Insurrection (69 page)

64

They could smell the smoke long before they reached the town, the hot wind carrying its bitterness to them, the horizon a dirty grey. The massive column of riders moved towards it, the hearts of the men growing as heavy as their limbs as they realised the journey’s end would provide little sustenance or comfort. The supplies brought by ship to Leith were running low and they were deep in the enemy’s land. Barbed thistles and spiny gorse studded the bare fields, the dry wind blowing grit into their eyes.

Humphrey de Bohun rode in the vanguard with his father’s men. He was silent, staring into the smoke-tinged distance, where the sea was a silver blade, pressed against the edge of the land. For weeks now he had suffered from a nagging ache inside, as if he had forgotten or misplaced something. He knew it was his father, whose corpse, claimed from the mud of the battleground, was being drawn south into England by a company of his knights. The knowledge hadn’t stopped the feeling. If anything it had grown stronger, as though his father’s body were a string tugging something from inside him the further it was pulled.

The English victory at Falkirk had been a great success, the battleground the grave of more than ten thousand Scots. In comparison, the king’s army lost only a small percentage of men, the only significant casualties Humphrey’s father and the Master of the English Templars, who met a similar fate in the treacherous bogs around the burn. Despite this success it had been a much grimmer fight in contrast to the first campaign. Furthermore, according to witnesses, William Wallace had fled the field at the battle’s end, bearing north towards Stirling in the wake of the Scottish cavalry. King Edward’s anger at the escape of Wallace and the nobles was only dulled by the fact that the majority of the Scots’ fighting force was lying flyblown in the fields of Falkirk. The danger the English army now faced came in the form of their dwindling supplies, the hope they’d had heading west towards Ayr, the reported base of Robert Bruce, dying in their blistered mouths.

The fields on the outskirts of the town, which should have been tall with wheat, plump in the late August sun, were scattered with blackened piles, the crops harvested only to be burned. Smoke still drifted from some of the heaps, the vapours lingering over the scorched ground. The men stared around them as they passed, the sight of the wanton destruction a torment to their aching bellies.

‘I pray to God the bastards starve through the coming winter,’ growled Henry Percy.

Humphrey looked over at the young man, whose flushed face jutted wrathfully over his ventail. Percy, who had been given Ayrshire by the king at the start of the occupation, had been the most vocal about hunting down Robert Bruce, perhaps because he and Clifford felt responsible for his escape from Irvine. Humphrey had kept quiet, not joining in the belligerent conversations around the evening campfire, the death of his father weighing heavy on him. But as they entered the ruins of the port of Ayr, his thoughts turned to his former friend.

For a time, after hearing rumours of Robert’s desertion, Humphrey had still hoped to discover a lie, but with the events in Irvine he’d no longer been able to deny the truth: that the man he had befriended and trusted was a traitor. He blamed himself for not telling Robert sooner that the Stone of Destiny was one of the four relics named in the prophecy. Perhaps he could have persuaded him of the necessity of seizing it, for with hindsight it seemed clear that the theft was the point when Robert had turned from their cause. Part of Humphrey understood this, even sympathised. The stone was, after all, a symbol of the man’s right to the throne of Scotland, a right that had effectively been revoked by its taking. On the march north, he had determined to capture Robert not simply for justice, but so he could look into the man’s eyes and know that it was for the love of his kingdom rather than the hatred of theirs that he had betrayed them. Then, at least, he could know that he had not been so wrong or blind to have drawn Robert into their circle, perhaps only naïve. Now, however, as they passed along deserted streets lined by the charred wrecks of houses, Humphrey knew all hope of that was dead. The man who had burned this town meant for them to suffer at the sight of the butchered cattle in the market square, a pyre of blackened bones; intended for them to be maddened by the barrels of beer hacked apart outside a brewery, the sticky contents staining the dusty ground beneath swarms of flies. The man who had done this, who had left nothing for them to feed upon, meant for them to die in the field.

The king, his voice rigid, ordered his knights to search some of the more intact buildings, but it seemed starkly apparent that no one was left to tell them where Bruce and his men had gone. The English would find neither justice nor nourishment here. As the knights dismounted and moved through the wreckage, Humphrey slid wearily from his horse and took a wine skin from his pack. His face felt hot and tight and the wine stung his cracked lips. As he licked them he tasted blood.

‘My lord king.’

Humphrey saw Sir Robert Clifford hailing the king.

The knight had headed out of a long timber hall, which appeared mostly undamaged. ‘There is something you should see, my lord.’ Clifford, usually so composed, looked riled.

Humphrey followed as the king left Bayard with his page and strode towards the hall. Behind him came Aymer and Henry. Ducking under the door lintel, they entered a bare reception room, mail boots clinking on the earth floor. One by one, they passed into the main chamber, where wan light seeped in through a single window. Furniture lay scattered and broken on the floor, which was littered with meadowsweet. There was a bed against the far wall, partly obscured by a curtain.

As Humphrey’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw what Robert Clifford had seen. They all did. On the far wall an image had been daubed in red paint. It was crude, but clear – a red rampant lion rearing over a dragon, one great paw on the serpent’s twisted head.

Humphrey felt fury assail him at the sight. He looked at the king, whose face was clenched in the gloom. ‘My lord, forgive me. I chose the wrong man. I let a snake into our midst.’

Edward turned to look at him. ‘We both did.’

The faces of Aymer and Henry mirrored his ire.

Putting his back to the crude image, the king removed his mailed gloves. ‘Kneel, Sir Humphrey,’ he said, his harsh tone resolute, ‘it is time for you to take your father’s mantle.’

Humphrey understood the king’s reason for the solemn act here in these ruins before that crude image, the insult stinging. With one stroke the king raised him and bound him to hunt down the offenders. Kneeling stiffly, Humphrey removed his own gauntlets. Placing his hands in the king’s he did homage for the earldoms of Essex and Hereford, and for the hereditary office of Constable of England, passed to him through his father. When homage was done, he rose to swear the oath of fealty, promising to remain true to his lord and king.

‘We will mark this occasion properly in time,’ Edward assured him. ‘For now, I will return to England. We can go no further, not without supplies. The Scots were gravely weakened by their defeat at Falkirk and I will return for the traitors that escaped in due course. Until then, Sir Humphrey, I want you to ride south with your men to Annandale. Destroy the castle at Lochmaben and burn every settlement you pass through. I don’t want enough left of that shit hole to fill a thimble.’

Humphrey bowed. ‘As you command, Lord King.’

The king and his knights headed out into the smoke-wreathed air, leaving the red lion of Scotland rearing behind them.

The three ships glided north through the inky waters of the Channel, beneath a moonless sky. Black sails flew from their masts and only the creak of timbers and rhythmic splash of oars gave any indication of their presence. Two were war galleys, long and slender, each rowed by eighty oarsmen. The third was a bulky merchant cog, a broader, rounded vessel steered by two oars at the stern. From the rigging, high above the cog’s deck, came three piercing whistles.

At the sound, her captain crossed to the port side. He stared into the distance, the sea a rolling sheet of darkness. Faint in the void, he glimpsed the subdued glow of firelight, dotted along the horizon.

‘Master Pietro.’

The captain turned to see Luca, one of his senior crewmen. The man’s features were blurred in the gloom.

‘The ships extend as far as we can see, sir. I do not think we can pass the English blockade unnoticed.’

Pietro nodded. ‘Go and tell him.’

Two hours later, the sky changing from black to blue, the three vessels neared the blockade. The ships were widely spaced, each rocking at anchor, but it was clear that nothing much more than a fishing vessel would be able to pass through undetected. Nonetheless, they made it quite close before they were seen.

The ship looming before them was a ponderous English cog with a thick mast and a squat wooden castle at the fore. Protruding from the castle’s top was the angular hulk of a trebuchet and from the bowsprit an iron-tipped ram thrust like a fist. As the three galleys were spied, harsh voices echoed across the water and men appeared along the gunwales, illuminated by lantern-light, crossbows primed in their hands. Pietro ordered his crew to slow, the command relayed to the war galleys. The oarsmen strained on the sweeps until the three vessels drew close together and anchors were swung over the sides to plunge into the depths. The crew of the English cog threw ropes across to the first galley and, with a grating of timbers, came alongside.

Pietro stood at the gunwales, Luca beside him, watching as the English soldiers boarded the war galley. Some were armed with swords, some crossbows and a few bore lanterns. One of their number was dressed better than the others in a tunic trimmed with gold brocade. Pietro took him for the captain. The captain spoke briefly with the commander of the warship, while his men inspected the vessel and crew. It wasn’t long before the English, with the use of gangplanks thrown across, began to board the merchant cog.

Pietro met the captain, who jumped down on to the deck, flanked by two men holding crossbows. Pietro raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

‘You have entered English waters and are subject to an inspection of your vessel, under the authority of King Edward.’ The captain nodded to the warship. ‘Your escort tells me you have sailed from Genoa.’ Other soldiers were clambering across, spreading out among the benches where Pietro’s oarsmen shifted uneasily. ‘A long way, yes?’

Pietro had been sailing the arduous route from Genoa to Bruges and Dover for a decade and understood enough English to get the gist of the man’s words. He replied after a pause, his accent making the captain frown in concentration. ‘Long, yes. But safer than land, for precious cargo.’

The English captain scanned the ship, his eyes lingering on the opening that led down into the lower deck. ‘What cargo?’

‘Paper,’ replied Pietro. ‘From a mill in the mountains, outside our city. We deliver to your port of Dover.’

The captain nodded slowly, only seeming to be half listening, his gaze roving over the crowded decks of the cog. ‘Why are you sailing under the
lupo
?’ he asked, gesturing to the black sails. ‘One might think you have something to hide?’

‘Yes,’ answered Pietro, ‘precious cargo. That is what we hide. This sea between England and France is dangerous since your kingdoms have been at war. We must beware. Your enemies might attack. Prevent our cargo from reaching your shores.’

‘I doubt paper will win us the war,’ replied the captain dryly. ‘Show me the hold.’

Pietro and Luca led the captain below deck, the stairs creaking. Eight English soldiers followed, swords drawn.

One half of the hold was stacked with rows of wooden crates, a narrow aisle between them. The other half formed the crew’s quarters, lined with blankets. There were twenty or so men down here, their sleeping forms illuminated by two lanterns swinging from a beam.

‘Search the place,’ said the captain, nodding to his soldiers.

‘And the crates, sir?’ asked one, frowning at the stacks.

‘Open six.’

Pietro began to protest, but the English captain turned on him. ‘Your vessel has entered English waters and is subject to the authority of our king. We are at war. You could be delivering arms or funds to our Scottish enemies. It is our right to determine this before allowing you to continue to our shores.’

Pietro only understood half of what the captain said, but understood the tone well enough to know it would be dangerous to argue. After a pause, he motioned for the soldiers to go ahead, watching as they moved in among the crates, selecting six from different parts of the stacks to open for inspection. He sensed Luca stiffen beside him. Other Englishmen were heading down to join them, having finished searching the upper deck. On the captain’s orders they began picking through the blankets in the sleeping quarters, waking the men and knocking on the hull of the vessel to check for hidden holds. The captain moved over as the others opened the lids of the crates, revealing soft sheets of paper, made from pulped linen. The captain rifled through them, lifting the sheets, each of which was decorated with a watermark.

‘Paper, sir,’ called one of the soldiers, from further in the hold. ‘They all contain paper.’

The captain addressed the men searching the crew’s quarters. ‘Anything?’ When they shook their heads he turned to Pietro. ‘I’m satisfied.’ Gesturing for his men to follow, he climbed the stairs to the deck above.