Insurrection (73 page)

As they emerged and thundered towards the track, Robert peeled back his lips and roared. ‘
For Scotland!
’

The English, seeing them coming, turned their horses roughly, wrenching swords from scabbards with harsh shouts. The foot soldiers, who bore the red cross of St George, drew weapons and jostled together in front of the carts, ready to defend the precious loads. The carthorses harnessed to the ten wagons, laden with crates, sacks and barrels, neighed in fear, the drivers struggling to control them. Robert’s company struck them hard on the right side, the knights yelling furiously as they spurred their horses up the slight incline to meet the road.

Robert went straight for a knight at the front of the train, who was clad in black with a blue cross on his shield. He carved in with his broadsword, the steel flashing in the golden evening. The knight raised his shield and Robert’s blade cracked hard against the wood. The man hadn’t had time to pull up his ventail and his face was clenched with determination as he clouted the sword away and lunged at Robert’s side. His sword scraped along Robert’s shield, scoring a line through the red chevron. The knight spat through his teeth and came in again. His blade met Robert’s in mid-air, the clash of steel barely audible within the turmoil erupting all around them. Robert forced the man’s sword forward and down, the bite of metal on metal screeching. Their horses lurched together, the beasts gnashing their teeth. As his crossguard met the knight’s blade, Robert twisted, hooking the man’s sword aside and off-balancing him. Pulling back sharply while the knight was still recovering, he swung his foot free of his stirrup and aimed a mighty kick at the man’s side. The knight, already tilted in his saddle, toppled sideways with a shout. His horse’s head was pulled viciously to one side as he fell, dragging the reins with him.

As the knight landed with a crunch of mail, his destrier pulled itself free and reared up, iron hooves striking out. One caught Hunter in the neck, causing the horse to stumble, with a squeal of pain. Robert, his foot still out of the stirrup, was pitched forward, over Hunter’s bowing head. He struck the ground and rolled, just in time to avoid the stamping hooves of a carthorse. With a hiss of breath, he grasped for his sword, pulling it from the dust of the track as the knight, who had staggered to his feet, came at him with a snarl, blood gushing from his nose. Beyond, Robert glimpsed a chaos of movement and colour as all along the track his men tackled the English. He had a second to realise that Comyn and his company were nowhere to be seen along the train’s left flank; a second for cold shock to fill him, then the knight was rushing him and he was lurching forward to counter, swinging his sword round over his head and down to the right in a brutal cut of wrath.

The fighting was fierce, the initial element of surprise that had favoured the Scots gone, the English, who had formed up swiftly, now fully engaged. Knights hacked and slashed, their horses crashing together in the close quarters. Foot soldiers hammered at one another, locked in dogged combat, men wrestling one another to the ground, stamping on fingers, slamming sword pommels into jaws, thrusting dirks into throats and ribs. Blood sprayed and horses screamed. Robert’s force was determined, but without Comyn’s company, they were outnumbered. Within moments, the battle began to turn, some of the Scottish knights forced to counter two opponents at once. John of Atholl was roaring through his helm, parrying with a knight beside him, while trying to fend off a foot soldier attacking him from the ground. One of the English knights yelled for the driver of the lead cart to break and head for the castle. Obeying, the man cracked his whip across the horses’ broad backs and they plunged forward, the wagon veering off along the rough road towards Roxburgh.

Robert was grappling with the black-clad knight when he saw the two carthorses coming at him. He threw himself to one side as the cart went thundering between them. For a moment, he was on his own on the train’s left flank, all the fighting concentrated on the right. He turned into the trees, panting for breath and yelled Comyn’s name. For a moment, he thought he heard distant shouts, then another cart was trundling recklessly past.

Edward Bruce had just punched his sword into the throat of a foot soldier who’d stabbed at his leg when he saw the carts begin to move, the drivers flicking their whips to urge the beasts on. He slammed his heels into his horse and pressed the animal after one wagon, rumbling away through the chaos. Coming up alongside the carthorses, Edward swung his sword into the straps of the harness, carving through the leather. He shouted as the driver struck out at him with the whip, which caught his horse on the rump, slashing a red line through its skin and causing it to pitch into a canter. The freed horse veered off into the woods, leaving the cart to continue with one. Neil Campbell, seeing Edward’s plan, spurred his own mount to follow, striking at the harness on the other side. A few of the Scottish foot soldiers had fought their way through the English and were scrabbling on to the wagons, climbing over crates and barrels to tackle the drivers. Two carts had turned and were trundling back down the road, the way they had come. Some of the English knights were riding with them, heading unknowingly towards the force of James Stewart.

Suddenly, from the left, a ragged line of horsemen appeared. Robert, who had hauled himself on to the back of one of the wagons headed for the castle, saw them coming through the trees, John Comyn at the van. He yelled at Comyn to take the wagons, then climbed over the sacks to tackle the driver. The cart was bouncing recklessly along the road. He lurched, grabbed the side with a curse, then pushed himself up and fell on the driver. The man struggled, but at a brutal thrust of Robert’s sword, he tumbled from his seat and went sprawling to the ground, his neck snapping under him. As the terrified horses continued, Robert dropped his sword and lifted the reins. By the time he managed to bring the cart to a halt, the rest of Comyn’s forces had emerged from the woods and were tackling the remaining English. Of the ten carts, six had escaped, four heading for Roxburgh, two back the way they had come.

Soaked with sweat, Robert jumped down from the wagon and jogged back towards his men. Tugging down his ventail, he spat dust and blood from his mouth. The track before him was strewn with bodies. A few dead horses lay among the men, one twisting feebly. For a moment, Robert thought it was Hunter, then he saw his destrier held by Nes, who was astride his own horse, the sword in his free hand bloody. Going straight for Comyn, who had dismounted on the corpse-strewn track, Robert passed his banner, fluttering limply on the tracks and stared down at the young knight from Carrick, who had followed him since Carlisle. He crouched. There was a dagger protruding from the side of Walter’s neck, the collar of his tunic awash with blood. His eyes were staring blankly into the sky.

Robert turned his gaze to Comyn, rage rushing through him. Other men were staggering to their feet, or sliding weakly from saddles. Already, his company were confronting Comyn’s forces, Atholl shouting fiercely at Dungal MacDouall. As he went towards Comyn, Robert’s wrath was so great he didn’t even notice the red welts on the faces and hands of many of the company, or the fact that they were missing several men. His blood still hot from battle, it took an effort of will not to launch himself at Comyn. Instead, he came up into the man’s face, his words spitting out. ‘Where were you? I’ve lost a dozen men, you son of a bitch!’

Comyn’s dark eyes were slits as he glared at Robert. ‘And I lost ten!’

Dungal MacDouall had forced his way past Atholl and came up alongside Comyn. His face was covered in livid lumps. ‘Hornets attacked us.’

‘Hornets?’ said Edward, standing beside his brother. ‘If it was lions I might have sympathised.’ He turned to the rest of Robert’s company. ‘We were fighting men, while they were struggling with insects!’ He looked back at Comyn. ‘How like your family to avoid a battle at any cost! What was it at Falkirk? Ants?’

As some of Robert’s men laughed harshly and Comyn flushed, Dungal stepped in, lunging at Edward. Edward ducked under the strike and barrelled into his attacker, sending him crashing to the ground. Comyn’s men shouted, surging forward as Edward straddled the Galloway captain and cuffed him viciously. Robert’s men stepped in, those who had sheathed their swords going for them again. From along the road came the drum of hoof-beats as James Stewart and his men appeared. Some of them held aloft flaming torches, tiny echoes of the evening sun, flooding the way behind. At the sight of the steward, Edward clambered off Dungal, who staggered to his feet, spitting blood. The captain went blindly at Edward, but Comyn seized him.

James stared around him as he pulled his horse to a rough stop. ‘What in Christ’s name happened?’ he demanded, his gaze going between Robert and Comyn. His eyes moved across the bodies on the track to the four wagons, two of which had been freed of their horses. ‘Where are the rest of the carts?’

Robert shook his head. ‘They made it to Roxburgh.’

James looked thunderous, but he nodded to his men who held the flaming brands. ‘Burn them.’ As the knights headed to the wagons, the steward looked back at Robert. ‘We need to be quick,’ he said, his voice tight with anger. ‘The garrison will be alerted. We cannot fight them all.’

As the men began to move, Robert grabbed Comyn’s arm. ‘It is on you,’ he seethed, ‘the deaths of my men.’

Comyn wrenched himself free.

67

On a flower-speckled meadow outside the town of Canterbury a grand tournament was under way. The lavish affair was blessed by the gold of the early evening sun, which poured its liquid light into the faces of the hundreds of spectators who lined the jousting ground, sparkling in the jewelled gowns worn by the ladies and in the polished mail and crested helms of the knights.

Scaffolds erected to either side of the ground were draped with swathes of scarlet cloth and filled with noble men and women. Lesser folk thronged the area below, sprawled on the warm grass, faces flushed with sun and ale, or else on their feet to watch the thunderous charges of the knights. At the end of the field, rising above the lists, was the royal box, fashioned in the likeness of a castle’s battlements, from which hung the alternate shields of the king and his newly wed queen.

Edward, darkly glorious in black robes trimmed with heavy gold braid, watched the knights compete from the cushioned comfort of his throne. The fierce jousts that had enlivened the afternoon had ended and a contest of skill now formed the finale. A quintain had been set up at one end of the ground, from which was strung the wooden outline of a man, painted in the headscarf and robes of a Saracen, with a large red heart daubed on his chest. The knights were taking it in turns to charge the Saracen with their lances. As Ralph de Monthermer set off down the field, his yellow mantle with its green eagle flying out behind him, lance couched towards the quintain, the crowd followed him with their gaze. The royal knight struck the heart in the centre, sending the Saracen swinging violently round, counter-weighted by the sandbag on the other end of the quintain’s beam. Ralph plunged on past, the iron hooves of his destrier kicking up clods of earth. The onlookers cheered.

Edward’s gaze moved to the line of mounted knights at the other end of the field, waiting for the pages to swing the quintain back into position. Raised behind them, dark against the mandarin sky, was the faded dragon banner that had once been hoisted over the dusty tournament grounds of Gascony. Edward’s eyes drifted over the knights – Humphrey de Bohun, hero of the tournament, Aymer de Valence, Henry Percy, Guy de Beauchamp, Robert Clifford, Thomas of Lancaster. These young men, nurtured in his court and blooded on his battlegrounds, had come of age in a decade of war. Their apprenticeship was over. All of them had succeeded their fathers. No longer Knights of the Dragon, they had taken their places as Gawain and Perceval, Mordred and Lancelot, the names of those immortal knights carved in the oak of his table. Carved in these men’s souls. Of the veterans only the aged John de Warenne, the earls of Lincoln and Norfolk, and the belligerent Bishop Bek remained. Bold midday was here, in the fiery zeal of younger men.

Hearing a soft clapping beside him, Edward looked round to see his bride dutifully applauding Ralph de Monthermer’s display. Marguerite was known by her people as the Pearl of France. A jewel she was, dark-haired like her brother, King Philippe, with milk-white skin, her delicate form enfolded in a gown of scarlet damask, girdled with a belt embossed with glossy rubies, her hair bound up in a padded net that framed her heart-shaped face. It was early September and the air was mild, but the queen had draped an ermine stole around her shoulders to ward off the first hint of evening’s cool. Daughter of the warrior kings of the Capetian dynasty of France, Marguerite had sailed into Dover the week before, a tender symbol of peace, nervous, but poised, with a stately array of menservants and handmaidens. Two days after her ship had docked, Edward wed her outside the doors of Canterbury Cathedral. The solemn ceremony, performed by the truculent Archbishop Winchelsea, had been followed by three days of tournaments and feasts.

Edward had spared no expense for the occasion of his wedding. Beyond the jousting ground were scores of striped marquees, decorated with colourful streams of flags. Smoke curled from fires, over which the glistening carcasses of wild boar were being turned on spits. The trestles inside the pavilions were laid with silver and gold plates, and sprays of flowers. There would be trays of warm, spicy gingerbread, crisp-skinned apples roasted in honey, cloud-soft custards, succulent venison that slipped from the bone, sugared almonds, and wine to fill a river. Outside the marquees, servants were stringing lanterns from the branches of trees. As evening fell each would be crowned with a halo of glowing stars.