The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) (11 page)

Norfolk scoffed. “Suicide. By the time we get our horses across the bridge —”

“You’re thinking like a knight eager for glory, my lord.” Mortimer tried to suppress a grin. “But truly now, what is our greatest weapon, the one that will endanger neither your life nor mine?”

Kent threw a look back toward our forces, nodding thoughtfully. “We’ve enough archers with us ...”

“But they’re out of bowshot!” Norfolk jabbed a finger toward our foes, safely positioned. Wide-eyed at the outburst, his horse tossed its head back and pulled away. The earl yanked the reins closer, holding firm until the animal settled. “Come now, Sir Roger. You’re speaking in riddles.”

“Then let me speak more plainly.” Mortimer turned to me. “Send a detachment of archers to the other side. If the Scots fly down from their eyrie, the archers can rain arrows on them and half will be dead before they ever come within an axe’s throwing distance.”

“And if the Scots flee?” Norfolk said.

“If they run, why would we let them go?” Mortimer leveled him with a gaze so stern and commanding that Norfolk cringed. “We would cross the bridge with our cavalry then and give chase. A month we’ve spent wandering this land, hampered by rain and mud, and they’ve never been as close as they are now.”

As if they had heard him, a thousand voices rose as one from across the plain. They shouted insults, but their unintelligible words all tumbled together in a deafening roar. Soon, they were thrashing their swords against their small round shields in a rhythmic
‘thump, thump, thump’
that pulsed across the valley and rattled the heavens. I prayed that God might reach down and flick them into the river with one angry sweep of his fist.

A hand alighted on my shoulder. Startled, I jerked my head toward the pressure. Kent leaned close, his fingers pinching harder in order to draw my attention away from the jeering horde.

“Send the archers,” he said.

It was a command, not a question.

I nodded obediently. “Very well. Send them.”

But even as I gave the signal, my gut tightened. I wondered if we should wait awhile before taking action, for it was an impulsive move, however logical it may have seemed. I knew enough of the Black Douglas’s ways to know that he never acted without a plan. Surely, Mortimer knew that, too?

Kent and Mortimer strode off to give directions, while my uncle Thomas and I looked on.

Norfolk scratched at the scraggly beard covering his unshaven neck. “Perhaps they don’t think we’ll take the first move? Perhaps they’re only bluffing?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps.” Then, I mounted my horse and waited.

The sun was just past its peak when two hundred archers and a host of men-at-arms streamed across the narrow bridge, bows strung and ready. Had we encountered the Scots just a day ago, while the rain was still coming down, their strings would have been too wet for use. Today, for once, luck was in our favor. I scanned along the hill where the Scots stood, a hill so steep it may as well have been a cliff. My eyes paused from time to time on a figure with dark hair or a helmet that might hide Douglas’s identity, but there was no clear indication who was in command of the rabble.

“What day is it?” I asked Norfolk.

“The thirtieth of July,” he said, pulling the chin strap of his helmet tight. “Why?”

“I just couldn’t remember how long ago we left, is all.” It had been a month since we’d departed from York and I had yet to receive any word of Philippa or the dispensation. Odd how at times like these, such thoughts invaded my mind.

In disciplined precision, the archers arrayed themselves along the far bank, soldiers at their backs and waiting with swords held firm. Still, the Scots shouted their fiendish cheers. The echo of the pulsation reverberated from hill to hill, swallowing itself. The cadence of their thumping on iron-studded targes grew faster and faster, until one strike was indistinguishable from the next. The soles of my feet tingled. Soon, I felt a throbbing in my knees. The ground beneath my horse vibrated and I clamped my knees tighter to stay in my saddle.

The archers drew the first arrows from their quivers, raised their bow staves to the sky, and then took aim at the cliffs above.

Norfolk maneuvered his horse closer to mine and kicked me in the calf. He raised a gauntleted hand toward a break in the rock face of the outcropping, not a hundred strides from where our lines stood. There, on the other side of the river, a sizeable host of Scots rose in unison from a crouching mass. And among them, a knight on a dark horse, shouting orders. From beneath his helmet peeked a fringe of black hair, barely visible at the nape of his neck.

“Back!” At river’s edge, Kent spurred his horse, riding fast toward the bridge, shouting over and over, “Call them back!”

Before our archers could discharge a single flight, their captain called the order to retreat. In staggers, the archers lowered their staves, looked about. The retreat began as a trickle, but in seconds they turned like a wave breaking upon the rocky shore, shoving and stumbling over the soldiers behind them, who had yet to recognize the fast-approaching threat. Swords held fast, the men-at-arms stalled in confusion. Then they, too, turned and ran.

Hundreds of Scots poured out from the gap. Their war cries cutting across the distance, shredding the air. Axes, keen for English blood, glinted in the sunshine.

My throat constricted. I couldn’t breathe. I bit hard on the inside of my cheek, hoping I wouldn’t pass out. My hands trembled—with fear, anger, disappointment ... I wasn’t sure. Finally, my chest heaved and I gulped a mouthful of air.

“No. No!” I pounded a fist against my thigh. “He will not do this to me!”

Hooves rumbled across the earth. Mortimer and Kent reined their horses to a halt before me.

“Send a delegation, sire,” Mortimer said. “Bargain for peace.”

My fingers flexed, clenching and unclenching. My breaths came in gasps so rapid, I was nearly panting.

Behind us, row upon row of mounted knights sat watching in shamed silence as the last of our soldiers, splattered with mud up to their ears, straggled across the bridge. The Scots halted partway across the marshy field and whirled their weapons above their heads. Scottish spears jabbed heavenward in triumph.

“Bring me a messenger.” Blood throbbed in my temples. Fire raged in my veins. A messenger hurried forward and knelt before me. “Tell him ... tell him to come down from his position, cross the river and when we are both arrayed on the open field, face to face, he can fight us on even ground. Neither side will strike a blow or give chase until then. He has my solemn word.”

Mortimer expelled an audible breath. He steadied his voice, lowered it, as if speaking to a child. “I remind you, sire, that Bannockburn was lost, in part, because your father positioned himself with a river at his back. Douglas was there. He won’t agree to —”

“My father was a fool! Now tell him what I said!”

The messenger dipped his head, nodded once, and rode off.

Neither Kent nor Norfolk spoke for a good long while. I think they dared not.

Earlier, I had done as Mortimer suggested, even though my intuition begged me otherwise. No, I would not let them—Mortimer or anyone else—lord over me again when doubts begged examination.

Kings do not cower in the face of battle. And kings do not bow to their underlings.

Half an hour later, the messenger dismounted and knelt before me, his knees squelching in the mud. He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than me.

“His reply?”

7

Young Edward:

Stanhope Park — July, 1327

I
awoke to a demonic howl. A keening ... something
otherworldly
.

Rain slapped against the low roof of my tent. The odor of moldy rope and rotten leather invaded my nostrils. I placed a hand on the ground to push myself up. Mud oozed between my fingers. Forcing cramped muscles to unbend, I sat up, feeling the unwelcome restraint of my armor—a reminder of where I was and how long we had been here.

Breath held, I listened, waited. Except for scattered coughs or the nickering of horses, the camp was silent. Soon, the sound came again: a long bellow, rising in pitch. Trumpets, not demons. Then, I heard the banging of swords on shields and shouts from the far side of the river.

For a few hours, I had forgotten.

Nine days we had sat here—watching them watching us. And every blessed night, they sounded those infernal horns, at intervals so erratic it was maddening. Sometimes they would blast them just once or twice, and then fall silent. An hour later, the same again. We might have slept in shifts during the day, but they were always there, mocking and shrieking as the deluge continued. Whenever the rain stopped, their cooking fires blazed high and the faint aroma of charring meat drifted across the distance to us.

The only advantage we had gained during the standoff was that the Earl of Lancaster had arrived with supplies, including my own tent so I could at last sleep someplace dry. He’d also brought along a pair of Sir John’s cannons. But much of the food, like our spirits, had soured. Yesterday I had feasted on a bland stew of beef and cabbage, washed down by a horn mug of watered wine, only to have it all run clean through my innards by nightfall.

The cannons might have proven more useful, but it was impossible to ignite them in a downpour. Every day, the bastards stood on their hilltop far beyond reach, taunting us with their mere presence. Sir John insisted on firing the cannons to make a display of their power. With a thunderous belch, the iron balls arced into the air, propelled at an amazing speed, then slammed into the soggy earth with an unimpressive thud, leaving craters a hundred paces short of their mark.

I cradled my head in my hands. My skull throbbed with pain. My thoughts were muddled from lack of sleep.

The noise had stopped. So had the rain. For once, the trumpets were not bringing the sky down. Blissful quiet enveloped me. I blinked, clutched for a blanket that was not there. Like everything else, water had seeped into it and so I had tossed it in the corner, hoping to spread it under a warm sun tomorrow to let it dry. My stomach churning, I lay down and closed my eyes.

Somewhere in Hainault, my sweet Philippa was asleep, her milky limbs tucked between a down-filled mattress and a freshly laundered blanket, perhaps dreaming of me, of our life together in England.

Only ... not
this
England.

***

“Douglas! Douglas!”

Praying it was only a nightmare, I slapped at my cheeks to bring a rush of blood to my hazy head.

Hooves clattered. More shouts. Then ... sword clanged against sword, struck flesh. Chaos. The cries of the wounded.

My heart clogged my throat. The realization struck me with the deadly force of one of Sir John’s cannons: we were under attack. Swallowing hard, I groped in the darkness for my sword. Frantic, I flailed my hand in a wider circle, my palm swatting at a mat of crushed grass. Then, my fingers smacked against my shield. My bones screamed in pain. Great, burning throbs. I pulled my hand to my chest and tried to move my fingers, but couldn’t.

The sounds were coming closer, growing louder.

“
Kyrie, eleison
,” I chanted. “
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie
—”

A dull glint caught my eye. I flexed aching fingers, wrapped them around the hilt and pulled my sword to me. Then I grabbed at the edge of my shield, dragging it over a crumpled shirt, and slipped my left arm through the loosened straps. No time to pull them tight. Rolling over onto my knees, I scooted around the center pole toward the opening. My blade clunked against metal—my helmet. Tucking my sword on my lap, I reached out, grasped it, and settled it snugly onto my head.

The shrill neigh of a horse ripped through the night air. Hooves crashed to a halt just outside the opening of my tent. I froze.

“A Douglas!”

Sweet Jesus, if I ever had to piss it was now.

“
Ave Maria
,” I whispered, my bare fingers worrying at the binding on my hilt, “
gratia plena, Dominus
—”

Outside, a blade hacked at ropes, over and over. The walls of my tent vibrated with each blow. One wall began to lean dangerously inward. I heard a creak and turned to peer into the darkness behind me.

A heavy object struck the back of my skull. My face slammed against the ground. Air blasted from my lungs so fast I thought my ribs were caving in. Then I realized I was cocooned in canvas, my tent collapsed on top of me.

Too stunned to move, I tried to listen, but the dull clanging in my ears made it impossible to distinguish one terrible sound from another. My sword was trapped beneath my hips, its honed edge digging into the cloth of my leggings near my loins, one short inch above the links of my chausses. If I moved ... I didn’t want to think of what I might injure.

My whole body leaden, I wrenched my shield arm free and struggled to raise myself, easing up from my blade until it shifted and fell flat beneath me. But a weight bore down on my spine. Something had pinned me down ...
The pole
.

I couldn’t expand my lungs fully. My breaths came in shallow gulps, but every time I exhaled, it became harder to breathe in again. My ribs screamed in protest, burning for air. If I didn’t suffocate, I would soon be trampled under rampant hooves.

Why has no one come to my aid? Were the pickets asleep when the Scots so casually strode into our camp?

Spurs jangled as a pair of booted feet landed on soft earth close by. The horse nickered, stamped a hoof.

A quiet laugh floated to my ears as clear as if its maker and I were standing an arm’s reach from one another in an empty room.

The voice was hushed, amused—and distinctly Scottish. “What have we here?”

I imagined him, the Black Douglas, looming above me, a smile of wicked glee tipping his mouth as he grasped the hilt of his sword two-handed, point down, and raised it up high.

Dear Father in Heaven ... free me from this shroud of death. Let me wield my sword so that I may longer serve you. Do not let me die ingloriously like this. Let me fight. Please, God, let me —

“Arrrgh!”

Will! I knew the savage bellow. I had heard it a hundred times as he taught me how to fight.

Metal struck metal, again, and again, and again. My teeth rang with each bone-shattering blow.

Somehow, I found the strength to roll from beneath the pole. With a final heave and a kick, I freed my leg from the load. But the canvas still encased me, folding more tightly around my body as I squirmed and twisted in futility, encumbered by my armor shell. I could not tell which way was out. Could not find a part in the tangled layers. I began to thrash wildly at the canvas, seeking any exit through the snarled heap. Eventually, I would find the bottom edge and a way out.

Will grunted with strain as he heaved his weapon. It struck flatly on a shield.

“You’ll not get out of here alive, Douglas,” he swore.

 “Ah, I was right, then. ’Tis your young king buried there.” Douglas laughed again, this time loud and arrogant. “Well then, I’ll take what I’ve come for, but first ... you’re in my way.”

Their swords rang in unison. The crossguard of my weapon dug into my thigh. Carefully, I wedged it upward until it was clutched to my breast. With my free hand, I batted at a part in the heavy cloth, slipped my arm through a widening gap, writhed forward, inch by onerous inch.

My hand burst through. Damp air brushed my skin.

I lifted the canvas edge in time to see that another knight was closing in on the stealthy Scot from behind. As Will and Douglas parried blows, the approaching knight craned his arm back and swung a thick piece of wood. It struck Douglas squarely in the back with a muffled thump. Douglas staggered a step, whipped his sword arm backward and, without looking, knocked the length of wood from the knight’s grasp. He might have skewered the man with a single thrust, but by then he was aware of an oncoming third assailant. In an amazing leap, the Black Douglas bounded onto his saddle, his sword still clenched in his fist as he beat back the newcomers.

The figure I took in did not match the image I had harbored of him these past months. He was no taller than me. His build was lithe and lean. Certainly not the stalwart, broad-shouldered giant I had conjured in my visions. Every movement was quicker than the eye, precise and graceful, almost as if he knew ahead of time what his foe would do.

Wheeling his mount around, Douglas blocked Will’s furious blow with his shield, the blade pinging as it skipped over the metal boss in the center. Then, with a sharp kick to his steed’s flanks, Douglas set off at a gallop through the darkness and confusion.

Shaking his sword, Will shouted profanities after him.

Around us, I saw the Scots pulling back in waves to follow their leader. In minutes, they were completely gone. Our first encounter—and I had been trapped helplessly under my tent like a runt piglet in a sack.

I rammed my sword into the ground, pulled a knee forward. Will extended his hand to help me all the way out. Free of my tomb, I stood on shaky knees. Shame flooded my chest, sickened me.
How
had this happened?

Out of the darkness, Mortimer appeared. Along the fuller of the sword dangling from his hand ran a thin streak of crimson, a darker smear marking the tip.

As if he had read my thoughts, Mortimer answered, “They must have forded the river somewhere to the north. They killed a set of guards at the rear of the camp, broke through before the call could go up. We lost just a handful of men; a dozen more were wounded.”

When I did not acknowledge Mortimer’s report, Will asked, “And the Scots?”

“Five, maybe six dead. A few captured, though. If we can get them to talk ...”

All around was the evidence of the Scots’ raid: tents toppled, kettles overturned, horses running loose, a wounded man with his fist pressed to a gash in his leg, trying to stanch his own blood. Next to him lay a dead friend. Last night they had shared a meal by the fire, laughing together.

“We should have slaughtered them,” I mumbled, my voice cracking through restrained tears. “
We
should have crossed the river. Attacked them.”

Mortimer gave me a patronizing look. “Before you can win against any enemy, my lord, you must first know their strengths and weaknesses. You must know yourself. Douglas and Randolph are keen opponents. Do not underestimate them. They had the advantage of position.”

“Advantage? The greatest advantage they had was that we took no action. They teased us like ... like a cat toys with mice. And now we cower here humiliated. What of honor and courage? What is it that we’re so afraid of?” I glared at him, resisting the urge to swipe my sword at his bare neck and watch his arrogant head tumble from his body. “We cannot win if we do not fight.”

“Nor can you lose. Defeat is a bitter drink, my lord. I know as well as any. I have led men into battle when the odds were against me and paid for it in lives. I would advise you —”

“You
think
you know much!” I stomped at him, fisted him in the middle of his chest. He drew his chin back, but made no attempt to remove himself or stop me. “How to lead an army. How to rule a kingdom. Yet you refuse command and then take offense whenever your word is not heeded. How would you have it, Sir Roger?”