Chapter 3

Berwick Castle, June 1314

Richard of Sussex and Phillip Rendell entered the sprawling stable area of Berwick Castle. Berwick was perched on the border of Scotland, always a dangerous spot. Hopefully, the news Richard carried would mean trouble for their northern neighbor.

Stopping behind his half-brother, the king, who had just returned from hawking and was now relating a bawdy joke to an attentive circle, Richard waited patiently for an ending he'd already heard many times. Even if Edward had not been king, Richard would never have interrupted his story. Joke telling gave Edward a measure of happiness—rare since Piers Gaveston's death.

When His Grace finished, the knights broke into coarse guffaws. Richard glanced at Phillip, whose smile appeared more polite than amused. Crude as a London shit-raker, Edward had never achieved wit or subtlety in his stories.

"Your Grace?"

Edward spun around and grinned at Richard. "Well-a-day, brother. I've been wondering when you would arrive." Never one to stand on formality, Edward waved aside the customary obeisance and flung a muscular arm around the earl's shoulder. "What have you found out?"

"I have news, Your Grace." Richard glanced at the knights, still hovering about. All were battle-hardened veterans and most had fought with the old King Edward. But Edward II had little in common with Edward Longshanks save blood, and one could no longer be certain of loyalties. "I think 'tis best, sire, that we speak in private. In your chamber, mayhap."

"Oh. Aye, well..." Edward dismissed his companions with a vague wave of the hand. "Return to your dice, men, and do not forget to send for me during the cock fights."

The three men crossed Berwick's inner ward to the hall. At Edward's chamber, Phillip hesitated, but Richard motioned him inside, saying, "I have no secrets from you." Richard was growing increasingly dependent on his vassal. If Phillip were not absolutely determined to be bound for Venice, Richard would find him a permanent position within the Sussex household. In the world of the court, a man with no ambition other than to faithfully served his liege was a rarity.

"Aye, Sir Rendell, do come in," King Edward said amiably, tossing his gold-threaded hawking glove on a mahogany table beside a wooden model of a sailing ship. "Pour us all some wine. My throat feels as sour as a drunkard's following May Day revels." He motioned to a filigree folding table upon which sat a silver tray and goblets.

While Phillip poured, Edward held his half-finished model, a delicately proportioned galley, up to the narrow chamber window, inspecting his handiwork. At thirty years of age Edward of Caernarvon moved with the easy grace of a man delighting in physical exercise. Though he and Richard were matched in size, Edward had reached the pinnacle of manhood, while his half-brother was approaching it. Yet in Richard the sometimes over-narrow and long Plantagenet features had been ennobled. Edward might look the part of athlete, but Richard looked the part of king.

"Your Grace. My lord." Phillip handed each a goblet of vernage. Richard waited for Edward to speak. Sooner or later, his brother would address the business at hand. When he could no longer avoid it.

Edward replaced his miniature galley to its rightful place, tossed off his wine, handed the cup to Phillip for a refill, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now, brother, what would you tell me?"

"Twenty-one thousand foot soldiers have assembled from the northern counties and Wales." In the spring of the year, His Grace had issued a summons calling for an army to meet the continuing threat of Robert the Bruce. Finally, in early June, his army was coming together.

Edward grinned, his face suddenly boyish. "Twenty-one thousand. God's bones! Even Father was not able to raise so vast a force."

Richard did not comment. Edward I had been born a soldier. Two men or two hundred thousand—it would have made no difference. The mere utterance of the epithet used to describe their father, Hammer of the Scots, struck terror into the stoutest enemy heart. Richard doubted a similar reaction at mention of Edward Caernarvon—or himself. But then this campaign would be his very first.

The king drained a second cup of vernage. "And how large an army has Bruce gathered?"

"Our best guess is seven thousand. With five hundred knights."

"Christ's cross! Such numbers ring sweet to my ears. We will send those demon-bastards back to their hills!" Edward smashed his fist into his palm. "Father knew how to deal with the Scots. Crush them, run them to the ground like mad dogs. And when I do, I'll not allow them their freedom again. Ever!"

Richard glanced at Phillip, who was studying the king with unfeigned interest. Edward sounded like an undersized boy bragging about his prowess. Richard hoped the baron would not notice. Braggadocio was an unpleasing characteristic in a king.

In a mercurial change of mood, Edward said, "I wish that everyone would just leave me in peace. I grow so weary of these endless skirmishes. Between Bruce and Black Douglas they've taken back all my border castles, save Stirling. And Stirling, too, if I do not hie me north. Tell me true, if Father was such a superb commander, why is Bruce still tormenting me?"

Richard sidestepped the question. "Lord Mowbray has agreed to turn over Stirling to Bruce if we do not help him. That would mean all our border castles would then be lost."

As if the king actually needed a reminder. Edinburgh and Roxborough had recently fallen to the Scots, leaving only Stirling, which was the door to the Highlands. Over the last decade, the castle had repeatedly changed loyalties from King Edward to Robert the Bruce and back again.

"'Tis apparent the Scots have thrown down the gauntlet once again," Richard said.

"And England will have to pick it up."

Edward uttered the words without enthusiasm. He crossed to the window and gazed unseeing at the forest that surrounded the castle. He wanted nothing to do with Scotland. Not only were its inhabitants wild men, but its very land made him uneasy. Coin-sith—faerie dogs—were said to roam the Highlands, and Redcaps, which were the wickedest of faeries, claimed the border lands as their own. Why couldn't his father have left the Scots alone instead of seeking to enlarge his kingdom? Who would want to rule such an accursed country?

"I do not relish facing Robert the Bruce. Sometimes I wish..." His voice trailed away.

Richard wondered what Phillip must be thinking of this king who shunned the battlefield. It wasn't that Edward II was a coward. Richard had seen him face a wild boar with nothing more than a knife in hand. But Edward had not the head for war, nor the tenacity.

Neither do I, Richard thought. Though he'd long pretended otherwise. For their father, who'd been so disappointed by his legitimate son's martial ineptitude, not to mention his other weaknesses. "Why did God inflict me with such a child?" The old King often railed. "Why could not you have been my heir, Dickon, rather than someone who would rather play than fight?"

If Father had only known the truth...

Edward folded his arms across his chest and faced Richard. "What about my barons? Have they all arrived to help me war?" Though his manner was casual, the question was not.

"Most have, sire."

Picking up the detached mast to his ship model, Edward twirled it distractedly between his fingers. "Who yet stays away?"

"Warenne, Warwick, and Arundel, though they sent troops."

All named had been involved in Piers Gaveston's death.

Edward's brow furrowed. "And what about Cousin Lancaster? Has he shown his viper's face?"

"Nay."

The ship mast snapped between Edward's blunt fingers. He tossed the pieces to the rushes. "Dear Cousin Tom."

Richard busied himself straightening the silver tray, and wiping up a miniscule wine stain. He could not bear to look at his brother's face, and yet he knew Edward was no longer at Berwick Castle, but miles away and two years past. At Blacklow Hill with Lancaster and Piers Gaveston. Viewing with his mind's eye the broadsword that had run through Piers, that had severed his curly head from his slender body.

"Would you like more wine, Ned?" Unconsciously, Richard reverted to Edward's childhood nickname. "I've still a bit of a thirst."

"Cousin Thomas will pay," Edward muttered, his gaze focused on an arras hanging from the chamber's north wall. Then he shuddered, as if shaking his melancholy, and forced a smile.

"Sir Rendell, you look as though you could well handle seven thousand Scots. Are you looking forward to a bit of bloodletting?"

"I am looking forward to serving my king," Phillip said diplomatically.

Edward's smile contained more sadness than mirth. "Then you are one of the few."