The Powder of Death Read online

  The next move lay with the English.

  Edward did not flinch in his duty. His army would throw themselves across the path of the retreating Scots and bring them to battle when they emerged from the uplands.

  He set the army on a forced march to the valley of the Tyne, the river that had cut a passage through the highlands, and across which the Scots had passed on their path of ruination south.

  The pitiless weather beat at the army as it stumbled over fells and marsh-ridden glens. And when they approached the crossing point they were ordered to don full armour and stand to.

  For days they ate and slept in battle array, the merciless rain swelling the river and turning life into an idle misery.

  And still the Scots failed to appear.

  CHAPTER 102

  North Weardale, England

  ‘He’s got to make a conclusion,’ Godefroy muttered one grey daybreak. He and Daw were sitting together under a cart, sheltered from the rain but not from the runnels of water coming down the slope.

  ‘Scottish, they’s not human. Lives on cattle they takes, boils ’em in their own skins then throws in oatmeal they carries in a bag and hangs it all from their saddles. No baggage, provisions, they lives for war. Never happier as when hewing away at some poor Englishman with them sodding great two-handed swords.’

  He was interrupted by the thin fanfare of trumpets somewhere towards where the dripping tents of the commanders stood.

  The call to action! Stung by their helplessness the English commanders had resolved to give up waiting for the Scottish to come to them – now they were going to plunge directly into the highland fastness and find them, whatever it took.

  For the first time in the encampment there were signs of heart and spirit. But the ferocious sally into the steep hills would be at a cost. To even up the odds Edward’s army was going to advance without a baggage train – no impedimenta, no provisions other than what each man could carry with him. Everything would be sent back to Durham to avoid tying down the fast-moving columns.

  From the Tyne in the north to the Wear in the south was a bare twenty-five miles – but this was over a bone-wearying succession of hills and crags with always the prospect of Black Douglas and his wild Scots over the next rise. Therefore, when the army moved off it was in a battle formation of three divisions: the tramping foot soldiers in the centre and men a-horse out on both flanks.

  Halfway along their march they reached the Derwent river and then the tiny hamlet of Blanchland with its bluff, four-square priory, now just a burnt ruin.

  Angry, tired and hungry the soldiers heard how the Scots had been through days before, stripping it of food and plunder. And now they could be anywhere at all – ahead of them lying in wait, or on their way back to Scotland behind them.

  Mortimer sulked, Edward stormed at the fate that was leading them ever further into ruin and starvation – then without warning he caused the trumpets to sound the assembly.

  His young voice cracked with emotion as he proclaimed, ‘Any man here before me who dares ride in search of the Scots and can tell me where they are to be discovered, he I will honour with a knighthood that very hour – and one hundred pounds a year for the term of his life!’

  Fifteen esquires took horse to try their fortune.

  Four days later, after a harrowing wait, one Thomas de Rokeby galloped into the bedraggled camp and threw himself at the feet of his King. He had news of the Scots.

  ‘I put you upon oath to tell me. How certain are you of your intelligence?’ King Edward demanded with a terrible intensity.

  It was humiliation – of a kind. Rokeby had not only seen the Scots but he’d been captured by them. Fearing the worst of fates as a spy he’d been brought before Black Douglas who questioned him closely. When he admitted what drove his quest the great warrior had bellowed with laughter and bid him go on his way to claim his honour – and swore to remain where he was to meet the English King.

  The Scottish battalions were waiting near Stanhope on the banks of the Wear river, no more than eight miles further down the mossy dale of the meandering Rookhope Burn.

  CHAPTER 103

  On the road to York

  The flat country after Lincoln was kind to them, the straight highway taking them past the Wash and on towards York. They had been creaking northward for several weeks now and Jared felt relief that the end was in sight.

  At the same time tension grew in his bowels. If Edward’s army had achieved a victory and driven the Scots back, for a certainty it would be disbanded. And if that was the case his time of trial would have been in vain and he would have to return the gunnes and face both Rosamunde and the guild.

  After they’d made sighting of the square rising towers of York Minster Jared looked about in vain for the royal camp with its thousands.

  Where were they? The most reliable information came from a merchant who told him that Edward and his host had left suddenly for Durham for reasons not clear, taking most of the city’s whores with them.

  It was heartbreaking: another seventy miles of hauling with the promise of rougher going as they entered the northern uplands.

  And at Durham came the worst of news: the entire army had set off into the inner wilds and nothing had been heard of them since.

  Was there any point in going on? In country that was near trackless, rough and steep, vainly searching for a moving army while at risk of being found by the Scots?

  Surely this was the end of the venture – he had let down King Edward and would never get another hearing.

  But the next morning a long column of wagons and pack animals was spotted winding towards the city. It was not the army but bafflingly only its supply train.

  Had there been a disastrous defeat?

  It turned out that Edward had abandoned his baggage in a bid to find the Scots by striking south directly down the middle ground from the Tyne to the Wear.

  If Jared wanted to find him, he’d only need follow the Wear river trackway westwards and intercept him. It flowed through Durham and was a known highway into the remote heartland. Just a dozen or so miles would put him well into the highlands and at the point of intersection.

  It was a tempting thought, for even if a battle had been concluded the King would see that he’d kept faith and suffered much in bringing the gunnes, and might well grant him his expenses.

  CHAPTER 104

  Weardale, west of Stanhope

  The steep sides of the Rookhope Burn valley fell away as the busy stream hurried on to meet the larger Wear crossing. With pennons aloft and trumpets sounding the English host advanced over the last mile – and unbelievably there ahead was what they had longed for all those weary miles: the Scots! The Black Douglas had kept his word.

  All along the higher ground in front they stood silently in lines, watching, waiting.

  Immediately before the English and away to the left was a near quartermile of low meadow, pasture, crops. A consummate battleground.

  But – between the two armies the turbulent River Wear rushed and seethed. It was shallow but rocks and boulders concealed in it would make a crossing slow and risky and within easy reach of the arrows of the Scots on the heights above the river plain.

  Once again The Black Douglas had outmanoeuvred the English. In his unassailable position high on the steeper far bank he could control any crossing and if the English moved up or down the river he could parallel anything they did.

  Edward drew up his army on the flatland and rode along the ranks calling encouragement to his men, ignoring the insulting whoops and scornful cries from across the river. Then he faced them about and under a dozen of the flag of St George he stepped them slowly forward to the edge of the river.

  ‘What’s this?’ Daw asked incredulously.

  ‘He’s wanting to bait the Scots to break ranks and come within range of his archers,’ Godefroy muttered. ‘They’m no fools, they’ll never do it.’

  He was right. Frustrated, impotent, the English achi
eved nothing.

  As the afternoon wore on, idleness turned to rage and Daw received a royal summons.

  King Edward did not waste words. ‘Where are my gunnes?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sire, I beg to say I cannot tell you. The army has moved far and fast but I know in my heart that my father will not break faith with Your Majesty, and must be coming up with us as swiftly as he may.’

  The young man turned away but not before Daw glimpsed the sudden glitter of tears of frustration.

  ‘Then we must turn to other means. They may be Scots, but cannot be dead to the devoirs of chivalry – send forth for my herald!’

  The man came, his surcoat and tabard emblazoned with the royal lions of England, his trumpet’s hanging banner edged with gold.

  ‘Go to the Scottish lord and declare to him these my words – that I should this hour withdraw my host to allow his army to cross the river and make array against me. Then we shall in fair equality try the fortune of our standards.’

  Daw watched as the man made his way to a convenient rock mid-river and raised his trumpet in a strident peal – once, twice, three times.

  From the lines of Scots above a single figure detached itself and came forward to stand arrogantly on a jutting crag.

  Daw couldn’t hear what was being hailed above the rush of waters but whatever the reply, it received wild acclamation from the throng above him.

  The herald returned with a stiff dignity. ‘Sire, Sir James Douglas does give reply in this manner. “I did enter England to annoy its King. Why then should I please him now?” he did say.’

  Later that night horns bayed among the fires that ringed the hills opposite. More and more sounded in a barbaric clamour that was joined with a horde of unearthly hoots and wails that resounded up and down like the gates of hell itself.

  The English camp stood to, hastily pulling on their chain mail hauberks and full armour, and readied for the assault.

  For the rest of the dark night and into the grey of day they lay to arms, enduring the acute discomfort and misery of lying in the open in wet and bone-cold steel, their weapons to hand, endlessly waiting. As the wan light spread, the Scottish came down to jeer at how their trickery had worked.

  It was bitter to take, the hopeless stalemate.

  At the wretched slop that passed for a meal Godefroy relished a tale of how Mortimer had stormed into Edward’s tent and demanded they disengage that day and return to York. The young King had retorted with spirit that upon his sacred honour he would never be seen to take flight before the Scottish. His banner would without question remain at this place until the affair was resolved.

  Mortimer had taken it with the utmost bad grace but this could plainly be put down to the fact that Isabella had travelled to York and was waiting impatiently for him there.

  The day continued wearily on.

  Another miserable night beckoned. The rain had stopped but the ground was muddied and foul. Godefroy and Daw were lucky: they had one of the few carts and could sleep clear of the dross; nearby were the equally small number of tents – those of the King and Lord Mortimer atop a slight rising of the ground.

  Darkness drew in, the Scots lines easily marked out by fires. Mercifully there was no repeating of the blasting horns and tumult and Daw drew his cloak about him and drifted to sleep, lulled by the rush of river waters.

  Sometime in the early hours he awoke. There was something wrong: he lay rigid, but heard nothing beyond the restless snoring of the men about him and the desolate night calling of some creature.

  Then he had it. A subliminal drumming. Eyes staring into the dimness he strained to make sense of it – and in a sudden rush of comprehension he knew it to be horses, many, the sound getting louder and louder until suddenly they were upon them, slashing, impaling, killing. Harsh cries rang out: ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’

  The camp woke in confusion but the Scots had chosen well. Crossing the river well upstream they’d stealthily moved on the English and in a wild night charge had gone straight for the heart of the camp. Flaming torches held aloft threw light on a hellish scene. Hurtling black shapes swinging weapons that glittered terribly, shrieks from sleeping men mercilessly hewn down – it was a nightmare beyond grasping.

  Several riders converged and thundered together for the tents of the nobles and whirled their blades, severing ropes and bringing them down in kicking folds. The riders circled briefly, plunging lances brutally into the humped figures desperately trying to escape.

  From his hiding place under the cart Daw saw the King’s tent suddenly surrounded, the ropes cut – and a huge figure on the closest horse roaring to the others to hold back, gyrating in impatience. ‘Come out, the Sass’nach King!’ he bellowed in fury, brandishing his great sword. ‘Black Douglas wants ye!’

  A figure struggled out shakily, raising both hands in a despairing gesture to the implacable Scot. It was the chaplain pleading for the life of the King.

  ‘Be damned to ye!’ Douglas snarled in rage and swung his sword, smashing the man’s skull.

  There were now shouts and running figures – the English camp was waking from its nightmare and was about to turn on the intruders.

  In a final flurry of screams and curses the horsemen rode furiously back out into the night.

  As the ravaged camp took stock and the dead and wounded were dragged away there was a last insult: the exulting cries and howls of the Scots across the river as they welcomed back their war party.

  The King emerged next morning, his eyes red and his face strained. Daw’s heart went out to him – in truth only a youth used to a life of the highest richness and security, but that night he’d seen for the first time the hideous cruelty, butchery and terror of war in which he himself had been nearly slain.

  Refusing all food Edward let it be known that he would never upon the honour he held dear be known as a King of England who had slunk away before a barbarous Scottish war band. In full view of the capering clansmen above he strode about, offering words of comfort and cheer to the men he was leading, acknowledging their pain and hardship and vowing a terrible vengeance one day.

  And still the stalemate held.

  CHAPTER 105

  On the Weardale trackway

  Jared continued west into the interior, around hillsides and past endless barren ridges on either side. Always with the turbid Wear to the left.

  There was no sign that an army had passed this way but that was to be expected if Edward was coming from the north.

  If the Scots suddenly appeared Jared had no plans other than to flee for his life over the hill crests. In the event they captured the gunnes they wouldn’t know what they were or what to do with them.

  The dull grind onward continued.

  They reached the village of Stanhope. It was completely deserted. Uneasily, Jared told a pair of the gunners to ride ahead and see what they could find.

  They were soon back with thrilling news: not three miles ahead two great armies faced each other across the Wear. But the cataclysmic battle had not started – by the good God that sat above, he was in time!

  They progressed around a slight bend. On the steep far side of the river were the Scots, looking down on a broad, flat meadow where King Edward was camped with his army.

  A shaft of sun suddenly pierced the clouds and made bright patterns in among the opposing hosts.

  He noted that the Scots were out of harm’s way from the English, who in turn could not make a safe crossing of the swollen river under a hostile bank.

  Jared and his little party were met by outlying sentinels who summoned an escort. As they entered the camp they were roundly cursed by starving soldiers who’d hoped for provisions.

  King Edward hurried over. ‘Our gunnes of war, Master Barnwell?’

  ‘Indeed, Sire. In these wagons lie six of them ready to do their duty by their sovereign.’

  The covering of one was thrown back and the King peered below the cart in perplexity.

  ‘As we mu
st take the greatest care of your dread engines, Your Majesty.’

  Edward made a wide gesture at the throng opposite. ‘If you can this day punish that hell-spawn yonder, know that I shall be well pleased.’

  ‘Sire, they shall be, but I beg leave to say that to preserve my gunne-powder through its long travels I make delay in its making until the last. It will take longer to do this than we have hours left in this day.’

  Edward’s disappointment was barely disguised. ‘Do what you must, then, Master Barnwell – and do acquaint me when it is you are ready to act.’

  Daw hurried over, tired and strained but overjoyed to see his father.

  They embraced, but Jared admonished, ‘This is the hour we’ve been praying for. We must not waste it.’

  He set Daw and a gunner to work with the mortar and pestle while he called over the yeoman gunner and they surveyed the ground together.

  The six gunnes they’d brought were only intended to show what could be done in a pitched battle in combination with general forces, and unless one side or the other crossed the river there was not going to be the opportunity.

  Jared felt deep frustration. To have come so far …

  But what if … It was dangerous, he’d never done it before and it might have no direct result but his idea had an advantage that greatly appealed.

  They could begin their punishment in as little as three hours – by firing at night.

  But there was a major drawback: how could he charge gunnes in the dark?

  The weather was clearing, there would be a quarter moon.

  It was a chance.

  Looking across at the Scots he measured distances by eye. Their lines were drawn up carefully out of bowshot but Jared knew his gunnes. They could carry well over half a mile and while at this distance they’d be far from accurate this was not needed for what he had in mind.