The English had reached Durham, and there Philippa addressed the men.

‘The King will be proud of the manner in which you rallied to his banner. I would he were here this day to see you, loyal to a man, eager each one of you to serve your King and your country. These Scots have ravaged our land, they have burned and looted and taken our women. We will not allow this to continue. I know the King will want to thank you all for what you have done this day. I am only a woman, but your Queen, and I stand for the King in his absence. My friends, I know you will do him honour this day.’

The men cheered her. A noble lady, who had brought nothing but good to the country. The weavers of Norfolk had prospered through her; she had brought trade to England; she had been a true and faithful wife to the King and had given them their Black Prince and other bonny children.

Long live the Queen!

They respected her for coming north but they would not, she knew, wish her to join them on the battlefield, where the care of her would hinder more important work.

They were not far from the town of Neville’s Cross where it seemed likely they would meet the Scots, and Philippa would remain in Durham where she said she would pray for success.

William Douglas, in search of food and straying from the main Scottish army with a small band of followers, rode to the top of a hill and to his amazement he saw an army camped below.

He recognized the English pennants and was filled with dismay.

So near and what an army! Not merely a handful here—a considerable force.

He lost no time in going back to the Scottish camp and seeking Out the King.

David listened sardonically. ‘It is nonsense,’ he cried. ‘The English are in France. There are no men left in England but monks, swineherds, tailors and tanners. Do you think my soldiers will be halted by such?’

‘I tell you, my lord,’ insisted Douglas, ‘that I have seen an army encamped not two miles from here.’

‘You were dreaming, Douglas. Are you a coward man? Do you fear to match the English?’

To hint that a Douglas was a coward was an insult not to be taken lightly.

He bowed and retired without asking permission.

‘I never liked Douglas,’ commented David. ‘He fancies himself more royal than I am.’

One of Douglas’s companions came to him to repeat the story.

‘Swineherds tending their animals!’ cried the King. ‘We’ll have some succulent pork tomorrow.’

‘My lord,’ said the man, ‘these were no swineherds. They were strong men and looked as though they were ready for the fight.’

‘You know what is wrong with you, man,’ said David angrily, ‘you have been asleep and dreamed. Get you gone. I want none of your foolish imaginings. If you and Douglas are afraid, you may go back to Scotland. There, I give you leave. I want no cowards in my army.’

The man went back to Douglas. ‘He will not listen,’ he said. ‘What will become of us?’

‘We shall fight as good Scotsmen and who knows we may defeat the English. It cannot be the pick of the English we face for they are in France. But what are we fighting for? That is what Scotsmen ask themselves. For David the Bruce? Who would have thought he could be his father’s son?’

It was dawn next day when the English attacked and David, taken unawares, was rudely shown how foolish he had been not to listen to Sir William Douglas.

Seized with fury, determined to show the English and his own men that he was invincible, he shouted for his armour and his horse and brandishing his sword called to his men to follow him.

There was no question of his bravery, but he was foolhardy in his recklessness. His officers sought to restrain him. He had no plan of action. All he wanted was to kill the enemy and win glory for himself. He would lead his army, exposing it and himself to a hundred dangers in doing so.

In vain was he warned of the skill of the English archers to whose deadly aim the victory at Crécy was due. The bowmen of England were notorious. It was said they whittled magic into their bows and arrows. He would not listen. He was the King. He was tired of hearing of the fame of Robert the Bruce. Now men should begin to speak of David.

But it was not to be. Defeat closed in on the Scots, for lack of training and their King’s erratic leadership was their undoing. David was wounded twice by English arrows. He did not care. He grew more and more reckless now that he realized defeat was close at hand and Douglas had been right; he preferred to die rather than give in.

An Englishman was bearing down on him, intent on winning the glory of capturing the King. David’s horse fell and he was down.

This was the end. This was disgrace. All his enemies would be gleeful and not only the English. His own people would whisper together: ‘I told you so. He was never the man his father was.’

The man bending over him was grinning at him. David was almost helpless but in a rush of fury he shot his gauntleted hand into the grinning face. There was a crunch and a groan and he saw blood on the man’s mouth.

William Douglas had come to his rescue. Oh the degredation of that. Douglas fought valiantly but men had seized him. Douglas was a prisoner of the English.

And so was David to be. Death! he thought. Death is preferable.

But the man with the bleeding mouth had his sword. ‘You are my prisoner,’ he said.

And so on the field of Neville’s Cross the captivity of David of Scotland had begun.


* * *

There could be nothing more humiliating. David was overcome with wretchedness. Sir Malcolm Fleming and the earls of Fife and Monteith with William Douglas were all in the hands of the English.

And he himself had been captured by a mere squire. John Copeland was his name and the man was beside himself with glee. He would let no one come near the King of the Scots. David was his booty and he was going to cling to him.

So he was Edward’s prisoner. Even when he was away from home the King of England was invincible.

And now what? he asked himself.

Was God never going to smile on him? For years he had been in exile in France; then he had come home and after a few years he was the prisoner of the English.

Of one thing he was certain: they would not lightly let him go.


* * *

Philippa was overjoyed at the result of the battle of Neville’s Cross. She had been afraid that without Edward the troops would falter. Not so. They had gone into battle determined to fight and there had been a resounding victory.

She heard that the man who had captured David was a certain John Copeland a Northumbrian Squire and she sent for him to come to her and bring his prisoner with him. She had been amused to hear that Copeland had taken David to his house and had him well guarded there, so fearful was he that he might escape, although that was hardly likely considering how badly wounded David was. Moreover Copeland would let no one go near him but himself.

‘He is a good jailer,’ said Philippa with a smile.

She was told that they had wanted to bring David to her but Copeland would not let him go.

She nodded and sent for John Copeland.

He came—a plain simple man, she realized, unversed in court manners.

‘I congratulate you on your capture,’ she said. ‘The King will, I am sure, wish to reward you. I will take the King of Scots to London and would have you bring him to me here.’

John Copeland shook his head.

‘Oh no, my lady,’ he said. ‘Oh no.’

Philippa was amazed. ‘What mean you?’ she asked.

‘I took the King of Scots captive for my master, the King of England.’

‘I know that—and nobly done it was. Bring him to me and I will write immediately to the King and tell him that I have David of Scotland in my hands.’

‘No, my lady, when I say I deliver him to none but the King, that is what I mean. The King is my master. To him I swear fief for my lands. To none other. And not to Duke, Earl or woman will I deliver my prisoner.’

Philippa did not lose her temper though she thought the man a fool.

‘You must know that I am acting as Regent in the name of the King.’

‘I know naught of such matters, my lady. All I know is that I owe allegiance to my King and none other and only to him will I deliver up my prisoner.’

‘The King will be displeased that you flout me,’ Philippa warned him.

‘That must be as it will. I shall give up my prisoner to him and him alone.’

Philippa dismissed him.

The Earl of Kent came to her. He was angry. ‘But my lady, he insults you. Shall we arrest him? The man is a traitor. He refuses to obey you. The King will have him hanged. We shall arrest him and then bring the prisoner to you.’

The Queen shook her head.

‘There was something in him I admired. He is a true servant of the King. There is no doubt about that. Let it be. I will write to the King and tell him of this strange attitude of his. I have already written to tell him of the victory of Neville’s Cross, and he will know that David is our hands.’

‘I know the King’s nature,’ was the answer. ‘He will be furious with one who has insulted you.’

‘Perhaps not when I explain to him how this man spoke of his loyalty to the King. I think he will understand as I do. I shall try to put it clearly.’

The Earl was astonished. He wondered how many women would have taken Copeland’s insults so mildly.

Edward’s answer was prompt.

David was to remain well guarded in Copeland’s house and Copeland himself was to leave England immediately and present himself to him.