The Renegade(197)

FitzHugh shrugged his shoulders eloquently and rose to carry his own empty platter to the table. “On the twenty-seventh of April,” he said. “Three months ago. There were some skirmishes beyond that date, but nothing in the way of threat to our campaign.”

“Sweet Jesus, that was quick. In God’s name, Sir Robert, what happened?”

“From what I have been able to gather from all the reports we have amassed—not merely I myself but the other ministers in residence here—what happened was a repetition of the folly that turned the assault on Carlisle into such a shambles—incompetence and inadequacy on a staggering scale. The Scots leadership was overconfident from the start, and they showed a dismal lack of leadership on every front. No Scots leader, in fact, led anything, anywhere, other than uncoordinated and overconfident advances. Once challenged, they fell to pieces everywhere.”

“And what happened to end it all on the twenty-seventh of April?”

“A battle, of sorts, at a place called Dunbar. A cavalry engagement of some kind.”

“Dunbar. I heard something about that, but discounted it as idle rumour. What happened there?”

“A fiasco. Dunbar Castle belongs to the Earl of March, who has been a steadfast supporter of King Edward, as I’m sure you know. But the earl’s wife, Marjory, a sister to the Earl of Buchan, was chatelaine during March’s absence and took her brother’s side rather than her husband’s. She turned over Dunbar Castle to the rebels.

“The King was marching north from Berwick at that time and he dispatched the Earl of Surrey, Lord John de Warrenne, with a strong force of cavalry to take the castle back. But the Scots garrison, knowing we would be about their ears very quickly, had sent an urgent appeal for help to the Scots King, who was, unknown to our forces, encamped nearby, at a place called Haddington. The Scots dispatched a cavalry force as powerful as Warrenne’s, although their King himself remained safely behind in his camp. The two forces met each other with very little warning. The Scots had the advantage, for they were on high ground and well disposed to repel any attack.” He stopped suddenly and cocked his head, looking at Bruce inquiringly. “May I speak freely? This will go no further than this room?”

“Of course not, Sir Robert.”

“Good, because I am about to voice a personal opinion, something I normally do solely to King Edward. I am no soldier, as you know, but even I can recognize folly when I see it—or read of it. As I said, the Scots had the advantage of a vastly superior position, sufficiently so for there to have been no question of attacking them. But Earl Warrenne attacked them anyway. He dispatched a large part of his forces to take the hill, and he should have lost his army then and there. But here is the tragic folly of the Scots. In order to attack the Scotch position, Warrenne’s men had to turn their backs to the enemy and retrace their steps for a quarter of a mile to a spot where they could most safely climb down into a semicircular defile that lay between them and the enemy, and watching them ride away and disappear, the Scots believed they had quit the field. So what did they do? They left the high ground and charged down as a rabble to pursue and plunder the supposedly fleeing enemy. By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, they found Warrenne’s cavalry advancing towards them in perfect order.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe any leader could be so stupid. They were an undisciplined rabble as they streamed down from their heights and they were even more so when they encountered Warrenne’s squadrons on level ground. They scattered and collapsed at the first charge. We took more than a hundred Scottish lords, knights, squires, and men-at-arms as prisoners. The rest fled westward to the great forest there.”

“Selkirk Forest.”

“Aye, that’s the name. In any event, those prisoners are all now safely contained in England, some of them, the most notable ones, in the Tower itself.”

“Here in London! Is that why there are so many soldiers about?”

“Here and everywhere else, aye. The war may be over, but the army has not been disbanded. The King himself believes Scotland is safe now, but he has yet to deal with France, and so he keeps the army ready.”

“So what is happening in Scotland now? What about Balliol?”

“Balliol is no more—”

“Dear Jesus! He’s dead?”

FitzHugh shook his head quickly. “No, I started to say he is no more the King of Scotland. He has been deposed.”

“By Edward?” Bruce sat blinking. “But how can that be? Cretin and fool and dastard Balliol may be, but he is Scotland’s anointed King. Has Edward seized the Crown, then?”