reins. ‘ I have the king! ’
Hunter tossed his head, but the man held on, pulling the bit painfully through the warhorse’s mouth. Robert stabbed out with his blade, but couldn’t reach him. Then, Christopher Seton was sweeping in from the side. With a vicious arc of his sword, the knight cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders. The man’s hands continued to clutch Hunter’s reins until the horse bucked away and the headless corpse collapsed, spewing blood. But the Scot’s shout had done its damage. More men were turning on Robert, eyes alight at the promise of such valuable prey.
Away across the jostling crowd, through the clouds of smoke, Robert caught sight of a powerfully built man astride an armoured destrier, its trapper striped white and blue. The man’s helm was crested with a spray of feathers. He had snapped up his visor and his gaze was on Robert.
Aymer de Valence’s lips peeled back. ‘ Bruce! ’ he bellowed, thrusting his sword in Robert’s direction.
John of Atholl was at Robert’s side, as were Edward Bruce and Neil Campbell, hacking desperately at the Galloway men pressing in on all sides. Hands reached out to grasp the man who had overthrown John Balliol, their former lord, and had murdered his nephew, John Comyn. There were too many of them.
‘We must pull back!’ Atholl cried hoarsely.
Smoke and sweat sour in his mouth, Robert wrenched Hunter towards the trees, into the shadows of which many Scots were fleeing. Yelling the retreat, he and his men spurred into the gloom, quickly overtaking foot soldiers and the wounded. The ridge echoed with fighting, many English having ridden deeper into the camp, aided by the men of Galloway. Men scattered through the trees in all directions like panicked ants pouring from the ruptured cone of a nest.
Robert passed a group running pell-mell through the undergrowth. He caught a glimpse of a youthful face and felt a shock of recognition, certain the young man was his nephew, Thomas Randolph. Then he was thundering on, no chance to slow or turn, the stampede carrying him out of the trees and down the steep hillside towards the river.
Chapter 4
County Durham, England, 1306 AD
As the physician rubbed his hands in the basin, the odour of turpentine sharpened the air inside the tent. King Edward closed his eyes at the bitter smell, which had become a harbinger of pain these past weeks. Breathing through his mouth, he sat on the edge of the bed wincing at the spasm deep inside his bowels. The feather mattress provided scant comfort. Everything – the bed and cushioned stools, the smooth saddle of his horse, even the silks and linens he wore – felt rough and unyielding. It was as if his skin were thinning, exposing him little by little to every hard edge and coarse surface.
‘My lord?’
Edward looked up to see the physician standing in front of him. His eyes narrowed as he saw the lancet and glass bowl in the man’s hands. ‘No leeches, Nicholas?’
‘I’m afraid not, my lord. While the moon is in its current phase I must do all I can. Leeches are too slow for this work.’ The physician’s thin lips pursed. ‘I say again, my lord, I would rather not do it at all, given your current weakness.’
Edward’s face tightened at that last word. His grey eyes, one of which drooped at the lid lending him a permanent hooded scowl, fixed on the physician.
Nicholas Tingewick was a cool, self-possessed man, who had spent six years at Oxford studying medicine and canon law, but even he could not help but squirm under that gaze. Clearing his throat, he motioned to the stool he had set out. ‘If you will, my lord.’
As he rose, Edward was gratified to see Nicholas take a step back. Even with the stoop that curved his shoulders, the king stood at over six feet tall. Edward Longshanks, his subjects called him. His weakness may have stripped the muscle from his bones and hollowed out his cheeks until they were
Hunter tossed his head, but the man held on, pulling the bit painfully through the warhorse’s mouth. Robert stabbed out with his blade, but couldn’t reach him. Then, Christopher Seton was sweeping in from the side. With a vicious arc of his sword, the knight cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders. The man’s hands continued to clutch Hunter’s reins until the horse bucked away and the headless corpse collapsed, spewing blood. But the Scot’s shout had done its damage. More men were turning on Robert, eyes alight at the promise of such valuable prey.
Away across the jostling crowd, through the clouds of smoke, Robert caught sight of a powerfully built man astride an armoured destrier, its trapper striped white and blue. The man’s helm was crested with a spray of feathers. He had snapped up his visor and his gaze was on Robert.
Aymer de Valence’s lips peeled back. ‘ Bruce! ’ he bellowed, thrusting his sword in Robert’s direction.
John of Atholl was at Robert’s side, as were Edward Bruce and Neil Campbell, hacking desperately at the Galloway men pressing in on all sides. Hands reached out to grasp the man who had overthrown John Balliol, their former lord, and had murdered his nephew, John Comyn. There were too many of them.
‘We must pull back!’ Atholl cried hoarsely.
Smoke and sweat sour in his mouth, Robert wrenched Hunter towards the trees, into the shadows of which many Scots were fleeing. Yelling the retreat, he and his men spurred into the gloom, quickly overtaking foot soldiers and the wounded. The ridge echoed with fighting, many English having ridden deeper into the camp, aided by the men of Galloway. Men scattered through the trees in all directions like panicked ants pouring from the ruptured cone of a nest.
Robert passed a group running pell-mell through the undergrowth. He caught a glimpse of a youthful face and felt a shock of recognition, certain the young man was his nephew, Thomas Randolph. Then he was thundering on, no chance to slow or turn, the stampede carrying him out of the trees and down the steep hillside towards the river.
Chapter 4
County Durham, England, 1306 AD
As the physician rubbed his hands in the basin, the odour of turpentine sharpened the air inside the tent. King Edward closed his eyes at the bitter smell, which had become a harbinger of pain these past weeks. Breathing through his mouth, he sat on the edge of the bed wincing at the spasm deep inside his bowels. The feather mattress provided scant comfort. Everything – the bed and cushioned stools, the smooth saddle of his horse, even the silks and linens he wore – felt rough and unyielding. It was as if his skin were thinning, exposing him little by little to every hard edge and coarse surface.
‘My lord?’
Edward looked up to see the physician standing in front of him. His eyes narrowed as he saw the lancet and glass bowl in the man’s hands. ‘No leeches, Nicholas?’
‘I’m afraid not, my lord. While the moon is in its current phase I must do all I can. Leeches are too slow for this work.’ The physician’s thin lips pursed. ‘I say again, my lord, I would rather not do it at all, given your current weakness.’
Edward’s face tightened at that last word. His grey eyes, one of which drooped at the lid lending him a permanent hooded scowl, fixed on the physician.
Nicholas Tingewick was a cool, self-possessed man, who had spent six years at Oxford studying medicine and canon law, but even he could not help but squirm under that gaze. Clearing his throat, he motioned to the stool he had set out. ‘If you will, my lord.’
As he rose, Edward was gratified to see Nicholas take a step back. Even with the stoop that curved his shoulders, the king stood at over six feet tall. Edward Longshanks, his subjects called him. His weakness may have stripped the muscle from his bones and hollowed out his cheeks until they were
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