Noble Traitor, page 12
At the head of the room, King Edward sat in a throne-like chair with Bishop Langton and Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick beside him. Thomas raised an eyebrow at how pale the King had grown, his cheeks sunken.
In spite of a trio of minstrels playing in the gallery, the company, taking its cue from the King, was in solemn spirits. Considering, Thomas had to admire the earl’s equanimity as he walked heavily to the edge of the dais and bowed.
Thomas glanced at Geoffrey and strolled casually to the top of the long table and took a cup of wine from a page. He picked up a sweetmeat and edge a little closer to the dais as the King shook a finger, baring his teeth and glaring. The earl climbed the steps to the dais and spoke quietly to him.
Try as he might, Thomas could not make out what was being said. Thomas sipped his wine and wondered if he could slip a little nearer, but when de Bohun, his heavy, dark brows drawn into a scowl, looked his way, Thomas turned away.
Instead, he went looking for something to eat. After days in the saddle, the piece of bread and cheese he had eaten before changing his clothes to attend the king’s gathering had left his stomach empty and growling. He bypassed the piglet with a shudder. They were too associated with Satan for his taste and instead settled for a large chunk of mutton pie seasoned with onions, pepper, and rosemary. The savory scent made his mouth water.
Geoffrey, a slice of pigeon on his knife, said, “At least the food is good even if everyone looks as though they just bit into a sour apple.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you think the King looks…well?”
Thomas shook his head.
The door opened, and Pembroke entered, followed by a dozen or so knights of his retinue in tunics of every color of the rainbow. He paused until the King returned his gaze before he went to make a deep bow.
King Edward’s face contorted, and his nostrils flared. He repeatedly jabbed a forefinger finger at Pembroke, his pale cheeks flushing with color. Pembroke spread his hands as though explaining himself, shaking his head. The King grasped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. His voice was strong as ever, however ill he might appear, when he shouted, “Useless the lot of you! Afraid to lose a few men in order to do your duty!” He was swaying. Bishop Langton reached out a hand to him, but the King brushed it furiously away. “You… you force me to defeat the traitor myself. And I shall!”
The king’s legs gave way, but before he could collapse to the floor, de Bohun grabbed him under one arm. Warwick wrapped an arm around him from the other side. The two of them supported Edward, who was murmuring something and shaking his head. But his feet dragged the floor as they bore him through a door at the rear of the dais.
Thomas ran his fingers over his lips as he gazed around. Everyone stared silently after the departed king. Geoffrey was wide-eyed. Pembroke crossed his arms, his face pensive. Lincoln looked grim. The bishop scurried after the others out the door. After a moment, Thomas swirled his wine in his cup.
What sort of King would the prince make? A young and vigorous king might be a good thing.
Chapter 18
By midmorning under the June, sweat trickled down Thomas’s neck and plastered his hair to his forehead. He had at least half-believed the rumors that the King was dead of a bloody flux, but now before the gates of Carlisle, they awaited his appearance to lead the levies toward Solway to cross into Scotland. Or so they were told. After an hour of waiting, the air stank of shit and horseflies buzzed around them in torturous swarms. He waved the swarm away from his face. He was lucky to be in the Earl of Lincoln’s following, which at least was at the front of the army, which stretched for miles. At the tail end of the force, the stink of horse shit and the flies would be a hundred times worse.
Hundreds of banners hung lank in the still summer air above the shimmering armor of thousands of knights, more thousands of mounted men-at-arms, and countless infantry bristling with spears, Welsh archers by the thousand, and wagons piled with provisions out of sight at the rear. This was an army large enough to crush the rebellion and put an end to the fighting—if it ever moved.
Next to him, an older knight in his thirties wearing a surcoat with the blue and white checky of the Stewarts grumbled, “At this rate, we should reach Scotland by…never.”
Thomas snorted a chuckle through his nose. “Sooner than that, I hope.”
The man tilted his head to look Thomas up and down. “I’ve heard of you. Thomas Randolph, aye? I am Alexander Stewart of Bonkyl.”
Thomas gave the fellow Scot, a thirtyish looking man with sparse sandy hair, a half bow from the saddle.
From behind them, Geoffrey said, “Very little sooner, but we shall be too old to do our wives any good if ever we have them.” He clicked his tongue. “Pay me no heed, how can we find wives when we spend the next twenty years waiting to start for Scotland.”
Thomas and Alexander snorted with laughter. But then A flurry of activity erupted near the gates of Carlisle. Geoffrey said, “Huzzah. At last.”
Thomas stood in his stirrups and twisted. He craned to see if it was at last King Edward. In a few minutes, steel armor engraved with gold flashed in the sun. King Edward rode through the army astride a ponderous black destrier, followed by the earls. A sparkling gemmed gold circlet banded his gray head.
Thomas twisted his reins around his fingers. The shimmering armor did not hide how cadaverous the King appeared, his cheeks and eyes sunken, his skin ashen. For a moment, the King paused and bent forward in the saddle. He straightened, and proceeding at a steady pace, reached the head of the arm. Trumpet calls resounded. Sighing with relief, Thomas shook out his reins and urged his horse to a walk.
They inched away from Carlisle, dust gusting up at each hoof fall. He looped his reins around his pommel and uncorked his flask, took a mouthful of wine, and swished it around his both before he swallowed to wash the dust from his mouth then offered it to Stewart.
Stewart took a swig and handed it back. He nodded toward the King through the two rows of knights ahead of them. “At least the rumors were wrong.”
“Mmmm…” He wasn’t going to mention that he doubted the rumors would be wrong for much longer. But perhaps the King only looked ill and was recovering. A man so ancient would not regain his strength quickly. After all, King Edward neared his sixty-ninth year, unimaginable to be so old.
They rode past sheep being sheared; women bent weeding the fields. Men with scythes harvested the hay. Wayns moved off the road to let them pass.
The sun was beginning its downward path in the afternoon when there was a cry of alarm that sounded like Pembroke, then shouts.
“Can you see what’s the to-do?” Stewart asked.
Thomas leaned to the side, trying to see past those in front of him. The king’s destrier no longer had a rider.
“Halt!” Lincoln shouted. “Halt!”
Since they were barely moving at a walk, Thomas pulled up at once. Serjeants echoed the command time after time down the long column.
“We cannot have gone more than a couple of miles.” Stewart grimaced. “This does nae bode well.”
A few minutes later, they were given the command to camp for the night.
Chapter 19
June 7, 1307
The land stretched out flat, and half an hour’s ride away lay a wretched hamlet of a dozen thatch-roofed cottages and a tall square stone church tower. Beyond it, Thomas could make out the blue of the Solway Firth and the broad reach its white sands. Across the firth lay Scotland.
Surrounded by a dozen guards and leading the way a canopied litter curtained in red and gold hung between a pair of bay rouncies. The swaying vehicle crept along, two monks riding jennets close beside it. The Earl of Lincoln was riding behind the litter along with Pembroke, Bishop Langton, Humphrey de Bohun in particularly ornate armor, and Guy de Beauchamp, followed by the miles-long column of men.
One of the monks tilted his head as though listening and then leaned toward the litter. He pushed back the curtain and stuck his head in. Pulling back, he turned in his saddle and called out, “We must stop!” He dropped his reins and sat wringing his hands.
He trotted up to the monk, stuck his head into the litter, pulled it out, and pointed ahead to the hamlet. The monk shook his head, but Lincoln cut him off with a slash of his hand.
Thomas chewed his lip as Lincoln rode to the other earls, and they conferred. “This is not good at all. Not at all. How long can it go on like this?” He watched the plodding pace of the litter and its guards. “They are taking him to the church.”
As the litter proceeded, Pembroke shouted, “Halt!” The shout was repeated back through the miles of the column.
Alexander Stewart groaned. “Within sight of the Firth, and we stop yet again.”
“They should have had the King turn back days ago.” Thomas slid from the saddle and led his horse to the front of the column as they dismounted to stare after they litter of the ailing king. “If he has a bloody flux…” His gaze flitted around the thousands of men as they stared after the sick King. Young, strong men often succumbed to the dread sickness. And when Thomas had seen him at Carlisle, the King had not been strong, nor had he been young for many years.
Geoffrey led his horse to stand beside him, face drawn up into a worried frown. “Most of us do not remember when he was not our king.”
Thomas twisted his reins around his hand and untwisted them as the litter continued its snail-like progress. He started when Lincoln said, “You. And you.” Still mounted, the earl pointed down to Thomas and then Geoffrey. “You may serve as my attendants.”
Thomas threw himself back onto his horse and followed the earl at a canter. They caught up to the litter as one of the monks, the younger of the two, pulled back the thick curtain. The other signaled for two guards to help him. He knelt and gently lifted the king’s legs and helped him turn and sit up. There were brown stains down his legs. A fierce stink emanated from within. A look of distaste passed over Lincoln’s face quickly wiped away. Thomas swallowed.
The other monk, a gray-haired, round-faced man with a severe mien, said to the guards, “Put your arms beneath him and lift him. Gently, by the Blessed Mother.”
The first monk stepped out of the way as the guards lifted King Edward who limply put his arms around their shoulders. Another guard rushed to open the wooden church door as they carried the King up the steps. The older monk took a bag from his jennet and signaled the other to follow him as he hurried into the dark doorway of the church.
Lincoln glowered at the remaining guards who stood looking bereft. “Why are you standing there? Find the priest of this bedamned place. Bring his best bed for the king! Cushions! Blankets!”
Somewhere in the baggage train was furniture for the king, but it would take time to have it found and brought.
As the guards scurried away, the earl scrubbed his lower face with his hand. He frowned at Thomas. “You shall not whisper even a word of this. Do you understand me?” He included Geoffrey in his glower. “Say one word, and I shall have you both in a dungeon. Now stand guard outside the doors.” He stomped inside and slammed the door.
Thomas raised his eyebrows, but his belly felt hollow. He went to stand on one side of the door. It would be a long afternoon. The guards and the local priest lugged in a feather mattress and piles of bedding, but they never emerged again. Eventually, grooms came and led away their horses. The afternoon shadows lengthened, and sunset died the western sky red. He threw a glance at Geoffrey. “Do you suppose they remember that we have not eaten?”
Geoffrey snorted. “Probably not.”
At last, the sun sank below the horizon, and the sky turned a midnight blue. Footsteps crunched on the dry ground, and a shape approached.
“Here.”
Thomas fumbled the hunk of bread Alexander Stewart tossed him but managed to save it. “Thanks.”
Alexander threw a chunk to Geoffrey and leaned a shoulder on the wall. “What’s going on?”
Thomas clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Not knowing could keep you out of Lord Lincoln’s dungeon.”
“That bad, then?”
Geoffrey grunted. “Bad enough. I would not suggest sticking your head inside that litter before it has been cleaned.”
“Och. That’s the way of it, then.”
Thomas tore a bite of bread off with his teeth and chewed. When Alexander handed him an uncorked flask, he took a swig of the sour wine to wash it down. “Wonder if we will be here all night.”
“I think we are the least of what Lord Lincoln is thinking on,” Geoffrey said.
The three men shared the wine as the night grew darker. When the flask was empty, Alexander gave a raspy scratch of his chin and said he’d be off for some sleep.
“There were many nights like this, I stood guard with…” He trailed off and shrugged.
There was no response Thomas could think of to what Geoffrey was thinking. After a minute, he said, “Sit down and sleep for a bit. I’ll keep watch and warn you if anyone is coming. There is no threat here, and the king’s own guards are within. Then you can watch for me for a time.” He shook his head hard and stomped a few times to be sure he was awake.
A few hours later, he wakened Geoffrey and sat slumped against the wall. His eyes closed. It seemed only a moment later when he leapt to his feet, hand on his hilt.
“Did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you hit me with something?” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glared in the dim light at Geoffrey, who was chuckling.
“Threw a pebble at you. It’s almost dawn. Lauds rang, and you did not even stir.”
Groaning, Thomas flexed his stiff shoulders and gazed around. A thin line of golden orange rimmed the eastern sky. In the distance, the campfires of the army glowed, too far for Thomas to hear the snores of men and whickers of horses. His stomach rumbled. “How long do you think Lord Lincoln will leave us here? I am sure they have forgotten us.”
The church door slammed open so hard that it bounced. A guard raced onto the steps. “God damn, where is my horse?”
“The grooms made a horse line beside the church,” Geoffrey told him.
The man left at a run. Thomas watched after him, his mouth open and then closed it. Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. Thomas stepped to the open door and peered around the edge. Near the front of the church in the flickering light of lamps, the monks knelt, praying beside a bed where the figure of a man was beneath a coverlet. Looking down, motionless stood the Earl of Lincoln.
Thomas softly closed the door and crossed himself.
The morning had grown bright and warm when Pembroke galloped up and threw himself off his horse. He frowned from Thomas to Geoffrey and turned to two of his own guards. “You, relieve those men.” He turned back to Thomas and said, “And the two of you, keep your mouths shut. One word of anything that has happened here, and I will see that you in a dungeon.” He stomped into the church, slamming the door.
Numb with exhaustion, Thomas walked around the corner to find his own mount, Geoffrey a step behind him. They threw on the saddles and tack and mounted. As they rode towards the awakening camp, two of the king’s couriers thundered past at a gallop.
Marching the army back to Carlisle had taken only one day, unlike the four days it had taken to reach Burgh-on-Sands, with only a hundred men left behind as guards, Geoffrey amongst them. Thomas gave him a sympathetic clout on the shoulder at being left behind before he joined Alexander and the thousands of others on their way.
They set up the camp up outside the walls of Carlisle. Tents sprouted like mushrooms, horse lines set up, and latrines dug, which would not keep the place from stinking of piss as soon as the bored soldiers got drunk and could not be bothered to stagger to use them. Pembroke had the camp patrolled to break up the constant fights and to drag to the dungeon of Carlisle Castle, anyone who dared mention the absence of the King. Thomas was envious as Alexander saw to his men setting up their tents, anxious for the day that he would raise his own men, impossible whilst he was in Lincoln’s retinue.
The next morning Thomas suggested that they slip away as soon as the gates of the city opened. If they were early, they might be ahead of the hundreds of other knights seeking shelter that did not involve baking in the summer’s heat in a tent. Guesthouses at the monasteries were already filled with nobles.
Thomas bypassed the first several houses with ale poles looking for a place off the beaten path. With the hatred between the English soldiers, the Welsh archers, and Scots knights and men-at-arms, anyplace crowded would be more a battleground than a tavern. Down a shadowy close, they found an inn that catered to laborers but was clean and smelled of ale and mutton pottage. It was empty so early in the day, only one aged gaffer bent over a cup of ale. At the sight of Thomas’s silver from his rents, the smiling tavern keeper showed them a large loft that took up the upper story. He said for two half-pennies more, he could supply straw-bags for sleeping. They lodged their horses in a paddock at the back.
Soon they sat in the summer sunshine on a bench outside the tavern enjoying the peace after the constant cacophony of thousands of soldiers arguing, snoring, and lying about their skill in a fight.
“How long do you think we will be here?” Thomas asked.
Alexander took a good look around to be sure no one could overhear them. “It depends on where the Prince is. Or was. And how long it took a message to reach him.”
Thomas lifted his cup and took a drink. “London, I heard. But who kens if that is true?”
