But in the morning before he had risen Sir John burst into his tent.
‘Come and look,’ he said.
Edward followed him out. On the opposite side of the river the Scottish camp fires still smouldered but the army had gone.
Again there were spies to tell them where. The Scots were still embanked on the same river but this time in a spot more advantageous to them. It was in a wood known as Stanhope Park, a hunting ground which belonged to the Bishop of Durham.
‘The river,’ said Sir John, ‘is easier to ford here.’
‘Then that is why they have moved,’ cried Edward. ‘Now we must prepare for battle in earnest.’
All through that day the preparations went on and by night time Edward was very tired. The end was nearly in sight he was sure, and as he lay in his tent he thought of returning to London. His first act would be to send for his ministers and tell them that he would not delay his marriage any longer. An agreement had been made with the Count of Hainault that he should marry one of his daughters. Well, he wanted that marriage to take place without delay. They would be pleased. They had always said that a king could not begin to get heirs too soon. It was a pleasant thought. He had discovered already that he was fond of the society of women and he had thought a great deal about Philippa who had clearly considered him to be wonderful. What a pretty girl she was, and she was charming and simple. In fact she was just the wife for him.
He drifted into pleasant sleep thinking of her.
He awakened with a start. There was uproar in the camp. He heard the horses whinnying, sudden shouts, running footsteps.
Then there was a cry of ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’ and as Edward leaped to his feet he saw that his tent had started to collapse which meant that someone had cut the ropes. He ran out and as he did so he was aware of a dark-skinned man laughing at him.
One of his guards leaped forward.
‘Run, my lord. Run, my lord,’ he cried before he fell to the ground with a sword through his body.
Edward acted quickly. He knew what had happened. They had been outwitted by the Scots. Black Douglas had dared come to his tent perhaps to kill him or take him prisoner. The King of England a hostage! He had to run. It was ignoble. It did not fit in with his ideas of kingly actions; but he was unarmed and Black Douglas was waiting to catch him.
Sir John was shouting orders. The English had risen and the small party of Scots led by Black Douglas, which had invaded the English camp made its escape.
Consternation ensued. How had it happened? The watch had been careless. The King might have been killed or taken prisoner.
It seemed that the Scots got the better of them every time. ‘This is the last though,’ cried Edward. ‘Tomorrow we attack.’
Sir John said they would need a day to reorganize. The raid had taken them by surprise and when they did attack the Scots they must be prepared in every way. There must be victory.
Smarting with humiliation, Edward was for immediate action.
He need not have worried. At daybreak it was clear that the Scots had decamped once more. There would be another journey to catch up with them. The Scots had fleet horses. They lacked the beauty of those of the English but they could move a great deal faster unencumbered as they were. Moreover wherever the English went there must go their supplies—saddle horses and wagons were very different from a griddle and a bag of oatmeal. It made progress slow.
News came that the Scots had crossed the Border. Edward know he could never catch up with them. His men were exhausted, his supplies were running out and there were more quarrels between the English and the Hainaulters. It was a pointless depressing and humiliating experience.
Word came from Robert the Bruce. He would be ready to discuss terms for peace and he hinted at uniting the two countries through marriage. Edward had sisters; he had a son. Peace was often brought about more effectively through unions than battles.
Let there be meetings. Let these matters be discussed. And in the meantime let there be an end to hostilities.
Edward saw that they were right.
In the midst of this a messenger came to him with news from his mother.
His father had died peacefully in Berkeley Castle.
Well, perhaps it was God’s will. Poor Edward the Second. his had been a life of failure. Perhaps he was at peace at last. It was a pity that he had not been with him at the end. He would have liked to hear him say again that he thought his son was right in taking the crown.
But he died at peace and it was for the best. Young Edward need no longer suffer the qualms of conscience. He was now truly the King.
But he must return to York where his mother would be waiting for him.
How different it would have been if he had come back a triumphant hero, if he had won a battle which would have been like Bannockburn in reverse.
‘Edward vindicates the English in Scotland,’ he could hear them saying. ‘It is his grandfather all over again.’
One day he would show them. But they would not always be comparing him with his grandfather. They should talk of Great Edward the Third as well as the First of that name.
In the meantime the Scots had outwitted him and he must return to his Court chastened but with a valuable lesson learned. War was not a tournament in which easy honours were won. It was a matter of life and death, of tricks and strategy, of discomforts and bloodshed.
He would remember that and it would stand him in good stead.
As he travelled south to York Edward’s mood lightened a little. At least he had not been defeated in battle as his father had. His mission had failed but that was because the Scots refused to fight. He tried to work out what he should have done and he could see that all that had been possible was to seek the enemy. True he was returning with nothing achieved; and when he thought of how it might have ended if the Black Douglas had succeeded in capturing him, he was filled with dismay.
But he was returning to York and the Scots had agreed to consider a treaty. True his army was not in the same form as it had been when it had set out, and the Hainaulters had forcefully intimated that there would be no more fighting for them. The next thing was to make an advantageous treaty and ... what he wanted more than anything ... to marry Philippa.
His family was waiting for him at York and with them like a shadow, Roger de Mortimer.
The King frowned. He knew very well that it was no use refusing to think of Mortimer and why his mother was so determined to keep the man at his side. Edward shut his ears to gossip and of course none would dare cast a slur on his mother in his hearing.
The Queen embraced him. She told him fervently that she was delighted to see him safely back.
Mortimer bowed and Edward was certain that he detected a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
‘How well you look, my lord,’ he said. ‘Why, there is no sign of battle scars.’
‘The dastardly Scots,’ put in the Queen. ‘Who would have believed they would refuse to fight ‘
Edward said: ‘The news of my father’s death saddened me.’ ‘As it did us all,’ replied the Queen.
‘It was a peaceful passing,’ put in Mortimer, ‘and it has been said by those near him that the late King had longed for peace.’
The young King frowned. ‘I would I had seen him at the end.’
His mother put her arm through his and lifted her face. ‘My son,’ she said, ‘so do we all. But we must content ourselves with the knowledge that he is now at rest.’