Medieval Ever After (2 page)

Against the black
of the moonless sky, the fires lingering from the siege could be seen. The last dying embers of the battle blended into the smoky haze that hung heavy in the air. All was oddly still as the inhabitants of the city returned to what was left of their homes; some were ravaged while others were untouched. The citizens had been out in force for most of the day, helping each other, as the city of Berwick tried to resume a sense of normalcy. But that sense was a long way off.

The city walls were in shambles, mostly to the west and southwest where the English had been able to gain ground for launching their massive siege engines. They had also come by way of the sea, battering the city from the east. Day and night, the bombardments from King Edward’s forces came strong and steady. There was a seemingly endless supply of Englishmen with which to harass the increasingly weary city. For an entire month, the siege had raged. Now, it was finished.

The aftermath of the siege and surrender was beyond horrific. There were bodies in the streets and the stench of blood mingled with smoke from the dying fires. The Scots holding the city had long since surrendered, fled or died, and the English now filled the city like a great Anglo tide. They crashed upon Berwick’s threshold on their mighty warhorses, pouring through gaps in the walls or through the burned gates that had stood strong and proud throughout the siege. Like the mighty hand of God, the English had swept back the savage curtain to reveal the battered and dying city beneath.

At midnight, the smoke from the crushed city was still fresh and pungent. Dogs could be heard barking on occasion or a child crying in the distance but, for the most part, it was eerily still. Edward’s advance forces had already moved into the city to secure the strategic points, one being Berwick Castle on the banks of the River Tweed. The castle had become the central command post as groups of English combed the city to secure it for the arrival of the king.

And arrive he did, like a conquering Caesar. Edward was not a pampered king; he had been fighting most of his life and was a warrior before he had been a monarch. Astride his massive Belgian charger, he thundered into the city with a retinue of advisors and senior knights, all of them battle born and bred. Carrying torches through the battered streets, they made their way to Berwick Castle.

Banners flapped in the brisk wind and torches blazed as they thundered down the dark avenues. The castle was well fortified with hundreds of English troops as the king and his entourage arrived and the group made its way into the great hall. Fighting men were everywhere, some sporting impressive battle wounds, as Edward sought the one man in particular that he knew to be heading the room. The Earl of Carlisle, his most faithful subject, had secured not only half the city personally, but the castle as well. Edward’s pale eyes sought out Sir Tate de Lara, the commander of his forces.

He was not difficult to locate; Tate had seen the king arrive in the hall and was making his way towards him. De Lara was a big man with the dark coloring of his Welsh mother, the illegitimate son of Edward I and uncle to the current king. He met his nephew in the middle of the smoky, dim hall.

“Sire,” he greeted amiably. “You will be pleased to know that the entire city has been secured. Patrols are reporting in from all corners of the city and I am told all things are well in hand. Berwick is finally ours.”

Edward seemed older than his twenty-one years; this siege had seen more than its share of hardship and he was already missing some friends in death. He was greatly relieved to see a healthy and sound de Lara, the man he depended on more than any of his other generals. He shook the man’s hand thankfully.

“Praise God,” Edward muttered, feeling his fatigue but unwilling to show it. “I could have not have done this without you.”

De Lara smiled wearily. “I had a good deal of help.”

Edward shook his head at the man’s modesty. “You, as always, are the catalyst for men to show their true strength.” He eyed the group of unfamiliar faces lingering near the hearth; there were women in the mix and he knew them to be hostages. He nodded his head in their direction. “Seton, I presume?”

De Lara’s storm-cloud colored eyes drifted to the group huddled near the blazing fire. “Indeed,” he replied. “The man and his family. Would you interrogate them tonight or wait until morning? It has been a long day and I am sure you would like to rest.”

Edward waved him off. “I have waited a long time for this moment and I shall not be put off by something as mundane as my exhaustion,” he began to walk towards the group. “Where is Pembury?”

De Lara followed. “He went out to secure the posts for the night personally. He should be back momentarily.”

Edward focused on the hostage group. “Does he know what you and I have discussed?”

De Lara shook his head with some dissatisfaction. “He knows that he will be made commander of Berwick once the city is secured,” he made sure to speak pointedly to the king. “Beyond that, I thought it best that you tell him his destiny.”

“I told you to do it.”

“He will take it better coming from you.”

Edward glared at de Lara as they came upon the hostages. But it was a brief scowl, unnoticed by the group before him. Edward was quickly composed into the emotionless, somewhat haughty, monarch as his gaze moved amongst the unfamiliar faces. An odd hush fell upon the room as the king finally confronted his opposition face to face.

“Who is Alexander Seton?” he demanded.

The man standing in front of the group bobbed his head slightly. “I am he.”

Edward’s gaze fixed on the man; he was older, as he knew he would be, nearly bald but with a powerful body beneath the tartan and mail. Sir Alexander Seton had led the defenses against the English, holding the city of Berwick for several months before finally being forced by the decisive English victory at Halidon Hill to surrender.

The king planted himself in front of Seton, continuing his scrutiny; there was a good deal of confusion in his expression as if trying to figure out a great many things. Without warning, Edward balled a fist and struck Seton firmly on the jaw. The older man went reeling as the women in his group shrieked.

“That was for forcing my hand,” Edward growled, daring the man to come back at him. “You made an agreement, Seton. The city was to surrender at the appointed date and you would still have your son. What possessed you to trade your son’s life for your stubborn pride?”

Seton rubbed his jaw, eyeing the passionate young king. “You would not understand, my lord.”

Edward was growing increasingly livid. “He was a child yet he behaved with more honor than those who call themselves adults,” he pointed a finger at Seton. “God damn you for forcing my hand against your brave son. God damn you for sending to death a young man who held out hope until the very end that his father would save him.”

De Lara was standing next to the king, his jaw ticking faintly as he watched the exchange; young Edward had spent most of his young life running from Roger Mortimer and his mother, so the man well understood a child’s fear and confusion when a parent refused to protect him. It was a painful subject made more painful by the death of Seton’s fourteen year old son, a lad that Edward had come to know during his captivity.

Seton had pledged his son as a hostage to ensure that the Scots would surrender Berwick should reinforcements not arrive in time, but the deadline came and went, no reinforcements came, yet Seton did not surrender. Edward was forced to execute hostages as punishment. Thomas Seton had died with a rope around his neck and hope in his heart.

“It did not give my father pleasure to watch my brother die.” A young woman standing behind Seton made herself known. “My father’s hands were tied; his commanders refused to surrender. Even if he wanted to submit to your deadline, he could not have. His men would not have obeyed.”

Edward’s focus moved from Seton to the woman behind him; she was short of stature with lush dark hair and eyes of the palest blue he had ever seen. She was a strikingly lovely woman even dirty and disheveled as she was. Edward’s attention fixed on the girl.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Seton turned to look at the girl, his expression bursting with disapproval, but the young woman ignored him and stepped forward.

“I am the Lady Joselyn de Velt Seton,” she said with courage. “Alexander Seton is my father.”

“Then Thomas was your brother.”

She nodded, losing some of her confidence. “Aye,” she nearly whispered. “He was my younger brother.”

Edward cocked his head slightly. “I was not aware that Seton had two daughters.”

Joselyn nodded. “Maggie is my younger sister. I am the eldest of the Seton children.”

The king’s eyebrows lifted. Then he turned to de Lara with a knowing glance. “Joselyn,” he murmured, pronouncing it the way she had;
Joe-zalyn
. He looked back at the young woman. “How old are you, lady?”

“I have seen twenty-two years, my lord.”

“Who is your husband?”

“I am not married, my lord.”

Edward was shocked. “No husband?” he repeated, incredulous. “Why not?”

“She has been at Jedburgh Abbey,” Seton answered for her. “She has been living by the Augustinian code since she was eleven years of age.”

Edward looked at the man as if he had lost his mind. “That,” he pointed at Joselyn, “has been meant for the cloister? Are you completely stupid, man? She would command a husband of such wealth and stature as you could not dream of.”

Seton looked at his daughter, who gazed back at him with some fear and, as de Lara thought whilst studying her, some chagrin. Before the conversation gained too much steam, a group of knights entered the hall and distracted the focus. Their voices were loud, the sounds of their weapons and mail reverberating off the old stone walls. Edward and Tate turned to the group, as did everyone else in the room. The muscle of the king’s forced had arrived.

“Ah, Pembury,” Edward grabbed de Lara by the arm and pulled him away from the Seton clan. He gestured to the group of incoming knights, now beginning to cluster around a massive table of food several feet away. “You will tell him now of his destiny. And mind that you leave out nothing.”

De Lara was obviously displeased with the command. “You had better ask where Seton’s other daughter is before I tell him. If you want the man to marry her, then….”

Edward shook his head. “Forget about Margaret Seton. We have a very lovely and completely viable prospect right here. He will marry Joselyn Seton before this night is through and secure the city with a marriage to the daughter of the defeated Scot commander.”

Tate couldn’t help it; he grunted with exasperation, running a weary hand over his face. Then he glanced at the Lady Joselyn, standing small but strong next to her father. She certainly was a lovely little thing. There was no use in fighting the king’s wishes; once the man’s mind was set, there was no deterring him. He sighed in resignation and turned in the direction of the knights now settling in.

“Stephen,” he called to the group. “A word, please.”

Stephen of Pembury separated himself from the group and headed in de Lara’s direction. He was an enormously muscled man standing eight inches over six feet and was easily taller than even the tallest man in the room, de Lara included. In fact, Pembury was a giant wherever he went. With his dark hair, chiseled features and cornflower blue eyes, he cut a striking figure of male virility and power, and had more than his share of female admirers. He was enormously strong, intelligent and obedient to a fault. He had been close friends with Tate for years and the cornflower blue eyes twinkled as he came upon his friend and liege.

“Outposts are set for the night, my lord,” he said in a deep voice. “There are four serious breaches in the walls but I have those covered by at least twenty men each. We’ll set to repairing them come sunrise but for now I have told the men to rest for the night. ’Twill be the first real rest the men have had in over a month.”

Tate nodded. “I do not disagree with you on that account,” he told him. “We are all quite weary.”

“This has been a long and eventful two days.”

“Eventful and bloody.”

Stephen wriggled his dark brows in agreement, eyeing the king as the man wandered over to the hearth where a group of unkempt people huddled. The young king seemed particularly weary and pensive, but considering the length and cost of the siege of Berwick, Stephen was not surprised.

“Any further orders from Edward?” he asked quietly.

Tate thought long and hard on that question. Then he crossed his powerful arms, struggling to find the correct words.

“You have known since this campaign began that Edward intended to place you in charge of the military garrison of Berwick,” he began.

Stephen began to show the first signs of his fatigue; he rubbed his eyes and took a deep, weary breath. “Aye,” he stopped rubbing his eyes and blinked them furiously as if struggling not to fall asleep where he stood. “I have already picked my command team with the approval of the king. Too bad Ken isn’t here; I am sorely missing the man.”

He spoke of Kenneth St. Héver, their friend and colleague, now on the Welsh Marches keeping the Welsh princes at bay. All three men had served together for the past several years, a powerful trio of knights for Edward’s cause, and this was the first instance that had seen them separated. Tate nodded in agreement to Stephen’s comment.