After Sheffield they traversed the Pennines, rested at Burnley Abbey, and progressed through Lancashire until they came to the enormous Lancaster Castle that was owned by Thomas of Lancaster, the king’s nephew. Thomas, son of the king’s late brother, Edmund, had the royal Plantagenet pride in abundance. Perhaps because he recognized Warwick’s towering pride, the Earl of Lancaster had always held him in great esteem.
Thomas was the hereditary high steward of England and his lavish royal entertainments were legendary. On the king’s first night in Lancaster’s Great Hall, he was given the place of honor on Thomas’s right, and Warwick was seated on Thomas’s left.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage to Marjory de Warenne. I warrant she is the most beautiful countess in the land and the envy of every baron in England.”
Warwick glanced at Lancaster’s richly clad wife, Alice de Lacy. She was no beauty, but because she was an only child of the Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury, Lancaster would inherit these two earldoms along with their wealth and property when Lincoln died. I would not trade Jory for all the royal Plantagenet titles, wealth, and property lumped together!
“I need to speak with you alone,” Lancaster murmured.
Warwick nodded his understanding. He waited until after midnight when he knew the king would be abed before he sought out Lancaster in his private chamber.
“I am alarmed at Edward’s appearance,” Thomas said quietly. “His Majesty’s health has deteriorated since last I saw him.”
Warwick was blunt. “This will be his last campaign, I warrant.”
“This campaign will precipitate his demise.” It was Lancaster’s turn to speak his mind. “Prince Edward is ill suited to the role he will shortly be called upon to fulfill.”
Warwick’s dark glance took in the tall Plantagenet’s physique, and not for the first time he lamented that Thomas had been born Edmund’s son, rather than the king’s son and heir to the throne. “Young Edward will benefit from your guidance and experience.”
“He is a juvenile who resents authority, mine especially.”
“The baronage will still be the dominant force in Parliament.”
“Only if we stick together and form a powerful alliance. As a leading noble of the realm will you enter into a bond with me?”
“Yes—I will pledge you my support, when the time comes.” Warwick paced Lancaster’s chamber. “I chafe at the slow progress we are making. I am more suited to the role of warrior than bloody nursemaid.”
“Try to curb your impatience. He takes strength and courage from you. You are serving the purpose of prolonging his life.”
The king remained for a full week at Lancaster Castle. Before he left, Edward ordered Thomas to gather his force from his northern landholdings and follow him to Carlisle.
From Lancaster, they followed the River Lune up through Kendal and the Cambrian Mountains. Warwick’s men-at-arms made camp at Penrith while the king rested at Brougham Castle. Guy de Beauchamp had a horse litter made for the king so he could journey the final miles in comfort. Three days later the cavalcade finally arrived at Carlisle. An entire month had melted away since Guy de Beauchamp had set out from Warwick.
Carlisle Castle, the ugly red fortress on the Border of Scotland, bulged at the seams with English fighting men. Prince Edward and his entourage had not set foot across the Border since they had arrived at Carlisle more than two months before.
When Ralph Monthermer, Earl of Gloucester, had arrived a fortnight ago, he saw the crowded conditions and decided to cross the Border into Scotland to crush a reported uprising near Perth.
When Edward Plantagenet encountered Pembroke and his scattered army arriving at Carlisle Castle, he demanded to know the reason they had retreated from Scotland.
“Sire, we were ambushed at the Steps of Trool. We set up camp at the foot of Mulldonach Mountain and in the night an avalanche of boulders came crashing down on our campaign tents. We fled east around Loch Trool and ran straight into the Bruce’s swords. They killed hundreds.”
King Edward fell into a full-blown Plantagenet rage. “Whoreson! Dung Eater! Scab-arsed baboon! I’ll hang the Bruce from the highest scaffold, then have him drawn and quartered!” The king’s fair complexion became ruddy and mottled. “Get back across that Border, Pembroke, and bring Robert Bruce to me here!”
“Let me go, Your Majesty. My men are fresh and I am spoiling for a fight,” Warwick volunteered.
“Why should you do Pembroke’s job for him? He’s the fool who bungled the raid. Pembroke is the head of my army. Let him prove himself worthy of the rank of general.”
A frustrated Warwick sought out his son who had been cooling his heels for two months. “Christ Almighty, it took a whole bloody month to get here, now my men are expected to stand about and pick the lice from their heads instead of marching into Scotland and capturing the Bruce.”
“I understand your frustration, Father. I’ve tried to teach Prince Edward fighting skills, but he is inept and takes interest only in drinking, dicing, and playing youthful pranks worthy of a twelve-year-old. He insists that though Robert Bruce has been crowned king, all the Border strongholds are garrisoned by the English. He thinks the Scots are no threat whatsoever.”
After a week of idleness, Warwick rode out alone every day through the Border country. He kept his mouth shut and his ears open, learning what he could about the Bruce’s strength. His long black hair and swarthy complexion labeled him a Celt, so he could cross into Scotland without fear. An idea took root in his mind and began to grow. When it was fully formed he acted upon it.
Warwick rode to Dumfries Castle, which was garrisoned by English soldiers. When he identified himself by showing his bear and staff device and told the guard he was with the king’s army at Carlisle, he was welcomed into the castle. Presently, he sought out Dumfries’s steward, the father of Lynx de Warenne’s wife, Jane.
“Well met, Jock Leslie. I’ve heard only good things about you from Lynx de Warenne.” The two men clasped arms. “As a matter of fact, your lovely daughter Jane is now my sister-in-law.”
Warwick saw the steward try to grasp the relationship and clarified matters for him. “I am Guy de Beauchamp. I wed Marjory de Warenne when she returned to England a few months ago.”
“Congratulations, my lord. Jane and Lady Marjory became inseparable friends. Yer wife was extremely kind and generous to my daughter. Do ye know if Jane is well, my lord? When she left here, she was having another bairn.”
“I visited the de Warennes six weeks ago. Jane was blooming with health and confided she would like a daughter this time.”
“Us Leslies are prolific breeders—I’m father of ten.”
“An amazing feat,” Warwick declared. “I am trying to find Robert Bruce. I have a message for him.”
“You and a thousand others.” Jock winked. “We are castle keepers and try not to take sides, but now that the Bruce has been crowned King of Scotland, ’tis impossible to hide our pleasure.”
“You think him Scotland’s rightful king.” It was a statement.
“I know he is. Any Scot breathing would agree—and half the English, if truth be told,” Jock declared. “If ye want to get a message to the Bruce, seek out Black Douglas.”
“I thank you, Jock Leslie.”
Jock nodded. “I’d put my trust in any mon related to Lynx de Warenne. He’s the salt of the earth. Give my regards to yer beautiful lady.”
It was after midnight when Warwick gained his bed in Carlisle Castle. As he lay in the darkness, he probed the corners of his mind to see if he felt guilt over what he had done. He concluded that the end justified the means and promptly fell asleep.
At the end of the following week, messengers arrived from Pembroke with bad news. The army had met up with the Bruce’s force and had been defeated in a brisk skirmish at a place called Loudoun Hill. Pembroke was sending his wounded soldiers back to Carlisle Castle, though he himself knew better than to return and face Edward
Plantagenet.
In the war room at Carlisle Castle, the king had foam on his lips as he raved and shouted. “I have assembled the largest and best-trained force of fighting men England has ever seen! It should be child’s play for my fumbling, idiot fourth cousin to accomplish the complete subjection of these thick-headed Scots.”
Warwick searched the maps for Loudoun Hill and saw it was at a place called Kilmarnock. His eyes followed a line directly east and there, not more than a dozen miles away was Douglas.
Edward Plantagenet was purple in the face. “By God’s good grace, am I alone capable of leading this army to capture Bruce?”
Warwick was alarmed. The king had arrived here in a horse litter. How could he lead the army? “Sire, I will take my men to reinforce Pembroke.”
“You and I together, Warwick. We will get the job done.”
“I can be ready tomorrow, Your Majesty, there is no need—”
“There is every need. I will be ready at dawn. Do not keep me waiting, Lord Warwick.”
Carlisle Castle was a massive fortress, but Guy de Beauchamp’s men were billeted together and it didn’t take long to put them on notice about tomorrow’s departure. It took much longer to round up Prince Edward’s troops, and Rickard told his father in confidence they likely would not be ready for two or three days.
At dawn the next morning, Warwick’s men-at-arms were ready. His foot soldiers were armed and his knights were mounted. Edward Plantagenet, with much difficulty and plenty of aid, climbed into the saddle and insisted on leading the cavalcade.
The snail’s pace he set in his weakened condition was mentally agonizing to Warwick and physically agonizing for the king. At the end of two days, they had covered only four miles. In spite of the monarch’s protests, Guy de Beauchamp improvised a horse litter and persuaded King Edward to ride in it. At the end of the third day they reached Burgh-by-Sands from which the water of Solway Firth was visible. Beyond the firth lay Scotland.
Edward Plantagenet’s pain was so severe he could go no farther. Warwick’s impatience dropped away from him like a cloak and was replaced by heartfelt compassion. He carried the king from his horse litter to a large stone house where a bed had been prepared for him. The royal physicians and Warwick’s Welsh healers shook their heads and could do nothing for the warrior king. Edward called his priest and his scribes and prepared himself for death. He dictated his will and composed messages of farewell for the members of his family.
When Prince Edward and his troops arrived, Warwick met him. “Your father is dying. He has orders he wants to pass on to you.”
As the heir to England’s throne knelt by his father’s bed, all present heard the king’s last orders:
“One hundred English knights must go to the Crusades and take my heart with them.” Edward Plantagenet looked his son straight in the eyes. “Piers Gaveston is not to be recalled to England without the consent of Parliament.” He struggled for breath. “Carry my bones before the army, so I may still lead the way to victory!” Edward the First had issued his last order.
Prince Edward looked upon the dead face of his father. “I am now Edward the Second, King of England!” He sounded amazed.
The young king issued immediate orders that everyone was to return to Carlisle. There, the old king’s body was prepared for a journey and it was decided among the clergy that he should lie in state at the magnificent Minster in the great City of York, which was the largest cathedral in England. Young King Edward, with all pageantry, would accompany his father’s bier south.
The night before they were to leave, Rickard de Beauchamp sought out his father. “Edward has no intention of fulfilling his father’s last wishes. Once we arrive at York, he intends to ride to London with all speed to bask in the adulation of the people he now rules. He has no intention of leading the invading army to victory. He harbors the old belief that a king can do no wrong!”
“The foolish lad has no concept that a king is no more than the representative of the ruling class. The baronage will remain the dominant force in Parliament whether he likes it or not.” Warwick immediately pictured Jory and knew the news of Edward Plantagenet’s death would sadden her. “When you reach Warwickshire, send word to Lady Marjory.”
“Can I tell her when to expect you, Father?”
Warwick shook his head. “I have a mission.” He embraced his son. “Go with God, Rickard.”
As darkness descended, Guy de Beauchamp rode into a stand of firs and dismounted in a small clearing. He secured Caesar’s reins, fed him oats, then lay on the ground to sleep. In place of his usual breastplate he wore the chain mail shirt that Lynx de Warenne had given him, and he carried neither sword nor battleaxe. He wore only his hunting knife tucked into his belt. It was the only weapon he needed to rip out the heart of Robert Bruce.
Bruce had been crowned king, but the English held every Scottish Border castle and he stood no chance of regaining the strongholds and actually ruling. Until now. Edward Plantagenet’s death changed everything. The effeminate youth who now occupied England’s throne would be no threat to the hardened and determined Scots. A steel bonnet would emerge from every thicket and clump of gorse. Eventually, Robert Bruce would emerge victorious and gain Scotland’s independence from England. Warwick knew there was only one sure way to stop this from happening.
Guy de Beauchamp knew his horse would soon alert him if danger threatened and he fell asleep in an amazingly short time. It wasn’t long before he began to dream and, as always, it was about Jory. Her exquisite beauty held him spellbound; her pale green eyes and silvery gilt hair took his breath away. But it wasn’t just her looks that held him in thrall. He treasured her because she made him feel alive. If he could make her love him and no other, he knew his happiness would be complete, his life perfect.
Guy, please, don’t go…Don’t do this thing. Her voice was sweet, softly persuading. In supplication she moved toward him and captured his arm. Guy, please, I beseech you. I beg you not to make war on Scotland. Jory fell to her knees imploring him, pleading with him to listen, as she clung desperately to his arm.
Get up off your knees! It sickens me that you would beg for your lover!
Warwick woke with a start. Though the night was cold he was covered with sweat. Immune to physical discomfort, he lay still, listening for some sound that may have awakened him. He heard only a night owl and knew in his soul what had awakened him. He could not bear to hear Jory beg for her lover, even in a dream.
At first light he watered Caesar in a nearby stream and dipped his own head beneath the water to clear his brain and make him alert. He smoothed his wet hair back and secured it with a thong. Warwick had covered over sixty miles in the last two days. He mounted and rode the last few miles that led to Douglas. Mist still hung over Douglas Water, giving the place a sinister look, adding credence to the fortress’s byname of Castle Dangerous. His plan was simple. The ruse had worked at Dumfries. If Bruce was at Douglas, and he wagered that he was, it should work again.
Warwick stopped at the gateway and told the guard he had a message for Sir James Douglas. The lone rider, assumed to be a Celt, was allowed inside the bailey. He dismounted and strode with confidence into the grey-towered castle. When a steward asked his business, he repeated that he had a message for Sir James Douglas. Presently, the Black Douglas descended the stone steps that led down from the living quarters.
“Sir James, I have a message for Robert Bruce,” Warwick said.
“What makes ye think I can get a message tae the Bruce?”
Warwick lifted a dismissive hand. “Let’s cut to the heart of the matter. I’ll deliver the message myself.”
“Who are ye and who is this important message from?”
“I am Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and the message is from Lynx de Warenne.”
“A firkin’ Englishmon!” Douglas shouted, reaching for his dirk.
“A firkin’ Frenchman,” Warwick corrected.
“It’s all right, J
ames.” The voice of authority came from the gallery above. “The infamous earl risks much to seek me out.”
Life had taught Warwick that a simple, direct plan worked best. He would stab Bruce to the heart and, when Douglas came to his aid, he would overpower him and use him as a shield and hostage until he was well away from Castle Dangerous.
As Robert Bruce descended the stone steps, Warwick schooled himself to patience till his quarry came within striking distance.
Chapter 27
Jory looked down from her tower window and saw a dark rider enter Warwick’s bailey. She drew in a quick breath and proceeded downstairs with a racing heart. Her steps were measured because of her baby; she now took great care with any task she undertook.
When she reached the tower entrance and saw that it was Rickard de Beauchamp who had arrived, she was fraught with anxiety. “Your father?” was all she could manage to utter.
“Father is well,” he reassured her immediately.
Jory let out a long, relieved breath and saw Rickard’s eyes widen as he took in her condition.
“You are having a child.” Rickard sounded bemused.
“Yes…your father didn’t tell you?” she asked nervously. “You will always be first in his heart, Rickard.”
“Lady Marjory, Father’s love is all-encompassing. I harbor no fears that I will be replaced,” he said, smiling to reassure her. “Let’s go upstairs—I have news to impart.” He followed her, ready to aid her if she misstepped.
When she was comfortably seated, Rickard said, “I know it will sadden you to learn that King Edward is dead.”
She immediately thought of Robert Bruce and the war that Edward Plantagenet was waging. “Was he killed in battle?”
“No. The king was ill—he died before he reached Scotland.”
Could it be divine intervention? Jane always said that it was written in the stars that Robert was destined to rule Scotland. “So Prince Edward is now King of England?” It was difficult for Jory to imagine such a thing.