Hamish wanted to argue that there would be no reinforcements, but William seemed so sure there would be, as if he could, by believing strongly enough, make the Bruce appear from the mists. Wallace began giving orders, deploying his troops. Looking to Hamish and old Campbell he said, “You lead the schiltrons into the center of the field; we can’t let them charge through our middle.” He turned to Stephen, “You back the spearmen with the infantry. Tell the Highlanders to charge with their broadswords against anything that approaches the schiltrons.” He seized a mounted messenger by the shoulder. “Tell Mornay to watch for the ranks of crossbowmen. He must charge their flanks at the first sign of them on the field. Now go!”
Everyone hurried to take their places. Wallace looked toward the bare hill, where the Bruce was to be. It was Scotland’s most desperate hour. Everything was against them now. And yet if the Bruce would come, if they could stand together, noble and common, on that fields, then whatever else happened would be Scotland’s victory in the eyes of William Wallace.
Longshanks and his generals sat in their saddles, arrayed for battle, banners flying, pikes at attention, faceplates lowered, all ready for battle. And yet they waited. There was no hurry at all. Longshanks was anxious to see the battle begin, but he waited — precisely because he wised to see it. Until the mists lifted, he would not begin.
It was not long before the winds began to rise. Banks of fog, like low clouds, drifted before their eyes, then opened to reveal the Scots streaming into the plain before them. Longshanks studied the schiltrons that had so decimated his last army. He marveled at them. Fourteen-foot spears. Such a simple idea. Yet no one had ever tried it before. Because it took courage to stand there before the charge, stand and believe the idea would work when no one had ever seen it work before.
He stood across the field and in the lifting mists he saw the man who had lit the fire of faith and courage and had spread it among his people: William Wallace, alone now on his horse, watching his army move forward.
Longshanks lifted his visor so that his voice could be heard by all around him. “Whatever else happens today, I want William Wallace. Dead or alive. But I want him.”
With a wave of his royal hand, Longshanks sent his army forward.
Wallace saw Longshanks through the break in the mists, saw him stretch forth his long thin arm and wave his troops forward. Longshanks, his enemy, within sight. He could see the king’s cold hatred in the slow, almost languid deliberateness of the gesture. So many men on both sides being sent to their deaths with a dispassionate wave that said, “I am king; it is my will that you give your lives to my purposes, so let us get on with it.”
Wallace spurred his horse down to join Stephen among the ranks of the Scottish swordsmen, behind the schiltrons. “Do you see them yet?” he called, reining to a stop besides his Irish friend.
Stephen was scanning the mists all around the edges of the field. “No, I….. Wait, there!” Wallace looked in the direction Stephen pointed, and sure enough, Stephen was right: moving up toward the schiltrons were blocks of crossbowmen.
The bowmen were still far out of range, even with their new weapons. Stephen shouted for his men to hold their positions; the cavalry would charge them first, then the infantry, hoping to confuse the crossbowmen and diffuse their fire. With Scots bearing down on them from two directions, the Englishmen with their unfamiliar weapons would surely break and run.
But as the crossbowmen marched nearer and the stillness of impending battle descended upon the fields Wallace heard a haunting noise. “Do you hear that?” he said to Stephen.
Stephen nodded and strained harder to peer through the veil of mist. There, behind the bowmen, he saw the blocks of Longshanks’s infantry, wearing kilts and marching to bagpipes. Irish troops.
Stephen of Ireland stared at the approach of his countrymen. Wallace spurred his rose up beside him. Stephen lowered his eyes, ashamed. “So that’s where Longshanks got his solders,” Stephen said. “Irishmen, willing to kill Scottish cousins for the English.”
“Their families are starving, Stephen. They’ll feed them however they can. If you don’t want to fight them –”
“No, I’ll stand with you.”
Stephen raised his eyes. They were bright with tears. He drew his sword and walked to the head of the Scottish infantry. Wallace was sue he would never see him alive again.
“Hamish!” Wallace shouted toward the schiltrons. “Do you see them?”
“Aye!” Hamish shouted back. Then he called to his father, and the two Campbells stepped in front of the formations of spearmen. They gave a signal; the long pikes bristled into the air, and the formations started forward toward the enemy. Hamish glanced back at Wallace; both men knew the spearmen were the bait here. When they had discussed their strategy around the campfire the night before, Hamish had said, “As soon as we move forward, William, you must ride to the rear of the battlefield. If this feint with the schiltrons doesn’t work, we will be butchered and there is not one thing you could do about it. So at least let me know, know, when we try it, that if it doesn’t work, you’ll still be alive. For our hopes will live only as long s you do.” Wallace had nodded even while feeling he could never deserve such a fiend. Now, as he saw Hamish and his father lead their most loyal Highlanders into battle, William dismounted from his horse and drew his broadsword. He took a place among the Highlander swordsmen, looked back at Hamish. Hamish’s blue eyes were burning bright. His brows knotted into a furious knot. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
He was still laughing as he quickened his step and marched toward the awful weapons of their enemies.
Wallace watched it all unfold in the slow ballet of the battle, the schiltrons moving forward like great lumber animals, the crossbowmen still as coiled serpents, waiting to strike wit their deadly fangs, it was mesmerizing….
But the bowmen were holding their fire.
Wallace scanned the enemy lines and ran to Stephen. “Look just there, riding in from the left!” It was the English heavy cavalry advancing as they had done at Stirling.
“The cant be that stupid to attack the schiltrons again,” Stephen said.
And yet the English heavy cavalry had begun to charge, their heavy horses thundering, shaking the ground. Hamish and old Campbell saw them coming, too, and halted the schiltrons. They jabbed their spears into the earth, bracing them into their deadly trap.
“The charge is a distraction!” Wallace shouted.
“Look at the crossbows!”
Hamish and Campbell could not her him, but Stephen did, and he saw that Wallace was right. The crossbowmen had begun to run forward, intending to close the distance between themselves and their targets as everyone watched the horsemen. And even now the English knights, having learned the lessons of Stirling, were pulling up their mounts before they reached the forest of spears. The horses wheeled and raced back toward the English lines as the crossbowmen stopped, closer than they had been before, and fired their first volley.
They fired hurriedly. The hailstorm of bolts slashed through the air in unison. The bolts fell just short of the front ranks of the schiltrons.
Wallace was waving frantically to Mornay with the Scottish cavalry. Mornay was looking right toward the action, and yet he did nothing! The crossbowmen were reloading; Wallace was screaming. “Charge! Charge them!”
Mornay tugged his reins and led his cavalry away. One by one, like a necklace of gemstones falling from a jilted lover’s hand into a depthless loch, the cavalrymen vanished from the hilltop.
Wallace and Stephen watched in silence as they were abandoned.
Beneath the cluster of royal banners at the center of the English army, Longshanks and his officers saw Mornay and his cavalry melt away. The English general, surprised himself at this development, looked at Longshanks. “Mornay?” the general asked.
“For double his lands in Scotland and matching estates in England,” Longshanks told him.
Wallace and Stephen loo
ked on in agony as the crossbowmen unleashed another volley. The Scottish spearmen, bunched in a tight group, were helpless. The bolts cut through their helmets and breastplates like paper. The Highlanders who has seen Mornay ride away now looked to Wallace. With rising panic, through the wide eyes of the betrayed, they watched as he ran to his horse, leaped up onto its back — and charged alone toward the enemy.
With wild screams, Stephen and the Scottish swordsmen raced behind him.
The English heavy cavalry surged to meet them. Desperate to reach the bowmen, Wallace wove through the cavalry, first steering his horse at an angle across their line of charge, then cutting back before they could shift their heavy lances; he dodged in, slashing with his broadsword, cutting down one knight, then another. The Scottish infantry clawed in after him, dragging down the horses, hacking their riders then running on, following Wallace.
The English bowmen were about to fire again at the schiltrons when their captain saw the Scottish charge bearing down on them. He shouted for them to redirect their fire, and their hasty volley flew.
Longshanks and his generals were watching from the English command pavilion. They had exulted as the first volley had sliced through the schiltrons; they has seen Wallace lead the counterattack into their charging cavalry; they had looked on anxiously as he met and obliterated their horsemen; but now, as the bolts of the second volley cut into the Scots, and one bolt caught Wallace, the breath caught in their throats. Longshanks grabbed a general by the arm. “We have him!” The king cried out, the watched as far below them, Wallace wobbled on his horse, regained his balance, and kept up the charge. The corps of Scotsmen behind him had been riddled by the volley, but they ran on behind him, surging at the crossbowmen.
“My God, can nothing stop them?” the general said as he felt the king’s hand upon his arm become an angry claw. They watched as the crossbowmen, their weapons virtually useless once fighting became hand to hand, tried to flee as the Scots streamed in around them, led by Wallace, looking invincible, cutting huge vicious arcs with his broadsword.
“Full assault! Hold nothing back!” Longshanks ordered. “But take Wallace alive!”
The English infantry, several thousand strong, had already surged into the battle. The general signaled and Longshanks’s third wave — pike carriers, Welsh bowmen, fresh cavalry — began moving forward.
Wallace with blood flowing from the wound in his side, fought his way into the middle of field, where English infantry were now overrunning the schiltron. He hacked them down left and right, reached the Scottish center and found Hamish bent over another soldier. Wallace jumped for his saddle, bashed away the ax that an English footsoldier was swinging at Hamish’s back, and cut the soldier down.
“Hamish! Ham—“ William shouted. And then Wallace saw that Hamish was holding his father, fallen in battle. For a moment Wallace, like Hamish, was frozen at the sight. They had seen old Campbell fight on through all sorts of wounds, the loss of fingers, a hand, an arm, but now he had a gaping wound across his stomach. He was trying to push his son to make him leave him; he was finished.
Wallace’s arrival and stiffened the clansmen in the schiltron, and Stephen’s reinforcements were running up. The Scots were making a stand. Wallace had but a few seconds; he knelt beside Campbell. “Hamish, the horse!” Together Wallace and Hamish lifted old Campbell onto the saddle of his horse, and Wallace shouted at Hamish, “Get him away! Now. Now!”
Hamish obeyed, jumping onto the horse and galloping back toward the rear.
Wallace snatched up the broadsword from the ground where he had thrown it to help Campbell; he looked about him. All around were fallen Highlanders, men he had fought beside at Stirling, some who had joined him at Lanark. Dead now or dying.
Wallace screamed. No words, just a cry of fury. He held his sword high, and his men rallied.
The two infantries, Scottish and English, slammed together. For a few moments the momentum of battle wobbled like a giddy drunkard with one foot in the air having just stepped from a hot tavern into an icy wind. The English footmen were young, terrified and far from home; and even those who had served in the French campaigns had never seen fighting like this. The Scots had won at Stirling and at York; they were outnumbered now, but they had been outnumbered before; and they were fighting alongside William Wallace. They became the frozen wind, hurling the drunkard back in search of shelter.
“Damn them!” Longshanks screamed. And even as he saw his infantry beaten back, he saw the mists shifting again, drifting to mask the battle before him. This was awful; Longshanks still had the force of numbers; his other corps were still attacking. The last thing he wanted was a gray cloud to cloak the field. He turned to the knight behind him, a nobleman with light cavalry held as a last reserve. “Go,” he ordered.
“Wallace is their heart! Take him!” When the knight hesitated, the king shouted, “See, our reserves are attacking — our archers, fresh infantry! The battle is ours! But Wallace must not escape! All I have promised I will double, just bring him to me!”
The knight spurred his horse forward.
Wallace, through the broken banks of mist, saw them coming. “A charge! Form up! Form up!” he shouted to his men. The Scots pulled up spears and hastily formed another schiltron. The spears bristled out, ready. The English horsemen thundered in. But before the spears impaled the horses, another flight of crossbow bolts cut down half the Scots.
Still Wallace fought back, meeting the English charge. The Scots held their own. The knight who had led the English charge and had already cut his way through several Highlanders tried to override Wallace. Wallace knocked the knight’s lance aside, and though the horse slammed into him, Wallace grabbed the man’s leg and dragged him from the saddle.
The rider rolled to his feet. Wallace struggled up to meet him — and came face to face with Robert the Bruce.
The shock and recognition stunned Wallace. In that moment, when he looked at the Bruce’s guilt-ridden face, he understood everything: the betrayal, the hopelessness of Scotland.
Bruce stared back at Wallace and saw a look of shock and despair that he would never forget, no matter how many lifetimes he might live.
Bruce snatched his sword from the ground, where it had fallen. He feinted; Wallace didn’t respond. Bruce battered at Wallace’s sword as if its use would give him absolution. “Fight me! Fight me!” Robert shouted.
But Wallace could only stagger back. Bruce’s voice grew ragged as he screamed. “Fight me!”
All around, the battle had delayed; the Scots were being slaughtered. Men were streaming in; Wallace would be cut down at any second — but suddenly Stephen came through on Robert’s horse! He hit Robert from behind, knocked him onto his chest, and dragged Wallace onto the horse. He could not pull him onto the saddle without help, and Wallace gave him none. It was as if the knot of hope that held his strength in place had suddenly slipped and left him feeble. Stephen held his limp body with one hand and spurred the horse, half carrying, half dragging Wallace from the field.
Robert the Bruce lifted his face. He saw Wallace escaping. All around him were dying Scots. The Bruce lowered his eyes to the earth, muddy with the blood of his countrymen.
47
The rays of the dying sun soaked the leaden mists like blood upon tarnished armor as remnants of the defeated army straggled along the roads, moving north, away from Falkirk. William Wallace stumbled blindly forward, supported by Stephen on one side, and trying, in turn, to support Hamish, who carried his huge father like a child within his arms. No one knew how long it had been since the battle ended; it was as if the world had stopped turning then, with the dying doomed to stagger on forever, away from those already dead.
Old Campbell’s eyes came open and rolled up toward Hamish. “Son…..,” he said, “I want to die on the ground.”
They stopped, and William and Stephen tried to help Hamish lower his father to the earth. But as they tilted him to prop him against a fallen tree, old Campbell
grabbed at something that started to fall from the wound in his stomach. For so long he had seemed oblivious to pain, but now it scorched his face. Then, s he has always done before, he willed it away. “Whew,” he said. “That’ll clear your head.”
His chin dropped upon his great chest, and he took a huge breath, finding strength from somewhere. His head came up again, and he looked around at each face. “Good-bye, boys,” he said.
“No. You’re going to live,” Hamish tried to tell him.
“I don’t think I can do without one of those,” old Campbell said, glancing down at where his hand was restraining some organ from sliding out of his wound, “whatever it is.”
Hamish was too grief stricken to speak.
William wanted to touch Campbell, even raised his hand, looking or a place to rest it, but every spot on the old man’s body seemed sore. Then William saw that old Campbell was looking a him with eyes that were steady and soft, the same way they had looked when old Campbell had brought him the new of the deaths of William’s father and brother. They looked at each other without speaking, then William said, “You…….were like my father.
Old Campbell rallied one more time and said, “And glad to die like him…. So you could be the men you are. All of ya.”
His last words were to Hamish. The old man let go of his guts and reached his bloody hand to his son. Hamish took it, and his father died in peace.
48
At sunset the next day, William Wallace, still bloody and in his battered armor, walked into the council chamber of Edinburgh Castle. Hamish and Stephen, the filth and gore of battle still upon them, strode in behind him and stood at his back as Wallace removed the chain of office from beneath his breastplate and laid it onto the table in front of Craig and the other nobles.
Braveheart Page 19