Page 167 of Bound By Honor
Anyone who has more in store, let him write the score.
My mind is numb, my voice half-dumb, my art a blur.
“What dreary verse,” remarked the king’s brother.
“One must make allowances for the poet’s lack of joy,” said the king. “Though I would share a lament for the loss of those I once called brothers-in-arms, I cannot feel as the poet does about this day. The English invaded Scotland seeking to conquer and we but resisted. By the grace of God, we have won. Aside from that, the poet is English and has served English kings who never expected to lose.”
Later that night, Angus made the rounds with Duncan and John, calling upon the lordship’s chiefs and Islesmen, thanking them, and paying his respects to the men of Colonsay whose chief had died so valiantly. Being the last into the battle and fresh for the fight, the Isles had lost only a few men. He had worried about Brian in Sir Edward’s schiltron, but Áine’s son by The O’Neill had prevailed and was understandably proud of it.
Angus left Duncan, John and Brian to celebrate with the Islesmen and went in search of the king. On the way, he was greeted by his son, Iain, Lord of Glen Coe, who had been looking for him.
Bowing his head to Angus, the young man said, “Thank you, Father, for letting me follow you into battle and to victory. ’Twas a great honor.”
Their gazes met. Both were teary-eyed. Angus reached for his son, embracing him. “I am just glad you live and now that the king assures me Morvern is mine, I will never be far away.”
Angus reluctantly said goodbye before proceeding on to make inquiry of the king’s whereabouts with the guards. “You can find the king at St. Ninian’s Kirk.”
Situated on the old Roman road just north of the New Park on the way to Stirling Castle, the gray stone kirk was centuries old. Though it was not as grand as the abbey church on Iona, Angus thought it surprisingly large for a parish church.
The heat of the day had cooled and the stars were beginning to glisten across the sky when Angus entered the musty-smelling stone building. Many wounded lined the nave, waiting to be tended. Healers were bent over some, administering aid.
He asked the first priest he found to direct him to the king. “In the curtained alcove on the left of the chancel,” the priest said, gesturing. “He stands vigil over Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester.”
The guard who stood beside the curtained alcove recognized Angus and, with a nod, allowed him entry.
Holding the heavy curtain aside, Angus peered into the alcove that was dimly lit by two candles set on a table against the far wall. A small window was open to the night air. In the center of the rectangular room, a body lay on a narrow table. The king stood over it with his head bowed. As Angus silently stepped inside and made the sign of the cross, the king looked up.
“Angus.”
Studying the body of the knight, Angus said, “He wears his yellow surcoat with the red chevrons, unsullied by battle.”
“This is a new one we found in his tent. Had he worn it today, he would have been recognized for who he was and captured for the great ransom he would have brought. He was the most prominent noble killed. Alas, in his haste, he foolishly left it behind.”
For a moment, the only sound was the candles sputtering in the night breeze. When the king spoke again, his voice was a lament. “He was but a squire when I served the first King Edward as a knight. I grieve to see him lying dead at twenty-three. Always impetuous, Gloucester was brave and eager for the fight. Too eager, mayhap.”
“Yet Sir Alexander Seton told us it was Gloucester who argued for delay.”
“Only because his men were tired.” Looking at the face of the young knight, his wounds washed free of the day’s mud and blood, the king added, “He would have thought of that.”
“I am sorry, Rob. You must have loved him.”
The king sighed. “He was my cousin and my brother-in-law.” Raising his gaze to Angus, he added, “We both married daughters of the Earl of Ulster. And, yes, I was fond of him. He was not the only one killed on the English side who was my friend. Sir Giles de Argentine was another. His body lies in a nearby alcove. I will see the bodies of Gloucester and Clifford are returned to Berwick for burial by their own, and I will give Sir Giles a noble’s burial at Edinburgh.”
“You have been gracious to your enemies in your victory, Rob. All will know of it and admire you.”
“I have much to be grateful for. Not only our victory but soon I will exchange our noble prisoners for my queen, my daughter and my sisters—and Bishop Wishart, who has been a prisoner of the English for the last eight years. I am told, he is unwell.”
“Aye, let us hope they will be quickly returned.”
A shadow crossed the king’s face. “It seems Isabella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan, who risked all to crown me, has died in captivity.”
Angus heaved a sigh. “A great loss to Scotland.”
The king nodded his agreement. “Come, let us see what has developed in my absence.”
As they returned to the camp in the New Park woods, Sir Robert Boyd met them with a rush of news. “Sire, Douglas has yet to return from his pursuit of King Edward. Your captains are taking the English baggage train in hand. There is much to be accounted for in that effort. Of the hundreds of English knights slain, those I can name besides Gloucester, de Argentine, Clifford and de Bohun, include Sir Pagan de Tybetot, William the Marshal, Sir William de Vescy, Sir William d’Eyncourt and Sir John Comyn of Badenoch, son of the Red Comyn.”
At the mention of the last name, the king exchanged a glance with Sir Robert, for this meant that the Comyn claim to the throne was finally dead. “And our knights?”
