The Traitor's Wife (22 page)

He had not waited to put on his surcoat with the chevrons of Clare, the garment that would have identified him as one of the richest men in England, worth a fortune in ransom money to any man lucky enough to take him alive. Instead, he charged straight toward the Scots, an anonymous young knight, and was promptly knocked off his horse and killed by enemy spears.

The stage had been set. More knights charged the Scots; more were killed against their spears. Wounded horses, their riders dead, trampled English foot soldiers. The English archers, with no clear line of fire, desperately tried to shoot at the Scottish spearmen, but their arrows reached more English backs than Scottish chests. At last, a group of the archers succeeded in crossing the Pelstream Burn and shooting at the Scots, with deadly results. The Bruce ordered his light cavalry to charge the archers. Few withstood the charge, and the Scots moved even farther forward.

The Scots leader sent in a fresh schiltron, his last. Coming in behind the men already in front of them, the new spearmen pushed their fellows forward, so that a wave of spears pushed the English back. The English, Edward no less than his army, continued to fight ferociously, but they were so close together they could scarcely move, and those who slipped in the pools of blood underneath them were trampled to death. “On them!” shouted the Scots. “On them, they fall!”

A fresh group of Scots had now arrived: the “small folk,” screaming “Slay!” Untrained or unequipped soldiers, laborers, even camp followers, even women, they had heard the battle was turning in their favor and were eager to join in; some for the prospect of plunder, some out of loyalty to their king, some out of a desire to tell their sons that they had fought alongside the Bruce. For many English, the appearance of this motley group, through eyes that were obscured by blood and sweat, was the breaking factor. Another cursed army! Some turned and ran.

King Edward had already been unhorsed once, but had found a mount from among those running loose, and he had not ceased to fight since entering the battle. Fiercely as he was fighting, he was in imminent danger of being captured, for Scottish knights were grasping at his horse's trappings and would have had the king if Edward had not struck them off with his mace. The Earl of Pembroke, seeing no hope of victory left, determined to get the king off the field. With the aid of Giles d'Argentan, reckoned one of England's finest knights, he turned the bridle of Edward's horse and dragged him away toward Stirling Castle, followed by five hundred knights. When the king was within a safe distance of the castle, Sir Giles looked back.

It was pandemonium. With the departure of the king and his knights, most of the men who remained had nothing left on their minds but escape. The few men who still were attempting to put up a fight were being slaughtered. Sir Giles looked at the safety of the castle and the certainty of death on the battlefield, and quickly made up his mind. “I have never left a fight,” he said, and galloped away toward the waiting Scots. Within minutes he had been killed.

Men attempting to cross over the Bannock Burn were drowning; so many that after a point those who lagged behind were able to cross to safety over the bodies of dead men and horses. The Earl of Hereford and his men made their way without much difficulty to Bothwell Castle, where the constable, upon learning of the Bruce's victory, took the earl and fifty others captive and handed them over to Edward Bruce as prisoners. The king and his party, meanwhile, were denied entry to Stirling Castle by Mowbray, who told them that if they came inside they would certainly be taken prisoner by the Scots.

The king and his men did not wait to argue, but set off toward Linlithgow, pursued by Douglas, and then toward Dunbar. So close was Douglas in pursuit that it was said that no Englishman dared stop long enough to make water. Any man who checked his speed was killed or captured, even with Pembroke's men desperately fighting off their pursuers. Finally, the party reached Dunbar Castle, where the king was admitted by the Earl of Dunbar. From there he and a few others sailed in an open boat to Berwick, to an England bowed down with shame.

Not an hour after the steward told his story, a mean fishing boat docked at Berwick Castle. As the queen and the ladies wound slowly down the narrow walk to the Tweed, the king, with no fanfare, stepped on shore. His face was nearly as grim and sad as it had been in the days after Gaveston's death. Following were the Earl of Pembroke and Henry de Beaumont—the cries of relief from the Countess of Pembroke and Isabella de Vescy echoed off the water— and a dozen or so knights. At the very end of the grim procession coming off the boat was Eleanor's father-in-law, staggering under a great weight—Mother of God! The weight was her husband!

Stepping off the path and all but tumbling down to the riverside, Eleanor rushed to her father-in-law. At any other time she would have marveled at his strength, for Hugh the elder was not a large man, and the man he carried was fully his equal in height and weight. “Sir! Is he dead?”

Hugh shook his head. “He lives—barely.” His voice was choked. “He was badly wounded—though he fought like a tiger—but I was able to bring him off with the others safely. He kept up with us with my help but developed a high fever on the boat. He has been delirious ever since.”

He lowered his son to the ground, unable to carry him farther. Eleanor bent over him, sobbing. “Hugh! My love. My poor love.”

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, but there was no recognition in them. After staring blankly for a moment or two, he closed them again. Hugh the elder gently touched her shoulder. “Come, child. Let them take him inside.”

Two men lifted Hugh and carried him into the castle. Eleanor rose and tried to walk, but she could not move forward for her blinding tears. Then someone lifted her in his arms too. Who it was she did not know until she heard the king murmur, “It will be all right, my dear niece. He will recover.”

All of the men had suffered some wounds, and the ladies, all of whom had been trained since childhood to tend the sick and injured, were soon busy bandaging and binding and cleaning, including Eleanor, though her attentions were devoted almost entirely to Hugh. The queen herself dressed the king's wounds and soon was seen, to the astonishment of her ladies and damsels, cleaning his armor. The anger she had shown when the steward broke the news to her was not at all displayed toward Edward; she was all sympathy and understanding. Upon learning that his seal had been seized, along with the knight who carried it, she promptly lent him her own so that the administrative work of the kingdom could go on as usual.

From her station by Hugh's bedside, Eleanor gathered bits of news. Word had gotten out that the Earl of Hereford had been taken prisoner, and as he was the most illustrious captive, wagers were being made as to how much ransom the Bruce would require. Eleanor's stepfather, Ralph de Monthermer, had also been captured. Years before, it was rumored, the first Edward, when Robert Bruce was dining with him as his guest, had planned to take the Bruce prisoner when the dinner was over. Ralph, who had formed a sort of friendship with Bruce, was said to have foiled the plan by sending a servant to Robert with money and a pair of spurs. The Bruce had taken the hint and disappeared into the night. Eleanor doubted her grandfather had known of the warning, otherwise Ralph would not have survived to the year 1314, but she had once overheard her mother and Ralph talking in a manner that made her suspect the rumor was true. If it was, she hoped the Bruce remembered it.

She was too concerned with Hugh, however, to fret over her stepfather or to properly mourn her brother, though she and Margaret had sent a letter to Gilbert's countess gently informing her of his death, and Margaret, accompanied by her own men and several of Gilbert's who had come straggling back, had gone to see how the widow fared. Hugh had gotten neither better nor worse since the day his father had borne him off the boat. The surgeon had cut at the cause of his fever, a minor wound that had nonetheless festered, and he was bled periodically, but he continued to burn with fever and to turn and toss. He did at least seem to be able to distinguish Eleanor and his father from the others around him, for when one or the other was seated at his side, he was noticeably calmer.

Eleanor had heard that the delirious often revealed deep secrets as they ranted and raved, but Hugh, self-contained in health, was no less so in sickness. He appeared to be reliving the battle at times, and he fretted a great deal about a horse that Hugh the elder said had died when his son was but a boy of nine, but he otherwise showed nothing of himself.

On the fifth day of nursing Hugh, Eleanor herself looked so tired and ill that her father-in-law ordered her out of his chamber, gently but in a manner that brooked no opposition. He had been watching his daughter-in-law closely and had discovered what Eleanor was still keeping to herself. Eleanor was too exhausted to argue anyway. She went to the chamber that had been made ready for her and stretched on the bed fully clothed, intending to nap only a bit. It must have been twelve hours later when Gladys gently shook her awake. “My lady, there is good news. Hugh is better, and has been asking for you.”

She drew the bed curtains aside and saw that Hugh was asleep. He had been shaven, and with his head on his arm and his dark hair falling over his cheek he looked vulnerable, younger than his twenty-seven years. She touched his face and found that for the first time in days it was cool. So comfortable did he look that she almost hesitated to wake him, but she wanted so badly to hear his voice, his rational voice. “Hugh, my love.”

He stirred, and she repeated her words. Then he fully opened his eyes, and smiled in recognition of her. “Eleanor. My little redheaded angel.”

“Oh, Hugh. I thought—never mind what I thought. I am so glad…” She ducked her head and let her tears fall, until at last she got her voice under command. “You have frightened me most shamefully, sir.”

“I apologize. Lean over and let me kiss you.”

She did so, and he lay quietly for a while, holding her hand against his chest. Finally, he met her eyes and said, “I suppose you know about your brother. I saw him fall. I am sorry, Eleanor.”

“He is with God now.”

“Yes. Eleanor, it was a rout—a total humiliation. All of us a pack of cocky fools, and I as much as the rest.” He grimaced. “I suppose someone else is furnishing his lodgings with the goods I brought, so you can't say it was a total waste. What a fool! I could supplant Rob Withstaff from his position if there weren't so many other contenders.”

“You could not have known, Hugh, that things would turn out so dreadfully.”

“We were slaughtered, Eleanor, and none came out with much credit.”

“I am sure that is not true. I know that you fought bravely.”

“The dolts tell us that jousting in front of an audience of ladies and old men prepares us for battle. They are wrong, Eleanor. What happened at the Bannock Burn was a horror, Eleanor. I just want to forget it.”

He shivered and turned his face away from her, obviously doing everything but forgetting. Eleanor waited a while, then put a hand on his. “Hugh. I do have some good news for you. I suspected before you left, but I wanted to make certain. I am with child again. I must have conceived shortly before I went to France.”

Hugh's face brightened. “My love. We shall have a fine brood, won't we?” He pressed her hand. “Eleanor, with every horror I saw, I tried to remember your sweet face. It brought me here—it and my beloved father—when I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Even in my nightmares it appeared to me and gave me hope and strength.”

His face was drawn. “Hugh, you don't know how proud those words make me, but you must rest now.”