David grunted. “Everyone was thinking of the march tomorrow, not of the danger tonight.”
“Your arrival from Avalon was hardly predictable, sire,” William pointed out.
“Wasn’t it?” David said musingly. “Balliol has been listening to the wrong people.”
“They’ll have crossbows inside the keep,” Henri said. “We could be pinned down any moment.”
David turned on his heel as people from the town started moving into the outer bailey of the castle. “That is not going to happen.”
One of the younger members of the garrison ran towards them. “The barracks are ours!” He was breathless with excitement, in part because he’d probably never been in any kind of fight before.
“What’s the toll?” David asked.
“We lost one and killed two who resisted.”
David nodded. “And our gains?”
“Fifteen more.”
“Better,” David said.
“The castellan is dead,” Henri said softly.
Thomas swallowed as he looked at the king, but David merely nodded. “I’m sure you did what you had to.”
Another member of the garrison huffed up. “My lord.”
“Bernard,” David said.
“What of the keep, sire?”
“While the gatehouse is ours, I’m none too keen on trying to take it room by room just yet.” As Thomas had just done, King David glanced up at the guard on top of the tower. “We will make them sweat a little while longer.”
Thomas hadn’t ever heard that phrase before, but he understood immediately what it meant.
Their small group was drawing attention from the increasing number of people in the bailey, but few approached closer than thirty feet. Thomas attributed that fact to the growing understanding of David’s identity. To see the king in person, to have him standing in the middle of the castle right in front of you, was not something to be taken lightly.
A burly man with a tall pike in one hand called down to the king from the top of the outer gatehouse tower, “My king, the Stewarts have come!”
“It’s about time.” David moved towards the steps up to the wall-walk, and Thomas was grateful to be able to climb them in his wake, rather than have to stay on the ground with the rest of the garrison and townsfolk.
From the battlement, they gazed out at a changed landscape. Torches blazing, because it appeared they wanted Balliol’s army to know they had arrived, Stewart’s soldiers had filled in the ground on the other side of the river to the north and east of the castle.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, the field before them erupted into chaos. At first Thomas couldn’t make sense of what was happening because the Stewarts themselves hadn’t moved. Heart racing, he trained the binoculars Christopher had left with the king on the field before him, so he saw the moment the first fire arrow was launched into the air, coming from the west. Archers had positioned themselves on the other side of the river, but behind the initial lines of Stewart’s troops.
“They really did make it.” From beside Thomas, William grunted with satisfaction.
“Arrows aren’t actually going to win us the war,” David said. “We need more men.”
Though he would never contradict his king, Thomas didn’t know that he was right. He watched, riveted, as volley after volley ripped through the ranks of the army before him. The first thousand arrows came within a single minute, hardly time for those asleep to wake and those awake to react. And with that barrage, all that could be done was cower behind a shield or retreat inside the castle. The latter thought occurred belatedly to the troops, and almost as one, they surged down the main village street.
David had ordered the castle gate closed, however, and while men could cower in the now-empty houses, the castle was no longer a place to which they could retreat. Nor could lowering the drawbridge and escaping across the river be an option, not with Stewart’s men waiting for them on the other side. Meeting them was the last thing they wanted.
Thomas turned back to the bailey to find that all of the wall-walks and the tops of the towers were lined with people.
The barrage of arrows continued, and it was clear to Thomas that the archers were keeping themselves to a specific rhythm. He guessed they were short on arrows, and if he was right that these were David’s personal archers, each man carried twenty-four in his quiver. At six arrows a minute, an accomplished Welsh archer could shoot that many in five minutes. That wasn’t the approach it appeared they were looking for tonight, wanting to instill fear as well as death. Maybe the archers were even aiming.
Regardless of their intent, after only two rounds of fire arrows, every tent in the field was on fire. The only saving grace for Balliol’s and Hakkon’s men was that it had rained yesterday so the grass was wet.
“They’re sitting ducks out there,” William said. “I almost feel sorry for them.”
“I do feel sorry for them,” David said.
“Is that why you insisted that the defenders at Beeston be given a chance to surrender?” William asked.
“Were they?” David looked at his former squire. “Given a chance, I mean?”
“Callum said they would be. They were intending to follow your plan.”
David shook his head like he was dismissing a fly. “I wasn’t there, so Callum would have done what he must. As he should.”
“How about these men?” Thomas said. “Should they be given a chance to surrender?”
“Perhaps they should,” Henri said, “but there can be no mercy for Balliol.”
David turned to look at him, seemingly about to speak—but an odd crackle resounded in the air, followed by a hum, and then David’s own voice rang out across the field. “My friends! You may have been told I was dead, but I stand before you now, alive and well. Lay down your weapons and surrender, and we can end this war tonight!” The voice projected louder than it had any right to do, and it was obviously not the voice of David himself, since he was standing at Thomas’s side.
“How-how is it possible that you are speaking from over there when you are here?” Thomas said.
“I recorded those words a week ago to broadcast over Beeston. Mark wanted the recording so the enemy couldn’t use my voice to zero in on my location.” David let out a laugh. “I guess it came in handy after all.”
Thomas wasn’t laughing. Nor were the men on the field, though nobody seemed to be putting down their arms or up their hands to surrender. Maybe it was because these men were Scots or Norwegian, and David had spoken in English.
David cursed. “Surrender, you fools!”
“It’s always the common man who pays for his lord’s hubris,” Henri intoned.
“They’re about to pay even more.” William pointed directly south.
It could have been thunder they were hearing, but Thomas knew enough of battle to understand that he was hearing cavalry. And they were riding hard. Then a roar came from the east, and another from the men across the river.
“What’s happening?” David leaned through a crenel. “I wish I could see!”
“It’s the Stewarts!” Somebody, Thomas didn’t know who, was shouting and gesticulating on the western wall-walk. They couldn’t see all sides of the castle from their position on the gatehouse tower, but a few moments later, they couldn’t miss the men pouring past the castle into the town, coming from the river. Ten heartbeats later, the Stewarts were paces away from the barricade and meeting their first resistance, fighting hand-to-hand in the streets of Skipton.
“The drawbridge must have been lowered, but who—” Thomas’s voice broke off.
“Christopher.” David’s face paled too. “He and Matha never returned to the castle?”
“No, my lord.”
David pressed his lips together in a tight line, knowing as everyone did that nothing could be done about Christopher’s welfare now. James Stewart’s men wouldn’t have harmed them if they knew who they were, but there was no denying that they were
out there in the middle of it.
Face ashen but posture resolute, King David watched the unfolding of the victory, and Thomas stood beside him on the battlement until the glorious and bitter end.
Chapter Thirty-nine
4 April 1294
Lili
When the Normans first came to Britain, they viewed the arrow as a coward’s weapon. No man of honor would use them, which is why they were left to the peasantry and common soldiers. Even so, William the Bastard hadn’t been a fool, and he did have archers in his army that day at Hastings when he began his conquest of the Saxons.
Tonight, Lili herself had been charged with shooting fire arrows, aiming specifically for anything that could burn. That amounted primarily to tents, which was good policy anyway since these were the purview of commanders.
Her army of archers shot for three hours and used all but the last handful of missiles. It wasn’t quite the story of Cymerau, but in the process, they laid waste to Balliol’s army.
To Callum’s frustration, which was evident through the walkie-talkie, Balliol’s captains didn’t sue for peace. It didn’t seem to matter that they were caught between the cavalry to the south and the Stewart army on every other side. They fought on rather than surrender. Though the blood lust of the men around her was up, and they were ready to hunt, she knew that this fact would cause Dafydd dismay too.
It was only when the rising sun showed men covering the hills to the south of Skipton as far as the eye could see that they finally were willing to surrender. The bulk of Dafydd’s army, led by Math, had arrived, having marched the forty miles from Bury in a day and a night.
To those who knew him, Dafydd’s victory had been as inevitable as the rising of the sun. As it should have seemed from the start to these rebellious barons.
When the castle gates finally opened and Dafydd himself rode out, Lili was well in the back of the crowd of onlookers. She’d crossed the drawbridge in the wake of Stewart’s pikemen and been hugged by Christopher, who was bleeding from a wound in his upper arm. He, along with Matha and a dozen townspeople, had defended the drawbridge until the time came to drop it so Stewart’s men could cross the river.
She followed in Dafydd’s wake towards the southern end of the town. She hadn’t wanted to call attention to herself, but he further confirmed her belief that he had a bit of the sight because he spied her anyway, with Christopher mounted behind her. He put his hand on his heart, and she nodded. That was all that needed to be said for now, until they could really be together.
In the last few minutes, Dafydd had been joined by Math, Callum, Edmund Mortimer, and Humphrey de Bohun. The latter three had been part of the cavalry charge. Humphrey was nursing a head wound, but that didn’t stop him from reaching for William, who himself had an arm in a sling.
“Where’s Balliol, Christopher?” Lili asked over her shoulder.
“Locked in the keep still, presumably.”
Lili glanced towards the castle gate. Now that the battle was over and many arrows had been salvaged, Morgan’s men lined the top of the curtain wall. They seemed to have taken it upon themselves to prevent anyone in the keep from getting away. As she watched, one of the archers launched an arrow at one of the towers.
“Who’s that?” Christopher nudged her and indicated that she should face forward again. He pointed to a man who’d risen to his feet out of the cluster of prisoners just beyond the borders of the town. The man spread his arms wide and took several steps forward.
“That’s Roger Mortimer,” she said, and then put a hand out to hush Christopher since Roger was speaking.
“I demand to be heard! It is my right as a member of the House of Lords!”
Dafydd stopped twenty paces away and then dismounted. He indicated that the other men should stay back, and all obeyed except for Edmund, Roger’s brother. Dafydd didn’t protest, and they walked forward alone, stopping ten feet away from Roger, to the undoubted relief of everyone who cared about their safety.
“You forfeited that right, brother, when you rebelled against the king,” Edmund said.
Lili and Christopher were still mounted, so she urged the horse along the outside edge of the crowd that was gathering, wanting to be able to see everyone’s faces.
Roger clenched both hands into fists. “By my blood, then! I have a right to trial by combat! Fight me, and we will see upon which of us God smiles and gives the right to rule.”
Dafydd’s shoulders tensed, but before he could step forward, Edmund pulled his own sword from its sheath. “I will fight him, my king! He is my brother and my responsibility.”
“No.” The word resonated all the way to where Lili and Christopher waited.
Dafydd looked at Edmund, and the fierceness in his expression had even Lili shrinking back slightly. Gilbert de Clare had tried to provoke Dafydd in much the same way in the courtyard of Westminster Palace, so it was no surprise that Dafydd’s response was the same—though with Christopher behind her, as far as she knew nobody was going to save Dafydd the trouble of a trial by killing Roger with a car.
“Sire?” Edmund licked his lips.
“Are the two of you fourteen and twelve again that he retains the ability to make you furious in a way only little brothers can do?” Dafydd shook his head. “There are enough fools on this field without you joining their ranks. You will not fight him. Enough men have died at his behest for two lifetimes.”
Then Dafydd flicked out his fingers in Callum’s direction. “Tie the traitor up and put him under guard. If he so much as looks sideways at you, feel free to shoot him.”
“With pleasure, my king.” Callum, as had Edmund, recognized a time for formality.
But Dafydd put out a hand before he could take a step away. “I hear you used the rocket launcher at Beeston.”
Callum nodded.
“You have it with you?”
“Yes, my lord, now that Lord Mathonwy has arrived with the army. We also brought the C-4 and other explosives.”
“Good. Balliol is surrendering immediately, or we are bringing down that keep with him in it.”
Chapter Forty
4 April 1294
David
“Callum didn’t actually need to shoot Roger Mortimer,” Math said.
“Pity.” David knew before Math turned to look at him that he would see questions in his eyes. “Are you asking where my mercy has gone?”
“No.” Math barked a humorless laugh. “I’m marveling at how patient you’ve been up until now. How was Avalon?”
“Interesting.” David attempted a grin, but his eyes were on Callum and Mark, who were setting C-4 charges around the base of Skipton’s keep. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Then, almost to his regret, a white flag appeared at the top of the keep, and a man David didn’t recognize showed his face.
Thomas leaned in. “That’s Hakkon of Norway, my lord. We can be grateful he speaks French, for my Norwegian is poor at best.”
Now David genuinely smiled. “I will never regret being captured by your uncle.”
“Nor I in setting you free.”
Given the archers present in the bailey, it was remarkably brave of Hakkon to stand alone on the wall-walk, but he must have realized how dire things had become for him and decided to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. David could admire him for that, even as he cut him off at the knees.
Hakkon put up a hand. “I am the Duke of Norway.”
David lifted his chin so his voice would carry. Standing awkwardly in the bailey while Hakkon looked down at him from above reminded him of his interview with Owain Williams. David was at no disadvantage this time, however. His was the greater power no matter where he stood. “I am David, King of England, whose kingdom you invaded.”
Christopher was standing a little behind and to the right of David and had his binoculars to his eyes. “He looks disconcerted.”
“Good,” Math said. “He should be.”
“I demand free passage t
o the sea,” Hakkon said. “If you do not grant me this, my brother will come and free me by force.”
“You still don’t understand to whom you are speaking, do you?” James Stewart separated himself from the cluster of men around David. “You think you have something to bargain with, here? You do not. Your brother has already sent word that he never countenanced your invasion and for us to do with you as we please. It would save him the trouble.”
“He did, did he?” David said in an undertone. James was lying through his teeth, but it served David’s purposes for now, and he lifted his chin so his voice would carry. “Erik asked me to spare your life, if I could, so here’s the deal: I am not accepting your surrender without Balliol’s. Everybody in that keep is coming out without weapons and with their hands on top of their heads to surrender to me, or you will come out on a pallbearer’s stretcher.”
“What will happen to us if we surrender?” Hakkon asked.
Beside David, Math scoffed. “He’s a child to ask that question.”
“But he should know the truth.” David raised his voice again. “If you surrender, then you, Roger Mortimer, and John Balliol will be carted to the Tower of London in a cage, to be mocked and abused by citizens along the way, as an example of what happens to traitors to the crown.” He gestured to the charges being laid around the keep’s base. “Alternatively, I will bring down the keep and send my regrets to your brother that I could not save you from your stupidity. You have one hour to think about it. If you cannot convince Balliol to surrender, then you have one hour to live.”
He turned on his heel and stalked towards the outer gatehouse, where Lili was waiting with Ieuan. He hadn’t even hugged her yet, which he remedied the moment he saw her.
“All of you must be utterly exhausted,” he said to Ieuan, his arms still around Lili. “We should get some food while we wait—”
“They’re coming out, sire!”
David turned to look, almost sorry Balliol was surrendering so soon. He’d had a long night too and had been looking forward to sharing a meal with his wife.
Champions of Time (The After Cilmeri Series, #13) Page 27