The Honor Due a King (25 page)

Lancaster grumbled at my interruption. “Not diplomacy, Cousin Edward. He marched on the Scottish hobelars with a rabble of townspeople and clergy. Pompous ass, robes or no. The Scots fired up stacks of hay and sent them into confusion. By day’s end there were three hundred priests lying dead in that hayfield.”

“Well, God will levy his judgment on the Scots for that. But the archbishop, as you so eloquently stated, is a fool. You say my queen is safely away then?”

“She is. But Randolph and Douglas did not stop at Milton. They are annihilating every town, manor and cattle byre in the countryside about York. I tell you, my lord, we need to put a halt to this destruction now, else they plunge as far south as London and scorch Westminster for sport.”

“They’ll do none such, Thomas. Calm yourself. You’re working up a fearsome lather.” I took a last gulp of the tisane and set my cup down, then stood and held my arms out to my sides so that Jankin could begin affixing my arm plates.

“We need to defend our lands. I am not the only one who –”

“A clever ploy by Bruce, don’t you think? Just as Berwick begins to wane, he lures us away. Their ash trail would be cold by the time we found it. No, Thomas, the siege will go on. The Stewart can’t hold out for much longer.”

“And you,” he fumed, blowing his red cheeks out, “can’t take Berwick alone. On the morrow I shall leave – not to spite you, but to spare my holdings. The northern barons won’t idle at your royal slippers as their homes go up in smoke.”

I dropped my arms to my sides. “Come now, dear Thomas. That would be treasonous, wouldn’t it, if part of my army left at your bidding?”

“Your army? How easily you forget your lessons, Cousin.”

“How suddenly your loyalty vanishes when it inconveniences your ambition.”

Lancaster gnashed his teeth together. “You covet one city while others perish. What if your councilors advise against staying?”

“Advice is merely that: advice.”

It would have been more in vein with his character to rave on. Instead, he suppressed a smug grin as he sought his exit.

“So right,” he said. “It is.”

***

E
arly that evening, the council convened in the main pavilion. I arrived to scowls and grumbles. Warenne was on his guard like a baited mastiff, but his resolve crumbled shortly after Lancaster and his party rallied against continuing with the siege. The northern barons wanted to go back to their lands and chase the Scots away. Hereford sided with them for no sound reason other than that he had allied himself with Lancaster from the start. This harassment of the north of England was nothing new I reminded them.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince them.

The next day Lancaster and the other northern barons decamped and headed home. The number Lancaster robbed me of was substantial.

The rains persisted. Spirits dampened. Supply lines became unreliable. We had not enough men to launch a potent attack and assure the outcome. In the end, we were forced to abandon the siege on Berwick. No sooner was my army disbanded than Douglas returned to the north, ravaging Cumberland and Westmorland.

How queer it was that Lancashire was never set upon.

James Douglas – Cumberland, 1319

N
ovember wind scoured my cheeks. I wriggled my fingers free of my gloves and wiped the snot from my upper lip.

“What village is this?” I asked.

Boyd dangled his reins across his mount’s sagging withers and braced one gloved fist on his hip. “Don’t know.” He sniffed, shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Have we been here before?”

“Not that I recollect,” Boyd said.

Carlisle was five leagues or less from where we were. In two weeks’ time, we had laid waste to a good part of Cumberland. The two years prior to this, poor weather had stunted their crops. Famine was rife. This year, gentle spring rains and a mild summer had promised and delivered on a bountiful harvest. The surrounding fields had already been cleared of their sheaves and the grain threshed and doubtless some had been milled by now. The cattle were fed and fat. The sheep, however, were suffering from a scab that would prove their wool worthless.

We were about to head home when this temptation sprang up before us: a modest town tucked in a low valley somewhere between the Lyne and the Irthing rivers and with a tithe barn packed to the rafters.

Feeling a cramp in my neck as I raised my arm, I gave the signal to advance on the town, just as I had done before more times than I could remember. All in the name of Scotland and my king. For once, because of a lingering cold I had been nursing, I was more exhausted than exhilarated by the onset of this raid. So I sat back in my saddle and watched as Boyd and the other men rode down into the dale, across an open field and into the town.

We had been spotted ahead of time. A rabble of a dozen townsfolk, crudely armed, rushed out toward the edge of the town, brandishing their weapons with all the courage of ancient Rome’s greatest gladiators. If only they understood that they had a choice: they could have paid us a tribute instead and gone on to know a long, peaceful life with their families. Not one of them was left standing after five minutes. But such was war. We took what we needed. We did only what had been done to us.

My men pounded on doors and tossed the inhabitants out into the snowy streets. Womenfolk dragged their children along by the wrists, crying, calling out to one another. Then, the first orange flames licked at thatch; soon, they were leaping from one rooftop to another.

I rode my pony down into the town to see that my men did not carry away more than they could manage and turned down a crooked street, where the buildings were not yet consumed by the inferno. In my path lay a child’s rag doll and trampled clothing. A shoemaker’s stall had been toppled and crushed, the dyed goatskin and wooden lasts scattered in disarray around it. Ahead, Cuthbert was holding onto the reins of three panicked horses before a stable. Sim Leadhouse came out and indicated it was empty, then took a torch from a passing soldier and set fire to the hay inside before emerging again. Cuthbert grinned at me.

“Take them and return to our cattle herd, Cuthbert.” I gulped down smoke. “We’re going home after this.”

The corners of his mouth sank a little at that, but he nodded and began up the street toward where we had come from, yanking and coaxing his frightened prizes with sporadic success. Sim plowed past me, remounted and went to help him.

Without pausing, they bypassed the fallen bodies of the town’s brave defenders. Others were still ransacking the houses and shops for valuables and upending whatever was left standing. On the slopes of the hills beyond, the last of the townsfolk were streaming toward some far off haven, running, straggling, falling, picking themselves up to go on, but not until they had looked back once more at what they had left behind. A veil of gray smoke drifted before me, drying out my throat and eyes.

Then, I heard the crying of a child. Soft, whimpering.
But from where?

I removed my helmet, turned my head from side to side. There it was again. I held my breath to better hear. In the distance, Boyd’s rocky voice called out orders to begin clearing from the town. I slipped down from my saddle, my gut tugging me toward the door of the smoking stables. From the doorway, I peered into the flickering darkness. I heard nothing and began to wonder if my imagination had begun playing tricks on me.

The posts and beams were beginning to burn. I took another step inside, peering up at a flowing river of flame in the rafters above me. As I did so, a frightened horse charged at me, toward the daylight behind me. I had the barest moment to jump aside and let it pass. The creature was an old, barely useful nag, and so Sim had left it behind. Satisfied that it had been the source of my curiosity, I turned to go. The structure around me groaned and cracked, weakening. But I had not yet set foot beyond it when the cry came again, calling me back.

I drew my cloak up across my mouth, turned back and went further inside. The heat pressed in on me. Embers dropped from the beams. Ahead, a small loft held a stack of hay, tinder for a growing fire. The flames ate away at the thick, rain-dampened thatch above. Smoke rolled downward and engulfed the barn.

Below the loft, in the corner of an area reserved for manure and between two stalls, a tiny form huddled. Above dirtied strips of rags, a pair of dark, glittering eyes studied me. The eyes of a child sizing up the enemy as he had retreated to a hiding place that was fast becoming his very own deathtrap. Then from between those rags a kitten mewled and wiggled its way loose. It clawed at his arm and struggled free, at first skidding to a halt at my feet and then scampering around me and outside as its striped little tail whipped back and forth.

Realizing I still had my weapons with me, although sheathed, I held my arms wide, then knelt and called out.

“Come, lad. I mean you no harm.”

Behind the mound of manure, he sank down deeper into his tattered clothes, even as smoke rolled thick and stinking between us. A cinder drifted down from the hayloft. The spark struggled and glowed, feeding off the bits of dry hay around it.

I took a few steps closer, reached out my hand. “Please, I only mean to take you from here ... away from the fire. Let me help you.” I went closer until I was just on the other side of the manure from him.

He scrambled sideways. I stepped across the mound and sank deep in its slippery filth. I threw my hand out to catch myself on a post of the stable. As I did so, the post gave a little, the beams and planks above moaned. The weight of the blazing hay shifted. There was no time to waste in negotiations with a scared little boy who would not chance trust to save his own life. I lunged at him, but before I could grab him by the arms, he whipped a knife out and snagged my sleeve.

“No!” I yelled, my throat closing against the suffocating smoke, my eyes stinging. “We’ll both die unless you come with me.”

I snatched at his wrist, wrenched it hard even as he fought and kicked at me. Then I tore the knife from his grasp and tossed it into the encroaching fire. I yanked him to me and lifted him up and over my shoulder. He kicked furiously, flailed his small fists at my chest, but never said a word of protest or let loose a scream.

I turned around, looking for the doorway. Flames danced wildly all around. The hairs on my head were singeing, my face getting unbearably hot, the undershirt beneath my mail melting to my flesh. Darkness and brightness shifted and interchanged. The lad began to cough.

“Stop moving! Stop it!” I yelled at him. If I didn’t get him out soon, he would succumb to the smoke before the fire ever reached us. I stumbled forward. A clump of burning thatch fell hissing in front of me. I stepped around it, struggling to hold onto the boy, moved a few more steps, looked for the door, for a sign of daylight that would lead me to safety.

But everywhere I looked there was only fire. Fire. Fire. Hotter. Closer. Brighter. Another blazing clump fell, this one across the back of my hand. I flicked it away, but it had burned me. The pain was intense.

I fought for air, but there was none. The smoke drew the breath from my lungs, crushed my chest. The lad, light as he was, was becoming a burden. Still, he squirmed and coughed and I, too, felt a cough rising in my chest.

Then, he bit me on the hand. I cried out in surprise. Holding him tight, I lowered him to the floor. My hand throbbed. I wanted to strike him senseless. I stared him hard in the eyes.

“I don’t want
you
to die.
I
don’t want to die.” I squeezed both his arms, desperate for him to understand. In all my years of fighting, I had never come so close to death as this.

He held my gaze. “But you’re a Scot.”

“I’m a man. And you’re a child. I’m trying to help you.”

Something behind his small, coal-black eyes softened. Perhaps at last he figured that had I wanted him dead, he would have been so by now. Then he twisted to his left, inclining his head that way. I loosened my grip, let him pull me through the blinding wall of heat and choking cloud of smoke.

My lungs burned. Chest heavy. Hard to breathe. Coughing, gagging.

I blinked, wiped at my eyes, discovered I was no longer attached to the boy’s sleeve. Found myself on my knees, on the dirt, daylight spilling over me.

A pair of burly hands hooked themselves in my armpits and hoisted me up. I coughed more. So hard I retched. Couldn’t stop. Somehow pulled a few gulps of clean air into my lungs.

“What the bloody hell were you doing in there?” Boyd admonished. He yanked me further away, then propped me against a cart and brought my horse to me.

I shook my head, unable to answer him, tears welling in my stung eyes. Then I looked about for the wee lad who, in my attempt to save him, had saved me instead. The streets were empty of life. Flames and smoke consumed the town.

The lad was nowhere. Gone.

***

Lintalee, 1319

T
he fire had scrubbed my lungs raw. It felt as though a set of irons was clamped around my chest, making it still hard to breathe. Gil, now serving as Constable of Scotland, had not been with us on that excursion. I longed to have him near, for surely he would have known of some magical drink or some herb that would ease the pain in my chest and return me to normal. But my healing was slow and I could not let my men know the extent of the damage done to me. If anything, I was only more silent than usual, foregoing the jokes that Boyd and I usually shared, and the picking of Cuthbert’s brain for details with which to fill my reports to the king.

We headed home, northeastward. I released some of my men along the way so they could go on to their own homes, but many of the others would stop at Lintalee with me for a rest before going on. It was a week to Christmas and the snow had begun to fall. When we came to the dale of the Teviot, it was my men, not me, who quickened the pace. My cough had by then lessened, although my chest still ached and my throat was still constricted so that it was hard to swallow without a lump of pain.