Insurrection Read online

  After the war in Wales, he had returned to England to find the Scots in alliance against him with King Philippe. Edward sent William de Valence and his brother, Edmund of Lancaster, with a contingent of knights to reinforce his presence in Gascony, then issued a military summons to his vassals. Despite their misgivings over another war, the barons, knights and infantry heeded his call to arms and more than twenty thousand met him at Newcastle, including longbowmen from conquered Wales. While the Scottish host advanced on Carlisle, leaving the eastern approach to their kingdom wide open, Edward forded the Tweed at the village of Coldstream and moved north, reaching Berwick before Easter. He was followed along the coast by forty-four galleys that sailed up from East Anglia, carrying supplies and stones for the siege engines. As Edward’s knights attacked the town’s ramparts, the galleys moved into the estuary to strike from the water. Despite some losses, including three ships that ran aground and were set alight by Douglas’s men, the English forced their way through.

  Edward had few funds for this campaign, but what he lacked in coin he made up for in determination. In a way the Scots’ rebellion, coming so close on the heels of the Welsh insurgency, had proved an advantage. His war machine was well oiled and ready to move, and the victory in Wales and the taking of the Crown of Arthur had won him the renewed support of his men. Edward had never expected to subdue Scotland by force, unlike Wales or Ireland. Since he first set his sights on the kingdom, he had always hoped for an open door through which to reach his target. The first door: the marriage of his son to the infant Margaret had been slammed in his face with the girl’s untimely death; the second: his mastery over King John, had been closed by the Comyns when he wasn’t looking. Now, by sword and fire, he would break it down.

  Beyond Berwick, in tantalising reach, lay the kingdom’s beating heart. Edward just needed to stretch out his hand and grasp it. He had no doubt that once the Scots were beaten and the symbol of their sovereignty was in his possession all resistance would end, as it had in Wales. Then, his hopes for a Britain united beneath his rule would be one step away from fulfilment and he would set his clerics to work revealing the Last Prophecy to the rest of his subjects so that they would know the scale of his greatness. The Scots weren’t the Welsh, hardened by decades of bitter fighting and struggle. One good push and this war would be over. Berwick was just the first foundation of Edward’s new kingdom north of the border, a foundation that would now be laid for all to see.

  Edward approached the barrow of earth, the labourers and the knights of his army watching. Eventually, the town’s earthworks would be supplanted by stone walls and watchtowers; a bastion of imperial might to rival his fortresses in Wales. Until then, he had ordered the existing fosse to be enlarged to eighty feet wide and forty feet deep.

  The handles of the barrow, Edward noticed, had been carefully brushed clean of soil. As he reached for them, he wondered whether the statement he had wanted to make would be rendered meaningless by the sterility of the demonstration, a mere sham visible to every man here. The thought caused him to falter. He had made the effort to leave his planning in the castle to make this spectacle. It should be worth while.

  Glancing around, the king’s gaze fixed on a labourer close by, leaning on a spade. He crossed to the man, leaving Cressingham calling uncertainly after him. The labourer straightened immediately and looked about worriedly, clearly wondering what he had done wrong. As Edward came towards him, the man lowered his head, his hands on the spade turning white with his grip. To the curious stares of the other workers, the king took the spade from the speechless man and stalked to the edge of the fosse. He thrust the tool into the wet soil, pushing it down through the loam, deep into the clay. The gold hem of his cloak trailed in the mud as he worked. Gripping the shaft, worn smooth by the labourer’s hands, he dug up a clod of earth. Hefting the load, Edward headed back to the barrow and, under awe-filled stares, tossed it on top of the neat pile of mud placed inside by someone else. If today marked the establishment of his new northern territory then it seemed important that it was his hands, rather than any other’s, that were the first marked with the soil of this labour. Pleased by the gesture, Edward returned to dig another square of earth from the fosse. The king was so engrossed in the task that he didn’t see the group of riders approaching the town gates from the north road.

  After three more spadefuls, his officials watching in astonishment, Edward wedged the spade into the soil and took up the handles of the barrow. Cressingham smiled and nodded encouragingly, pleased that the king was now doing what was expected. Edward wheeled the barrow past the lines of men and upended it in the arranged place, the smell of soil rising rich around him. The labourers applauded heartily.

  Cressingham crossed to the king, puffing. ‘Well, that should fire their limbs, my lord,’ he said decidedly, as the labourers began picking up their own barrows and spades, and moving down into the fosse to hack at the soil.

  ‘My lord king.’

  Edward looked up at the forceful voice to see John de Warenne heading towards him through the crowds of workers. With Warenne was the Scottish earl, Patrick of Dunbar, who had aided him in the sack of Berwick. The earl wore a travel-stained cloak and his face, framed by oily, dark hair, was troubled. Behind them, Edward saw a band of riders, who had dismounted and were speaking with Anthony Bek. Brushing the dirt from his hands, he met the two earls, closely followed by Cressingham.

  ‘My lord king,’ greeted Patrick of Dunbar, bowing.

  ‘You have word on the whereabouts of my enemies?’ Edward’s voice was sharp. He had been impatient for news ever since reports that the Scottish army had stormed across the border into Northumberland, burning and raiding. He relied on loyal vassals such as Earl Patrick of Dunbar and the Bruces in Carlisle, who knew the lands well, to be his eyes and ears, but with no word since the fall of Berwick, he’d been growing restless.

  ‘The Scottish host crossed the border back into Scotland five days ago, my lord. They are now some thirty miles from here, barring your way north. They are camped out in my lands.’ Earl Patrick’s face was grim. ‘I returned to my castle after taking my leave of you to find it surrounded. Dunbar has fallen into the hands of the Black Comyn and his men.’

  ‘How?’ Edward demanded, angered by the unwelcome tidings. He had chosen his route north partly because Dunbar, under his ally’s control, offered safe haven in the midst of enemy territory: a place of strength to retreat to if necessary. ‘You told me it was well defended.’

  Sir Patrick didn’t answer immediately. Emotions struggled in his face. ‘My wife let them in, Sire.’ His voice came out strained. ‘She betrayed me.’

  Edward held him in his stare for a long moment. ‘And Balliol?’

  ‘The king is with the main army.’

  Edward was silent, thinking. Days after the fall of Berwick he had received a formal renouncement of homage from King John. The tone, defiant and determined, had been at stark odds with the weak man he knew. John Comyn, Edward guessed, had been the voice behind it. The Lord of Badenoch was shrewder than he’d estimated. The king had hoped the marriage of his son to William de Valence’s daughter would placate the man. Clearly, Comyn needed a more definite demonstration of his power. They all did.

  Edward switched his attention to John de Warenne. ‘I want you to lead a company north to deal with these churls. Capture the castle and the brigands that hold it. I do not want anything to stand in my way north. Take the young bloods with you,’ he added, glancing over at Humphrey de Bohun and the Knights of the Dragon.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Edward moved to head off, then paused, his eyes flicking back to Earl Patrick. ‘You should have kept your wife on a shorter leash, Dunbar.’

  41

  Sir John de Warenne left his tent and headed into the fog, pulling his mantle around his shoulders and sniffing vigorously. Almost May and the early mornings were still wintry. He hated the bleakness of this north-eastern coastline, with its bitter se
a and rust-coloured cliffs. In truth, he despised all of Scotland. No proper roads, dense tracts of forest and scarred mountains to bar the way, the snows in winter, the humid air that swarmed with biting insects in the summer. He longed to be back in the mild woodlands of his English estates. Soon, the hunting season would begin. God willing, the war would be over before then.

  Ahead, between rows of tents, outlines of men moved in the fog. Warenne and his knights had arrived in Dunbar the day before, scouts having informed the earl that although the castle was occupied by a company of enemy soldiers, the Scottish army was nowhere to be seen. Entering the deserted town, Warenne’s men had made camp a safe distance from the castle, which was perched precariously on a rocky cliff overlooking a harbour.

  Stepping over guy ropes, the earl strode past horses being given their morning feed by grooms. Campfires stirred smoke into the gloom, the sour smell of burning wood mixing with sweeter, richer odours of oats and herbs. The cooks had been up for an hour already. In front of Warenne four angular structures loomed in the soupy air. He approached, pleased to see the engineers hard at work, getting the contraptions ready. The siege engines were perriers, much slighter than the giant trebuchets Warenne had seen employed in other campaigns during his long career. A slim, movable beam with a sling attached to one end and four ropes hanging from the other, was pivoted over a tall, wooden frame. Trebuchets worked on a counterweight principle, whereas the perrier was manpowered, the four ropes being pulled by men, who swung their end of the beam down causing the other to fly up and project a missile, usually a specially hewn rock, from the sling. The perriers were easier to transport and construct, being smaller and lighter, but they weren’t quite as effective as the trebuchets, which could fling stones of up to three hundred pounds over four hundred yards.

  One of the engineers, hammering a nail in place on the timber frame, glanced round as Warenne emerged from the fog. ‘Sir,’ he greeted, straightening. ‘The engines should be ready within the hour.’

  Warenne grunted as he looked to the castle. The ground sloped up towards the walls, barely visible within the murk. He could smell the sea and hear the echoing cries of gulls, but he could see almost nothing. ‘If this fog doesn’t clear, we won’t be shooting anything.’

  Two hours later, the rising sun had burned away the mists and, by mid-morning, just a few tendrils were left, drifting raggedly over the walls of Dunbar Castle.

  Birds scattered into the sky as the first stone struck. There was an ear-splitting crack on impact and a cloud of dust exploded. The rock fell to earth in a shower of grit and rolled down the grassy bank beneath the walls. It was followed, moments later, by three more. Shards of stone and clumps of mortar broke from the curtain wall with each strike.

  John de Warenne watched as the engineers methodically loaded and loosed the perriers, the men hauling on the ropes like bell-ringers in a church. The beams swung up, one after the other, to sling their missiles at the fortress on the cliff. In retaliation, arrows shot down from the battlements, but the engineers had erected a palisade from behind which they worked their machines in safety. As the stones continued to smash into the walls, shouts echoed along the ramparts. Warenne caught glimpses of movement through the arrow loops, but unless they were willing to sally forth from the gates, there was little the Scots could do to stop the siege. They did, however, have one thing on their side. Time.

  Some of the English knights had cheered at the first few strikes, but the explosions of dust and grit looked more impressive than they actually were. In truth, Warenne knew, it could take a long while for a siege engine, even a trebuchet, to break down enough of the walls for the attackers to enter. King Edward wanted Dunbar captured swiftly, but Warenne wasn’t sure how easily this could be accomplished. The quickest way to take a castle was to have cooperation from someone on the inside, but that was unlikely to happen, while the castle was held by soldiers of the Black Comyn, a staunch supporter of Balliol.

  John de Warenne’s gaze moved to the broad figure of Patrick of Dunbar, standing close by. The earl was watching his castle being bombarded in stony-faced silence. No doubt his treacherous wife was somewhere inside. Warenne felt a measure of pity for the man, thinking of the conflict he must feel watching his home being battered by the engines. Three years ago, Warenne’s daughter had died. She had been queen for only a matter of months, but John Balliol’s wife for ten years and had given him a son and heir. The only comfort Warenne had found in her passing was that she had not lived through this war. He wondered if there was part of the Earl of Dunbar that hoped the siege would fail. If it succeeded his wife would have to be dealt with, along with the rest of the rebels. Warenne wondered if the earl would have the stomach for it. Would he?

  Another stone struck the curtain wall, exploding on impact. A group of infantry dragged a handcart filled with stones over to the engines, where the piles were already diminishing. They had transported two cartloads of the rounded rocks that had been brought to Berwick by ship, but these would run out before too long and they would need to search for more. The beach below the cliffs should provide a good supply, if Warenne could get masons down there to quarry more.

  Hearing someone come up behind him, he looked round to see Humphrey de Bohun. The young knight was breathing hard, but his face was calm, despite the constant crashing of the rocks, which was making some of the other soldiers wince.

  ‘Did you find a suitable tree?’ Warenne shouted over the din.

  ‘Yes, sir. The men are cutting it down now. I’ve left six knights to escort it here as soon as it’s felled.’

  Warenne nodded. After the debacle with the ambush on the road to Wales, Hereford’s heir was proving himself an able commander. He and the others had won their spurs at Berwick. All had been blooded and were becoming hardened to the trials of war. Humphrey, in particular, was showing great potential. The king, Warenne knew, had high hopes for him. ‘We’ll use the ram on the gates,’ he told the knight, ‘when it’s been stripped and reinforced.’

  At the sound of hoof-beats, they both turned to see four men riding swiftly into the camp. Warenne frowned in expectation, seeing it was one of the scouting parties he had deployed the day before. Leaving the engineers to continue battering the castle walls, he crossed to meet them, followed by Humphrey. One of the scouts hailed him.

  ‘Sir!’ The scout dismounted and hastened towards the earl. ‘The Scots are approaching from the west.’

  ‘Led by whom?’ Warenne questioned quickly. ‘How many?’

  ‘All of them, sir, the whole Scottish army, led by the Comyns and King John. They should be visible any moment.’ The scout turned and pointed west to where the land ascended into long, sloping moors, studded with trees. ‘On the brow of that hill.’

  Warenne stared at the hill, feeling a pulse of excitement in his chest. The thought of open warfare was far more pleasing to the aged earl than the tedious prospect of a drawn-out siege, his men demoralised by the wait and subject to the many dangers facing a besieging army: diminishing supplies, surprise raids from the castle or attacks by the main body of the enemy, their retreat routes blocked. All the years fighting on tournament grounds and on campaign had trained them well. Warenne was confident that these men, a mixture of toughened veterans and eager young knights, could crush the Scots in one bold move.

  Moments later, he saw a dark line growing on the distant hill, formed by many men on horseback. Flashes of colour brightened the ranks from banners held aloft. A shout went up on the walls of Dunbar Castle. The Scots there had seen the army coming to relieve them.

  Warenne turned to Humphrey, raising his voice over the cheers of the defenders. ‘Hold the camp,’ he ordered. ‘Comyn’s men mustn’t be allowed to leave the castle and outflank me.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Humphrey, bowing at the honour.

  Leaving the knight to gather the rest of the young bloods, Warenne hastened through the camp, calling his commanders to him. The captains of the cavalry and infantry mo
ved into action, rounding up their troops. Squires and grooms went to horses, hoisting up saddles, their fingers working at buckles on girths and bridles. Most of the knights wore some armour in readiness of possible attack, but they now pulled on the more awkward pieces: mail or plate gauntlets, helms and shields. Infantry adjusted sword belts and hefted hammers and pikes, forming up in their companies. The siege engines still pounded the castle walls, but the thud of stones was soon drowned by shouts and the neighing of horses as the knights mounted up.

  As they rode out of the camp, heading west towards the Scottish host on the distant hill, the defiant cries of the defenders faded behind them. Blue patches of sky appeared between the white banners of cloud that flew fast overheard. Sunlight lanced through the breaks, warming the faces of the knights and the infantry who marched behind. John de Warenne led the vanguard, his eyes on the distant army. The Scots had the high ground, but that did not trouble the grandson of the legendary William Marshal. His men rode with him in confident columns, pennons fluttering on lance shafts, helm crests waving. The foot soldiers brought up the rear, striding across the muddy ground that sloped steadily upwards.