Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (15 page)

Bek strained his eyes against the distance. “The ramparts are lower,” he observed.

80 robyn

young

Edward nodded. “The scouts have found a path has been built up across the fosse, covered in animal tracks. I expect it’s where they lead cattle to pasture. It is where we will enter.” With a fi rm nudge of his calf and a tug on the reins, the king turned his warhorse, Bayard. The beast’s massive head was en-cased in armor. “Come. It is time to knight the new-bloods.”

With faint jeers from the town following them on the wind, the two men rode back to the broad slope where the English Army was arrayed for battle.

The bulk of the cavalry and infantry was made up of two hundred of Edward’s tenants, who, according to the laws of feudal service, had each brought a fully equipped company of knights. This force, more than eight thousand strong, was augmented by conscripts of Welsh bowmen and the Templars under Brian le Jay. All of them were eager to shake the morning chill from their stiff bones, keen to prove themselves to their king.

They had advanced on Berwick three days after Easter, slightly later than Edward planned, due to a brief skirmish at the town of Wark. Here, the campaign began inauspiciously when the town’s lord, an English nobleman, deserted to the Scottish side. First blood was spilled by the Scots, who made an attack on Wark, forcing the king to divert his army to relieve the town. This done, Edward forded the Tweed at the village of Coldstream, swearing to make an end of what the Scots had begun. Berwick’s great bridge had been washed away in a flood two years earlier and the village was the nearest crossing point.

Following the English Army by sea were more than forty galleys that had sailed up the coast from East Anglia. They were now lurking in the mouth of the Tweed, below the town.

Last night, messengers had come with news that the Scottish Army was heading for Carlisle, far to the southwest, but Edward diverted no forces. Carlisle was a well-defended city, commanded by one of his staunchest Scottish vassals, Bruce of Annandale. He believed it would hold, but even if it didn’t it provided a useful and unexpected diversion for the Scottish Army, who had left the way to Edinburgh wide open. The only thing that stood in the king’s way was this colony of Scots and foreigners. For Edward, the sooner they were crushed and his campaign was advancing to victory, the better. He hated the cold north and it vexed him greatly that if Alexander III’s granddaughter hadn’t died none of this would have been necessary.

Six years earlier, with the approval of the pope and the wary agreement of the Scottish magnates, he had arranged the marriage of his son and heir, Edward of Caernarvon, to the infant queen, ensuring England’s future dominion the fall of the templars

81

over the realm. But with her unexpected death, all his plans came to nothing and instead he was compelled to exert years of effort and money in securing his hold on the kingdom. He thought by choosing Balliol, whom his spies had assured him was the weakest of the claimants, his control over the Scottish throne would be set, and it might well have been if the magnates hadn’t risen against him in rebellion. Now he would have to subdue them by muscle rather than guile, as he’d been forced to do with the Welsh, and he despised them all the more for it.

Like King Philippe, his cousin and rival, Edward had a desire for control.

As king of England, he saw it as his right to subdue his disorganized neighbors and bring them into his dominion, creating one strong feudal empire, to be ruled over by his heirs for generations to come. A senior royal clerk, a domi-neering, yet efficient man named Hugh Cressingham, had spoken of it as smoothing out the ruffles on a cloak; straightening the hems. Edward liked the description. And by the end of this day, the crease that was Berwick would be leveled.

On the slope in front of the vanguard, which was commanded by the earl of Surrey, thirty young men were waiting, restless with excitement. They fell silent as Edward and Bek approached. Edward dismounted, ignoring the proffered hands of the squires. After finalizing the plans for the assault with the Earl of Surrey and the other commanders, the king strode up to the youths, noble sons of landed men all. They dropped to their knees, heads bowed, as he unsheathed his sword. The army fell into a near hush for the solemn moment, disturbed by the barking of dogs, the clink of weapons and the snorting of horses. Edward moved up to the first, his sword naked in his hand. Two clerks lingered at the king’s side, to discreetly remind him of the youths’ names. Edward raised his sword and laid it on the shoulder of the young man, who swore the oath of fealty faultlessly in a clear voice that carried to the men behind. Dubbed, he rose; a knight, and a man, as yet un-blooded, but ready to prove his worth. A cheer rose from the ranks and he grinned broadly. As the cheer died away, a distant chant could be heard, coming from the ramparts of Berwick. The king frowned as he approached the second youth. He lifted his sword, but paused distractedly as he heard his name within the chant. He cocked his head, listening intently. It came again.

“
Edward of England, march home on your longshanks! Edward Longshanks,
turn your tail, you English dog!
”

The youth looked around uncertainly as a flush mottled Edward’s cheeks.

82 robyn

young

Bishop Bek gestured to the officers behind him. “Cheer for your king,” he growled. “You,” he snapped at the man who bore the king’s banner, emblazoned with its three golden lions. “Get that up!”

The banner bearer stared at him bemusedly, unused to being given orders by a bishop. Bek strode over to him. Already cheers were rising, spreading out like ripples in a pond. “Get that flag up, or I’ll ram the pole up your arse!”

The banner bearer lifted the king’s flag and began waving it frantically. The cheers grew louder, drowning out the taunting chants from Berwick. Edward turned back to the youth and brought down the flat of his blade, his jaw locked in anger.

The dubbing continued for some time, each man’s knighthood ushered in with louder, more fervent applause than the last, until the plain around Berwick resounded with the roar of eight thousand men. It was the Earl of Surrey who first noticed the ships gliding into the estuary beyond the town. He frowned, rising in his stirrups to get a better look, then swore and kicked his horse toward Edward, who was knighting the last of the youths.

“My lord!” The earl pulled his horse up, pointing to the ships as he caught the king’s attention.

Edward’s gray eyes widened at the sight.

Bek was hurrying over, having also seen them. “Why are they attacking?

We haven’t given the signal!”

“The cheering,” said Edward suddenly, “the banners. They think we’ve begun the assault.” Barking orders to the nearest commanders, he strode to Bayard.

There was a general scrabble as word spread, men rushing to their horses, those who were already mounted tightening shield straps. The newly knighted youths sprinted for their chargers, hearts hammering with anticipation. Archers pulled arrows from quivers and infantry drew swords or hefted maces as the knights moved into position, warhorses stamping and jostling.

In the distance, down by the Tweed, the sky brightened as a hail of fl aming arrows went shooting into the air from the town. They arced silently toward the lead ship. Edward strained forward in his saddle. Even at this distance, he could tell something was wrong: the ship was stalled, dead in the water. He swore viciously as he guessed the vessel had run aground on the mud banks.

As the fiery missiles struck, the white mainsail went up like a torch. “With me!” Edward roared at his commanders, digging his spurs into Bayard’s muscular sides.

the fall of the templars

83

The English cavalry followed, cantering down the broad slope toward the town. The Earl of Surrey led the vanguard with the king, the two of them streaking ahead. Their right flank was headed by Brian le Jay and the Templars, white mantles flowing, the hooves of their horses drumming the earth.

The left was commanded by Bek and the warriors of St. Cuthbert’s Land, the bishop’s cloak blooming behind him, violet as a bruise. The archers loped along behind, heading for a point just beyond the small hillock where Edward had surveyed the town. From there, they would cover the knights and the infantry, now pouring down the hill. On the Tweed, the ship’s decks were burning, yellow flames billowing, fanned by the breeze coming off the sea. Screams drifted on the air, but Edward and his men didn’t hear them over the thunder of their charge.

Two more ships were moving in to aid the first, but Berwick’s soldiers were racing from a postern gate onto the mud, where they hacked the men fl eeing the burning ship to pieces. More arrows sprang into the air, hissing into the water around the approaching vessels. Another ship ran aground and the defenders yelled in triumph. After the arrows, bundles of flaming wood were tossed over the sides of the floundering galleys by the men on the banks. They struck the decks and began to smolder. Dry timbers crackled into life, faster than the crew, themselves trying to dodge the arrows, could extinguish. Men jumped overboard to escape the flames, only to find themselves sucked into the sticky mud by the weight of their mail. Smoke was pouring off the fi rst vessel, making it harder for the English to see the soldiers rushing toward them, their lightweight leather armor allowing them to cross the waterlogged mud flats in safety.

Edward steered Bayard straight, heading for the point where the broad ramparts dipped down, creating a gateway in the defenses that led onto a narrow path, banked up with earth and stones from the fosse. The gate that had been set there was tall and wide to compensate, but a timber barrier couldn’t keep out eight thousand men, especially men whose honor had been challenged. Edward’s temper burned, striking livid color in his cheeks. The insults of the townsfolk rang in his ears and the sight of his own ships blazing on the river drove him into a fury that would only be quenched with blood. All chance of mercy that Berwick’s citizens might have hoped for had gone. Now they would suffer his wrath in full.

As the men neared the ramparts, arrows slammed down around them. One struck a knight in the chest. He arched backward with the force and tumbled 84 robyn

young

from his mount, to be trampled by the destriers that rode on over him. Other arrows clattered off helmets, or stuck fast in mail shirts and coifs. Several hit horses, which wheeled and bucked, throwing their riders violently from the saddles and crashing into the mud. Edward raised his shield, but the missiles streaked past, none coming close. Behind them, the Welsh archers began to launch at the earthen ramparts, sending arrows curving over the palisade to stab down at the defenders huddled behind. Drawing closer to the fosse, Edward slowed his horse, allowing two of his commanders to ride on ahead with their best knights and the new-bloods. It was hard for him to do so; his rage made him want to spur Bayard on to punch through that stockade himself, but the thirty knighted youths were as keen as hounds, nostrils filled with the scent of quarry. He would use that eagerness. These young men only knew the controlled thrill of the tournament field. They hadn’t yet experienced the chaos of a battlefield; hadn’t learned to fear it. They were arrogant, bold and reckless.

They would tear through the barrier to get at the meat inside, or die trying.

Bek and a veteran commander of many a battle under Edward, including Lewes and those in Wales, ordered four of their knights on across the bank that spanned the fosse. All had grappling hooks ready in their hands. One took an arrow in the neck and fell from his horse, still holding the reins. He tumbled down the steep embankment with a cry that was cut short as his horse, squealing in terror, collapsed on top of him. The other three knights launched their hooks at the top of the gates. Arrows whistled over the ramparts from the Welsh archers. There were screams beyond the stockade as they struck home. The grappling hooks held fast and, lashing the ropes around the pommels of their saddles, the knights spurred their horses back across the fosse. The ropes snapped taut. One of the grappling irons broke clean through the rotting timbers and flew down to bounce along the ground behind the mounted knight. The other two held for a split second, then pulled free with a sharp crack, bringing the top half of the gate with them to reveal the startled faces of several soldiers.

“The gate’s rotten!” yelled one knight, as behind the ruined barricade some of the defenders began to flee. Others held fast, drawing back bowstrings to propel arrows through the breach.

“On!” shouted Bek, driving his horse toward the gate. The beast leapt up at the last moment, launching itself over the jagged timbers. One of its hooves caught on part of the gate but smashed straight through it as the horse went hurtling into the street beyond. The archers within scattered as Bek’s men followed, one by one, charging up and over. Behind came the new knights, bay-the fall of the templars

85

ing for blood, racing one another to be the first in. One horse baulked at the last minute and veered around, crashing into the side of the gate that had remained intact. The wood buckled with the impact, although the gate didn’t break, and the rider lost control of the beast, which stumbled down the embankment, taking him with it. After him, two more knights faltered, both managing to wheel their horses around and back across the path.

Edward’s impatience exploded into urgency. Kicking into Bayard’s sides, he stormed the gate. The massive destrier leapt the broken barrier in one graceful movement. Seeing their king enter, the knights drove themselves madly forward, one armored horse punching straight through, the remaining weakened timbers spraying inward, leaving a splintered gap, through which the stream of men became a fl ood.

The confidence of Berwick’s young soldiers, who had been taunting the English from the ramparts, melted into horror as the metal-clad knights plunged into the streets around them, faces hidden behind expressionless steel or else snarling with savage glee as they brought sword blades and axe heads swinging into skulls and necks. They weren’t used to the giant destriers, which the knights used against them as weapons—toppling, crushing, trampling—