Robert Low - The Lion Rampant

He remembered Geordie in the Black Bitch Tavern in Edinburgh, thrusting the gift-whore at him and grinning the remains of his bad teeth. Sweetmilk had been part of that, too, Dog Boy recalled, and glanced at the straining forest of legs; he is somewhere in that.

‘I hope he did not owe you money, lads,’ said a resonant voice and they looked up into the maille-framed face of Jamie Douglas, greasy with sweat and joy. Parcy, with a bitter grunt, flung himself away and back into the fray, while Dog Boy looked into Jamie’s grin, marvelling at how the gentle, lisping courtier vanished to be replaced by this, a hellish version written in hate.

‘Ye’re a hard man, Sir James,’ he offered and had back a wolfish grin.

‘Hard times. Besides, have you not heard that I am called the Black?’

Then he was gone, axe in one hand, shield in the other and roaring out his name so that folk glanced over their shoulders and tried to make way for him.

In case he cuts them down to get to the English, Dog Boy thought savagely. Which he may well do.

He became aware then, sitting by Buggerback Geordie’s shattered remains, with the great haze of dust sifting like gold down into a ground made slurry by blood and shit, that he wanted no more of this. He thought of Bet’s Meggy and the bairns.

My son, he said aloud. All that needs be done to get back to him and Bet’s Meggy is to kill Englishmen until they give up and go away … or are all dead.

Then, as if in a slow-motion dream, the ranks ahead seemed to part for a moment, opening like the Red Sea to Moses. Beyond, across a rampart of dead men and horses, he saw a knot of riders surrounding a single man, blazing with colours unstained, the gold pards gleaming, his helm proud with a padded silk lion on it and a clear crown embracing it with gold.

King Edward, by the Grace of God.

An Englishman.

The squire flogged up on a failing palfrey, wet mouth open and the sweat almost trailing behind him in the wind. Before he had reached two lance-lengths from the King, d’Argentan had spurred forward and raised a halting hand.

De Valence saw the squire’s livery, with the lions of Clifford smeared and spattered; he grew cold as the squire and d’Argentan exchanged words, the former panting, mouth open like a dog. The wheyed shock of his face made de Valence grow colder still, but he was turned from the sight by the King’s uncertain voice.

‘My lord Earl of Pembroke, have we sent for the foot?’

De Valence nodded politely.

‘We have, sire. They will be along presently.’

‘It seems to me’, Edward said querulously, ‘that our horse is being sore hurt. Get archers here, de Valence, and with all speed.’

D’Argentan arrived back, his sweating face twisted with concern.

‘Clifford is down. Dead,’ he said. Then he blinked a little and added harshly: ‘Sir Miles de Stapleton also. And both his sons.’

‘God blind me,’ de Valence spat. ‘They are carving us like a joint.’

The King turned, his grim face puzzled beneath the lappets and ermine and padded lion confection of his visored helm.

‘Who orders there now?’

‘Huddleston, according to that squire,’ d’Argentan answered, pleased that he had remembered to ask. The King shook his heavy head.

‘No, no, no — that will not hold. Huddleston does not have the rank for that. Tailleboys, or Leyburn — de Valence, send word that Leyburn is to order poor Clifford’s host.’

God curse it, de Valence thought bitterly as he screwed round in the saddle to where his retinue sat expectantly, what does it matter who orders? In that heaving mass no order given could be obeyed anyway … he caught the glow of a shield with a barred cross and waved to the man. A moment later, Sir William Vescy cantered away in search of the dead Clifford’s command.

‘Well, my lords,’ the King said, lowering his visor until his voice grew to a metal muffle. ‘It is time for the King to strike a blow. Give them heart.’

‘Certes, Your Grace. We will scatter them like chaff,’ boomed d’Argentan, grinning.

Christ’s Wounds, de Valence thought. Is he seriously contemplating riding his royal person into this? God save us all …

He followed, all the same, urging his mount to the King’s left side while men, caught out by the quickness of it, fumbled with shield and lance on the backs of their fractious, eager mounts.

Even as they picked a way over the scattered dead, the screaming, kicking horses slick with fluid, the groaning men, de Valence saw the thickening carpet of it, then the mound, piled with horse and man — some were still alive and pinned, limbs waving like weary beetle feelers.

And over it, sliding out from the bristling ranks and through a gap in the jammed wall of horse, he saw figures, creeping horrors winking with naked blades.

Dog Boy knew the knight, knew him from old and, it seemed to him in that moment, had been fighting him all his life. Blue and white stripes and a rondel of little red birds — an important knight, for sure, and there was a name for him somewhere in Dog Boy’s head, but he could not recall it. He went for him, all the same, half-crouched and snarling, aware of Patrick and Parcy and others at his back.

De Valence saw the figures, the leading one with a feral scuttle, axe and long dirk in his hands, his rimmed iron hat dented and his black-bearded face twisted; he was slavering, de Valence saw with wonder, like a rabid wolf …

The curving overhand blow of the axe made him cry out and the destrier reared — too late, de Valence saw that had been the intent, for the dirk flashed out and the warhorse shrieked and lashed out front and back; de Valence felt the shock that told him someone close behind had received the brunt of it.

Trying to cut the saddle girths, he thought wildly — and then his men surged forward and he lost sight of the slavering man. There were others, all the same, and de Valence knew they had recognized the King.

‘The King,’ he bawled. ‘Ware the King.’

De Valence, Dog Boy thought suddenly. His name is de Valence and he is an earl, no less — then he was whirled away by the sudden arrival of more horsemen, found himself next to a prancing power of a horse, a white beast draped in red and glowing with gold pards. He looked up into the metal face and the surmounting lion. King Edward, by the Grace of God — an Englishman …

Dog Boy struck and the King, unable to lower his shield enough, felt the shock of the axe blow on the padded armour of his warhorse, which squealed and snaked out a vicious bite. Dog Boy jerked away from it, slashing with the dirk; he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the screaming figure of Patrick launch himself forward.

The sword that snicked the iron hat from Patrick’s head, and most of his skull with it, came from a knight in red and silver, who hurled his shield at Dog Boy and then used the free hand to grab the king’s rein.

‘Away, sire …’

Dog Boy, staggering under the battering of the shield, blinded by the vision of Patrick’s iron hat flying bloodily into the air, gave a last, despairing lunge and a mad swipe of the axe — but the King of England was gone.

De Valence battered his way through his own men to the side of the King, who had shoved up his visor and now stared from a sweat-coursed daze of a face.

‘Get the King away,’ de Valence said to d’Argentan, shouting above the howling din.

‘You get him away,’ d’Argentan replied tersely. ‘I am unaccustomed to fleeing.’

He reined round and de Valence, at once heart-leaped with admiration and cursing him for dereliction, took the King’s bridle in one metalled fist and started to force a way through the press to safety.

D’Argentan was all fire. As he had been in his youth, he thought, exultant and roaring with the moment. Third-best knight in Christendom — he would raise that ranking by seeking out and slaying the Bruce himself, if he had to carve through the entire Scotch army to do it.