The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  The King got no further. The snarling growl that rose from the packed ranks was angry, menacing, almost ferocious. If there was any movement, it was an edging forward.

  Bruce was satisfied. He raised his hand again for quiet.

  As he waited for it, and before he could speak, another sound than growling men reached all their ears. Thin, high, on the westerly breeze, came the wail of bagpipes at a distance.

  Every head turned, to stare, the King’s included-and, being higher than the rest, Bruce was able to see, curving round the base of the great Rock, north-westwards, the glitter of arms in the sun, and the waving of many banners.

  “Thank God!” he breathed.

  “Thank God!” He raised his voice, to shout.

  ”The Isles, my friends-the Isles! They come! Theycome! Angus of the

  Isles comes-in time. Constant was my faith in him-and justified!”

  In the uproar that followed, Douglas it was who spurred out to the King’s side, to grab his arm and point in exactly the opposite direction. There, eastwards, sunlight glittered on more arms and banners, more, vastly more. Rounding the shoulder of the land behind the township of Auchterbannock, where the road, the ancient Roman Road of Antonine, drove its causewayed course above the marshlands of Forth, came the English van. Calling for trumpets, Bruce commanded the swift dispersal to positions.

  There was now no more waiting and talk. Deputing Campbell to welcome Angus Og, and to attach his force meantime to the main rearward, the King himself took the 300 or so light cavalry allotted to the main body, Carrick and Annan dale moss troopers and rode with them at fullest speed south-westwards and into the cover of the scattered tree-dotted flanks of the Tor Wood. Hidden therein he swung eastwards, down through the twisting hollows of the broom-grown knowes, until they came out into the open level ground, the little grassy plain between the Bannock Burn and the mouth of The Entry to the New Park, with the road running through it. With the enemy not yet in sight from here, he and his men dismounted and seemed to take their ease in the sun. They were bait, royal bait, for the trap.

  They had not long to wait. From here they could see the houses of the Milton of Bannock, where the road crossed the Bannock Burn; and here, presently, the English van began to appear, advancing cautiously, only two miles from Stirling and with some at least of the Scots army in view.

  Bruce waited, himself hidden, fretting in the face of that daunting threat, until a considerable portion of the enemy cavalry was across the burn, and not only in full view but less than half a mile away. Then he ran out from cover towards his own scattered men, Irvine bearing a small version of the Lion Rampant banner behind him. Waving and shouting, as though in some panic, he got his 300 mounted, but slowly, awkwardly, and into some sort of order, seemingly just aware of the English approach. About one-third of the party he then sent streaming off, north-westwards into The Entry, along a line that would seem haphazard but was in fact carefully avoiding the hidden transverse trenches and lateral pits.

  The others he kept milling around, as though uncertain or waiting for stragglers.

  To some degree the stratagem worked-but only partially. The apparently panic-stricken and retreating Scots did entice the English, but only a small portion of the van. One or two squadrons of cavalry, numbering about 400 riders, detached themselves from the mass and came spurring forward at speed.

  Bruce cursed. This was of no use to him; no use in springing his elaborate trap for a few hundred, and so reveal it for all the rest Swiftly he had to re-assess his position.

  The lame-duck procedure would not serve now. But if they were instead to stand and fight, or seem to, the main van might be coaxed to come to the rescue of its spearhead. Unfortunately he had sent fully 100 of his men away in obvious flight already, which left him with only about half the numbers that were descending upon them. If he could get his detached hundred back… Bruce sent a single rider after them, and then waved his 200 into two squadrons, to advance towards the now charging enemy at a trot, leaving a gap in the centre. Two-to-one was rather better odds than the day would average, after all.

  “That banner?” he jerked, to Irvine, as he rode out, a little in front of the rest, into the gap.

  “That is the cotised bend between six lions, white on blue, of Bohun, is it not? Hereford. The High Constable.

  But… he would never lead so small a band.”

  “There are three mullets in chief, Sire. A second son, perhaps.

  But, Your Grace-this is folly! To hazard yourself thus. To give battle. On … on a gar ron Unarmed! If you were to fall, now, all is lost before it is begun …!”

  “Never fear, Willie! This is scarce giving battle. We but coax and draw and cozen. And this gar ron can outrun the heavier English beasts. And I am not unarmed.” He drew out a light battle-axe from its socket at his saddle.

  “Hereford has no son. That must be his nephew, Sir Henry de Bohun. See-get back to the others. Tell them to wheel and sidestep. A melee. No true battle, but a melee. Go-quickly.”

  The enemy were less than 300 yards away now, their knightly leader and his esquire with the banner somewhat in front-a young man by his manner of riding. Pray that he was inexperienced.

  Bruce was still moving forward, at a slow trot, vigilant, calculating.

  This must be timed to a nicety … Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the entire situation changed.

  That young knight had sharp eyes, it seemed, quick wits, and a lofty ambition. Even at 200 yards he must have spotted the gold crown that circled the King’s basinet-the sun would be gleaming on it. Clearly his shouts rang out “The Bruce! It is the Bruce! Himself!” Then he was turning in his saddle, waving back his ranks.

  “He is mine! Mine! Back! Back, I say!” And couching his long lance,

  he stooped low, digging in his golden spurs.

  “A Bohun! A Bohun!” he yelled, as he thundered forward, alone.

  Bruce caught his breath, taken by surprise. Here was a fix! Folly indeed. For both of them. To dodge and wheel and bolt now, before this open challenge to single combat, was inconceivable for the King of Scots. Yet he was under mOunted and under-armed, without lance or even sword-these left with his heavy charger up on the hill. He had only this light battle-axe and a dirk. Yet he had no choice but to stand or be for ever shamed. Irvine had been right. If he fell now, all was lost. This-this was worthy of his brother Edward!

  There were only moments for racing thoughts. Grimly the King reminded himself that he was the veteran, the man of experience, his nerve tried in a hundred frays. He had other advantages-a more nimble horse, and a notable reputation with the battle-axe.

  He altered nothing, therefore, as the other hurtled down on him.

  He did not draw aside, crouch, or even change his mount’s quiet trot. Above all, he did not pull up-for a horse can much more swiftly answer the rein and knee when already in movement, than when halted.

  It might so well have been a tournament, under the afternoon sun-save that one jouster had no lance. Now only a few yards separated them, and eye looked into hot eye. Bruce made his only disposition. Suddenly he tossed the battle-axe from his right hand to his left.

  The Bohun saw it, and in the split seconds left to him, adjusted accordingly. It could only mean that his opponent was going to pull to his right, to the left of himself, and so any blow would have to be left-handed. He therefore swung his lance just a few degrees to his own left.

  With only feet to spare, Bruce jerked and kicked his gar ron to the left, not the right, directly across the front of the galloping charger, causing it to veer and peck. In almost the same movement he flung his axe back into his right hand.

  Only by bare inches was a collision avoided. But the lance-tip, swinging round wildly at the last moment to the other side, did not come within a foot of Bruce’s shoulder. And as the other plunged past, bent low over his couched lance, the King rose higher in his stirrups, reaching up, and brought down that battle-axe right on the crown of the Bohun’s crested helm, wit
h all the violent strength of a mighty spring released.

  With the deep crunching of shorn steel and bone both, the gleaming blade drove down and down, splitting the head open, in spouting blood, to the very breastbone and gorget, where it was jerked to such an abrupt stop that the wooden shaft snapped off in its wielder’s hand. Charger and reeling, ghastly rider careered on until Bohun fell with a resounding crash.

  The victor, his gar ron still trotting forward, was left with a foot or so of splintered timber and a wrist and arm numb with the shock. He had scarcely realised the power of that right arm, recent sickness or none.

  The enemy line was still halted, under Bohun’s esquire, so swiftly left leaderless. There were shouts from behind Bruce as his 200, ignoring previous commands, surged forward for the King.

  The uncertainty, now, of Bohun’s line, still 250 yards away, and stationary, was very evident, hesitating whether to resume the spoiled charge, stand still, or retire. Their doubts could only have been advanced by activity behind as well as in front. Trumpets sounded from the main English van, and some part of it at least began to move forward. At the same time, renewed shouting from still farther in front heralded the return to the fray of the 100 lame ducks. Bohun’s esquire did what any sensible man would have done-nothing. He waited.

  Bruce again was faced with decision. It would be suicide to confront the entire English van, with his 300. But by turning back, he still might be able to lead the enemy into his pits … Then there was a new development, intimated by new trumpet blowing from the right flank, from the Tor Wood. Down through the glades came Edward Bruce, to the rescue of his brother, with some 500 horse. The King almost wept. Everything was forcing him into battle, the wrong battle. Yet he could scarcely blame Edward.

  It was with relief, therefore, that he perceived that only a small proportion of the English van was in fact advancing to the aid of the Bohun company-even though they did so under the ken speckle banner of Gloucester himself. Hereford, the veteran, was holding the main host back. Those trenches and pits were still to be unused.

  With Edward now charging down on the right, there could be no real choice for the King. He had to go forward, into the attack-and hope that it could indeed be a limited engagement.

  All would depend on Hereford.

  Caught up by his own 300 now, Bruce rode straight for Bohun’s waiting line, useless axe-shaft in hand. With a crash they met, and, since the English were in only two ranks, plunged through, on impetus rather than fighting, and little of casualties on either side.

  There was Gloucester, with perhaps another 500, not far ahead.

  That Earl was a young man, barely twenty-four, and though gallant

  unused to battle. Seeing the King of Scots un halted in hit advance directly in front, and a new and large force charging down on his left flank, he did not panic, but sought to change his dispositions -not easy in a headlong cavalry attack. While retaining half his men to confront the King, he sought to swing the other half round to face Edward Bruce’s assault It was not entirely successful as a manoeuvre and his whole force lost vital speed.

  In the event, the result was complete chaos, on both sides, with mounted men crashing into each other, milling, falling, and no coherence or control anywhere, the sort of battle commanders suffer in nightmares. Gloucester himself was one of the first to be unhorsed. But any advantage was with the Scots, since they retained the impetus. In a whirling impenetrable melee, the clash moved south-eastwards. The English were not in fact defeated-but it looked as though they were.

  In the confusion, two trends in the leaders’ thinking had their inevitable effect on the struggle. Bruce did not want to get drawn within striking distance of Hereford’s main van; and Gloucester desired to get back to that same van. As a consequence, both sides tended, almost imperceptibly, to draw back. Only Edward Bruce would have reversed the process-but his brother reached his side, and made his wishes known in no uncertain tones. He in fact ordered Edward’s trumpeter to sound the retiral.

  Whether Gloucester, shaken and remounted on a riderless beast, realised this is not to be known. But he was only too glad to be able to lead his own people in detaching themselves from the disorderly embroilment. In groups and batches and handfuls the English disengaged and streamed back towards their main body.

  The Bruces found themselves masters of the field, such as it was.

  Edward would have pursued farther but the King was adamant.

  “Back, Edward,” he cried.

  “Back to your own position on the hill. As do I. God is good-but if Hereford attacks now …”

  Quickly, or we may have won a bicker and lost a battle!”

  So the two Scots companies separated, and turned to ride back whence they had come, leaving the shambles behind. Sir Henry de Bohun was not alone, after all, on the trampled grass.

  Avoiding the unused trenches, pits and caltrops, Bruce headed for the high ground. Hay, Campbell and Boyd, from the main rearward, came riding to meet the King’s party, in highly doubtful frame of mind, not knowing whether to cheer or weep, to praise or mil. The grizzled Boyd was most certain, and outspoken.

  “Sire,” he accused, “you hazarded all! It was ill done. If you had fallen there, in that fool’s ploy, Scotland would have gone down, Yon was a laddie’s victory-not a king’s.”

  “I know it, Robert my friend,” Bruce admitted.

  “But my hand was something forced. You must bear with me. See-I have spoiled a good axe! Can anyone find me another?”

  Who was the Englishman, Sire?” Hay asked.

  “In the first fray.

  We saw it all, but could not tell the arms.”

  “Henry Bohun, I think-nephew to Hereford. Would you have had me run from him, in single combat? Before two armies?”

  There was no answer to that, of course-save for the roaring cheer of the Scots massed ranks as their King rode up. That first blood of the battle may have been folly, bad generalship-but there was no doubt as to what it did for the Scots morale.

  “Those are Clifford’s colours,” the King declared.

  “I know them all too well! Where is he going?”

  “He takes the Carse road,” Gibbie said.

  “Hereford will have sent him forward, as scout, to see if they may win round by the north and east, to Stirling Bridge. By the flats …”

  “That is no scouting party. There are 700 or 800 there. And they have left the Carse road. They are heading farther out, in the marshes. Picking their way. Medium cavalry again.”

  “They must have a guide,” Campbell suggested.

  “From Bannock, belike. Who knows the marshes.”

  “A guide, yes. But more than that, I swear. One who knows more than the marshes. Our traps and de fences Someone from Stirling Castle, perhaps. Who has watched us cutting and digging the Carse causeways. From the castle they could see all that we did. Someone may have won out, and reached Hereford. And now leads Clifford northwards through the outer marshes, by divers ways.”

  The King was back, with his rearward leaders, on the vantage knoll where he had spent the first part of the day, the rest of the Scots host returned to their allotted positions. The great English van was still stationary, cautious, around the Milton of Bannock, holding the burn-crossing. Obviously Hereford was awaiting the arrival of the main invading army under King Edward and Pembroke, which must have been far behind. But meantime he had despatched this powerful cavalry force under Clifford, to probe a way north-abouts to Stirling Bridge, Angus Og, weary and yawning-for he had marched all yesterday, all night, and most of this day, after having had to fight a sea battle with John of Lorn and the English fleet at the mouth of Clyde-pointed.

  These Carse marshes-who knows them well? Can the English’win round

  to Stirling, by the shore? The tidelands? If so, we must retire, behind the Rock. By the west. Or be cut off.”

  “Myself I know them well enough,” Bruce answered.

  “Clifford can go another mile or so, twisting and turning. Then he will reac
h the Pelstream Burn, flowing into the Bannock. It is wide, with soft mud banks. Tidal there, a mile inland. They cannot cross that They must turn inland also. There is no ford or crossing place until they reach the road again. That bridge we have demolished. But there is a ford there. And they will have avoided all our traps.”

  “We cannot halt them, then?”

  “We must-God aiding! That is why Moray is posted at St. Ninian’s Kirk, with our van. He is just above that reach of the Cane. Can see it all from there. But … I never thought to see cavalry take the soft road through the marshes. Foot, perhaps-not horse. So Moray has only foot…”

  “Then send these, your own cavalry, to aid him.”

  “I dare not, Angus. Not yet. This may be but a ruse, to draw off our cavalry. That will never be the main battle, in those swamps and pows. So long as Hereford and Gloucester stand there, with the main van, I dare not detach my cavalry. Any of it. There are still 5,000 enemy cavalry waiting below us, in their van. My nephew must make do. with his foot. Pray he uses them well…”

  “Sire!” Hay exclaimed, gulping.

  “Look there! He comes-my lord of Moray! Himself.” And he pointed

  north eastwards

  “Christ God in Heaven!” the King swore.

  “Has he taken leave of his wits, as well as his men?” Cursing, he left them, spurring.

  “Sire-I have word for you,” Randolph called, as they neared.

  “Ill word. We could be in trouble. I fear the English will know of the Carse traps …”

  “Damnation, man!” his uncle cried.

  “The more reason you be not here! What madness is this? I had to see you. We must change our plans. I could not send another. One of the Carse fowlers came to me. He saw three men slipping through the marshlands, southwards. After midday. Secretly.

  One he swears was Sir Philip Moubray himself. From the castle. If it is he, he will know all. Our dispositions. Traps.”