Edward had seen it all. A terrible descent into hell as he rode his great, black warhorse along the terror-filled, narrow streets. Eventually, he had seen one of his Irish footmen cut the throat of a woman begging for mercy and Edward had dismounted, muttering, 'Oh no! I did not wish this!' On his knees he had tried to beg God's forgiveness but God had moved away from Edward of England. The king felt it would be useless giving orders for the killing to stop now, for the English had simply run out of people to slay.

Only one place held out: the Red House owned by Fleming merchants, their own trade hall in Berwick given on the sole condition that they would always defend it against the English. The Flemings proved their loyalty, barring doors and windows; they had kept the English army at bay while they fought from room to room, even hiding in the cellars, trapping the archers Edward's captains sent down after them. The slaughter had been terrible. The house was well named, Edward mused, for by the time his attack had been beaten off there were pools of blood at the foot of its walls and huge red gashes where the blood poured down from the bodies lolling out of the windows. Tired and weary at such resistance, Edward had called off the attack and ordered the place to be burnt to the ground, closing his ears to the dreadful screams of burning men. He had sat on his horse, encased completely in black armour, a gold circlet around his helmet, watching impassively whilst the Red House burnt, ignoring the cries of the Flemings and the stench of their burning bodies.

Now it was all over. Berwick was a sea of ashes. The rebellious John Balliol had already sent messages to the king's camp, promising to do fealty, abdicate his royal rights and leave Scodand for ever. Edward was satisfied. His rule had been accepted and the rebels smashed. Treason, once again, had earned its just deserts, but Edward knew there was something wrong.