An Honourable Estate (30 page)

“How many?” asked Sir Andrew.

“Fewer than us,” grinned the scout with satisfaction. 
“And he has not yet realised that we hold the bridge.”

“Well I doubt he will remain uninformed for long,” he replied
as he turned back to his men.  “Let us prepare for a battle before
darkness falls,” he said grimly.
          

After firmly telling a resentful Dicken that he must stay by
the tent for his own safety, William rode down the incline to the riverbank and
looked around.  Knights and pikemen were deployed to guard the northern
end of the wooden bridge that was only wide enough to be crossed on foot. 
Further upstream, at the ford, more pikemen were in a defensive formation with
their spears pointing outwards to ward off any mounted attack.  They were
supported on both flanks by bodies of archers who had been instructed to fire
as fast and relentlessly as they could once the enemy came within range. 
William was confident that they would hold both the crossings.

As he sat astride Hengist, listening as the impatient
stallion chewed on its bit, he heard the rhythmic marching of an oncoming force
and, out of the late afternoon, he saw two columns of men approaching from the
town, one of cavalry and one of infantry.  He recognised the colours of
both the Earl of Hereford and Roger de Clifford as they approached the bridge
leading the foot soldiers.   The column of horsemen, under
Lancaster’s command, was heading for the ford.

William watched as Hereford and his standard bearer led a
running assault on the wooden bridge at the head of his men.  But before
the force was even half way across there were sharp cries of pain and dismay as
a quill of sharpened spears suddenly stabbed upwards from beneath the planking
making men jump and turn in alarm as if they were performing some new and
energetic dance. 

One of the soldiers thrust his spear upwards in a lucky
strike that impaled the Earl of Hereford from below.  For a moment he
looked stunned as he gazed at the torrent of blood that flowed unchecked from
his bowels, across the bridge, and began to drip into the swirling water of the
river below.  As if intending to pray he sank slowly to his knees and with
an expression of disbelief he fell over sideways, dead.  His standard
bearer lay motionless beside him, his hand still clutched around the fallen
banner and Clifford, nursing a gaping wound to his forehead, ordered a retreat.

The men, who would have followed their leaders had they
crossed the bridge, suddenly became a whirling, frenzied mass as they all tried
to turn at once to flee.  The pikemen were eager to give chase, but Sir
Andrew called them off as the enemy ran for their lives.  William looked
upstream to where the archers had inflicted heavy casualties on the mounted
assault.  Having seen the defeat of his foot soldiers, Lancaster was also
calling them to pull back.

Minutes later a lone rider in Lancaster’s colours approached
them with a white cloth tied to a stick.   William watched with
narrowed eyes as Hengist fidgeted, eager and excited by the events.  The
messenger handed a note to Sir Andrew and waited as he read it.  William
saw the amusement light his face.

 “Tell him no!” he said to the messenger.  “Though,
as the afternoon darkens, I will grant him a truce until the morrow.” 

They watched as Lancaster and his men turned and withdrew
back into the town.

“He offered me a bribe to let him cross,” laughed Harcla as
he passed William.  “I’d rather have his head on a platter to present to
the king.”

During
the night Sir Simon Warde, the governor of York, arrived by river with
reinforcements and at first light a confident and expectant royalist army
awaited Lancaster and his men. 

“If he thinks I will wait here until his Scottish allies
arrive to give him aid then he is a bigger fool than I first thought,” grumbled
Sir Andrew as the weak March sunlight breached the horizon.  “I’ll not
wait in this chill wind an hour longer,” he added to William.  “Come, let
us find the damned earl and finish this, then we can all enjoy a good dinner.”

With an eager smile, William nudged his spurs to his
stallion’s sides and they trotted off towards the town of Boroughbridge to
engage with their enemy.  But there was no sign of Lancaster’s forces and
they met up with a scout who told them that most of Hereford’s and Clifford’s
men had deserted and that Lancaster himself had taken refuge in the chapel.

As they reined in outside the small stone building William
glanced across at his lord, wondering what he would suggest they do.  It
was obvious that Lancaster had taken sanctuary in the hope that the Scots would
arrive and, if he could not be compelled to come out and give himself up, then
the victory that had seemed certain might not be assured.

William heard Sir Andrew shift irritably in his saddle,
making the harness creak under his weight. 

“Be damned to this!” he exploded.  “What say we go in
and fetch him out?”

“If you are not afraid of being struck down for violating
sanctuary then I am more than willing to follow you in, sire,” said William,
already half out of his saddle. 

Sir Andrew ordered a group of men to take to the chapel door
with a battering ram in the shape of a sturdy fallen tree trunk.  William
watched the door shudder and shake under the onslaught until it finally
splintered with a resounding crack and flew open, causing the men to fall over
themselves in a heap.  With sword drawn he clambered in over the top of
their prostrate bodies with Andrew Harcla close behind him.

Lancaster, clad in his chain hauberk covered with a surcoat
bearing his own heraldic lions, was kneeling before the crucifix.  He
turned in alarm, his eyes momentarily meeting William’s with a vague glimpse of
recognition.  Then the earl crossed himself.

“Good Lord, I render myself to Thee and put me in Thy mercy!”
he prayed as Andrew Harcla strode towards him and put the blade of his sword to
Lancaster’s throat.       

“Stand up!  There’ll be time for your prayers to your
heavenly lord later when you’ve begged forgiveness of your sovereign lord!” he
told him as he waved men forward to take the earl into captivity.  “Strip
him of his armour!” said Sir Andrew. 

Lancaster stood quietly as they took everything from him
until he was dressed only in his shirt and braies.  Then, without cloak or
hood to protect him against the northerly wind, which was bringing a fresh
flurry of snowfall from the overburdened sky, they dragged him from the chapel
and back to the river where he was taken onto one of the boats that had brought
Warde’s foot soldiers. 

William handed Hengist’s reins to Dicken and told him to pack
up their belongings and then find Ned and bring the horses to the city where he
should ask after his whereabouts at the castle gate.

“I must see Lancaster secure,” he told him.

William crossed himself as the body of the Earl of Hereford
was brought aboard.  The two friars who were to be responsible for it
stepped from the bank making the flat-bottomed boat sway on the choppy
water.  Bound and shivering Lancaster sat in the midst of his
guards.  Clifford, also stripped of his armour and with a makeshift
bandage about his head, was pushed down beside him and then the boat was untied
and the sail set to take them the seventeen miles downriver to the city
harbour.

As they tied up at York wharf, in the midst of the trading
ships, William saw Warde’s armed men waiting to escort the prisoners up to the
castle.  He followed as they marched up the short incline, through the
gate set in the high stone wall of the round gatehouse and into the crescent
shaped bailey.  Adjacent to the kitchen was a strongly constructed prison
into which Clifford and Lancaster were taken without ceremony.  William
watched as the helpless prisoners were chained to the walls and he searched his
conscience for some shred of pity.  But all that he could think was that
as soon as this was finished he could go home to Mab, and whenever he thought
of her the longing to hold her and his daughters closely in his arms again
eclipsed everything.

Word
had come that the king was at Pontefract and wanted the earl brought before him
there.  It would be even more humiliating, thought William as they rode
south, for Lancaster to be tried in the great hall of his own castle. 

It was a Sunday, but Andrew Harcla had responded immediately
to the king’s summons and, holy day or not, they had ridden out at first light
in the hope of arriving before nightfall.

 At last, as the afternoon darkened from the south,
Pontefract came into sight and they urged the tired horses on.  As they
approached the town, crowds began to gather at the roadside to jeer at
Lancaster as he passed.  At the approach to the castle even more were
gathered to watch, including those who had been Lancaster’s own vassals.

“King Arthur!” they cried, making fun of the pseudonym he had
used in his communications with the Scots.  Then one man reached for some
of the slush that was still gathered at the roadside from an earlier snowstorm
and, after pressing the mixture of mud and ice into a ball between his hands,
he threw it.  Laughing, others followed his example and Lancaster was
pelted until his thin tunic was plastered to his body and his cheek bled from a
laceration just below his right eye.

 The royal standard was only just visible, flying from
the turret, as they clattered over the drawbridge and into the outer of the two
courtyards.  William watched as the Earl of Lancaster was taken to his
prison cell in the newly constructed tower which overlooked the abbey. 
Then he helped Dicken and Ned to stable the horses, unpack what they needed,
and find a corner out of the drafts to catch up on some much needed sleep.

 “William!”
called Sir Andrew early the next morning.  “Come and attend me and you
will be admitted to the hall to see Lancaster found guilty.”

William followed his lord across the courtyard and up the
steps to the ante chamber.  Guards in the king’s surcoats were at the
door, but they stepped smartly aside and allowed them in.  The best chairs
in the castle had been arranged along the dais for the king and his
advisers.  William recognised Hugh Despenser in his usual position at the
king’s elbow and he watched as Sir Andrew took his place alongside those who
would pass judgement.

An account of the evidence against the Earl of Lancaster was
read out and Robert Malmesthorpe pronounced that he had been found guilty of
treason and would be condemned to death by hanging, drawing and quartering.

“What?  Shall I die without answer?” demanded Lancaster
and a chill ran through William as he recalled a similar trial, when Piers
Gaveston had stood before them in this same hall as the condemned man.

“The evidence of your guilt is without doubt,” Malmesthorpe told
him.  “It would be useless for you to speak in your own defence.”

“And I am to die a traitor’s death?”

“I will show some leniency, cousin, in respect of your royal
blood,” said the king with a glance at his chamberlain.  “I will show you
the same mercy that you afforded to my brother, Piers.  You will not be
hanged, drawn and quartered, but you will be beheaded.  Take him!” he
instructed with a wave of his hand and William watched as the Earl of Lancaster
looked around in dismay as armed men grasped him.

As he joined the crowd in the courtyard William saw a thin
grey pony that looked half-starved itself.  Someone pushed a dirty
battered hat onto Lancaster’s head and amid much laughter and jeering he was
picked up and put astride the saddleless horse.

“Lord have mercy on me!” the earl cried, clutching at the
pony’s sparse mane as they led him out of the castle.  Outside the walls
he was once again pelted with mud by the townsfolk.  William followed as
they took him up the hill where he was pulled from the animal’s back and forced
to his knees to make confession to a priest.

“Turn him the other way – to the north!” shouted someone when
his head was on the block.  “If he be so fond of Scotland let him die
facing it!”

Voices of assent rippled through the crowd as the earl was
hauled to his feet and repositioned.  Then a man took up the axe with
which he was to be executed.  William watched as the shivering earl
crossed himself and said a silent prayer, his eyes closed and only his lips
moving as he awaited his death overlooking his own castle, watched by those who
had pledged him their loyalty, but were now only eager to see him die.

Despite the long wait to be rid of his enemy the bile rose in
William’s throat and as the axe was raised he looked away, hearing only the
dull thud and the gasp of shock then admiration from the gathered crowd, some
of whom gave a half-hearted cheer.  William opened his own eyes to see the
white face of Dicken who was staring at the scene.  Damn, he thought, he
should have taken more care that the boy did not witness such an event. 
Still, he conceded, as his hand rested on the boy’s quivering shoulder, he had
better get used to it.  This was a cruel and violent world and there was
no part in it for those whose constitution blanched at the death of a
traitor.  Though, as Dicken retched over his boots, he had to acknowledge
that he couldn’t have stomached watching it himself.