Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Getting the things across the bog and innumerable streams of Coldinghame Moor, for instance, had been a desperate, mudslaister of a business. Proud lords would have left it to others more suitable for the task, and hurried on to Berwick; but that was not Robert Brace’s way. It had taken them fourteen hours to cover the dozen miles.

They were past Halidon Hill, the last prominence on the long green ridge, and were dropping to the farmstead of Camphill, only a mile from the north-western walls of the town, when suddenly lights began to appear ahead of them, lights that flared and blazed and sank, then blazed again, and at some distance. An indescribable noise also came to them on the southeast wind, rising and falling likewise, but different from the distant thunder of the tide.

“Save us-have they started?” Gilbert Hay cried, at the King’s side.

“Jamie has not waited for us-for Your Grace?”

“Jamie is in command at Berwick,” Bruce reminded.

“Yet I would have thought that he would have delayed until I came.”

“It may not be the assault. Just some disturbance in the town,” Sir Hugh Ross suggested.

“I think not. Those are torches and fires. And at the far side of the town, where this Cow Port lies. Douglas has struck. Come-leave these engines. Irvine will bring them on.” And he spurred his mount forward.

A courier met them as the hillside levelled off to the town meadows.

“My lord King!” he shouted.

“Word from my lord of Douglas. The assault is on. We are into

Berwick. Over the walls…”

“I have eyes and ears, man! What are Douglas’s tidings?”

“These, Sire. That my lord of Dunbar would not wait. Would not abide your royal coming. He and his were stationed to the east of the Cow Port. He must have given the signal. To those within.

The three lights, two and one. Without word to my lords of Douglas and Moray, he advanced. Scaled the walls and over. With ease. And so on in.”

“Curse the arrogant fool!” the King exclaimed. But it was himself he cursed, in fact; himself others would criticise. For in his efforts to hold together his warring, jealous nobles, he had allowed the Earl of Dunbar and March a command under Douglas. It was, after all, Dunbar’s country, his earldom, and he could raise thousands of men hereabouts, in the Merse -had raised them, in the past, for the English. Here was opportunity to redeem himself.

Instead-this! He was, of course, senior in rank and status to Douglas-although the latter was Warden of the Marches. Even senior to Moray, ranking only second to life in the hierarchy of Scotland’s great earls, as descendant of Kenneth MacAlpin and the true Celtic line.

As others growled and muttered around him, Bruce rapped out, “And Douglas? And Moray? What of them?”

“With Earl Patrick into the town, my lord needs must follow. Or lose

the surprise, lose all. He said to tell Your Grace. My lord of Moray

took the left flank, the west. The walls were not defended, not

there”

“Aye. This Spalding, then, was honest in his treachery! Enough, then.

Lead us down to this part…”

The uproar from the town was much louder now, the flames ever growing, heightening, buildings evidently afire. The area of battle was spreading, at least.

They reached the walls in the vicinity of the Cow Port. That great gate was still closed; but scores of scaling ropes and ladders hung from the parapets-and, unlike most siege-scalings, no layer of bodies lay inert at the foot. In the flickering light of the fires, Bruce was one of the first to clamber up.

The scene that met their eyes was dramatic as it was chaotic. All this

part of the town was already ablaze, the sea-wind fanning the flames

and causing them to leap the narrow lanes and venn els

Against the red and ochre glare, and amidst the rolling smoke clouds, black figures were silhouetted, running, darting, wrestling, falling. Frequently steel flashed, reflecting the fires. Shouts and fierce laughter, screams and wails, penetrated the roar of the conflagration. Hell had come to Berwick that night!

Frowning, the King eyed it all. This was not as it should be. Berwick

was a Scots town, its greatest seaport, an important part of his realm however grievously it had been forced to cooperate with the enemy. Seventeen thousand had been massacred here by Edward Longshanks; in 1296, as an example to other Scots -hence perhaps the subsequent cooperation. It was no part of the King of Scots’ policy to emulate.

“Find me Dunbar. Also Douglas,” he ordered his companions.

“And command this slaughter to cease. Our enemies are in Berwick Castle, not in this town. Quickly. I shall stand here.”

Douglas was first found. He came running, eyes streaming, features blackened with soot.

“Thank God you are come, Sire!” he cried, panting.

“I can do nothing with the man Dunbar. Earl Patrick. Nor can Thomas. He will have the whole town ablaze. His men are sparing none. They heed no word of mine …”

“I have sent for him. This slaughter of citizenry must be stopped.

But-the castle, Jamie? What of the castle?”

“Thomas watches it. He holds the Castlegate. That before all else.

They have not sought to break out. Into the town. Horsley’s garrison.

As yet.”

“As well! And the other? This Witham? The town governor?”

“I have him. Captured. Drunken, and bedded with a whore.

The town is mainly in our hands. A few pockets of Englishry still hold out, but not many. Mainly by the harbour. But, see you, our men are much scattered. Or Dunbar’s men are. If there was a sally in force from the castle, and Moray could not hold it, all might yet be lost.”

“I know it. Get your men gathered together, Jamie. How many have you?”

“Near 600. Moray has half that.”

“And Dunbar?”

“Who knows? Perhaps 1,500.”

“Aye. Well, leave Dunbar to me. Gather your men, and reinforce Thomas at the Castlegate. At all cost we must contain Horsley. He has the name of a fighter. And keep the remnants of Witham’s force from reaching the castle likewise.”

The King waited on the high wall, above the holocaust, where he could be found, while Douglas made off again, to dodge and double, threading his way to avoid the burning streets.

Hay brought the Earl of Dunbar and March to his monarch at length-as High Constable of Scotland his authority was undisputable.

“My lord,” Bruce snapped, at once, “I am much displeased.

Who gave you leave to burn this my town of Berwick?”

“Your Grace’s town of Berwick is a nest of adders that should be smoked out,” the other returned coolly.

“That I do.”

“Douglas commanded here, in my name, as Warden of the Marches. His orders were to spare the town. He has been besieging Berwick for a year-Berwick Castle. As you know well. At any time he could have contrived that the town should burn. Such was not my will. You. knew it, my lord. Yet you have chosen to do this. You will tell me why, anon. Meantime, you will halt this folly, this carnage, immediately. Have your men withdrawn.

All burning, and slaying of the citizenry to cease. You understand?”

“If you wish Berwick Castle to fall, Sire, you will think again,” the

Earl declared thinly.

“This town protects it like a breastplate. I remove that breastplate for you.”

“Silence, sir! Do you debate my commands with me, the King?”

Bruce cried.

“My lord Constable-see that the Earl of Dunbar calls off his men forthwith. No further delay. Have them assemble at the Salt-market. There is room there.”

Bowing stiffly, the Cospatrick was led off.

But it was not so simple as that. Dunbar, it proved, had but little hold over his irregular force of Mersemen, many of whom had old scores to pay in Berwick town. Men inflamed with passion, liquor and rapine were not to be restrained, controlled, assembled, now scattered wide as they were. They continued to run riot, roaming where they would. In his efforts to bring them to heel, the King had to order the detachment of large numbers of Douglas’s and Moray’s veterans, thus greatly endangering the entire venture.