The Honor Due a King (31 page)

Loath to look upon Abbot William though I was, I forced myself to ascend the steps. With great sorrow and pity, I gazed at the abbot’s mutilated form as they laid him down. Gil began to extract the arrows from Abbot William’s chest, but the barbs were hooked deep beneath his ribs, so in the end all Gil could do was snap some of them off as far down the shaft as he could. Then Neil placed the abbot’s arms across his body and began to wipe the brown, dried blood from his face.

“How far north did King Edward get?” I asked.

“Edinburgh, before he turned back,” James answered. “Burned the abbey at Holyrood nearly to the ground. Thanks are due to Angus Og and his galleys for blockading the coast and stealing away three English supply ships at Black Rock before the king’s very eyes.”

Angus grinned. “We’re well fed now, thanks to the English king’s generosity.”

“While his galleys did their work,” James continued, “we waited on the other side of the Forth at Culross, as you had ordered, reckoning it better to avoid pitched battle just then. It was only a short time before the English decided Edinburgh was too empty for them and abandoned it. As soon as we got word of their retreat, we swung around the Forth and joined up with Angus. We pressed hard on their trail, as fast we could. I’m sorry, Robert. If we could have –”

“No, James, even I would not have guessed this of him. Besides, you had not enough men to provoke blows with him. I thought to lure him away and thought wrong. The blame’s on me, if anyone. He can’t have gotten far. He’s crawling along with a massive army, short on forage, plagued by illness and pestered by rain. He’ll quit when he feels safe enough to rest, thinking we’ll let him go as long as he’s retired from our land. But we won’t. We’ll leave enough men here to properly take care of this mess and follow him. As far as London if we need to.”

I myself turned the shovel that opened up the ground to receive the dead of Melrose Abbey: Cistercian monks with their white habits shredded into blood-soaked rags on their bodies, some maimed grotesquely, others burned beyond recognition. Men who had never sought any grace but God’s blessing.

Peace in this life is a fleeting illusion: never eternal, never entire. Why then have I expended so much of my life pursuing it, even at the price of my own sweat and tears and blood?

Because, this is what it is to live. This is what it is to strive for something better. This is the price you pay for your children and grandchildren and on down through the ages, with but a thin hope that they will not have to suffer the same.

But the price, the price ... how high?

Faith, Robert. Faith. Never relent. Never abandon hope. Say it and you’ll believe it.

***

Byland Moor, 1322

V
engeance gave us wings. Our numbers swollen by a frenzied contingent of Highlanders under Neil Campbell, we forded the Solway, slipped past Carlisle and dipped down through the Eden Valley in pursuit of our quarry. Meanwhile, I had dispatched Angus back to sea to fly down the coast and be ready for King Edward there, should he make it so far. Every day the scent grew warmer and the trail fresher. Edward had slackened his pace, while we intensified ours. The English locals by then had learned to run clear of a Scots army and man their town gates against us, for whatever meek comfort it afforded them. But we passed them by without a glance, bent for retribution.

By the 13
^th
of October, we had made it as far as Northallerton, a smoking ruin after we shook its inhabitants from the planks and rafters of the town and set spark to it. It was there in the north of Yorkshire that a scout informed us King Edward was taking respite at Rievaulx Abbey, a mere fifteen miles away. Striking distance.

I stroked my beard within the pliant, leather palm of my gauntlet. My commanders were clustered around me at the fore of my army: James, Walter, Neil, Boyd, Gil and Randolph. “If we quicken our pace, can we bring him within our grasp by morning?”

“We’re short on hours,” Boyd said, squinting into the dreary western sky where clouds of autumn occluded the sun, “and opportunities.”

Randolph stepped forward. “I’ve not delved this far into England for years, but if memory serves, the quickest route is directly south toward Sutton Bank and then a swift turn eastward toward the abbey. Any other way east from here to ford the rivers that run southward from the Hampton Hills and we lose dear time. Half a day’s warning and he’s to York and safely beyond our reach.”

Gil and Walter nodded their agreement. James remained stoic, willing to do whatever I bid. Boyd wore a devilish grin.

“You’re up for it, Boyd?”

He cracked the flat of one palm against the other. “Never more, sire.”

***

F
orging on through a mist as thick as porridge, we marched nightlong, resting but a few hours and then rising before daybreak to go on. As we crept southward, the mist began to break and lift with first light, lending a better view before us.

To the east ran a steep hill-line, faced at various points with cliffs as sheer as any castle wall. Beyond the cliffs, an ancient cairn, half-toppled, projected jaggedly against the pink morning sky. Past the cairn, the ridge ran further southward, dotted with clumps of trees and patches of farmland at its base. From this crowded and obscured scene, the fires of several encampments curled upward.

Damn
. Edward of England may have been indolent enough to take respite before holing himself securely up at York, but he had not been remiss in covering his backside. His soldiers were weary and wasted, mine pulling at the lead like hounds on the hunt. Our task now was to weigh our odds. I dispatched scouts and waited with agonizing impatience for their report. The chief standard, they relayed, was that of John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond. I called Randolph, James and Walter to me.

“Sutton Bank is the summit there, I believe,” Randolph said. He cleared away a patch of dirt with the toe of his boot, plucked up a nearby stick and began to trace the layout of the land, marking
X
’s to indicate the English bivouacs. “Roulston Scar here. Scawton Moor’s beyond and a straight shot to Rievaulx ... over here.”

“Any way around? It’s King Edward I want.”

Randolph bit his lip in thought, studying the map. “Better than a day lost if we retrace our steps north. And south – impossible without being discovered. Richmond has himself firmly planted in the pass there.”

“They’ll find us out shortly anyway,” Walter said. “Did we sight Harclay’s standard?”

Walter was becoming keener about his adversaries, but his confidence was still hampered by a tinge of doubt.

Randolph shook his head. “No, he skulked off to Carlisle, if rumors are true. Some deep rift there. Surprising – Harclay was Edward’s champion after Boroughbridge. But what doesn’t surprise me is that Edward would argue with those wiser than him.”

I viewed the rudimentary map from a different angle and still I came to the same conclusion. I drew my sword, pulled its point sharply through Randolph’s etching and then stuck it deep into the spot that was Rievaulx. “No other way but through then. Let’s signal our arrival, shall we?”

Soldiers quickly set to work building pyres along a long line west of the English and setting them alight. The wood was damp from a long season of rain and slow to start, but once the fires began to blaze, clouds of thick smoke drifted lazily and then sank low over the windless valley. As the smoke swirled and settled, James positioned the bulk of the army nearer to the steep pass which lay just south of Richmond’s camp. Randolph was at his side, as ever.

They struck directly up the pass – steep and rocky and dangerously narrow. Schiltrons in the van, shields raised overhead to meet the scatter of arrows that pelted them from the heights. The outcroppings to either side provided cover from above. Countless English arrows shattered on boulders. Some flew wide. Some short.

The first wave of English cavalry, compressed elbow to elbow, crashed against the prickly wall of Scottish spears and broke. Shafts hissed and then struck like random hailstones. Men grunted and roared, fighting for one more foot. The rattle and clang of metal biting metal filled the narrow valley.

In time, a faintly warm autumn sun had parted the curtain of smoky clouds from the nearby fires and ascended to its zenith. We were not only holding our ground, but gaining. I sent Neil up and around with his sure-footed Highlanders to engage the English on their flanks.

Walter sat astride his mount, his mail mittens lying ready across his lap. He had been silent, waiting his turn, both eager and apprehensive. The remainder of our forces were well hidden in a steep-sided, wooded gully behind us.

“I do think ...” I squinted against the glare. Once I was certain of what I saw, I took to my saddle and put my hand out to my squire for my helmet. “They’ve broken through, Walter. Your chance. Ride on to Rievaulx. Hurry! Take the king.”

Walter tugged his helmet on, then carefully strapped it under his chin before nodding to me. “I’ll give him a good scare, at the least.”

“Do better, Walter. He won’t learn anything from it otherwise. With the King of England as our prisoner, we can set everything right. We can end this war once and for all – today.”

As if I had asked the impossible, he said as he was going away, “Let us pray it will all come as easy as that.”

I watched him go, he and his men cutting their way deftly through the openings in the breaking lines of English. As the smoke of our quickly built fires rolled across the woodland on a rising breeze, I hailed Gil and gave the signal. With the rest of our footsoldiers and hobelars, we cut through the smoke-shrouded forest, up the slope to punch through the space between Roulston Scar and Sutton Bank, angling toward Richmond’s camp. As we gained the ridge, I shouted at Gil, “Richmond’s standard – there!”

Just as he raised his hand in acknowledgment, his horse shot up on its hind legs. Its muddied brown hooves flailed in the air, then twisted around. It tossed its head back. An arrow had pierced its brain, just below the forelock. Gil was not fast enough to free himself before the thrashing beast crumpled beneath its own weight. He disappeared in a sea of raised swords.

Before I could turn back to search for him, a blast of English trumpets sounded. James had Richmond backed helplessly against the cliffs of the corrie near the pass. By the time I turned again to look for Gil, he was already on a fresh horse, calling out orders and swinging his blade with clean precision.

With hardly a fight, the Earl of Richmond surrendered to James, rather than be butchered like a pig in a slaughtering pen.

***

Rievaulx Abbey, 1322

“A
rgh!” Boyd blew his nose and wiped it with the backside of his hand. “Damn English weather.”

Rievaulx Abbey stood defiantly against a gray sky. A heavy mist saturated the air. I shivered as the oncoming cold of night settled in my bones. “When the rain clears, Boyd, see that they torch it ... just like Melrose. Have they found the abbot yet?”

Through the wretched rain, a parade of monks was prodded past. Beside me, Randolph scowled in reproach at Boyd for not keeping a tighter rein on his men.

“Careful there,” Boyd said as one of his captains, who was taunting the monks with threats of castration, marched smartly by. “Mercy on Our Lord’s, ah ... pack of bloody, worm-eating, boy-swiving chanters ... I’ll take a look about, sire, and bring him to you ... if he lived.”

Boyd pounded up the steps to the church, paused to share a brief word with Gil, and then ducked inside. Gil came across the open green, his lean legs swallowing up the distance lightly, even after so long a day on the battlefield. He held out a silver plate, a barely touched meal of salmon and fruit piled upon it. He tipped the plate sideways and let the food rain onto the ground. “Appears the King of England left in a hurry. Two roasted swans untouched on the table, kegs of French wine, jeweled goblets. Everything stone cold by the time we arrived, but the men are cleaning it up well.”

“Which road did they take?” Randolph asked.

Gil looked to the dimming east and raised a finger. “That one.”

Toward the coast. Ah, very good. If Walter cannot run him down, then let Angus pursue him across the sea.

That night I slept not in the chill and damp of the open, but in the Abbot of Rievaulx’s own down-filled bed, my belly stuffed full and the taste of Burgundian wine on my tongue.

We had stood against the English at Bannockburn and brought them down. Taken from them Stirling and Perth and Edinburgh and best of all – Berwick. Driven them from Scotland time and again. This time we had pursued them deep within their own borders and beaten them soundly.

Still, it was not enough. Never enough. I wanted Edward of England kneeling in deference before me, promising all.

Always, there was one more task to accomplish.

***

“K
ing of bloody nothing is what you are. I’d sooner scrape my knees raw to pet a flea-infested mongrel than kneel to you.” John of Brittany, the Earl of Richmond, sneered at me. “Now have these bindings removed. I am a nobleman, not some commoner.”

In the center of the abbey’s nave, Randolph and James flanked a mounting pile of valuable relics and royal treasures. Randolph picked through the items on his side, methodically separating them into piles, while James plucked up the tall, curve-topped crozier and tested its weight. Beside him, Abbot John of Rievaulx swayed and made the sign of the cross.

“There’s no doubt of your identity,” I said to the earl. “I’d know you by your Plantagenet tongue alone. That is why you were spared. That is also why you will be escorted back to Scotland, like it or not.”

Rain had lasted through the night, drumming steadily at the roof. I stifled a yawn. Hoping for news of success from Walter, I had risen far too early and now, near noon, I was suffering the effect of too little sleep and too much drink. “You took a thorough thrashing yesterday. Again, you English underestimated us. Didn’t think we would come this far, aye, let alone outwit you, did you?” I turned to Abbot John, who had been brought before me that morning, looking every moment like he was on the verge of spouting some protestation. Vaguely, he reminded me of Bishop Lamberton in demeanor – that noble, restrained countenance, the cool, thoughtful squint, the slightly pursed lips. The build, though, was altogether different. Lamberton was taller and square-shouldered. The Abbot of Rievaulx had sloping shoulders, a stunted neck, shorter limbs. I studied him a moment and was about to speak when Richmond started again with his complaints.