Page 166 of Bound By Honor
That night, after much of the cleanup work had been accomplished, Angus and the king’s men bathed upstream where the water was clear. The cooks, who had come at the end as a part of the small folk to drive the remaining English off the field, served them a great feast of roast beef, goose and mutton, washed down with fine French wine from the English baggage train.
Reports came in constantly as they ate. At one point, an English knight was led into the king’s presence, bloodied from the day’s fighting. Angus did not know the man but Rob did.
“Sir Ralph de Monthermer!” exclaimed the king.
Angus recalled the name. Monthermer had been the Earl of Gloucester at the time he warned Robert Bruce of King Edward’s intent to arrest him. When Monthermer’s wife died, by whom he held the title, the earldom passed to the young Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, who was now dead.
The knight bowed. “I am your prisoner, my lord.”
“Nay,” said the king. “You shall be my guest. Sit down and join us.”
A chair was offered the knight along with a cloth to wipe his face. Bewildered, he took the cloth, wiped the blood from his face, and sat.
“This man saved my life,” said the king to his inner circle, who were dining with him. “He warned me that King Edward, the first of that name, was going to arrest me when Comyn betrayed my trust. Had that happened, my end would not have been pleasant. Dine with us in celebration, Sir Ralph. You shall have your freedom, and no ransom shall be required.”
The knight, clearly overwhelmed, thanked the king profusely.
“You may carry back to England your king’s shield he left behind with his seal. Both shall be returned though he must never use the seal again.”
“I will see to it, my lord,” said Monthermer.
A short time later, another English knight came to the king’s tent. His white surcoat with three green parrots was splashed with dried blood. Sir Robert Boyd escorted him in, announcing, “He has voluntarily surrendered.”
“Ah, Sir Marmaduke Twenge, my kinsman,” said King Robert to the grizzled old knight, whose skin was like leather beneath his gray hair. “As with Sir Ralph here, you shall pay no ransom. Instead, I will send you home to England with gifts.”
Clearly shocked, Sir Marmaduke thanked the king and took the seat offered him.
“Meanwhile,” said the king, looking at Angus, “what think you of this ransom? It seems Robert Baston, the Carmelite Friar and poet of great repute, was brought to the battle by King Edward to compose a song of the English victory. Since the Good Lord thankfully had other plans, I have asked the friar, for his ransom, to sing a different tune, one celebrating the Scots’ victory.”
The Scots sitting around the table voiced their support for this ransom. “’Twill make a better tune,” said Angus, to which many sounded their “Ayes”.
“Then I shall read a few stanzas from his ballad,” said the king, and proceeded to read.
What is truth worth? How can I sing about so much blood?
Could even tragedy bare its breast to show such cut and thud?
The names may be famous but I do not know them all.
I cannot number the humblings and tumblings of hundreds that fall.
Many are mown down, many are thrown down,
Many are drowned, many are found and bound.
Many are taken in chains for a stated ransom.
So some are rising, riding rich high and handsome.
Who were before the war poor and threadbare souls.
The battlefield is barren but piled with spoils.
Shouts and taunts and vengeful cuts and brawls—
I saw, but what can I say? A harvest I did not sow!
Guile is not my style. Justice and peace are what I would show.
