Insurrection Page 33

  As the enemy spread out, marching to other gates around the city, Robert had been confronted by around seven hundred men, under the banners of Buchan, Mar and Ross. Within those ranks was spied the arms of the Red Comyns, borne by the Lord of Badenoch’s son, so recently wed to Aymer de Valence’s sister. John the Younger, who survived the war in Gascony, had deserted King Edward to fight with his father against England. Despite the torment of seeing so many countrymen arrayed against him, it had seemed to Robert that the Scottish host would be able to do little, for they had no siege engines with which to batter the walls. Then, the soldiers had come with their shield screen and fire, and the calm of his troops had turned to alarm.

  The smoke was thickest in front of the gates, where the soldiers had set light to the bundles of hay they had carried across the bridge. Yelling for his archers to keep shooting, Robert watched as the arrows stabbed down, cursing as most of them stuck uselessly in the shields, which already bristled with spent missiles. He saw one shield buckle as the man holding it was caught in the shoulder, but the gap he made was quickly tightened by those around him. Robert swallowed thickly as smoke scratched his throat. Water was sloshing down from the tower top, as he’d ordered, but much of the liquid simply sprayed off the tops of the shields. They needed to smash through that screen if they were to get at the men and the fire they were starting beneath.

  Amidst the turmoil, Robert scanned the streets below. He saw his brother by a cart, overseeing the unloading of the sacks of sand he had hoped would help put out the blaze. Edward was grim-faced and drenched in sweat, but his reservations seemed to have vanished in the chaos of the siege and he had thrown himself into the defence of Carlisle with as much vigour as any man in the city garrison. It was hard to feel compunction towards men who were trying to kill you. Robert’s gaze moved on, over the lines of women bringing water to the men and the priests who had come at dawn with Bibles and prayers. His eyes stopped, caught by a pile of rubble heaped against the wall adjacent to the tower. When they feared the Scottish host would be coming for them his father had ordered repairs on the defences, with particular attention paid to areas near the gates. Old crumbling masonry had been hacked away by the city’s labourers and patched in with new stone and mortar.

  ‘With me,’ Robert shouted, calling several knights to follow as he hastened from the walls. Out in the street, he sprinted to the cart where his brother was. Grabbing one of the sacks, he dragged it off. ‘We need to empty these,’ he told his knights, flipping the bag over with a rush of sand. ‘Fill them with stones.’

  ‘Brother?’ Edward shouted after him in confusion.

  But Robert had raced to the pile of masonry and was tossing the crumbled blocks inside the sack. He kept shouting orders as the knights crowded in around him. Sweat dripped from his nose as he worked, his mail weighing on his limbs. He was used to a horse taking the burden and his broadsword was awkward at his side. Straightening, he searched for Nes, somewhere on the crowded walls above. Unable to see him, Robert looked around, his gaze alighting on a lanky youth with fair hair, clambering in over the rubble to help. The squire was the son of a Yorkshire knight, one of his father’s vassals. ‘Christopher, isn’t it?’ Robert called, unbuckling his sword belt.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the fair-haired youth, scrabbling over, ‘Christopher Seton.’

  ‘Hold this for me.’

  Christopher took the broadsword as Robert handed it to him.

  ‘What do you plan to do with this, sir?’ asked one of the knights, breathing hard as he lobbed great handfuls of stone into the sack another was holding open.

  ‘We’re going to empty it on the bastards.’ Taking an arrow basket one of the Carlisle men had carried over, Robert continued heaping masonry inside. Edward, seeing the plan, had pitched in to help, calling more men to carry the sacks and baskets of rubble up on to the walls. Christopher stood close by, grasping Robert’s sword. When the basket was filled, Robert strained to lift it, but it was too heavy for one and the others were already loaded down. Cursing, he went to remove some of the rocks, when a pair of hands appeared and took hold of the other side. He glanced up to grunt his thanks and saw a woman. She was short and stocky, the sleeves of her dress rolled to the elbow. Robert was about to tell her to fetch a man, when he saw the determination in her face and realised she was more than capable. Other women and girls who had been fetching water were joining them, helping stack the stones inside baskets. Some were even piling them into their skirts. It was an odd sight, these women in wool, moving among the armoured knights. As the matron hefted her side of the basket, Robert lifted his and between them they carried the load into the tower. Christopher followed, bearing Robert’s blade.

  On the battlements, Robert ordered the sacks split up across the walls to either side of the tower and on the tower top itself. The smoke was dense and choking now, although the water being tossed over the side was hampering the efforts of the soldiers below. Robert shouted for the archers to hold, but to stay ready, then, telling Edward to relay his plan along the walls, he headed swiftly to the top of the tower. Here, he had a dizzying view across the walls to the Scots beyond the moat, who were sending in more men with hay and other combustibles to burn down the gates. Robert could see behind him too, out over the city. Somewhere in the streets near the castle a huge fire was raging, a dark tower of smoke billowing into the sky. He wondered if the enemy had punched their way through somewhere, but had no time to worry.

  As Robert yelled the order, the knights and townsmen hefted up baskets and sacks of stone, balancing them on knees or against the parapet. When they were ready, he threw back his head and roared. Together, the men emptied the rubble over the walls. Women were among them, flinging rocks with their bare hands. Christopher Seton, who had fastened Robert’s broadsword around his waist, moved to help as Robert grasped one of the sacks. Between them they lifted it on to the parapet. Catching Robert’s eye, the English squire nodded and together they dumped it over.

  Below, horns sounded. Too late. Before the men beneath the shields knew what was happening, the sky was falling in on them in a thundering rain of rubble, timbers and grit. Men cried out, their shields buckling. Some soldiers, those hit by the heavier pieces, collapsed, more just stumbled with the shock of it, but it was the opening Robert needed and, with his second command, the archers slipped in between the knights and began shooting into the confusion, their arrows striking exposed shoulders, necks and backs. The men were foot soldiers and few wore armour. Some arrows snagged in gambesons, but many more found openings into flesh. Screams of pain and panic erupted. The men near the front, who had been working at fanning the smouldering piles of hay, were toppled by falling comrades into the burning stacks, sending up smoke and embers. Burned or choking, they scrabbled back, causing alarm to spread through the ranks and creating more openings for the archers. Men fell, dropping into the path of others, who stumbled over them only to be shot themselves. Horns bellowed from the Scottish host, the commanders across the moat shouting for their own archers to retaliate.

  As missiles flew up, cries rose along the city walls. The woman who had helped Robert carry up the basket of rubble caught one in the face and went spinning from the walkway. She crashed on to a wagon in the street below, startling the horses. They bolted, the wagon veering off. Christopher was hauling another sack on to the wall as a hail of arrows shot towards the tower top. Robert, seeing them coming, yelled a warning. Grabbing the squire, he pulled him down. Christopher dropped the sack as he was forced below the wall, sending lumps of rock skittering away. A soldier from Carlisle, standing next to them, wasn’t so fortunate. He got an arrow in the throat and collapsed, choking and writhing. Christopher, hunkered down beside Robert, stared at the dying man, his chest heaving.

  Despite these losses, the archers of Carlisle kept firing and Robert’s men continued to sling rocks down, and soon the confusion below turned into a rout as the enemy soldiers fell back across the moat. As they ran th
ey exposed the piles of smouldering straw heaped against the gates and now Robert was yelling again for water. The burning piles hissed as the buckets were emptied on top of them. In among the piles of masonry, the mud was strewn with arrows, shields and bodies. Some of the wounded were dragging themselves towards the bridge. Others moved in to help, but were repelled by arrows, which the defenders continued to shoot over the walls. As the horns blew, the last of the infantry retreated, leaving the dead and dying behind them. On the walls, the morning glowed golden in the sweat-soaked faces of the triumphant defenders.

  39

  It was midday when the Scots at the north-east gate pulled back. They made three more attempts to get through to the gates and finish the fire they had started, but, the ground thick with corpses and rubble, they couldn’t make the same steady advance they had made the first time. The heaps of sodden straw were stubborn against the torch flames and the defenders ever more determined after their success. Finally, the infantry were withdrawn with heavy losses and the host retreated into the fields, the cheers of the people of Carlisle following them. The host remained there for several hours, men tending to wounded comrades as more companies joined them from around the city.

  Robert and his forces rested warily, sharing wine and warm loaves of bread, brought by townsfolk. The priests helped the wounded, administering the last rites where necessary. Bodies of men and women were laid out, as reports filtered in slowly from other parts of the city. The gates and walls had held, the Scots unable to break through. The large fire near the castle, which had engulfed several buildings including a vintner’s, was still burning fiercely. It had been started by a Comyn spy, who had apparently come into the city with the flood of refugees and had been hiding out, waiting for the attack. He had been captured by knights of Annandale and hanged from the castle walls.

  At last, the Scottish host moved out, defeated by their lack of siege engines and the city’s staunch defence. After an hour, they had become a haze in the distance, crows circling over their slow-moving lines, eager for the worms disturbed by their trudging feet.

  Robert sat on the edge of the walkway. Draining the last of the wine from his skin, he closed his eyes against the afternoon sun. His throat burned from the smoke and dust in the air, and he had a cut on the side of his head that hadn’t stopped bleeding. He couldn’t remember getting it. The others were celebrating around him, their voices sharp with relief, but he couldn’t muster the will to join them. Today was only the first battle. Carlisle was now an island in a sea of enemy soldiers. North, south: neither was safe. His father was confident King Edward would win this war and return their lands to them, but the thought of that victory made Robert uneasy. Several days earlier he had overheard his father saying to one of his knights that the king planned to depose the treacherous Balliol. The lord had spoken, in a tone of keen expectation, of the throne that would need to be filled, not once mentioning Robert – the one to whom that right had been passed.

  ‘Sir.’

  Robert glanced round as Christopher Seton crouched beside him. The fair-haired squire, whose face was smudged with grime, held out Robert’s broadsword, which he had kept during the siege. ‘Here, sir.’

  As Robert took the blade an image came vividly to mind of his grandfather watching while the Earl of Mar girded him with it the day he was knighted. Pride had gleamed in the old lord’s black eyes. The memory filled Robert with a profound sense of loss, not just for the man himself, but for a time when things had been clear and his own path certain. Now, everywhere he turned, the way seemed shadowed and obscure. He felt his brother had spoken true that morning in saying their grandfather would not have fought against Scotland, but what the old man would have done if faced with this dire predicament seemed impossible to guess at.

  ‘I wanted to thank you, Sir Robert,’ said Christopher, in his blunt, northern English dialect. ‘If you hadn’t pulled me down I . . .’ The squire frowned at his hands, bruised and bleeding from heaving the sacks over the walls. ‘I owe you my life,’ he finished.

  As Robert went to dismiss this, not wanting the burden of the young man’s earnest pledge, he heard his brother shout his name. Scanning the street below, he saw Edward. With him was Katherine. At the sight of the maid, Robert stood. Concern for his wife had been kept at bay through the turmoil of the siege, now it flooded him. Leaving Christopher on the walkway, he hastened down through the tower. ‘How is she?’ he called, going straight to Katherine. ‘How is my wife? Has the baby come?’

  Katherine was breathing hard, but she managed to answer. ‘A girl, Sir Robert. Lady Isobel had a girl.’

  A smile broke across Robert’s face at the words and he laughed, joy mixing headily with exhaustion. Edward was grinning too. But Katherine’s flushed face remained tight. She was shaking her head at his laughter, her eyes fearful. Robert’s mirth drained. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You need to go to her, sir.’

  Robert stared at her grave face, then turned to his brother.

  ‘Go,’ Edward told him. ‘I’ll man the gates.’

  Needing no further encouragement, Robert raced to where Hunter was tethered. Mounting, he galloped away, heading for the castle on the hill, its walls red in the afternoon sun.

  Up through the streets he cantered, past groups of people cheering, past a slow-moving cart piled with the dead, past lines of men tossing water into the burning buildings near the castle. The flames that had engulfed the vintner’s were curling into the black sky.

  The castle courtyard was relatively quiet, most of the men still down on the walls. Slinging his leg over the saddle, Robert jumped down, shouting at a passing foot soldier to take his horse. He jogged up the steps and into the gloomy interior of the keep, his armour feeling like lead. As he pounded the stairs to the rooms he and his wife had been given, he could hear a wailing cry.

  Robert entered the chamber, struck by heat and a rank smell of blood. On the bed, surrounded by stained sheets, lay Isobel. A priest was crouched beside her, his cross in his hand. By the window the midwife clutched a bundle of cloth. It was the bundle that was making the cries. Robert went to his wife, throwing a hostile look at the priest, who rose and stepped back.

  Isobel’s face was greasy. Sweat glistened in the hollow of her throat and between the bones of her chest. She had stayed thin through the pregnancy, only her stomach swelling. There was a wad of cloth balled between her legs, red at the centre, the stain spreading. Blood had covered her shift and her palms were sticky with it. Kneeling stiffly in his armour, Robert tugged off his mail gloves and took one of her bloody hands in his.

  Isobel’s eyes fluttered open. The pupils drifted back and forth, before her gaze found his. She groaned his name.

  ‘I’m here,’ he murmured.

  ‘My father?’ Her eyes drifted, then came back to him.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ he said, touching her brow, which burned against his palm. ‘It is over.’

  She licked the sweat from her lips. When she spoke again, her words were little more than breath. ‘I know you wanted my sister.’

  Robert felt this as a blow. He shook his head to deny it, but she continued.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You were a kind husband.’ As Robert kissed her palm, Isobel’s eyes narrowed, tears leaking from them.

  Her breathing was shallow now. The red stain had covered most of the white cloth. Robert felt her fingers slacken in his. As the priest moved in, his murmuring prayers filling the silence, Robert bowed over the bed, his forehead touching his wife’s chest.

  After a long moment, he pushed himself up weakly and went to the midwife. As he held out his arms, she silently handed his daughter to him. Robert cradled her tiny form close against the cold of his armour, her cries piercing the air. Standing in the window of the hot room, the sky outside bruised with smoke, a memory of his mother holding one of his sisters entered his mind. ‘Marjorie,’ Robert whispered. ‘I’ll name you Marjorie.’

  40

  A mile
from the River Tweed, beyond the splintered remnants of Berwick’s gates, the rotten wood of which had proved of no consequence to the English army, a group of labourers was waiting to begin a day’s work. Below the town’s earth ramparts was a narrow fosse, littered with shards from the shattered palisade above. Men lined the banks of this trench, grasping picks and leaning on shovels, coughing and sniffing in the damp air. They were eager to begin, to work the chill from their muscles, but first there was a ceremony to be observed.

  Between their rows moved King Edward, his cloak stiff with gold brocade. Taller than most of the watching labourers, he towered over the squat figure of Hugh de Cressingham, who was struggling to match his stride. Gluttony had trebled the royal clerk’s chins and his round face was as pale and shiny as melting tallow. The smell coming off him was like rancid meat and Edward lengthened his walk as the fat clerk waddled and puffed beside him. He had already decided that when he returned to England Cressingham would remain behind as his treasurer in Scotland. The man was an able official, but his presence was far from pleasing.

  ‘Here, my lord,’ panted Cressingham, ushering the king towards a barrow, placed just beyond the edge of the fosse. It was filled with a neat heap of dark soil. ‘Here we are.’

  The air felt wet in Edward’s lungs and he marched quickly to the barrow, keen to return to his planning in the comfort of the castle, one of the few buildings left unscathed by the attack. Even now, smoke sharpened the air over the ruins of Berwick, the fires brightening the nights, visible for miles, until the April rains turned the blazes into columns of smoke that covered the town in choking clouds.

  After the English host swept through the town’s defences, the slaughter had continued for two days. It was only after more than seven thousand inhabitants had perished that Edward ordered his men to cease the killing. Just a handful of prisoners were taken after the town’s capitulation, including the garrison’s commander, a fierce bull of a man named Sir William Douglas, who had raged and ranted at the massacre of Berwick’s citizens, damning Edward and his knights to hell even as he was dragged to the castle’s dungeon. Mass graves had been dug for the dead, but the deep pits hadn’t been enough to contain them. The rest had been carted down to the river and dumped. The surviving women and children had been allowed to leave with their lives. Nothing more. Lines of them had trailed through the broken gates, white-faced and silent. Watching from the castle battlements, Edward had felt little pity. The inhabitants of Berwick, who had taunted him and his knights from behind their rot-riddled palisade, had helped teach the rest of Scotland a valuable lesson. The Scots’ resolve would be that much weaker now they knew the price of rebellion. He would beat them down that much quicker. And, more than anything, Edward wanted a swift end to this campaign.