“I won’t tell any of you that,” Robert said. “But I’ll ask you what you want to do. Stirling is only one castle among dozens. Between Roxburgh and Inverness, how many fortresses are yet in English hands and how many lie either in ours or obliterated? For eight years, we have slowly whittled away at their possessions without ever meeting them in full battle. Clan by clan, stone by stone, Scotland is becoming one. One country, as it has never been before. The process has been long and tedious to many of you, but has it not served? Without shame, we could go from here tomorrow and live to fight another day in the same way we always have. And we could win everything back that way... in time. But the question remains – how will you fight them? When? And where?”
Randolph shifted in the weighty silence that ensued. His shoulders humbly stooped, he raised his chin from his chest and said, “Order us to the field at first light. We will not fail you. Some will die, but better that they should do so fighting for their freedom, than having given it up.”
“Very well. As you would have it. In the morning – make ready, my friends.”
Ch. 36
Robert the Bruce – Bannockburn, 24th of June, 1314
As I looked out on a sea of faces – their eyes set on the thin strand of tomorrow, their heartbeats echoing with the rhythm of all their yesterdays – I thought surely I looked upon all the sons of Scotland of all the ages there in one place at one time, ready to fight for the very fistful of dirt they were each standing on. And in that I never saw more truth... than to truly live, was to have something worth dying for.
I held my fingers out to the new day. In that virgin light – bold strands of pink and orange breaking over the rim of the horizon – I saw hope, and I wrapped my fingers around that light and brought it to my heart. Dawn’s long shadows stretched across the land and the golden light of summer filtered down through the green-cloaked trees where my men stirred and woke. Prayers were whispered. Soldiers made the sign of the cross over and over. They kissed the ground. Counted arrows. Tightened straps. Memorized the faces around them... Small things that had already been done a hundred times. Then we began to assemble beyond the wood, out on the high ground where we could see what awaited us... and be clearly seen by those who had come to meet our challenge.
That same light pouring over the army of Scotland, that was that day spread out on the gentle slopes of New Park, also shone down upon the army of England, gathered now upon the carse in the openness between the loop of the Bannock Burn and the Pelstream. The tide was up. The water would be deep behind them. They filled the whole place, with as many men as I had ever seen in all my life put together. James and Keith had not exaggerated. Pennons and banners fluttered in a rising breeze, heralding the nobility of England and abroad.
The noble Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, was already among their fallen. His stepfather Ralph de Monthermer had spared me from Longshanks’ gallows when he warned me of Comyn’s plot to betray me at Windsor. Because of Ralph’s debt to my grandfather, he had shown me a grace, allowing my escape, so I could live to see this day. Now that I was here, I prayed God would have the grace to bring me through to tomorrow. But of late, I could not discern one day from the previous or the next. The sign of a soul living in a dream. Of a body that has known too little sleep.
Last night I had knelt in prayer through most of the dark hours next to Gilbert de Clare’s body. He had been laid before the altar in St. Ninian’s Kirk, wrapped up in a shroud stained brown with the seeping blood from his deep, singular wound, his sword and shield set honorably upon his lifeless chest. Behind his corpse glowed a hundred tallow candles, flickering like points of starlight, as if this one knight had already been taken into heaven.
Up above him on the yellowed wall behind the altar dangled a cross wrought of bronze. In its center was set a small dark, blood-red jewel, surrounded by the writhing knotwork of the people who once roamed this land freely – a people who had left as their legacy not the written word or great, soaring castles, but jewels and weapons and mysterious relics such as this one. A nearly forgotten people, overrun throughout the centuries by greedy neighbors and far-traveled foreigners whose own riches were not enough for them. And now come the English, once more.
I called to me James and Walter, among others, and laid the flat of my blade upon their shoulders as they knelt in newly granted knighthood.
I mounted and put spurs to my pony. My helmet tucked under my arm so that all could see my face, I rode past the tiny cluster of houses of St. Ninian’s, between the watchful divisions of Keith and Douglas and on past Randolph’s until I reached the edge of Edward’s men. Their voices rose in a rolling wave, until I raised my hand in the air. The rumble broke in places and fell away like the surf meeting its end against a ragged shore.
“This is the day... when you ask yourselves, how great is your faith in God and your love of freedom? For eight years, I have toiled to make this kingdom one. And in that time, I have lost three brothers and more. Who among you has not lost a kinsman or friend in this struggle? You have paid the price in blood. Scotland has paid the price. You see there those who have exacted that price and say that you have no right to freedom. They come, on their warhorses and in their mail, to destroy you and take what little you have. They want what is yours. Will you let them have it? Your wives, your children, your freedom?”
They rattled their weapons and cried out. Again, I lifted my hand to heaven and spoke:
“Nay. You are here with me, of your own will, so for that, I say you will not bend in slavery one more day. I have fought with you, known your courage and your honor. Within your hands, lies victory. So with those hands and with all your strength, pray to God, that His right will prevail – for this is the day that they will one day say honorable men came and fought for what was theirs. But to win this day you must be valiant. Do not let your hearts fail you. Be steadfast and brave. Go forth, my men. God is with you!”
Abbot Maurice blessed the army of Scotland.
The English had barely moved. Their archers had not yet been rallied to the fore, as was the English custom.
Ah, a blessing, Edward of Caernarvon, that you are so dull in your arrogance. You bide your time, expecting to make the first move at your leisure. One day you leap before looking at the size of the chasm before you and the next you are yet in your nightclothes while your enemy is pounding on your door. Wake now, Edward, before we set fire to your thatch and smoke you out. You came for a fight. You have one.
As the brave of Scotland roared on, I resumed my position behind the first three columns with my own men. To my far right, my brother Edward’s standard fluttered – the blue lion on a field of white. Directly to his left, Randolph waited. My division was stationed in reserve just behind Randolph’s and James Douglas’. To the far left and further behind, Sir Robert Keith sat with his light cavalry to take the English flank.
I gave the signal to my standard bearer. The red lion dipped, rose, then swept to the left before returning upright. Edward’s division started forward. They continued on over the open ground, unchallenged until they came within a hundred yards of the English. There, Edward halted them. They knelt one last time in rapid prayer, for never were enough prayers said when battle impended. Then quickly, as had been practiced a thousand times, my brother’s men formed their schiltron.
The call to arms sounded from the English camp. In a sleepy and yet frantic fashion, one of their cavalry divisions began to mobilize. I squinted hard. No bloody archers. Perhaps King Edward thought our schiltrons would scatter at the first charge. Clearly, he had never listened to the events of Stirling or Falkirk. His father had learned from Wallace’s use of the spearmen at Stirling. At Falkirk, archers had been employed to tear holes in them. Still, no archers...
Prematurely, a ragged stream of mounted English knights flew forward. Scottish spears were anchored into the earth, their points arrayed at varying heights and reaching a full twelve feet from their ends. Hooves drummed wildly acro
ss the ground. Brave, blindly loyal warhorses forged on. English lances slammed into braced shields. A few ripped open the chests of valiant Scotsmen. But a lance once used in the charge is a worthless instrument. And so the English knights, who had snatched at what they believed would be easy prey, were now reduced to flailing swords a fraction of the length of the spears that jabbed at them and rammed into the flesh of their horses, so that the beasts reared and screamed and tossed them. Once on the ground, the knights were set upon by nimble Scottish footmen, armorless, but lightning-quick, who hacked at them with stunted swords and heavy axes.
Edward’s schiltron held.
“Signal Randolph forward,” I said to Angus Og.
With a fiery smile, Angus gave the word. Randolph’s division drew up on Edward’s left, pressuring the exposed flank of the English cavalry, some of whom broke off to ward off the new threat. More of the same. English knights jabbing at Scots through a forest of pricking spears. Riders thrown, trampled, their throats cut, blades thrust into the small places where their mail gapped. And riderless horses, seeking escape, crashing into other mounted knights trying to press forward and attack. Many of those horses, wounded and fraught with hysteria, raced directly at the lines of Englishmen waiting further back on the carse.
“Now Douglas,” I said to Angus.
When James’ division went forward, the army of Scotland covered a straight line from the Bannock Burn to the Pelstream, so that the English for now had no way to attack but to their restricted front. King Edward’s archers were penned behind. There was only forward for them and in front of them a wall of Scottish spears so thick that it looked like a forest of blood-soaked trees. On the hot breeze, the stench of death – blood and excrement – fouled the air.
They held. For hours they held. And I could do nothing yet but watch and wait for them to do their work as the dead and dismembered piled up in that long, writhing line. Far, far into the distance, Englishmen dropped from the banks and crossed the Pelstream, but whether they were in retreat or making way to Stirling to claim it or...
They were drawing up on James’ left flank and still on the opposite bank they staggered out in a measured line. I saw the bows, faint slashes of brown against a field of dull yellow shot with tufts of green where the ground was marshy. Then the streaks cutting through the blue of the sky. And Scotsmen dropping. Pools of red flowing from their pierced bodies.
“Keith. Now!” I shouted at Angus.
While more of James’ soldiers were cut down, Keith took to the expanse with his horsemen. The battle cries of Keith’s men broke the rhythm of the English archers and was followed by a moment of indecision. Some of the archers turned to face Keith’s cavalry, while the rest continued to rain their shafts at James’ division. But fast, Keith was upon them and they scattered like field mice back downstream, clambering to wade the Pelstream and find refuge amongst the helpless ranks of English infantry that had yet to be engaged.
The stink of blood floated on the hot air. The cries of the dying drifted heavenward. Sword struck spear haft. Axe clanged on shield. And Scotland held. And pushed forward, compressing England’s force back, until it began to cave in on itself. Englishmen toppled from the steep lip of the Bannock Burn into its waters and as they struggled to gain their feet, more fell. Horses plunged from the banks in a flurry of legs and ear-renting screams, crushing the bodies that broke their fall.
Angus sat on his horse before me. He crammed his helmet down over his head. It had no visor, only a slit in the shape of a cross, so that I could see nothing of his face, but for his bloodshot eyes staring hotly at me, the reddened tip of his nose and that ragged moustache flapping as he spoke.
“Now, my lord?”
“Aye,” I answered. “Go now, Angus. They’re failing and the weight of the scale rests in your hands. Faith.” I nudged my pony forward and extended a loose fist toward him. He reached out and clasped it. I shook my fist once, then pulled it back. “Our Lord be with you.”
Angus paused and beamed with the exultation of joining in the battle. “It would seem, my lord king, that He is on Scotland’s side after all.”
I nodded. “So it would seem. So it would seem. But take nothing for granted, least of all God’s favor. He can take it from you in a heartbeat. The day is not yet done.”
“Done for King Edward,” Angus yelled over his shoulder as he raced away, filled with joy and battle-lust. “Someone should let him know, don’t you think?”
A body of heavy English cavalry nudged and shoved its way toward the Pelstream, where they began to cross on a bridge of drowned and broken bodies. For a moment I thought I saw among them the flash of King Edward’s colors. But my eyes must have been tricked, for when I looked again the standard was gone and the horsemen were over the stream and headed for Stirling.
Among all the miracles of that one day, the greatest was when the small folk gushed over the crown of Gillies Hill, waving their hand-painted banners and flourishing crude spears and shouting loud enough to lift the roof off the sky. Seeing hundreds more coming to kill them, the infantry of England began to flee in every direction they could. They piled over the mangled and the drowning and the dead in the Bannock Burn and Pelstream. Some fell in the marshy places, where they were run down by Scots or run over by their own. The vestiges of a once large and mighty army lay in scattered ruins. Its leaders had abandoned it – fled, to save their own lives so they might go back to England and live off the fat of their lands.
The brave sons of Scotland had won their battle. Not because they were more – no, they were outnumbered four-fold. Not because they were better armed or paid. They won because, in order to live, they had to.
In exchange for the English nobles that had been taken captive today, I would not ask for ransom. Instead, I would bring my wife and daughter home.
Eight years, it has been. Soon, I will hold Elizabeth in my arms again, gaze upon my daughter’s face. And I pray they can find it in their hearts to forgive me for the suffering I have caused them.
As I ride to join in the fight, I cannot see, for I weep. I weep for the dead and dying. Weep for God’s grace that I have lived to see this day. Weep for freedom – which I have never truly known until now.
Epilogue
Edward II – Stirling, 1314
D’Argentan rides knee to knee beside me, so close that our mounts bump frequently. But as we fly over a waist-high ridge, the last of the hobelars bearing down on us, he glances behind us and grins morbidly at me.
“I take my stand here, sire.”
With those words, he peels away, cutting behind me. Immediately, I hear the crash of metal and a heavy thud. Grunts and more clanging. I dare not look back. All I can do is ride on. On toward Stirling. Away from Bannockburn and the army of Scotland. Nothing left around me but the remnants of what, only a day before, was the greatest force ever to set foot on Britain’s soil.
God spare me. I am not ready to meet my sire, not yet. I would rather plummet to hell and take my eternity there with my flesh forever burning. Could he have foreseen this? Known it would come to this end? Is that why he spurned me so?
At last we reach the cobbled road that leads up the rock upon which Stirling sits. Already, my English soldiers are collecting at the foot of the crag in refuge. Most look as though they had fled without ever striking a blow. Deplorable cowards. Houses crowd the view, so that I can see nothing of the way from which we have come. We halt our lathered horses at the gatehouse. Swinging down from his saddle, Pembroke elbows his way through the front group of my guard and bangs on the gate with the butt end of his sword.
“Open!” he cries. “Open, Mowbray. In the name of your king, Edward of England!”
No answer comes. Soldiers peek at us from the ramparts and disappear. Pembroke pounds again and again. His face, already red from the heat and extreme effort, begins to purple in vexation.
“Damnable hell, man. Let us in!”
Mowbray’s head pops through one of the
crenels of the southeast gate tower.
“I regret to inform you, my lords,” Mowbray says with a nervous grin, “that it would be most unwise, for all considered, to permit you entrance.”
I tremble violently. Pembroke steps away from the gate until he comes to stand beside me, so that he can see Mowbray directly.
“If I could kill him from here,” I utter, “I would. Have we an archer?”
“Allow me.” Hugh Despenser removes his helmet, wipes the sweat from his brow and cocks his head back. In a loud, strained voice, he calls, “Sir Mowbray, by your own words, the castle is relieved. The king is here. He commands you to give him entrance to Stirling Castle. Open the gate – or cast your name among the king’s enemies.”
Mowbray snorts in ridicule. “Ah, no. I would dare not say you have relieved it after that routing. I saw everything from up here. Quite a plain view, I have. An ugly one, if you’re an Englishman. I would say the King of England has many enemies this day that will outlive him. You’ve nothing left to defend this place. If I let you in here I promise you Robert the Bruce, having already torn your army to shreds, will surround the place and starve us all to sickness and make a fine prisoner of your lord. Take it as a sign of concern for your welfare that I’ve turned you away. You would not be safe here, unfortunately.”
With that, he withdraws.
I leap from my horse and claw at the gate until my nails are bloody and I am white with rage. I yell curses, accuse Mowbray’s mother of lying with the devil, vow to put his head on a pike on London Bridge after gouging out his eyes...
Somehow, during my madness, Hugh wrenches me from there, puts me on my horse and leads me away as I scream on. Pembroke takes his leave at the edge of town, saying he intends to gather his men and lead them away. I think it a vain act and am certain I will never set eyes on him again.
Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 31