‘Nothing is yours by right or privilege,’ James tartly retorted.
The Humes repeated their demands. James, bored, rose to his feet, clapped his hands as a sign that the audience was over and swept out of the throne room.
Within a week the Humes and their confederates the Douglases were up in arms. James became frenetic with excitement. His allies, the Huntleys and Crawfords, brought their retinues to Edinburgh. More royal troops arrived and the King began to move: his napery, his salt cellars, tapestries and curtained beds, spinning wheels, towels, combs, mirrors, chests and coffers were piled on to carts. The King, now the warrior, constantly marched about in half-armour, brought specially from Milanese craftsmen. James saw himself as a new Robert Bruce, full of military oaths and what he would do after his great victory. Matthias was given a coat of chain mail, a conical helmet, a war belt and a rounded shield.
‘You’ll be my squire, Englishman,’ James smiled at him. ‘You’ll stand by me in the fray. If you don’t, my good man Kennedy has orders to slash your throat from ear to ear.’ He grasped Matthias’ arm. ‘That’s the advice Cochrane gave me.’
Matthias glanced at the captain of the royal guard. Kennedy winked back.
‘God knows how this will end,’ he whispered later to Matthias, ‘but Cochrane has also told him how to fight this war.’
At the end of May James, astride a snow-white palfrey, the saddle and harness of burnished leather edged with silver, led his royal army out of the grounds of Holyrood, down through the stinking wynds of Edinburgh. They paused at the great open space before St Giles’ Cathedral where the priests blessed them. The royal army then continued. James had a body of archers and men-at-arms who wore coats of mail. These soldiers were well armed with bows and arrows, broadswords and daggers, but the rest were bare-footed clans-men, dressed in loose plaids and saffron-dyed shirts, and they carried little except a stout dagger in their belts, a spear and shield. Nevertheless, what they lacked in armour they made up in courage and determination. They did not care a whit about the King but were eager for war, to burn, pillage and, above all, wreak vengeance on their deadly enemies the Humes and the Douglases.
The King moved to Blackness on the Firth of Forth. His army caught sight of the enemy mustering in the distance. They, too, carried the royal banner of Scotland, having amongst their ranks the King’s eldest son. James’s courage now cooled. He refused to give battle but marched his troops further west. Kennedy told Matthias that he thought they were going for Stirling to seek protection behind its fortified walls. The King’s enemies moved faster and, when the royal army tried to cross Sauchieburn, a river which snaked its way across Stirling Plain, they found their way blocked by the Humes and Douglases and a greatly swollen rebel army.
James, Matthias in tow, rode up and down the lines of his troops, exhorting them to stand and fight, interfering in the commands and orders of his captains. The royal forces were not fully deployed when the rebel army moved with incredible speed. Matthias stared unbelievingly at the great line of horse and foot which raced towards them. This was no Tewkesbury or East Stoke but a wild rush of men. Most of James’s soldiers simply turned and fled: the levies from Edinburgh and other towns were the first to leave the field. The King, watching the flight of his troops from a nearby hill, panicked, took his helmet off and, turning his horse, left the field. Most of his bodyguard had been deployed in the line of battle and, as the King began his wild ride, Matthias realised only he and Kennedy were left to guard him. Behind them the roars of battle, the cries and shrieks of dying men faded as the King rode away.
They crossed a small stream, driving their horses up the wet slippery bank, and were about to pass a mill when James’s palfrey, unused to such mad gallops, slipped and rolled, tossing the king. He managed to extricate himself but, in doing so, hurt his legs. He lay gasping, screaming for Cochrane and beating his gauntleted hand on the ground like a spoilt child who has been deprived of a toy. Then he groaned and, clutching his side, fell back on the ground.
‘Englishman,’ Kennedy dismounted, ‘see if there is any pursuit.’
Whilst he crouched beside his king, Matthias turned his horse’s head and rode back to the top of the bank. He took his helmet off, allowing the breeze to cool the sweat on his face. He pulled back the mailed coif and drank from the waterskin slung over his saddle. He didn’t give a fig about James or the pursuers and, for some time, his attention was caught by a small white cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. He stared at it, lost in a reverie: the sky, the cloud, the warm sun reminded him of that day at the wall when he had told Rosamund about his past.
‘Englishman, are you asleep?’
Matthias shook his head, splashed some water over his face and stared across the heathland. At first he could see nothing but, straining his eyes, he glimpsed colour behind a copse of trees and saw some riders emerge. Half a dozen, these fanned out as they rode towards them. Behind them came another party. Matthias tried to make out the colours. He glimpsed a banner, green and white. The breeze blew more strongly, the riders turned direction and he saw the black and gold banner of Lord George Douglas.
‘There are pursuers!’ Matthias shouted. ‘And they are coming fast.’ He trotted his horse down. ‘What now?’
Kennedy had grasped the King by the shoulder and was lifting him up from the ground. A faint trickle of blood snaked out of the corner of the King’s mouth. His face was white. He was grasping his side.
‘He has broken a rib, bruised something inside.’ Puzzlingly, Kennedy smiled up at Matthias. ‘Who’s leading the pursuit?’
‘Lord George Douglas.’
‘Aye,’ the King muttered, opening his eyes. ‘He has pursued me in life, he will pursue me to the death.’ He grasped Kennedy’s arm. ‘Archibald man, kill him.’ He pointed at Matthias. ‘We’ll take his horse.’
‘Sire,’ the Scottish captain dabbed at the King’s face with a rag, ‘you cannot be moved.’
The King stared at him wildly. ‘But, for God’s sake man, if we stay the Douglas will take my head!’
‘Get him some water!’ Kennedy ordered.
Matthias offered the small leather bottle.
‘Ach no,’ the King groaned. ‘Bring me fresh from the burn!’
Matthias ran up the bank, grasped his helmet and went down to the burn. He filled his helmet with water and looked up. Douglas and his party were drawing closer. He heard a faint shout as they glimpsed him running back up the bank. He went to kneel by the King. Kennedy snatched the helmet from his hand and poured the water over the King’s face.
‘Are they drawing closer?’ Kennedy asked.
‘For God’s sake, yes, man!’ Matthias retorted.
‘Kill him,’ the King murmured. ‘Kill the Englishman and fetch me a priest!’
Kennedy drew his dagger. Matthias didn’t know whether to spring at him or jump away. He caught a look in the Scotsman’s eyes, gentle, kindly: then the dagger was brought down. One swift thrust into the exposed throat of King James III of Scotland, who wriggled and choked as Kennedy held the dagger firm, all the time his eyes staring at Matthias.
‘Go on, Creatura! Go on now!’
‘Why?’ Matthias asked, getting to his feet.
‘Win or lose, the King had given orders for your death but his soul was ours. Go on, Creatura, ride like the wind.’ He pointed to his own horse and the longbow looped over the saddle horn. ‘I have unfinished business with the Lord Douglas!’
23
At Lanercost Priory outside Carlisle, the chronicler transcribing local events during the second half of the year of Our Lord 1488 was as mystified as anyone by the strange stories brought by travellers, journeymen and packmen when they stayed in the guest house on the far side of Lanercost church. Brother Simon, the chronicler, avid for information, greedy for scandal and gossip, scratched his balding head and would spend a long time, pen poised, wondering how to record such mysterious events. True, Barnwick Castle had been destroyed in a Scottish raid in the winter of that year: the keep had been fired, the gatehouse demolished, any wooden building burnt to the ground whilst parts of the wall were brought to terrible ruin by the Scots marauders. The Warden of the Scottish march, too fearful of what might be happening in Scotland, left the place neglected. The castle became the haunt of ravens, owls, foxes, badgers and other wild animals which roamed the desolate heathland between Scotland and England.