The Traitor's Wife (21 page)

Much to the exasperation of its staff, Berwick Castle was full of noblewomen, either attendant upon the queen, awaiting someone's return from battle, or both: the Countess of Pembroke, the Countess of Hereford, the Countess of Cornwall, the Countess of Surrey, the Lady Vescy, the Lady Despenser. Given an emergency, all could have undergone any manner of inconvenience; none were fools or faint of heart. But no emergency being present, all expected their accustomed comfort and had brought retainers with them, as well as greyhounds (the queen), lapdogs (most of the countesses), birds (the Lady Despenser), and even a cat (the Lady Vescy). The animals did not all get along, and neither did all the noblewomen. The acerbic Lady Vescy, being somewhat older than the rest and not at all in awe of a superior title, felt free to give her opinion on any subject, no matter how irritating to the rest. The Countess of Cornwall was quick to take offense regarding her late husband, Gaveston, even when none was intended. The Countess of Surrey was quick to take offense regarding her very alive husband, John Warenne, even when none was intended. The Lady Despenser might be granddaughter to the first Edward and daughter to an earl, but she was married to almost a nobody and tended, the countesses thought, to get above her place. The Countess of Pembroke, who had yet to produce a child, even a girl child, disliked hearing about all matters maternal, which was one of the great unifying subjects among the women. The Countess of Hereford could not be around a lapdog without sneezing, and none of the lapdogs were inclined to stay away from the Countess of Hereford.

On the other hand, the staff speculated philosophically, there were certain advantages to having a castle full of women; no one had too much wine and called her neighbor a misbegotten whoreson, no one who lost at dice challenged the winner to a fight, and no one spent the evening at a brothel and then insisted on being admitted to the castle in the dead of the night. It was a boon, too, that the weather was proving unusually pleasant and dry, so complaints about fires and drafty rooms were kept to a minimum. Still, everyone agreed, it would be a good thing when the Scots were defeated and the noblewomen were claimed by their menfolk and either taken home to England or to the Scottish castles so many had been granted or expected to be granted.

Then, just as everyone in the castle was itching for news, a traveling merchant, delivering goods to the castle, told the queen's steward news so odd the steward could not believe it. Several hours later, another merchant told the steward the same news. When a bedraggled man came to the castle to beg admission a little later, telling the same incredible story, the steward had no choice but to take his news to the queen.

“Lost! Are you mad, churl? The English could not have lost the battle!” The queen was normally not a harsh mistress, but on this occasion, she rose and smacked her steward across the face, either to reprove him or bring him to his senses.

“Madam, I have heard no less than three independent accounts, the last from a foot soldier, and there is no reason to think them false! God hope that they may be proven wrong, but I could not in all good conscience keep their reports from you. They are all consistent in the larger details.”

The queen was silent. Backing off a bit, the steward continued, “From what I hear, no harm has befallen the king. I know naught about any of your ladyships' husbands. But there are some of you with brothers or nephews…”

His eye had fallen on the Earl of Gloucester's sisters. Eleanor said, with as much firmness as she could muster, “Tell us.”

“The main part of the battle was fought on the second day after the troops met. The Earl of Gloucester was killed early on the second day, charging bravely into the Bruce's men.”

He turned to the Countess of Hereford. “Your husband's nephew Henry, my lady, died on the first day, in single combat with the Bruce. Others were killed, of course—the king's steward, Sir Edmund de Mauley, Sir John Comyn, Sir Pain de Tiptoft, Sir Robert de Clifford, Sir Giles d'Argentan—”

“Not Sir Giles!” said the Countess of Pembroke. “He is reputed to be the third greatest knight in England.”

“He died bravely,” said the queen's steward. He looked at the ladies before him. “Shall I tell you what I have heard?”

The ladies, even the Clare sisters, nodded, but the queen said bitterly, “Why bother, sir? The king's poet shall return and sing of it to us!”

The steward was not noted for his sense of humor. “No, your grace. He is a captive of the Scots, or so I hear.”

“Then we had best hear it in prose,” said Isabella de Vescy with a sigh.

To reach Stirling Castle by June 24, the army had proceeded at a punishing pace, but by June 23, they had reached the forest of Torwood, near the stream of the Bannock Burn. There they had consulted with Sir Philip Mowbray, the constable of the castle, who told Edward that as he had arrived within three leagues of the castle within the proper time, there was no need for a battle now. No one heeded this suggestion; the English army had not pushed this far to glance at Stirling Castle in the distance and then turn back home.

As the vanguard, led by the Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, emerged from the forest, watched by Scots standing to arms in the New Park, Hereford's young nephew, Henry de Bohun, saw a horseman inspecting the Scottish troops. No unusual sight that, save that the horseman wore a crown. The Bruce himself! Bohun saw the chance to bring things to a swift conclusion. Allowing himself only a brief moment to contemplate the fame and riches that would be his, he let out a yelp and charged at the Bruce, lance pointed straight at him. The Scottish king, not budging an inch, was on the verge of being impaled when he pulled away, just far enough to avoid the lance and to sink his axe into Bohun's helmet and down into his skull.

The Scots, delighted by this promising start, charged the stunned English cavalry, which as it attempted to resist had discovered the existence of many small pits camouflaged with twigs and grass, just enough to trip a horse. Bohun's squire rushed to stand by his master's body and was promptly killed; Gilbert de Clare fell off his stumbling horse and had to be rescued by his squires. The English retreated, while the Scottish king recalled his troops. Reproached by his commanders for putting his life at risk by the unfortunate Bohun, the Bruce said only that he was sorry he had broken his good axe.

Meanwhile, Sir Robert de Clifford and Sir Henry de Beaumont were heading toward Stirling Castle, where they might have evaded notice had not Robert Bruce spotted them and reproached his commander the Earl of Moray, who should have been in a position to see them earlier, with his neglect. Moray hurriedly went to make good his mistake. Soon the English found themselves facing a veritable wall of spearmen. Charging them was in vain. When an opening appeared, it was in the ranks of the English, who fled in two directions, charged by the Earl of Moray, honor fully restored. His men, exhausted and delighted, fanned themselves with their helmets, then accepted the congratulations of their fellows. Both sides had done fighting for the day.

The English foot soldiers, encamped to the south of the Bannock Burn, had not seen the knights' defeat, but they had heard rumors, and Edward's heralds, sent to boost their morale by reminding them that victory was certain, singularly failed at their task. Their newfound pessimism was shared by one Sir Alexander Seton, who deserted in the night to the Scots and advised them that this was an opportune time to regain Scotland.

Gilbert de Clare, seeing the exhaustion of the English troops and the difficulty they were having in finding somewhere to bed down for the night in the marshy area, urged the king to rest his troops for twenty-four hours. For such sensible advice he had been called disloyal; worse, a coward. Gilbert's first impulse had been to strike the king, but with difficulty he controlled himself and instead wheeled around and left the king's tent without another word.

His troops had had little chance to sleep, for dawn on June 24, 1314, came at three forty-five. The king gave the order for his men to arm themselves. As they were doing so, he started. In the distance, Scottish foot soldiers were advancing, silently and deliberately. “What!” he said. “Will these Scotsmen fight?”

Sir Ingram de Umfraville, standing beside him, shook his head. “It is the strangest sight I ever saw, your grace. To take on the might of England—”

“And look now! They kneel for mercy.”

Umfraville shook his head. “They are asking God for forgiveness, not entreating you. These men will win all or die.”

“So be it then. Sound the trumpet!”

As their squires made haste to dress them in their armor, Gilbert de Clare and Humphrey de Bohun were arguing over who should command the vanguard. Hereford said that the duty was lawfully his because he was the constable of England; Gilbert contended that his forbears had always led the van. “And,” said Gilbert, looking toward the king, “I shall tarry here no more, for this day I shall prove that I am no coward!”