by Tessa Murran
He kissed her one last time and turned and walked away. Ravenna could only stare at him, as he drew further down the field. Eventually, he became a tiny scrap of blue and was swallowed up by the trees and the mass of men surrounding him. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and stood for the longest time. Someone barged into her and Ravenna turned to see Morna, clinging to her arm. Her face was white with pain.
‘Did you see them, Cormac and Lyall? I got lost, and I couldn’t see you anywhere.’ There was utter panic in the young girl’s voice.
‘Aye, I saw Cormac, and I got my message to them. He is gone to battle with Lyall, down there.’ She pointed down the hill, and Morna’s gaze followed. ‘Your ankle?’
‘It hurts, but I can walk a bit on it. I don’t think it is broken. But I didn’t get to say goodbye to my brothers, oh God.’ Her face crumpled in distress.
Ravenna grabbed hold of her. ‘You do not have to. They are strong, good fighters, they will survive, I know it.’
‘But they are saying the English are too many.’
Ravenna took a deep breath. ‘Morna, will you promise to stay here until I come back.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Through the trees, I have to see for myself.’
‘I am coming with you.’
Ravenna pushed through the undergrowth, gripping Morna’s hand hard and being overtaken by men and horses rushing forwards. When they emerged from the trees, Ravenna stopped dead and sobbed.
So many men lined up to die. Three huge schiltrons stood before her, a bristling mass of lances pointing skywards, with thousands of men packed shoulder to shoulder. Archers were running in behind the cavalry on the English side, she could hear the shouts of the knights commanding them, echo across the field. A line of huge horses was spread out facing the Scots, powerful, unstoppable beasts. What defence did the Scots have against such a force, aside from stout hearts and belief in their King?
The summer sun was shining on the green slope of the Carse, everything was fertile and bursting with life, but soon this grass would be red with blood. These men would hack at each other, butchering anything that stood in their way, until only one army remained.
What you had to be, to do that, to endure that. Ravenna had always thought that she was strong, but the sight of it made her heart ache and her palms sweat. She felt sick with fear. Cormac had to stand fast against that mass of heavily armoured horsemen, with far fewer men at his back, and risk being skewered on the end of a lance, or trampled by the horses’ hooves or hacked to bits by foot soldiers bearing swords and hammers and axes. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to help him, but pray to God that, by some miracle, he would survive it.
Never in her life had Ravenna felt so helpless.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He would not think of her, he could not. At least he had seen her lovely face one more time, tasted her lips, felt her love enter his cold soul and lift it up. If he had to die, let it not be for Scotland, or the King’s ambition, or his father’s legacy, or his clan’s honour, but for Ravenna, that strong, courageous woman, whose love he did not deserve. Let it be for Morna waiting in the camp to see if he lived or died, and for Lyall, his brave brother, forced to become a warrior too soon in his life.
Robert the Bruce had decided he could win this fight and so, instead of running and hiding, they were going on the attack. They had formed three massive schiltrons, spread out their standards, and had advanced some way down the slope of the Carse to bring the fight to the English. They were awaiting the final order to attack, and everyone was holding their breath in the last tense moments of living or dying.
He was placed at the front of the middle schiltron, commanded by the able Earl of Moray. King Robert’s own brother, Edward Bruce, commanded the schiltron to the west, protected from being outflanked to some extent, by the pits dug that side, to confound the English attack.
Cormac glanced to his left, searching for Baodan in the schiltron on the east flank, the most vulnerable, but he was too far away. He glanced behind him, twitchy about protecting his back. His own clansmen surrounded him, and he hoped it stayed that way. But what was one stray sword thrust through his heart in the heat of battle? No one would notice and think it murder. For now, in order to survive Baodan’s assassination plans, he had to first survive the onslaught of thousands of heavy horse.
The King rode along the lines, rallying his men, words of honour and courage floating on the wind. Robert the Bruce did not show fear, his voice echoed down the field, steadfast, confident and proud. He was a man of towering self-belief, born to lead, bred to fight.
From behind Cormac came the strangled, wet sound of a man retching up his terror. He didn’t blame him, but cowardice was infectious at a moment like this. He glanced back at the man. He had an ear missing and a terrible scar running across the top of his head, a veteran of previous battles by the looks of it.
‘You there, what is your name?’ he hissed.
‘Lachlan, Lord, of Clan Tavish.’
‘Steady yourself or you will have us all pissing ourselves,’ said Cormac. ‘There’s young ones here, seeing their first battle.’
‘Forgive me, I’m no coward Laird, I just know what’s coming. Look how many heavy horse they have.’
‘Believe in your King, and Scotland, Lachlan. Summon your courage, and you will survive the day. If you can’t, I will have to shove this fist down your throat.’
‘Better a Scots fist than an English fist,’ replied the man.
Cormac smiled at him. ‘Aye’.
The Scots advance had taken the English by surprise, and they had hurriedly deployed their cavalry in a line across the area bordered by several streams and the river. They were bringing their infantry and archers into line behind them.
Cormac looked on the archers with dismay. They were capable of firing volley after volley into men packed tightly together in the schiltrons, weakening them, so that the cavalry charge could wreak its havoc and break them apart. It took a brave or desperate man to stand firm against both heavy horse and archers. Cormac’s own clansmen, and almost all the men in the schiltrons, had only a helm, a padded jacket and leather jerkins between them and those arrows, virtually no protection at all. A few richer men had mail, but most were horribly exposed. Some were not even properly armed, just poor farmers dragged from their crops to fight for their Laird. It was either that or be thrown off their land to starve and their families too. Some were old veterans, some still boys. All the Scots really had over the English, was cunning and desperation
Why didn’t they sound the bloody charge, for God’s sake, before half these men cut and run? The small Scottish ponies at the rear of the shiltrons shuffled and stamped, flaring nostrils picking up the scent of men’s fear. The droning voice of a priest floated over the field as he blessed their courage and instructed them to make their peace with God before they fell in battle. Cormac wished he could shove his fist down the priest’s bloody throat.
He tried to keep calm as he watched the knights astride their warhorses spread out, just at the edge of the trees. He recognised some of their livery, old houses, proud names. Behind them would be the steep gully of the Bannockburn. If they could just drive them back into it, they stood a chance.
Cormac glanced sideways at Lyall, at his right shoulder, standing firm and focussed on the cavalry in front of them. He would get out ahead of him when the charge began, take the first blows of the lances, shield him if he could. But when this thing started…
The blast of a horn sounded the order to advance further down the slope, and a roar went up as the men in the schiltron moved forwards as one, with a clatter of lances, swords and axes.
Suddenly the English sounded the charge, and their cavalry set off towards Cormac’s line, banners and colourful tunics bright and proud, ancient houses of England, the cream of English chivalry.
Had Cormac not been facing death, it would have been a beautiful sight - huge horses, neck
s stretched and reaching, manes and tails streaming, the armour of the knights in the vanguard glinting, like jewels, in the bright sunlight. These men leading the charge were high Lords from the ancient houses of England. They had plate armour, even some of the horses. The English infantry were well-armed and numbered in the thousands, severely outnumbering the Scots, and Cormac had seen enough fighting to know the odds were not in their favour.
The pounding of hooves got louder and louder, building like thunder, as the English cavalry galloped closer. They rode with unstoppable momentum, hooves slicing open the soft sod of the Carse.
‘Brace, brace,’ Cormac yelled over the noise. His men dug in for impact, and his schiltron became a bristling wall of death.
‘For you Ravenna,’ he whispered, as the cavalry crashed into them, huge horses rearing up and pawing the air, blotting out the sun. Shields and spears met with a clattering, scraping sound followed by the crunch of metal through bone and flesh. A fine spray of blood spattered his face, running warmly into his eyes and mouth, as wounded horses and men started screaming.
***
From the shelter of the trees further up the hill, Ravenna and Morna stood hand in hand in horror as they watched wave after wave of English crash into the Scots line. Cormac had ordered them to leave, but how could they, not knowing if he and Lyall lived or died. Ravenna had already decided that if he did not come back, she would comb the field for his corpse, forever if she had to, and find his body and bury it. No matter what the danger, she owed him that much.
Morna was crying. She should not be here, she should not see this. Ravenna desperately scanned the field for Cormac. It was almost impossible to make out who was winning, and it was hard to see past the rear schiltron, backed up against the woods, commanded by the King himself, which was held in reserve in case things went bad. All she could see was a vast melee of horses rearing, some falling, and high pitched screams and grunts of men fighting and dying. It was utter chaos. How could anyone survive that, and if they did, how could anyone live with it?
She also looked for her father, for if Cormac died, he was a threat to her and to her unborn child, and she would have to find a way to face that.
***
For hours, Cormac had been hacking and swinging at the front of his line. He’d long since lost sight of Lyall in the crush and heave of the massed schiltron, and could only pray he had not fallen. The English cavalry, desperate to break the schilltron, threw their heavy horse against it over and over. But when one Scot got speared with a lance or slashed by a sword and fell, another Scot took his place. Meanwhile, the English knights were being decimated. When the massive force of their initial charge failed, they became disheartened and disorganised. They expected to be able to break through, but as all three schiltrons stood firm, and presented an impenetrable front, panic took hold.
A lance surged past his face, missing it by an inch, and Cormac grabbed hold of it, pulling the knight clutching it off his horse, down onto the grass, now slippery with blood and guts, where he was despatched with a knife thrust through the visor of his helm. There was no room for chivalry, and some of the richest and noblest of Edward’s army were being slain by the poorest peasant farmers. Another lance buried itself in the face of the man next to him. Cormac wrenched it free and hurled it back out, straight into the chest a horse about to crush him. It fell, and with it, its rider, who disappeared under a mass of Scots boots as they advanced slowly over piles of corpses and stricken horses.
The English knights were panicking, trying to regroup, but hampered by their infantry coming up behind them, leaving them no room for manoeuvre. The Welsh archers fired, but hit their own men in the back as well as their enemy. Still, the schiltrons held.
One knight, eager for glory, and with more sense than the rest, rallied his men and made a desperate charge to the east and the exposed left-flank schiltron. If they broke through and came around the side, and if Baodan drew back his men, the English would be able to get behind the Scots and wreak havoc. They would also be in striking distance of King Robert, and from there, the camp in the trees, where those most dear waited and watched.
Cormac pushed and grunted his way through the close-packed mass of men around him, swept this way and that, as the schiltron heaved and groaned as one. He was breathless by the time he emerged at the side of it and horrified to see the English charging. Some men were streaming out of the back of the other schiltron, heading for the shelter of the trees. Baodan’s men, deserting the fight!
Cormac ran, dodging arrows, riderless horses and men, fighting desperately in hand to hand combat. He threw himself into the schiltron, and barged and punched his way to get to Black Douglas, who was fighting like a demon at the front and drenched in blood.
‘Your flank…it’s crumbling,’ shouted Cormac. He pointed towards the trees where English cavalry were circling around, and archers were coming up behind them.
Black Douglas looked over, and his face became a mask of fury. ‘They’re running, the bastards are running.’
Cormac looked over to his left. ‘You must tighten formation. Your men are spread too thin, the English will ride right through them.’
‘Protect our flank,’ yelled Douglas, ‘rally men, to the flank.’
Men from the back began to run to the side, to shore up the gaps in the schiltron, and Cormac went with them. The English charged and hit the flank hard, and it wavered and held by a hairs breadth, just as Scots cavalry suddenly pounded down the Carse, and on, into the woods towards the archers.
The King must have seen the weakness and sent his cavalry, such as it was, to deal with it.
A rider thundering past was knocked backwards off his palfrey by an arrow to the neck, and Cormac managed to get hold of the panicked animal and mount it. He set off for the woods, in pursuit of Baodan.
***
In the gloom of the trees, Cormac twisted his horse this way and that, hacking downwards at the fleeing archers and racing after Baodan’s men as they fled up the hill towards thicker cover. He could hear sounds of fighting coming from behind him but had no way of knowing if Black Douglas and his men had succumbed or not. The archers had been put to flight, but he could hear the whistle of arrows still being fired from the trees.
From his right, a horse crashed out of the undergrowth and charged at him, and it was only be swerving and ducking down his horse’s side that he avoided the sweep of the sword aimed at his head. The steeds collided with enough force to make his horse stumble and fall backwards onto its haunches, tipping him onto the ground.
The rider whirled and charged again. Cormac barely had enough time to plant his feet wide and raise his sword, before it was on him. This man was dressed like a Scot, not an English knight.
Cormac waited until the last second and then pulled back his sword and aimed it at the horse’s chest, jumping clear of its hooves just in time. It squealed and reared up, unseating its rider, who landed with a thump, losing his helm in the process. The man scrabbled for his sword and go to his feet. It was then that Cormac saw it was Baodan Gowan.
Everything else ceased to exist at that moment, there was only the two of them, mortal enemies. It was kill or be killed now.
‘You are going the wrong way. Our fight is back there,’ said Cormac evenly.
‘Let me go, Buchanan, and get my men clear of this. It’s only a matter of time before we are overrun by the English.’
‘Let you run, like a coward, you mean...straight back to your English masters.’
‘My son is dead, Buchanan, I saw him run through by an English knight.’
‘Then he died well, for Scotland. But you always meant to run, didn’t you, Baodan?’
‘I’ll not sacrifice any more for Robert the Bruce.’ His face was twisted with bitterness.
‘You were happy to sacrifice a daughter to his cause,’ snarled Cormac.
‘Ravenna is nothing, a bastard who cannot carry on my name. I scarce believe she is mine.’
&
nbsp; ‘Is that why you tried to have her killed?’
His face blanched, and Cormac smiled. That had caught him off guard. He would be wondering what else Cormac had discovered, wondering if he knew of the plan to murder him, to betray the Scots’ cause, to betray the Bruce.
Baodan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You married a worthless whore and, when I’ve killed you, I’ll kill her.’ He flung back the hood of his mail and rushed at Cormac.
Their swords clashed. Baodan was a heavy man and his downhill momentum and the sheer strength of his hate, propelled Cormac backwards and off his feet. Baodan brought his sword crashing downwards, but Cormac managed to roll aside, and it bit uselessly into the dirt.
Cormac got to his feet, just as pain ripped through his leg, bringing him to his knees. He looked down and saw an arrow, buried in the muscle of his thigh. Growling in agony, he wrenched it out, feeling his flesh tear and blood spurt down his leg. He tried to use his sword to lever himself upwards as a shadow fell across him. Baodan was on him, sword raised high for the mortal blow.
Just as he started to swing it down, a volley of arrows flew out of the trees, bouncing off Baodan’s chest, deflected by his chain mail. The one that hit his face had nothing to stop it, so it buried itself in his skull, right between the eyes. He fell backwards and lay spreadeagled in the dirt, eyes frozen open in surprise.
Baodan Gowan, his hated enemy, was gone, but Cormac was in dire trouble. He staggered back against a tree, pulling his legs up tight to his body, as the whistle and thump of arrows pierced the air around him. He tore free his kerchief and wrapped it tight around his bleeding leg. Cormac took deep breaths to stay conscious, as a wave a nausea and weakness threatened to overcome him. If an archer got close enough for a shot, he was a dead man.