Insurrection (43 page)

After questioning one of the knights, who told him the governor was with his commanders in the castle’s hall, Robert was making his way through the mass of men when he saw a young woman struggling through the press towards him. It was his wife’s maid, Katherine. Her face was agitated, a high flush of colour on her cheeks.

‘Sir Robert!’ Her voice carried over the rough din of the soldiers.

Robert went to her, filling with concern. ‘Is something wrong? Where is Isobel?’ He looked past Katherine up to the window of the room he had moved his wife to last week, when scouts had seen the smoke across the border. Torchlight glared behind the drapes.

‘She’s in her labour, sir. She begged me to find you.’

‘The child isn’t due for another month, at least.’

‘The midwife thinks her fretting about her father caused it to come early.’

‘Brother,’ said Edward, moving up behind him.

Robert turned distractedly as his brother nodded to the doors of the hall, out of which had come their father with three commanders.

The Lord of Annandale, imperious in a gleaming coat of mail given to him by his new son-in-law, the King of Norway, stood on the steps of the hall, looking down on the crowded bailey. His surcoat, partitioned in red and yellow with the cross over his heart, was pulled in tight at his thick waist by a belt, from which hung a broadsword. He began to speak, his voice sounding over the soldiers below, who quietened to listen, the men who had been emptying the supply wagon setting down their sacks of grain.

‘All of us here have paid a high price for our honour. I, more than most, am aware of the great sacrifice made in the service of loyalty these past months.’

Robert felt his chest tighten at his father’s words.
Great sacrifice?
he thought bitterly. His father still owned his rich lands in Essex and Yorkshire through his continued loyalty to King Edward. He himself had been left with nothing.

‘My scouts inform me that the Comyns’ host has laid waste to my lands. All of us here have lost things dear to us. All of us here have reason to hate the men who now come for us in the dark, like the cowardly sons of whores they are!’

Some of the soldiers in the yard shouted in vehement agreement.

‘Annandale is burning and the Black Comyns and their kin will build upon the ashes. If we let them. But I say we defy them! I say we stand against these seven earls and their false king! I say we show them what the men of Annandale and Carrick, and Carlisle are made of!’

The men roared their approval, the din reverberating around the bailey.

‘King Edward waits to our east in Newcastle with the English host. We are the bait and while the bastards dangle on our hook, he will attack where they have left themselves vulnerable. Stand with me and you will see your homes returned to you. Stand with me and you will be rewarded!’ The Lord of Annandale drew his sword and raised it.

The soldiers unsheathed their own blades and began to beat the flats of them against their shields.

Robert turned to Katherine. The maid had pressed her hands over her ears. ‘See that my wife has everything she needs,’ he shouted, as the clattering of swords beat the air. ‘I will come when I can.’

38

Over Carlisle, the last city in England, dawn was breaking. A veil of smoke hung in the air above the hordes beyond the walls. In the cold light, fire pits flamed, from which foot soldiers lit torches that were carried across the moat to the north-east gate where a mass of men held shields above their heads to form a screen. It was under this protective canopy that the foot soldiers bore these flaming brands. More men followed, carrying bundles of hay.

On the walls, defenders crowded the narrow walkway, wary of the arrows darting up from the banks of the moat. To them, the upturned shields were a confusion of colour, shifting like an uneasy sea with the tide of men beneath. Their faces pressed to arrow loops, the men of Carlisle watched as the soldiers with the torches continued to disappear beneath. Smoke filtered through the gaps between the shields, all the way up to the gates at the foot of the tower.

Robert was shouting orders, his voice hoarse and the siege barely begun. What started as a steady deployment of his troops along the walkway had descended into chaos, the enemy’s horns blaring and arrows flying up to clatter against the walls or arc into the streets below. His father had posted him in command of the north-east gate with his brother and soldiers of Carrick. Bolstered by men from Carlisle, they formed a company of twenty-five knights, with more than twice as many squires and foot soldiers. Having been in charge of only a small number of men in Wales, Robert swiftly discovered how hard it was to remain in control of a large division. It was harder still since the men of Carrick had been his father’s liegemen for so long. He had spent only a few months in his earldom before leaving for England and many remembered him more as a boy in Turnberry than their lord. As Robert had gathered these scarred veterans in the dawn, he felt they listened to his orders out of duty, rather than respect. There had been no time to dwell on this, however, with the enemy advancing, the fields filling with their mass.

Robert had watched their approach in silence, his eyes on the banners of Mar, Ross, Lennox, Strathearn, Atholl and Menteith that followed behind a black standard bearing three white sheaves of wheat, the arms of the Black Comyn, who had taken his family’s lands. Menteith, once their ally, had been succeeded by his red-haired son. Robert remembered Menteith’s son from the gathering in Turnberry, sitting opposite him at his father’s table. Who would have thought he would be facing him across the walls of an English city, or the fiery Earl John of Atholl – his own brother-in-law? Of them all, though, it was the banner of Mar that was the hardest for Robert to behold. Earl Donald had been one of his grandfather’s closest comrades and it was the earl’s sword that dubbed him on the day of his knighthood. He was wed to Mar’s daughter and his sister, Christian, was married to the earl’s son and heir. It seemed inconceivable that this elderly man, whom he’d always thought of with great fondness, was now seeking his destruction. But the truth of it was there in that standard, lit by the glare of the fires. His grandfather would be twisting in his grave.

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.