accidental mob, Dog Boy knew. It started with a Grip of five men, called so because it was likened to five fingers curled like a fist on a spearshaft. Two such, lined up one behind the other, was called a Charge, because when you charged your spear, you gripped with both fists. Two Charges made a Vinten, twenty men ordered about by a vintenar, who was Sweetmilk in that part where Dog Boy stood. Vintens were ordered into ten times ten, called Centans, though the reality was the ‘long hundred’, which actually came to 120 or thereabouts – and were commanded by centenars. Dog Boy was centenar for this part and all the men under him were from Jamie Douglas’s own mesnie.

  After that, the Centans were grouped in tens, so that a Battle could have 1,200 men or any number up to twice that – rarely more, since it grew unwieldy. The one Dog Boy stood in was the King’s Battle, with 2,000 men. Since the King would be busy commanding the whole army, half of his Battle was ordered by Jamie and the other half by Gilbert de la Haye, Scotland’s Constable.

  To the right and slightly ahead was another Battle of similar size, commanded by Edward Bruce, to the left yet another with Randolph’s arrogant banner waving about it.

  Flitting in and out, as if wandering lost, were Selkirk and Gallowegian bowmen and the tribal caterans from north of the Mounth: MacDonalds of Angus Og, Camerons, Campbells, Frasers, MacLeans, a wildness of men who did no
t fight in a great square of pike and glaive and bill but preferred leaping about with little round spike-bossed shields, long knives and axes. Scowling in with them came the strangest of all, the Irish of the O’Neill, O’Hagan and others, more interested in finding their English-supporting counterparts and settling old scores. The best of them had great jingling coats of mail to their ankles and fearsome long-handled axes.

  Nearby, squeezed tight together, was the small – ludicrously small, Dog Boy thought – huddle of Keith’s horsemen.

  It was all small, Dog Boy knew, seeing the golden horde ahead of him. It had been better in the days when he had not been cursed with knowing that he stood with a third or less men than the enemy opposite, that good men who might have made the difference had been turned away and left to mutter their displeasure in the baggage camp, because they could not be fed, or equipped, or trained in time.

  Then he heard, above the rasp and mutter, clatter and creak, the incongruous plaint of birdsong, a fluted throating furious at being disturbed from praising the dawn. A moment later the sudden blare of horns drowned them out, sending them flurrying skywards like swirls of black smoke signalling the advance.

  He saw the two Battles ahead of him shift and roll forward ponderously, thought of his son and laughed for the sheer, birdlike joy of the moment.

  Hereford, a pillar of dull iron clanking towards his splendidly trappered warhorse, paused briefly as the figure wriggled through the throng like a pup through a fence. John Walwayn, he thought sourly, come a little late. Everyone was a little late – Gloucester, he had heard, had even ridden off without his surcote. Rather than permit me to get to the Van first and start ordering it about, he thought moodily.

  Walwayn was breathless with rush and self-importance, ignoring as best he could the sneers from the squires, scornful of this ink-finger with his dagged tunic and dun-coloured hose.