Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (18 page)

It was almost dawn and the star-strewn sky glowed turquoise in the east.

Everything below the rock was shrouded in mist. It was as though the castle were a ship, sailing on a phantom sea. The air was chilly and smelled of the acrid smoke from burning torches. There was a large crowd in the courtyard and thirty or so horses gathered near the stables. Squires were removing saddles and hastening to fetch water. Will saw several stretchers laid out on the ground, two of which were occupied by injured men. One had lost a leg. The injury didn’t look particularly fresh, the wound was bound tightly and dried blood and dirt had stained the binding black. In the light of the torch fl ames, the soldier’s face was slick and had an ill-looking greenish tint to it. Will recognized the signs of infection and guessed he didn’t have long. He spotted Duncan talking with the sheriff of Edinburgh. As he pushed through the agitated crowd, he caught snatches of conversation.

“Fallen?”

“. . . don’t know how many we lost, we were scattered.”

“. . . most of them dead.”

Approaching, Will saw that Duncan was also wounded, a nasty gash run-98 robyn

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ning down the side of his face. The split skin had been crudely sewn back together with thread, between which beads of blood had welled and scabbed over. It looked absurdly as if a large black caterpillar had crawled up his cheek, with stitches for legs. His cloak and mail were covered with blood and reeked of it. As Duncan turned from the sheriff, Will saw the look in his eyes. His brother-in-law wasn’t the stalwart, unshakable man he had last seen leaving the town with Patrick Graham and the feudal host of Scotland over two months ago. He was haggard, haunted. David went silently to his side, eyes lingering on his father’s scarred face.

Duncan glanced at Will, then spoke to his son. “Did you wake your mother?”

David shook his head.

“Good lad.” Duncan looked down at his clothes. “I want to get this red off me before I see her.” He attempted a smile, which was more of a grimace.

“What happened?” Will had to raise his voice over the men around him.

More people were hurrying into the courtyard, woken by the commotion.

The injured men were being hefted up and carried toward the infi rmary.

Duncan faltered, as if uncertain where to begin. “We were at Dunbar,” he said eventually, “almost three weeks ago. Our forces were unable to take Carlisle. The Bruces held firm against us, so we pushed on into northern England.”

Duncan lowered his voice, glancing around him. “Our men contented themselves with burning villages and monasteries, pillaging estates, destroying crops and livestock. They near enough spent themselves on this futility while Edward and his army remained in Berwick, like carrion crouched over their meal.” It was a moment before he could gather himself to continue. Will understood. Edinburgh had learned of the sack of Berwick a month ago, but the shock of it was still reverberating around the city. “Leaving Northumberland, laden with plunder for the cause, we circled around to Dunbar. The Earl of Dunbar had sided with Edward.” Duncan’s jaw clenched. “These bastards call themselves Scots, but their blood runs thinner than water. Fortunately for us, his wife was of stronger heart and opened his castle to a company of loyalist troops, but her treachery and the word that we were on our way soon roused the English.

“They came under the command of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey. He put some of his knights before the castle to stop our men there joining with us, then turned to face us. We had the higher ground. We had the advantage.”

Duncan shook his head and stared up at the lightening sky. “All of us were the fall of the templars

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maddened by the fate of Berwick, desperate to spill English blood, avenge our dead. The English columns were advancing downhill into a steep valley. We couldn’t see it from our position, but there was a burn at the bottom. The English started to separate. I suppose they must have been deploying to cross the burn, but I swear to God it looked like they were scattering, fl eeing the field. Seeing them disordered, we stormed down that hill as if the hosts of heaven were with us, Christ Himself urging us on. But when we reached the bottom we found the English all in a line, ready for us. Too late to stop the charge, we smashed into their steel like the sea against a cliff. Many cavalry were lost in the first moments, and as the English led their own attack our foot soldiers were cut down in the hundreds.” His hand drifted absently to his wound. “After this, we were in chaos, forced to flee or be killed where we stood.” His voice shook. “But my lord wouldn’t leave that field. He was unhorsed and fighting three English knights, roaring like a lion. Last I saw was him going down under their blades.”

Will had known Patrick Graham for only a brief moment, yet the sorrow he felt for the knight’s death was disproportionately sharp.

“Most of us who fled the field headed for the shelter of Selkirk Forest. I stayed there with the survivors of my company for several days, tending wounded, burying dead. Word came to us that many of our leaders had been taken prisoner during the battle, including three earls.”

“What about Sir Patrick’s son?” asked David suddenly.

“Sir David Graham was captured. All the prisoners have been sent to jails throughout England. Unless ransoms can be paid, I doubt we will see them again.” Duncan squeezed his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I know you were friends. The sheriff was telling me there’s been no word from King John for some weeks,” he said to Will.

“It’s thought he might be at Stirling, or further north. No one is sure.”

They fell quiet. Around them, disbelief and anguish gradually gave way to heavy silence, as everyone tried to take in the news Duncan’s ragged band had brought.

After the massacre at Berwick, the atmosphere in Scotland had changed.

They had all felt it. Their earlier confidence slipped away to be replaced by a grim determination. The wanton butchery of thousands of their countrymen had a profound effect on the mood of the nation. Men who had previously snubbed King John and his weakness in the face of Edward’s demands, now banded together beneath his banner. A rallying cry went up across the 100 robyn

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kingdom, ushered in by the voices of the few men and women who had fl ed Berwick with their lives and who brought with them the livid horrors that had befallen fathers, brothers, sons and daughters. What started as a whimper became a roar.

But now, here in the hushed castle courtyard, with the red light of dawn bleeding in the east, there was just the crushing sense of inevitability. How could they fi ght without their leaders? It was a question visible on every man’s face.

The silence was broken by a door banging open as Ysenda came running into the yard, snatching a shawl around her. Her hair was unbound and fl ew about her shoulders as she raced toward Duncan, her face filled with relief, which quickly turned to shock at the sight of his torn face. “Dear God. Duncan?”

“I’m all right, woman,” he said gruffly, pulling her to him. “I’m all right.”

She drew back to grasp his bloody face and kiss his mouth.

Will looked away, discomforted that their fierce affection, which should please him, just made him feel bitter.

As Duncan hugged Ysenda, he caught Will’s eye. “It is rumored Roxburgh Castle has fallen,” he told him over her shoulder. “They’ll be coming for us next.”

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There was a muffled thud. Dust and grit showered from the ceiling. In the darkness, someone sneezed. A baby was wailing, the shrill sound echoing maddeningly around the cavernous chamber that was hewn into the rock at the base of the castle tower. People raised their voices from whispers to murmurs over the noise. There was another thud that vibrated through the stone. Will took the skin Ysenda handed to him. Taking a swig, he swilled water around his mouth and spat, clearing the dust from his lips.

“How is it up there?” she murmured, as he returned the skin.

“We’re holding.” Will glanced around at the women and children, crammed into the storeroom. A few candles fl ickered fitfully, but most of the chamber was in shadows, just the outlines of bodies and the glitter of hundreds of eyes visible in the gloom. It was unbearably stuffy. Just being down here for a few moments made Will feel claustrophobic and he wondered how they could the fall of the templars

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have stood it for seven days and nights, trapped together with barely space to lie down among the sacks of grain and barrels of ale, breathing one another’s stale air. As another thud came, he saw his younger niece, Alice, wince. Leaning in, he tweaked her chin. “These walls are as solid as the earth they’re built from.”

Alice smiled weakly back at him and rested her head against Ysenda’s shoulder.

Her sister, Margaret, put a protective arm around her and gave Will a cold look.

“Do you need that dressed?”

Seeing Ysenda staring at his hand, Will looked down. Half the skin had been scraped off his knuckles. The wound was weeping, the skin peeling away from the edges. He didn’t even remember doing it. “It’s nothing.”

“Please tell me you’re both looking out for David.” Her face was ashen in the candles’ glow.

“Don’t worry.” Will gave a small smile. “He wanted to be up on the fi ghting top, but Duncan has made sure he’s keeping to the courtyard. I have to get back up there.” He went to rise, but she grabbed his wrist.

“Look out for yourself too.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand. Heading through the hush, careful not to step on any stray fingers or legs, Will made his way up the stairs. He came out of the tower in the courtyard, where the air, although thick with dust, was still a great deal fresher than below. After the tense silence, the commotion out here was disorienting.

The place was packed with soldiers and castle officials, as well as shepherds and farmers and shopkeepers, who had crowded into the castle from the town.

Troops spilled out of the Great Hall, pulling on armor. Messengers scurried through their ranks, passing orders between commanders and the men on the walls. Under the eaves of the constable’s residence, the injured lay sprawled on pallets. The two physicians were moving between them, faces gray with exhaustion, as they called for the women who were attending them to fetch more water, or summon a priest. Outside St. Margaret’s Chapel, the ground was lined with bodies. Some were draped with sacking, others had been left exposed, the bloody punctures made by arrows tempting the flies that swarmed in black clouds. The most damaged corpses, those that were crushed beyond all recognition of the human form, were inside the chapel, hidden from view.

Steeling himself, Will strode into the chaos, as other thuds and crashes 102 robyn

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echoed around the walls. Out here they were louder, occasionally followed by the hammering rain of falling masonry and the cries of men. The ground below the ramparts was strewn with rubble. Boys raced between the legs of the soldiers, snatching falling arrows to take up to the archers. There were a few fresh bodies scattered here and there, which no one had had time to move.

Swerving right as a huge boulder came smashing down, sending splinters of stone flying out, Will sprinted to the steps that led up to the ramparts. Here and there, the walkway was shattered, where boulders had broken through.

Above, there was a groan of timbers, followed by a
crack
as one of the mangonels on the fighting top let fire its load. A few of the men manning the machine glanced round as Will came up. At the start of the siege they had all looked quite different, but now faces and features were indistinct, each of them covered in stone dust, their hair and beards powdered with it.

Will moved in to help two of the men heft a stone from the pile beside the mangonel and drop it into the cup that was hollowed out of the engine’s pivoted beam. The pile was getting smaller. This stone was badly chipped and of a different color to the ones they had been using at the beginning of the week.

Will guessed it was one of the stones that had landed in the enceinte. Now they would send it back. The three of them moved aside and the other men, who had hold of the ropes attached to the shorter end of the beam, steadied themselves. Their commander raised his hand, then let it fall.

“Fire!”

Together, the men hauled on the ropes. The beam swung toward them, the end with the stone nestled in the hollow springing up to slam against a cross-bar, the stone hurling itself out of sight. Will rushed to the ramparts and stared through the arrow slit, his eyes following the boulder as it sailed down. His anticipation vanished in defeat as the boulder hit the grass below the castle rock and bounced harmlessly downhill. His eyes moved beyond it to the six huge trebuchets set out on the flat. Every few moments, one of the beams of these engines would swing and an answering stone would fly up toward the castle to strike the walls, or sail right over. The Scots had watched those engines appear in the valley seven days earlier, each one pulled by a team of twenty oxen at the head of the English Army.

The trebuchets used slings rather than cups, which the castle garrison quickly learned were far more accurate than their own rigid machines. But, at first, the Scots had laughed when they saw them, wondering how the English could hope to do anything more than smash the rocks beneath. The answer the fall of the templars

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soon become clear when the English began to construct tall tower platforms for each of the engines, bringing up cartloads of timber from their fl eet, visible as a patch of darkness on the Forth. Around the engines, wooden screens had been set to protect the engineers, each covered with vinegar-soaked hides, making it virtually impossible for the archers on the ramparts to set them alight. In a gap between two of the trebuchets lay the remnants of the Scots’

only victory: a jagged tower and the broken parts of an engine, hit successively by three large stones. That was on the second day of the siege, and they hadn’t cheered like that since.

Beyond the bulk of the army, hundreds of tents were spread out. Outside the largest, striped blue and white, a red banner fluttered. At this distance, the emblems sewn into it were just blotches of color, but Will knew that close up they would be three golden lions. However impossibly far out of range that tent was, it hadn’t stopped him trying to hit it all week, some childish part of him futilely hoping his will would be enough to propel the shot that extra distance. One lucky strike, one God-driven miracle, and this would all be over.