Chapter 5

Stirling Castle

King Edward and his royal guard of five hundred fled toward Stirling Castle as if Satan and all his legions nipped at their heels. They had detoured to the left of the Scottish line and then north toward Stirling, hoping to pass unnoticed. It proved a vain hope. Scots, led by Bruce's brother, Edward, repeatedly engaged them. Riding at the tag end of the line, Richard and Phillip bore the brunt of the attacks. Richard felt as if he'd been fighting forever, as if he'd died and gone to hell and endless skirmishes would be his eternal punishment.

Seemingly from nowhere, Edward Bruce appeared, cutting off the route to freedom, thundering down on the English king who was surrounded by exhausted troops. Hugh Despenser and several other knights formed a ring around Edward, repelling several charges. Edward also fought, expertly wielding his mace, but an English knight fell, providing opening. Richard raced to close the iron ring, but he was too late. One Scot was already grabbing for the king's reins, another for Edward himself. His Grace beat furiously at the Scot reaching for his bridle. The line broke and the king fled toward Stirling Castle with the Scots at his back.

Richard felt he had not the strength to follow, or raise his sword another time. He looked over his shoulder, seeking Phillip. Riding toward Richard was a Scot, dressed all in black, without identifying surcoat or mark of any sort. He sat astride a destrier black as his armor. Richard's limbs turned to water. He could not tear his eyes from this faceless knight. Death, bearing down on him. Death, raising its sword to smite him.

Yelling a warning, Phillip spurred his horse, trying to cut off the Scot. Life returned to Richard's limbs. He jerked Excalibur to the left. Too late. The claymore whistled past Richard's exposed head, hit his cuirass. He felt a searing pain along his chest. The blade shimmied over the breastplate, slicing into Excalibur's arched neck. The grey collapsed. Struggling from the saddle, Richard tried to leap, stumbled. His body would not properly respond to his commands. Wetness, along with white hot pain, spread through his inner gambeson.

Wheeling his horse, the black knight returned for the kill but Phillip intercepted. Knee to knee, the two hacked and parried. Phillip's destrier attacked with hooves and bared teeth. The Scot's horse panicked and Phillip's sword dispatched the black knight to heaven or hell.

Not Death at all, Richard thought groggily. He bleeds as copiously as any man.

Spurring his destrier toward Richard, Phillip held out his hand. "Grab hold!"

Richard tried unsuccessfully to pull himself up.

"Hurry!" urged Phillip.

Those Scots not otherwise engaged with stragglers from Edward's royal guard were already looking to them. Realizing Richard's weakness, Phillip leapt from his horse and helped the earl mount.

Richard slumped in the saddle. Phillip whirled to face two oncoming Scots. "Go!" he shouted to Richard. But Richard could not. Far in the distance he heard Phillip's voice. He shook his head, trying to bring the world back to clarity.

Where am I? What is happening? I must...

Richard's world went black.

* * *

A cooling wetness trailed along the burning line of Richard's wound, which snaked around his right pectoral muscle. Though it was much easier to keep his eyes closed, to hover in a vague nether world, he forced them open to a patch of deepening sky. The wetness relieved the burning sensation. Phillip was cleaning his wound with an undershirt. Once white, the material now showed scarlet. Scarlet like the blood of the hart they'd killed at Wirral Forest. Only this was not an animal's blood but his own. Richard attempted to raise his arm. His limbs, though relieved of their armor, felt like sacks of grain. His thigh, where it had been pierced by an arrow, throbbed relentlessly.

Phillip's grim expression eased. "The wound is clean, m'lord. 'Twill leave a magnificent scar for some woman to remark upon."

Phillip used his helm to bring Richard water. Raising the earl's head, he eased a trickle down his throat.

"We are near the road to Stirling Castle, m'lord. I will take you there."

Richard nodded, or thought he did.

What is at Stirling Castle? Father? No, Father is dead. "Boil the flesh from my bones," The old king had said before he died. "And carry them before you into battle."

We did not do that, did we? And we lost the battle and Piers Gaveston was recalled...

* * *

"I did not allow His Grace entrance to Stirling," Lord Mowbray said. "And I regret I canna help you either. Stirling Castle belongs to the Scots now, as was agreed before the battle. To the victor the spoils, sir."

Mowbray, who was castellan of Stirling, might be a loyal Englishman, but he was angry at his king for losing Bannockburn, and angry that he was forced to such an unenviable position. "This entire business leaves a sorry taste in my mouth, I can tell you that."

Phillip turned from Mowbray to Richard, stretched upon a makeshift litter. Above the mantle that covered him, the earl's face was white, his mouth set in a painful line. Though the mantle was heavy and the early evening mild, Richard was beginning to shake.

"His Grace rode for Dunbar. Perhaps you could catch up with him," Mowbray pressed.

"My lord Sussex would die ere we lost sight of the castle." Phillip sized up Mowbray. A plain face without guile, a man not given to subterfuge, caught up in the complicated world of politics. Mowbray had agreed to turn Stirling Castle, an important strategic stronghold, over to the victor of Bannockburn, and he would keep his word.

"You have a physician here," Phillip said aloud. "You must see to m'lord's needs."

Is that the sound of horses galloping up the road toward Stirling? Is Bruce even now riding to claim his promise?

"Bruce would not murder the king's own flesh and blood, would he?" Phillip asked abruptly, a plan forming.

"I do not understand, sir."

"If Richard of Sussex should perchance fall into Bruce's hands he would be held for ransom, would he not? And what a fine ransom would be paid."

"I suppose so, but..."

"If Bruce found Sussex already at Stirling, would he not see that my lord receives the best of care? The earl of Sussex would be worth much more to him alive than dead." Phillip fell silent, considering. If he left Richard the earl would be well cared for, and Phillip could ride for safety. He had no fear of falling into enemy hands. One man could hide forever in Scotland's hills.

Richard's breathing was shallow and rapid. Blood seeped through the woolen mantle.

"Take him inside Stirling, sir, and care for him," said Phillip. "M'lord is generous. When he recovers you will be properly rewarded."

"But what about you? What will you do?"

If Phillip stayed, he would also be ransomed. The Scots, so everlastingly poor, would be eager to enrich Scotland's coffers. No, Phillip would not be risking death—at least not death by a sword. But imprisoned in a dungeon without sky to see and roads to travel, would that not be another kind of death?

"Well, sir? Will you stay or go?"

Phillip looked down at Richard, then raised his eyes to Mowbray. "I will stay with my lord," he said.