Wake remembered his dead friends, Selby and de Lisle, and Clennell who he had counted a friend too, until he betrayed them. He gripped his sword hard, watching the Scottish spearheads race across the moor, and waited for the moment of impact.
It came, harder and more violent than he had been expecting. For a moment it was all he could do to stay on his feet, leaning into his broken shield and pushing hard, his own men packed tight and straining behind him while the Scottish spears stabbed at them. An axe blade hammered against his helm and his ears rang for a moment, but then the weight of men behind him began to slowly drive the Scots back. He freed his sword arm in the press and slashed at the axeman, knocking the weapon out of his hands. More Scots fell and then the first wave gave way, leaving a heap of bodies on the ground. Some of the English started to pursue and Wake snarled at them, telling them to stand their ground. His ears were still ringing and his limbs ached. My God, how much longer can we keep doing this? Already the Scots were reforming, and out on the moor Moray himself was coming forward, leading a second wave of schiltrons.
* * *
Dizzy with loss of blood, Moray stumbled forward past the bodies of men fallen in earlier attacks, his men pressing close behind him. He barely heard the sound of the pipes or the shouts of men on both sides. All he could think about was getting to the English line, cutting a way through it and breaking the enemy. He knew he was growing weak, but the enemy were weak too. One more blow would smash them.
They reached the enemy line. Summoning the last of his strength he raised his sword, cutting down the first two men who barred his way, but more stepped in to replace them. His own men piled in behind him, pressing forward, trying to drive the Disinherited back or knock them off their feet. They failed. The enemy were like a rock, and his own men like the sea breaking against it. Already some of the highlanders were falling back, unable to find a way through the shieldwall in front of them. Moray shouted at them, ordering them to stand fast, but the trickle of men retreating became a flood.
He turned. A man-at-arms with a broken shield and bloody surcoat with red and gold bars barred his way; Wake, who had been one of the commanders at Dupplin Moor where his brother had died. Moray hated Wake as he hated all the English, as he hated his sister who had abandoned him to captivity and death among them. He raised his sword and swung it blindly at Wake’s head, and Wake dodged the sweeping blade and hit him a two-handed blow that shattered his right arm. His sword fell to the ground. Bloody and weak he stood swaying, confronting the Englishman.
‘Yield,’ said Wake.
‘Fuck you,’ said Moray, and he bent to reach left-handed for his sword. He never saw the blow that killed him, only felt the shock as the sword blade hit his neck. In one last brief flash of fury he cursed his sister and wished for her death, and then fell heavily to the ground.
* * *
‘Moray’s men are breaking,’ Guy of Béthune said. His voice was full of disbelief. ‘Blood of Christ, they’re breaking! They’re running away!’
It had happened in the blink of an eye; one moment the Scots were raging forward, the next their formations had collapsed. Men fled across the moor, some throwing away weapons and armour so they could run more quickly. Already the English were breaking ranks, starting the pursuit. ‘Where is Moray?’ Brus demanded.
‘Dead, I think. Strathearn too. Douglas has been taken. They’re finished, Brus. The whole division is running.’
The king’s division wavered. Most of the men were still holding fast, but out on the flanks a few were turning to join the fugitives. Brus began to run towards the king, shoving tired, wounded men out of his way. Béthune caught up with him after a few paces. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to kill that bastard. Then I’m going to proclaim myself king. I’ll rally the men and we’ll fight back. Are you with me?’
Béthune caught the other man by the shoulder and spun him around violently. ‘Are you mad? This battle is lost! Do you not hear me? All your plans are in ruins, Brus. Everything you have worked for has come undone.’
‘To hell with you.’ Brus’s face was dark with rage. ‘Will you betray me too? Must I win this battle by myself?’
Béthune hesitated. He is on the edge of insanity, he thought. Why did we ever trust him?
‘Look out!’ someone shouted. ‘Ware the left!’ The English were advancing fast now, Percy’s division pouring through the gap where Moray’s men had stood. Harry Percy led them, running out in front with the blue lion banner following him, wrapping around the flank of the king’s division and threatening to surround it. The Marischal waved his sword, trying to rally men for a counter-attack, but a shower of English arrows cut him down. For a moment the blue lion of Percy confronted the red lion of Scotland; and then the king’s division broke too, and the whole of the moor was covered with fleeing men, with the English running in among them and cutting them down.
Béthune seized Brus’s arm. ‘Come on. We must get out of here, or we’re dead. Find the horses.’
Panicked men flooded around them, jostling them. ‘It’s all that goddamned herald’s fault. I should have killed him. I will kill him.’
‘Don’t just stand here talking about it!’ Béthune shouted. Rokeby’s banner was coming towards them, Wake and Neville too, hacking their way through the tide of fugitives. ‘Here come the English, you fool! Run!’
* * *
Far to the rear, Dunbar’s division watched the rest of the army disintegrate. Agnes turned in the saddle and touched her husband’s arm. ‘Turn the men away, my lord,’ she said.
The earl looked at her. ‘Turn them away,’ she said. ‘The rest of the army is wrecked, and the battle is lost. Once again, our country stands on the brink. It will need us, and our men, if it is to survive at all.’
‘Her ladyship is right, my lord,’ said the Master of Kinross. ‘The English have the upper hand. Even if we attack now, we will not prevail. We will sacrifice ourselves to no end.’
Dunbar nodded. There were tears in his eyes as he turned to his captains. ‘We will withdraw to Ebchester,’ he said. ‘We will rally the survivors there.’ He took one last look at the fleeing mass of men. ‘May God help Scotland,’ he said quietly.
32
Neville’s Cross, 17th of October, 1346
Evening
Lyon Herald wept too as he watched them go. Merrivale put an arm around his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, my friend.’
‘Why are you sorry? It is the fortune of war.’ A group of men gathered around the wounded King David, half carrying him from the field, fighting off the English who raged around them. ‘When in the name of God are we going to learn?’ Graham asked. ‘How many have we lost today, how many will we have lost by the time the day is done? Thirteen years ago at Halidon Hill we lost an entire generation, annihilated in a single day. We waited for their sons to grow and replace them, and now their sons are dead or dying too. How many times will we repeat this folly, Sim? Until every family is wiped out, every future obliterated?’
‘The same is true of England,’ Merrivale said, thinking of de Lisle. ‘It takes two to make a war, Archie. Come. Let us get you away so you can rejoin your own people.’
The Scots were fleeing down the slopes towards the Browney now, the English howling after them, and some of the men-at-arms were calling for their horses. Merrivale spotted Warin leading his own horse and called to him. ‘Fetch another mount for Lyon Herald. Quickly now!’
The horses arrived. They mounted and rode down towards the river, seeing little parties of Scots fighting desperate actions here and there across the meadows near Beaurepaire. David Bruce’s party had not managed to get him to safety; they passed the king being led back towards the English lines on foot, John Coupland gripping him possessively by the arm. He had not surrendered tamely; several of the Englishmen around him had fresh wounds and Coupland’s face was covered in blood. The blackened stump of an arrow still protruded from the king’s head.
; On the far side of the river another company of Scots was making their last stand, English hobelars and archers howling around them. Beyond them Merrivale spotted two riders on the skyline.
With a cold shock he realised one of them was Tiphaine.
‘I may need your help, Archie,’ he said.
* * *
‘I need to see,’ Tiphaine said.
The three women sat on their horses by the pilgrim cross, the baggage train parked behind them. The cathedral bells were ringing again; it was vespers now. Lady Mary listened to the cries of the wounded men coming from the field ahead and shuddered. ‘I don’t. I’m not moving, and I don’t advise you to either.’
‘I have seen battlefields before,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Mora, will you come with me?’
They rode forward, skirting the edge of the field, Tiphaine scanning the bodies for Brus’s saltire. She did not see it; she did not expect to. No matter how fierce the combat, Brus would find a way to survive. She turned the other way and looked down into the meadows along the Browney, and spotted his device at once. He had found his horse, and had collected a small band of mounted men around him; Guy of Béthune was one of them. As she watched they cantered away across the meadows towards Beaurepaire, easily outrunning the English who pursued them.
‘God’s death,’ Tiphaine said sharply. ‘He is getting away.’
She kicked her horse down the slope towards the river, Mora close behind. Scottish fugitives ran down the hill too, trying to escape; one made a lunge for Tiphaine’s horse but Mora clubbed him down with the flat of her sword. English soldiers came plunging down with bloody knives and spears in hand, and men screamed as they fell; for a few moments death was all around her, but all she could think about was that red saltire banner. If Brus escaped, the plotting and killing would continue. She would be in danger, and so would Simon, so long as Brus lived. She had to find him, and somehow, she had to find a way of killing him.
They had left the stream of fugitives behind now. A quarter of a mile ahead, Brus and his companions rode on, every minute taking them further towards safety. Tiphaine and Mora followed them.
* * *
‘What do you intend to do now?’ asked Guy of Béthune.
‘We carry on,’ said Brus.
They rode past another string of coal pits, black holes like smallpox scars gouged out of the ground, piles of coal heaped up at their edge. ‘Are you mad?’ Béthune repeated. ‘The army is destroyed. The king is probably either dead or a prisoner.’
‘Hopefully the former,’ Brus said. ‘It doesn’t matter either way, Guy. When we reach Edinburgh, I shall proclaim myself king and take the throne. The English will invade, of course, but they don’t have enough men or money to do much damage, and in a few months King Edward will be dead as well and the whole country plunged into chaos. We’ll have everything we planned, and more.’
Béthune nodded. ‘Have you ever wondered why I came to Scotland?’ he asked.
‘To see what spoils you could gather for yourself, I imagine. Don’t worry, you will have your heart’s desire. I had intended to give Carrick an earldom. Now he is dead, I shall give it to you instead.’
‘You honour me too greatly,’ said Béthune. He raised his hand and hit Brus a powerful backhand blow that knocked him out of the saddle. Flailing, Brus fell onto a heap of coal beside one of the pits. The heap collapsed, pitching him ten feet down into the bottom of the pit. An avalanche of coal followed him, crashing down across his legs and burying him up to the waist. Pain lanced up his side as his broken ribs gave way once more. Stunned, he looked up to see Béthune standing on the edge of the pit looking down. The count’s gauntlets were black; it was he who had pushed the coal down on top of Brus.
‘You disobeyed orders,’ Béthune said. ‘Had you succeeded, you might have got away with it. But our friends don’t tolerate failure, Brus. You killed the Traceys, who were useful to us. You failed to protect Blyth, who was essential to our plans. And now you have broken Scotland, and all for nothing.’
He paused. ‘There is no profit in this, Brus, not for any of us save you. You thought only of yourself. That is not acceptable.’
‘Get me out of here,’ Brus gasped.
‘No,’ said Béthune. ‘Your blind ambition led you to this hole, and you can remain here. What the English will do to you when they find you, I don’t know and I don’t care, but don’t expect us to pay your ransom. You’ve flouted orders for the last time, Brus. Time to pay the price.’
Béthune turned away. The weight of coal pressing down on Brus was almost unbearable; already his legs had gone numb. He scrabbled at the coal with his hands, trying to pull the hard black lumps away, but more came cascading down on top of him. Even the slightest effort brought more blinding pain in his ribs. A shadow fell across the pit and he looked up, hoping beyond hope that Béthune had changed his mind and returned to rescue him.
His hope turned to ash. Tiphaine stood on the edge of the pit, looking down at him.
* * *
Tiphaine and Mora had seen Béthune mount and ride away with the other horsemen.
‘They’ve abandoned him,’ Mora said. ‘Why?’
‘Perhaps he is dead,’ Tiphaine said. They rode past the pits to the one where Brus had fallen and dismounted. Brus lay on his back, half-buried in fallen coal, pinned and unable to move. For the first time in her life, he was helpless before her.
‘Get me out of here,’ Brus said.
‘No,’ said Tiphaine.
He scrabbled at the coal again, gasping in agony as he tried to pull himself free. ‘For God’s sake, Tiphaine. I’ll give you anything you want. Money, houses, land, anything. It’s all yours.’
‘You don’t have any money,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Not any more. The Traceys are dead and Blyth has fled away to Flanders. You’re empty now, Rollond. You are a husk, nothing more.’
‘We were lovers once,’ Brus said, still trying to pull the coal away. ‘Does that mean nothing to you?’
She heard hoofbeats on the ground. From the corner of her eye she saw the herald dismount and come forward, along with another man in a red lion tabard.
‘About as much as it did to you, when you gave orders to burn me alive. Three times you tried, at La Roche Guyon, in Liddesdale and at Lanercost. There will not be a fourth.’
Brus looked up at her and he must have seen the expression in her face. Anger exploded in his voice. ‘You filthy stupid little bitch. Burning is about all you are good for. Well? Are you expecting me to beg?’
‘No, Rollond,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to beg. I want you to die.’
His anger faded quickly. He screamed in frustration, clawing at the ground. Tiphaine turned to the two heralds.
‘Is there any reason why I should not kill this man?’ she asked.
‘Can you live with yourself afterwards?’ asked Merrivale.
She thought for a moment, her face serious. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can.’
The wind whirled coal dust around them. ‘His intrigues and ambition have destroyed a kingdom,’ said Lyon Herald. ‘Hundreds of good and noble men are dead. Hundreds of widows will grieve, hundreds of children will grow up as orphans. An entire nation will drown in its own grief, because of him. The Seigneur de Brus no longer deserves to walk upon this earth.’
Mora came up beside her, holding a stone jar and a torch. ‘I found these in a mine just down the hill. The jar is full of oil. It is up to you what you do with it.’
Tiphaine took the stopper from the jar and poured it over the coal in the pit below her. Brus saw the oil falling and shouted at her, raging, cursing her for a witch and a whore; she barely heard him. ‘I need to light the torch,’ she said.
‘Allow me,’ said Lyon Herald. He took a tinderbox from a pocket of his cloak and lit the torch, handing it to her. Oily flames licked up, pale in the dying daylight. Tiphaine held the torch out over the pit, looking down into Brus’s eyes. She held his gaze for a long moment, and then opened her finge
rs and let the torch fall.
The oil burned quickly, flames rushing up, and the onlookers on the edge of the pit felt the heat on their faces. Drops of burning oil fell on Brus’s armour and surcoat, burning for a minute or so and then dying away. When the flames passed they saw the coal beginning to turn white in places. Brus tried again to pull himself free, but the coal was too hot to touch now and he could not shift it. Time passed, and as darkness fell the white heat turned to red. Very slowly, the furnace glow spread towards the man trapped in the pit below.
It took a long time for Rollond de Brus to die.
33
The Narrow Sea, 6th of November, 1346
Morning
The roundship Grace-Dieu had sailed from Greenwich the previous day, making its way downriver by daylight and anchoring off the Isle of Sheppey for the night so as not to risk the treacherous shoals of the Thames estuary in darkness. Dawn saw them underway again, the ship’s single huge sail billowing in the uneven north-westerly wind. Whitecaps lifted on the seas around them.
The herald stood on deck between the two fighting castles, gazing out towards the coast hidden in mist and spray. Ahead was Calais where the English army lay camped, besieging the town; the Grace-Dieu was carrying supplies to help make their camp secure for the coming winter. It was nearly three weeks since the slaughter at Neville’s Cross and its gruesome aftermath, but some of the memories of that day would remain forever; more memories, adding to the ones already crowding in on him.
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