After Flodden (20 page)

‘I agree with the gunner. His proposition is entirely sensible, en effet très intélligente, et juste.’ It was De La Mothe, the French ambassador, and he caught the
king’s attention. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, with a bow, ‘what this man says is commonsense. It is not unchivalrous. Our army has been positioned on this hill for days. Surrey
knows you wish to meet him. That he walks his men past us in this manner is not only insolence but provocation. Does he really expect we will not fire a shot? In my country we are sticklers for
manners, for obeying the rules of good behaviour, but in this instance, to do as the gunner says is entirely within the laws of war. I endorse the idea. Vraiment, I applaud it.’

There was a murmur of agreement around him. The lords of the council pressed in on each other, their cloaks and helmets black with water, their eyes bright with the thought of battle.

‘I am with De La Mothe and Borthwick,’ came the soft voice of Argyll, whose whisper hid a constitution and soul of steel. ‘Let’s make a beginning, the sooner to make an
end of this.’

‘Aye,’ said Huntly. ‘We’ve got them in our sights. Give the order, Your Highness. Our men can be ready to charge at a moment’s notice, and they are chafing to
fight.’

‘Added to which,’ said Patrick Lindsay, ‘the gunners’ contract ends tomorrow. We have them only for one more day.’

Huntly nodded. ‘They’ll start leaving, soon as the money runs out.’

James turned from them, and stared out across the plain. Below, the English snaked their way north. It was too tempting to turn the guns on them. At this hour, in this light, they were an easy
target: defenceless, tired and unprepared. Not for the first time on this campaign he brooded on his mother’s caution: ‘Nothing achieved by violence, be certain, can endure.’ He
had grasped her hand as she spoke. She was dying, and the advice was urgent. In that moment, haunted by the foretaste of her loss, he had promised to cherish her words. He did not believe that
battle counted as violence, not of the sort she had meant. But he suspected that picking off Surrey and his men when their backs were turned most certainly would.

He faced his men. ‘No,’ he said, very quietly. ‘Paddy is right. It is an act of cowardice. Whether Surrey is abandoning the fight, as I suspect, or whether he is merely taking
up a new position, I will not have this army’s good name ruined by outlaw tactics.’ He looked at De La Mothe. ‘I mean no offence, monseigneur, but Scottish rules are my only
guide. I have much reason to be grateful to you for your help already on this march, and I would not wish to lose your friendship and counsel, but in this instance, we must disagree.’ De La
Mothe raised a hand in gracious defeat, and with a lace handkerchief wiped a drop from his nose.

The Scottish lords swayed in the rain and mist, dejected and cold. ‘But take heart, good fellows,’ said their king. ‘Now we eat. In the morning, we will make fresh
plans.’ He clapped his hands, and with heavy steps they dispersed to their ranks and the best meal the army’s cooks could offer from their dwindling stores of dried meat and
biscuit.

That night James, his son and Paniter dined together. Little was said, but in the press of the king’s hand on his shoulder as he left the pavilion, Paniter was assured of his
sovereign’s trust. On almost every matter of importance, they agreed. And where not, Paniter’s advice was often accepted. Now, in hindsight, he cursed his wicked, persuasive tongue. Had
he been known for a fool, it would have been far better for his country, and his king. Instead, both in that evening’s work, and the next day, he had, he believed, tied the noose around the
army’s neck. But not his own. Not his own. And that was hardest of all to live with.

That council had gathered again the next day, and soon the previous night’s disagreement was to seem like childish prattle. On the morning of 9 September, under ceaseless rain and mist,
day broke late and without conviction. When the air cleared, a brief opening of shutters that would part and close throughout the day as if worked by a mischievous maid, the king and his men
gathered on the hillside to look out on a field that might have been designed by the devil himself.

‘Saints and sinners,’ swore Argyll, putting a hand to his sword. As they took in the scene, the others were quiet. They shifted uneasily, sheep scenting a fox’s musk in the
wind.

‘So he has decided to fight after all,’ said Lindsay. There was a muttering of oaths. James’s face was grim. ‘That is a damnable position. He has cut us off from
Scotland.’ He ground a gloved fist into his hand. ‘How could I have ever thought they were in retreat? That man was raised on the smell of blood.’

Before them, the English army was stationed on the valley side across the River Till. In the dark, the night before, they had somehow navigated their way across the swamps, and were now ranged
on a low ridge on the edge of Branxton village. By day, their numbers looked daunting. This was not the ragged and underfed army their scouts had led them to expect. Red and white flags whipped in
the rain, the crimson presaging the carnage to come. Horses and guns stood at the rear, and the sturdy bills of the tightly packed infantry were tall and proud as a field of black wheat. There
could be no doubt. Surrey was waiting for James and his men. The challenge could not be more clear, or immediate.

James’s face was ashen, but though there was fear in his eyes, there was also exhilaration. At last, the day of reckoning was upon them. This man who had spent years preparing for
showdown, for putting Henry in his place and trapping the English bully between himself and the French king’s forces, was ready. He brightened as he led his men back into his tent.

Under the sodden canvas their breath created a sour fug, testimony to a month on the road with little fresh food, and too much salt meat and wine. James removed his helmet, and faced them.
‘My lords, our position here is secure. Impregnable. Surrey must bring the battle to us, if he wishes to engage. He has known this past week where we are encamped, and if he feels obliged to
enter the engagement as agreed, he knows what he must do.’

‘But, Your Highness,’ said a voice from the back of the group – it was Lord Herries – ‘Surrey need do nothing, and still he might win. The date means nothing to
him. His position is clever. His army is small, but far fresher than ours, and as of today it cuts us off from the border. We have no line of retreat. And should you decide to play a waiting game,
our supplies are likewise strangled. There is a limit to what we can pillage from this region, while waiting to go to war.’

‘Aye, and a limit to what our men will tolerate too,’ murmured Argyll. ‘By next week, I warrant many foot soldiers will have turned tail. And as we said last night, the gunners
are paid only until tomorrow. Thereafter, we will be relying on goodwill and . . . ’

‘And that has all but evaporated,’ growled Paniter. ‘They are hungry, and tired, and many are ailing. Most thought the sack of Norham was sufficient prize. Now, they have had
enough. Your Majesty, I urge you to change tactics. We must engage at once.’

James ran a hand through his hair. It fell in girlish waves around his shoulders, but there was nothing soft about his expression. He turned to Borthwick. ‘Can we relocate two miles
immediately, and still get the guns ready for action today?’

Borthwick hesitated, and it was Paniter who spoke. As he recalled that moment his stomach griped, and in the palace’s cramped, airless staircase, he feared his bowels would open and flood
onto the steps, visible evidence of his putrid conscience.

‘Your Highness,’ he said, coaxingly, the voice he had used when urging the king’s son to remember his Latin conjugations, ‘trust me. We have the finest weaponry in
Europe. Borthwick’s furnace has created an armoury that would be the envy of any king or general. With their deadly range – begad, they could almost reach the Roman wall, if they were
turned that way! – and with the training of our French compatriots in how to wield their weapons, we gunmasters, and the entire army, are nigh on invincible.’

‘That much I already know, sir,’ said James. He turned a cold eye on his closest councillor, his dearest friend. ‘What I must be told, and truthfully, is if it is possible to
reposition these huge guns, at this late hour.’

Paniter raised his voice, sensing the decision was in his hands. ‘We had some problems in getting the sakers and serpentines into place when we arrived, in finding their range. That we
acknowledge.’ He looked to Borthwick, who refused to meet his eye, but nodded. ‘It’s a question of simple mathematical calculation, and we have now mastered this. We have learned
their reach, and their tricks.’

Why he had sounded so certain, he would never be able to explain. Had he simply grown too used to his own voice? Had he turned into an arrogant, boasting windbag, over-sure of his opinions and
his privileged position at the king’s side, where his every word was listened to? In the bleak stretches of the many sleepless nights that lay ahead between that miserable hour and the day he
died, Patrick Paniter would never be able to answer himself, let alone anyone else.

‘And can we get them shifted alongside the troops?’ The king sounded brisk.

There was an awkward pause. Rain drummed on the canvas. ‘I think not, Your Majesty,’ replied Borthwick at length. He rubbed his hands together, knuckles cracking. ‘Given their
weight, it’s best they set off first. They will need a good head start.’

Young Alexander stepped forward. He had his father’s gallant air, his courtly figure. ‘Your Highness, Patrick is most likely correct. He knows what he talks about. And the rest of
us, we are all wanting to engage. Waiting even a day longer will do a great deal more harm than moving our lines.’

James touched his hand to his son’s golden head, but his expression did not change.

Lennox was next: ‘The guns will be the first frightener, nae doubt about it, but it’s the soldiers who will win or lose the day, and it makes not one whit ae difference if they
descend from this hill, or that at Branxton. I say let’s get on wi’ it, and make the charge today.’

A heated discussion followed, more so each could have his say than to decry the growing consensus that moving hills was the only sensible option.

Still the king seemed unpersuaded. He raised the tent flap, and looked out on the sodden morning. ‘It is most vexatious. We are trapped, and by our own good fortune. Damned if we do, and
in worse peril if we don’t.’

No-one said a word. The king seemed to address the elements, rather than the group. ‘Branxton Hill will give us a good vantage point, but we will be late on the field, and our tactical
advantage will have been utterly lost. Who would have thought that dotard would have been so wily?’

The blast of cold air raised goosebumps on the soldiers’ arms. So too the king’s iron voice when he turned to them: ‘Well, we must make the best of our situation. And you,
Paddy: I have put my faith in your wisdom more times than I care to remember, and you have never failed me. If you assure me the guns will be ready, I believe you.’

He put a hand on Borthwick’s and Paniter’s arms, as if about to join them in marriage. The injunction on them to mend their quarrel was clear. ‘Your guns must be moved at
once.’

Now he looked at the lords, each in turn: Huntly, Home, Argyll, Erroll, Crawford, Montrose, Lennox, Morton . . . the nation’s finest fighters. ‘When the bugle sounds, the priests
will make their mass among the columns. Thereafter our men will follow close behind the guns: by rank and file as trained. We must be in position, fed and watered, by three hours after
noon.’

He gave a thin smile. ‘Our troops are the bravest a king could ever dream of calling his own. Each is worth ten of Surrey’s scurvy pack. And with the backing of Master
Borthwick’s guns, we can, and will carry the day. This change of plan is an annoyance, but nothing more than a fleabite. We will look back on this parlay and smile, in years to come, at our
fractious tempers and childish fears.’

There was a jangle of spurs as Patrick Lindsay parted the group and stood before the king. His timing was bad. James was charging his council up for war, and his interruption had broken the
drumbeat as it rose to a crescendo.

‘Your Highness, forgive me.’ Lindsay bent his knee. ‘In your orders you do not tell us what position you will take.’

James looked annoyed. ‘I shall lead the charge from the central flank, of course.’

‘You will lead?’ Lindsay could not hide his horror.

‘What else?’ The king’s words were scalding. ‘You expect me to sit at the rear and polish my sword while all others risk their necks?’

‘No. Well, perhaps . . . ’

De La Mothe came to Lindsay’s help. ‘Prie dieu, votre majesté, I believe your servant asks that you do not place yourself in such grave danger.’

‘Yes,’ stammered Lindsay. ‘That is precisely it. You most certainly cannot be in the vanguard. Who will otherwise command the troops? Who will have the oversight? Who can give
orders?’

Several of the lords nodded in agreement – those, that is, who were positioned behind the king.

‘Ye can be very sure the English general will be at the rear, that’s a dirty fact,’ growled Huntly.

‘And rightly so,’ said Lindsay quickly. ‘There must be a commander at the helm, not in the fight. And,’ – he crossed himself – ‘Your Highness, were you
to be slain, God forbid the very thought, what will befall Scotland? You owe it to your people to take care, to return unscathed. To lead the country in years to come.’

James looked at him, an odd twist to his mouth. ‘Speak on,’ he said, with ominous mildness.

‘As I see it, Your Highness, the stakes today are too high to risk your life. Were you to go onto the battlefield, it would be like playing dice with a common gambler. You would fling your
coin against his. The loss you risk is immeasurable, compared with what he stands to lose. And it might be his is a bad penny, yet he has been cunning enough to coax you to put all that’s
dear in jeopardy for the sake of one single, short game.’