Chapter 39

Northeast England

A crescent of moon shimmered off the River Wear flowing dark and sluggish past the English camp. A low string of clouds obscured all but the most belligerent of stars. An intermittent drizzle misted the hundreds of tents huddled near the river and clung to the hauberks and bearded faces of the sentries walking post. The guards' movements were weary, their footsteps careful as they picked their way along the peat bogs.

In the distance came a rumble like that of thunder. Hoof beats. Tensing, the sentries turned their faces south toward the noise while simultaneously unsheathing their swords.

A glint of armor, armor splintering in the moonlight, swelling and falling like the River Wear. A troupe of men approached, reaching the outskirts of the sprawling English camp.

"St. George! St. George!" The riders called; the sentries relaxed. Knights rumbled past, into the heart of the camp. Tendrils of cloud reached out and obliterated the fingernail moon. Scraping steel sounded as weapons emerged—not English broadswords, but Scottish claymores. The Scot's leader, black of eye and beard, motioned with the point of his claymore toward a tent larger than the rest, a tent bearing the limp standard of the King of England.

While other Scotsmen fanned to surrounding tents, their leader dismounted and stealthily approached the royal tent. Removing his dagger the big man carefully cut the tent's canvas to step inside. Sleeping men—knights, pages, a chaplain, all sprawled on the ground in various poses. On a low couch rested the king, his golden hair spilling across a pillow, his untroubled face almost feminine in its beauty. Richard of Sussex stretched beside his couch; Phillip Rendell near the tent flap. The Black Knight stealthily approached the sleeping regent, stepping across the slender body of a page. As he paused before Edward III, Richard stirred, groaned. Tensing, the knight positioned the point of his sword above Richard's chest. When he quieted, the knight again returned his attention to Edward.

Outside, a piercing scream. "To arms! Black Douglas!"

Black Douglas grinned and raised his powerful arms above his head. The point of his claymore brushed the top of the royal tent.

King Edward's eyes snapped open.

"Greetings, Your Grace!"

The interior exploded in confusion. The bewildered chaplain rose to his knees; Phillip, still in his hauberk, fumbled for his broadsword. Edward stared at the deadly claymore frozen above him.

The claymore descended. A page yelled. Richard hurled himself across the king, taking the blow square across his back. The blade bit through chainmail, deep into flesh and spinal cord. Blood spurted like a geyser. Richard did not move or cry out, but merely settled against his nephew. Phillip leapt at Douglas, who was already backing toward the jagged flap of canvas. The crowded quarters offered little room for maneuvering so Phillip's swing was cautious, but his blade bit into flesh.

Douglas grinned. "Well done, Englishman!" he said before exiting.

Whirling around toward Richard, Phillip placed his hand across the river of blood.

"Dead!" cried Edward. "Get Douglas! Bring him to me—alive."

Phillip covered the interior of the tent in three strides, pushing aside a hysterical page near the opening.

Outside, trampled tents, trampled men, rearing destriers; steel slithering and ringing upon steel, the blurred arc of weaving blades; grunts and battle cries, the frightened neighs of plunging, riderless horses. It was near impossible to tell friend from foe, especially now that some Englishmen had mounted. Phillip's eyes swept the confusion. Twenty feet away he spotted Douglas astride a warhorse black as himself, shouting and trying to regroup his men.

Phillip's sword swung methodically on either side, cutting a path toward the Scottish leader—disemboweling a horse, decapitating its rider, plunging his sword into the stomach of a third. Under the furious onslaught the Scots fell back. Phillip inched toward Douglas, who was no longer grinning but was intent on escape, intent on fighting free in a midnight raid that looked as if it might be his last. Though a part of the English camp still milled about in confusion, a core of knights closed around the Scots.

"Kill Douglas!"

Ten more feet and Phillip would reach him. He hacked and parried, his gaze never leaving Black Douglas, his arms pumping, his muscles knotting with the precision of a machine, his sword responding as if it were a deadly part of the man himself.

A mounted Scot seemed to materialize from the moonlight, bearing down on Phillip's left. His black destrier appeared an extension of the shadows, save for the wide rolling eyes and flecks of foam flying from its nostrils and straining neck.

Phillip positioned himself to meet this new threat. Horse and rider galloped toward him. Phillip steadied his sword. As the animal charged past and the knight slashed at him, Phillip sidestepped, plunging his sword into the horse's neck. In a second fluid motion he rolled free of the straining legs.

The destrier screamed and reared, but did not fall. Whirling his mount, the knight again bore down on Phillip.

Phillip tensed, readied. The warhorse's movements were slower, more uncertain until each step seemed a struggle. Upon reaching him the animal veered unsteadily. The Scot swung his claymore, missed. The movement further threw his horse off balance. It stumbled. Phillip's sword flashed upward, slicing into the knight's chest.

The Scot's claymore wavered downward, arcing toward Phillip's face.

Maria awakened, screaming.