And Elizabeth, his wife, lost to him for ever. Not that there was love in it — Christ’s Wounds, her father’s Irishmen stood opposite with the English — but the flower of the de Burghs held the chalice of Scotland’s future.
If his disease permitted such matters as an heir by then, of course. He wondered about the others, the soft night bodies that consoled him, the Christinas and Christians and ones with no name that he could recall. They were not repelled by the rumours, he noted. More to the point, none of those women had been felled by his very breath, poison to all if he was truly a leper. And one at least had conceived him a son, a fine boy — but that had been a time ago and the lad was now old enough to be a squire. A king, he thought wryly, if I die and brother Edward with me.
The nobiles would never permit it, of course; young squire Robert Bruce was too bastard to be a king and if the worst happened here — as it might — then the Kingdom would be plunged into more chaos.
He felt the sour weight of it all, crushing him into the shape of a throne.
The crowded tent waited, shifting impatiently and wondering why they were here. They were here, Bruce thought, because I need them to fight and need to have them believe it is their own idea and not mine. I have led them to this ring, but they must dance to my tune, so that I know they will follow the steps and not jig off in entirely the wrong direction.
‘We have lost brothers, friends, relatives,’ he began and the murmuring died. ‘Others of your kin and friends are prisoners. Prelates and clergy of this kingdom are closeted in stone.’
He saw that he had their attention and told them what Seton had reported.
‘If their English hearts are cast down, the body is not worth a jot. Their glory is in heavy horse and heavier carts,’ he went on, while the air grew thick and still; outside, he heard the great, slow drone of men moving and talking.
‘Our glory is in the name of God and victory.’
He had them, could sense it swell like a fat prick. He told them he would fight and watched that chase itself across their faces. He told them they did not have to agree with him and that if they all believed it was right for them to withdraw, then he would do it, with a heavy heart.
‘If you stay to fight with me, my good lords,’ he added, ‘know that this is a just cause and so a divine favour is with us, that you will garner all the great riches the English have brought with them, while your wives and children will bless you for defending them.’
There were shouts, now. ‘God wills it.’ ‘St Andrew.’ Even a growled-out ‘Cruachan’ from Neil Campbell.
‘The enemy fight only for power,’ Bruce added. ‘Take no prisoners or spoils until all is won, my lords. Know also that all previous offences against me and mine are pricked out for those who stand with me this day and that the heirs of all those who fall will freely receive their just inheritances.’
It was, he knew, a jewel of plaint, pitched perfectly between honour and greed.
‘Are you with me?’ he demanded and knew the answer before the roar flapped the sides of the panoply with a dragon’s breath.
Addaf watched them butcher the horse in the stream, so that it ran red with blood all the way back to the sea. It had been worth a year’s wages, he thought bitterly, and had foundered trying to cross the tidal-swollen, steep-sided curse of a stream the night before; there were half a dozen more, slipped off the makeshift bridges of boards and tumbled to expensive ruin, unveiled as bloated, stiff-legged feasts for flies when the tide sucked the water back.
Men moved stiffly, red-eyed from lack of sleep. Most of the men-at-arms and knights had lain fully armoured by their bridled horses, starting fitfully at every noise, for everyone thought the Scotch imps of Satan would use the night for some foul, unchivalrous attack.
Now they levered themselves up, all the fine surcotes and plumes and trappers streaked with dust and dung, snatching bread or a mouthful of wine if they were lucky or had clever squires.
Addaf had not slept, nor many of his archers other than the eight who had been sent to eternal rest, ploughed under by the Van horse the day before. Now the remainder stretched, gathered their gear and moved like a black scowl into the day, smouldering still at what had been done to them.
They would not fight, Addaf thought. Not after being ridden over by the pig English, but it probably did not matter, since it seemed only the disarray of heavy horse would take to the field. He hoped that was so, for he did not want to put his men to the test.
Ironically, it would be Y Crach who fired them up, with his demands to do God’s work. I will have to deal with him, Addaf thought, sooner rather than later. But the thought crushed him with weariness.
Sir Maurice Berkeley would have been surprised to find that he was in agreement, at least with the latter part of Addaf’s reckoning. The foot, exhausted from a long march — and still struggling to the field — were littered like fallen trees, Hainaulters, Genoese crossbowmen, Cheshire archers and all.
Only my Welsh dogs, Sir Maurice thought, are fit to get to their feet and draw a bow, and he did not much like the lowered brows of them; he was angered at what had been done to them by Gloucester and Hereford, but kept that choked.
He was glad to be quit of the Van, back with the King’s Battle and assigned to the Earl of Pembroke’s retinue: the further his Welsh were from the mesnies of Hereford and Gloucester the better. He wished he could keep his son and two grandsons out of it as easily.
Just as well the Scotch won’t stand, he thought.
Addaf glanced at Sir Maurice, seeing the blackness on the man. The Berkeleys should have that chevron on their fancy shields turned up the other way, he thought, as a better representation of the scowl between their brows.
Mounted men worked the stiffness out of horses and their own muscles, calling out the bright, shrill ‘Je vous salue’ one to another. These were the ones who had risen early and found a priest who could take their confession and shrive them — now the priests were too busy taking Mass as the sun filtered up, for this was the Feast of St John.
Sir Marmaduke had mounted Garm, feeling half-dead and chilled; enjoy it, he growled to himself, for it is the best part of the day, which promises to be hotter than Hades — and better half-dead than entirely so.
He turned as a ragged wave of shouting spread from head to head; Sir Giles d’Argentan, splendid in scarlet and silver, cantered through the throng, heading for the mass of horse out to the front. He smiled and waved right to left, the perfect paladin leading the King to battle.
Edward followed, even more splendid in scarlet, the three gold pards glowing in the rising light. To his left, de Valence kept pace with him and, trailing behind, came the royal mesnie, a little bedraggled but still grinning.
Thweng fell in beside Sir Payn Tiptoft, who raised a gauntleted hand in greeting.
‘Dieu vous garde.’
Thweng returned the compliment, but he had hands full of reins and shield and lance, so it was an awkward fumbled affair; Tiptoft’s squire, he saw, rode unarmoured at his master’s back, carrying lance and shield both, but Thweng liked his own squire, young John, too much to place him at such risk.
‘Will he speak, d’ye think?’ Tiptoft demanded and Thweng knew Sir Payn referred to the King. He did not think so and saw the headshake and frown when he said as much. No holy banners from Beverley and no rousing royal speech. No knightings either — every custom and usage of battle, it seemed, was being ignored.