palm down on the arm of my chair so hard the shock of it rattled my elbow. My intestines knotted into tight cords. As I fought for breath, I waited until the shouts died away to murmurs. “Tell us more. What battle do you speak of?”
“Kells, my lord,” he mumbled, mouth downturned.
“You were defeated?”
With that, his head sank lower, his breathing so shallow that had he not still been upright I might have thought him dead.
“The fortunate among us escaped with our lives.” He raised his eyes, disgrace evident in their gloomy depths. “Edward Bruce’s numbers were recently augmented by some five hundred, brought over from Scotland by the Earl of Moray, Thomas Randolph. Together, they marched south from Carrickfergus, wreaking their destruction as they went – burning, looting, raping. Instead of waiting for them to lay waste to Meath, I rushed north to stop them. I victualled Kells to serve as our base and went to meet them. When my vassals Hugh and Walter de Lacey saw how many the Scots were, they argued against engaging them. That alone should have alerted me.”
Bracing both hands upon his forward knee, Mortimer drew his shoulders back, his broad chest swelling. Dents from sword blows marked his plate armor. Blood flecked his surcoat. A long diagonal smear of soot ran from shoulder to hip, where he had dragged a soiled hand across his body. “The Scots fought fiercely, my lord, as savages do. Somehow, they gained entrance to the town – by treachery, I suspect – and set it ablaze. It was then that the de Laceys fled. The Scots closed in around us, trapping us between their forces and the burning town, no way out for us but through the flames.”
“How many lost?”
“Hundreds, my lord,” he growled, jaw muscles twitching.
My chair groaned as I pressed my weight against its back. I wrestled with a smirk of contempt. “The de Laceys will be brought to accounts for their betrayal. As for Edward Bruce, he is a fiend in human form ... and even more arrogant than his unrighteous brother, who was lost to shame long ago.”
Slowly, Mortimer stood. He leveled an entreating gaze on the council, before turning back to me. “I need supplies, arms, more men. Enough to batter those barbarous, grubbing Scots all the way back to Ulster and drown them in the frigid, northern sea.”
Pembroke half-rose from his chair and leaned forward to peer down the length of the table at me. “How are we to tame Ireland, my lord, when Douglas is plundering the north?”
“What of the rebellion in Wales?” Hereford bellowed from the other end of the table. “Llewellyn Bren has taken Caerphilly and burned the town.”
“We have greater concerns than Ireland and Wales,” the Bishop of Norwich said. “People are going hungry in the very heart of England. On my way here, I myself saw a field with sheep lying dead from the scab. Others speak of cattle so gaunt their ribs can be counted. Last year’s crops were not even enough to half fill the tithe barns. We cannot generate revenue from taxes to raise an army because everyone is hoarding what little they have. And we are to send soldiers to Ireland when our own people are dying for want of a loaf of bread?”
I worried at my lower lip with a forefinger. Since convening two weeks past, parliament had been sluggish and irresolute, owing to Lancaster’s belligerent absence. Now this news, crashing down on our heads like a roof suddenly deprived of its pillars. If I yielded to Mortimer’s request, the bloodthirsty beasts of Wales and Scotland would bear down on us and devour us whole. Discontent in England would burgeon – and I needed no more of that.
“Your request is denied, Sir Roger. Ireland is indeed troublesome, but I doubt its common herd will allow Edward Bruce a pleasant stroll all the merry way to Dublin. No, we must keep the fringes from fraying, keep the cloth that is England one and whole. Attend to our own first. There is too much of starvation and
“Kells, my lord,” he mumbled, mouth downturned.
“You were defeated?”
With that, his head sank lower, his breathing so shallow that had he not still been upright I might have thought him dead.
“The fortunate among us escaped with our lives.” He raised his eyes, disgrace evident in their gloomy depths. “Edward Bruce’s numbers were recently augmented by some five hundred, brought over from Scotland by the Earl of Moray, Thomas Randolph. Together, they marched south from Carrickfergus, wreaking their destruction as they went – burning, looting, raping. Instead of waiting for them to lay waste to Meath, I rushed north to stop them. I victualled Kells to serve as our base and went to meet them. When my vassals Hugh and Walter de Lacey saw how many the Scots were, they argued against engaging them. That alone should have alerted me.”
Bracing both hands upon his forward knee, Mortimer drew his shoulders back, his broad chest swelling. Dents from sword blows marked his plate armor. Blood flecked his surcoat. A long diagonal smear of soot ran from shoulder to hip, where he had dragged a soiled hand across his body. “The Scots fought fiercely, my lord, as savages do. Somehow, they gained entrance to the town – by treachery, I suspect – and set it ablaze. It was then that the de Laceys fled. The Scots closed in around us, trapping us between their forces and the burning town, no way out for us but through the flames.”
“How many lost?”
“Hundreds, my lord,” he growled, jaw muscles twitching.
My chair groaned as I pressed my weight against its back. I wrestled with a smirk of contempt. “The de Laceys will be brought to accounts for their betrayal. As for Edward Bruce, he is a fiend in human form ... and even more arrogant than his unrighteous brother, who was lost to shame long ago.”
Slowly, Mortimer stood. He leveled an entreating gaze on the council, before turning back to me. “I need supplies, arms, more men. Enough to batter those barbarous, grubbing Scots all the way back to Ulster and drown them in the frigid, northern sea.”
Pembroke half-rose from his chair and leaned forward to peer down the length of the table at me. “How are we to tame Ireland, my lord, when Douglas is plundering the north?”
“What of the rebellion in Wales?” Hereford bellowed from the other end of the table. “Llewellyn Bren has taken Caerphilly and burned the town.”
“We have greater concerns than Ireland and Wales,” the Bishop of Norwich said. “People are going hungry in the very heart of England. On my way here, I myself saw a field with sheep lying dead from the scab. Others speak of cattle so gaunt their ribs can be counted. Last year’s crops were not even enough to half fill the tithe barns. We cannot generate revenue from taxes to raise an army because everyone is hoarding what little they have. And we are to send soldiers to Ireland when our own people are dying for want of a loaf of bread?”
I worried at my lower lip with a forefinger. Since convening two weeks past, parliament had been sluggish and irresolute, owing to Lancaster’s belligerent absence. Now this news, crashing down on our heads like a roof suddenly deprived of its pillars. If I yielded to Mortimer’s request, the bloodthirsty beasts of Wales and Scotland would bear down on us and devour us whole. Discontent in England would burgeon – and I needed no more of that.
“Your request is denied, Sir Roger. Ireland is indeed troublesome, but I doubt its common herd will allow Edward Bruce a pleasant stroll all the merry way to Dublin. No, we must keep the fringes from fraying, keep the cloth that is England one and whole. Attend to our own first. There is too much of starvation and
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