Ahead. Half-left…
I saw it, Hay confirmed. Sun on steel, for a wager!
Look-another! Farther over …
So be it. Bruce was all decision now, raising his battle-axe in his right hand and slamming it downwards twice.
Down! he commanded.
Down! And all along the line the cry was taken up, as men fell flat on their faces, shields jerking up to cover them. It was though a giant sickle mowed them down.
Trumpeter-three blasts! the King panted, as he himself went low.
Somewhat off-note and gaspingly, the trumpet neighed its warning from the mud of the track.
Results were immediate and quite fantastic. As though echoes had gone crazy, other trumpets and horns began to shout and yelp and ululate all around at some distance, in a shrill cacophony.
There were urgent cries. And, within seconds, the first arrows began to hiss and twang and fall, raggedly admittedly, but in ever increasing numbers and accuracy.
It is safe to say that never before had Bruces veterans had a like experience. To lie flat on the ground and allow oneself to be shot at, without any answering gesture, was beyond all belief frustrating, humiliating, as well as alarming. Yet none there failed to realise how much better off they were lying down than standing up.
From 400 yards or so lying men make a very poor target, largely invisible as individuals. When there were thousands, as here, the arrows could scarcely fail to find them, but it had to be by dropping shots, not directly aimed. And it is quite the most difficult feat in archery to so direct an arrow, and by your bow-string pull so control its flight, that at a given exact distance it will change its upward course and curve down in a parabola so as to land at a steep angle on even a wide target. This is the science of ballistics, and although the English and Welsh bowmen were apt to be the best in the world, few could be expert at this. Moreover, by its very nature, anything such could only be contrived by effecting a slackening of velocity at the given point; which meant that unless the angle of fire was very high indeed, the fall of the shaft, by the time it reached its target, had lost more of its impetus.
As a consequence, though a great many arrows were shot, comparatively few landed amongst the recumbent Scots at an angle to do any damage; and of these most were of insufficient velocity to penetrate leather, much less armour and chain-mail. There were some deadly hits, some screaming-but for a major archery attack casualties were negligible.
Nevertheless it was not pleasant to lie there, pinned down, helpless. The waiting seemed endless. Not to be hitting back was the worst of it; but there was nothing that men could do in a prone position. The arrows continued to fall. They were tending to come in volleys now.
It was the volleying becoming ragged again, with the change in tenor and scale of the shouting from their hidden assailants, that gave the prostrate host some indication that at last this stage of their ordeal might be ending. The anger, threat and jeering in the chorus of hate was being affected by new notes that spoke of surprise, urgency, even alarm. Morays people were beginning to concern the enemys right flank.
It was possible thereafter for the Scots to trace the advance of their friends, unseen as they were. The archery became ever more erratic, and died away at the north. But presently the advance slowed, if not ceased altogether. It was obvious that fierce fighting was taking place in the swampy woodland. Bruce counted every second.
The arrows had not stopped their dropping shower altogether, but it was on a vastly lessened scale.
Will, the King cried.
Now! Cover us. Sir William Irvine, Bruces former armour-bearer, had been put in command of the six-score or so Scots bowmen.
These now, at Irvines order, were the first to take the grievous step
of rising from the prone. They rose each only on one knee, admittedly
* and in this their shorter Scots bows aided them, lacking though they were in hitting-power. But it took a deal of courage for men to hoist themselves up, to make immediate targets of themselves. As swiftly as they might, their own arrows began to fly, practically unseen as their targets were. Some few never drew string before they fell back, pierced through.
Although they were shooting blind, even such attack would be alarming for men standing up behind six-foot-long bows just within the screen of bushes. The enemy fire slackened almost to nothing. It was more than Bruce had hoped for.
Sound the advance! he jerked. Then, as the trumpeters unsteady notes rang out, he was the first to his feet.
Up! he shouted.
Up! A Bruce! A Bruce! Axe raised, shield held up before him, he leapt forward, down off the track and into the softer ground to the left.
He did not look back, nor did he have to. He did not have to shout for speed, either. No man there was going to linger, with even a few arrows in the air and some 300 yards of open ground to cover. Yelling, the Scots line rose and surged after him, while their own archers raised their bows to shoot above their heads, in their turn having to attempt dropping-shots.
By the noise, Morays people had redoubled their efforts on hearing Braces advance trumpet-call.
What with the return archery, and the twin Scots assaults, the enemy clearly were thrown into considerable confusion. Their own surprise attack had proved no surprise, and the biters were being bitten. Some arrows did still come over at their suddenly mobile opponents-and now with a higher percentage of casualties; but they were no longer volleyed, or anything but individual and spasmodic efforts.
Bruce was fortunate, considering his prominence, foremost position, and the Lion Rampant of his surcoat and shield. Two shafts did strike that shield, harmlessly, and another ripped along his right forearm, tearing the surcoats linen sleeve but failing to penetrate the chain-mail beneath. A fourth actually clanged on his helmet, knocking it slightly askew and setting his head ringing, but doing no damage. Then he was close enough to the trees for archers to be considering their own safety rather than throwing good arrows after bad.
Shouting the dreaded Bruce slogan, the Scots flung themselves into the wood, thankful to have covered the intervening open ground alive. It was no conventional woodland, tall trees being fairly wide-scattered;
but there was a great deal of low scrub and bush, rising out of
undrained boggy ground-difficult country to fight in. But almost
certainly less difficult for the Scots than for their opponents, or
many of them-English archers with six-foot bows and footmen with long pikes, both of which were of no help to passage through clutching undergrowth.
Immediately the struggle became indiscriminate, utterly confused, catch-as-catch can. There was no line, no distant prospects, no means of assessing numbers. Each man fought whom he could see-or tried to avoid fighting. And in this again the Scots had the advantage. For archers were precious, highly-skilled folk, and knew it-specialists with a clear-cut role. Not for them the cut-and thrust of a hand-to-hand melee, in bogs and bushes, where their unwieldy bows and quivers of yard-long shafts got entangled in everything that grew. Their duty, most certainly, was to retire-and their protecting pike men duty to get them out of a dangerous position, not to engage in needless heroics.
So the mood was sensible retreat on the one hand, and angry advance on the other-a situation liable to develop predictably.
The Scots, however, chased their foes through the scrubland with more sound and fury than actual bloodshed, more shouts than blows, without even having any clear idea how many of them there were, or where their line was, if any. The enemy retiral was in roughly a southerly direction, which was as far as certainties went Presently these fleeing men became involved with others fleeing diagonally across their front, south-westwards, left or right. This must mean that Morays advance was close on the left. In a very rough and ragged fashion the pursuit swung round also, so that all movement was approximately in the same direction.
A
number of archers fell, and rather more pike men But it could by no means be called a slaughter. The King himself did not achieve a single victory, none waiting sufficiently long for him to get within axe-range.
Ploughing his way through clutching brambles, he found a panting Moray at his elbow.
Too easy, that man gasped.
They flee … too easily.
They are not the main body.
They lead us to it?
If we let them.
You suffered badly? With the archers?
No. Little. Thanks to you.
De Burghs position? Formation? His main body. How think you? If he leads this host, they will be a-horse. In that, he is like my brother, a cavalryman. He would never demean himself to fight on foot! I judge him waiting somewhere that he may use his horse.
Open firm ground in front of him. The bowmen sent to trap us. Pin us down. On that road. Against the cliff. He and his horse to finish us off. My guess, they must be massed to the south, and so that they can see some way down that road.
His nephew nodded.
He will not expect attack from this flank.
He would not. He will now, with this rabble fleeing back on him.
He will not know our strength.
Not in here. But he will know our total strength. Less than 6,000. He will have watched Edward ride past, with 3,000 men. He can count, Thomas!
The trees were thinning before them now and the brittle winter sunlight flooding the area beyond. Into this open space the fleeing archers were bolting, Scots at their heels.
Suddenly Bruce held up his hand, and barked a command to the trumpeter, Sound the halt! Quickly, man!
He could see, now, beyond the last of the trees. There, across another 300 yards or so of grassy clearing, were the solid, serried ranks of a great army drawn up, silent, waiting, menacing, horse and foot, banners, trappings, knightly chivalry, helmeted steel-girl infantry and Irish irregulars. Stretching right across the line of vision, each flank disappeared into trees again.
Even Moray jerked a shaken curse.
So-0-0! Bruce said.
My good-sire! He pointed to where, near the centre, the great red-cross-on-gold standard of de Burgh stirred beside that of the Leopards of England.
God save us there are tens of thousands there! Hay, at their backs, exclaimed.
The King did not comment.
Have our bowmen forward, he ordered.
Now is their opportunity.
So, in a strange, unequal way, the situation was reversed. The Scots were in cover and the enemy stood as a vast target for archers in open ground. Unfortunately the bowmen were too few to take fullest advantage; nor were they so expert as their English counterparts-for archery in war had never been greatly practised in Scotland. But they did their best, and soon their shorter arrows were winging their way into the waiting host, scattered and few at first but ever increasing as men came scrambling out of the scrub. And no difficult dropping shooting was required here. Richard de Burgh was no crawler on the ground; his ranks stood upright, or sat their mounts as knights should. The least expert or most breathless marksman could not miss.
However staunchly gallant-and well encased in steel-the Anglo-Irish knights might be, de Burghs rank-and-file could not stand still and take this for long. Fairly quickly the massive line began to sag and fold and break, as men and horses went down screaming. Obviously the English leaders were seeking to rally and bring back into action their own disheartened archers.
Will he charge us? Moray demanded.
His chivalry?
Would you?
The other bit his lip.
I… I do not know.
Nor, I think, can he know. He cannot know how many bowmen we have. It is no lengthy charge-but in face of strong and direct shooting he must lose many. When he reaches here-what? In this scrub forest, heavy chivalry is useless. Horses hamstrung, and out of every bush our people leaping up to pull his knights out of the saddle. No-I think de Burgh will not charge with his chivalry yet. His foot, yes.
Angus Og came stumbling up, cursing the clutching brambles.
A diversion? To turn their flank? he suggested.
From the east. I could take my Islesmen …?
To be sure, friend. Good! To harry them, make them fear for their rear. But… I cannot afford you many. Their foot will rush us here, any moment. We are too few already. Three hundred, no more…
Some English arrows were coming back at them now. And some of the Scots were running short of shafts. This could not continue.
Where is the Lord Edward! Hay cried, hotly.
None answered him.
Keith is back with the horse, Bruce said.
Send back to him, Gibbie. Tell him I need a cavalry feint to the
right. Along the road.
The cliff levels off. To use that. Swing round their left flank. He has not many men, with the horses. But a few score would do. Not to sacrifice them. Only a gesture. To pin down their cavalry there…
I think their foot are preparing to rush us, Sire, Moray interrupted, Aye.
Pray they dont send in too many for us, at once! Sir Colin-gather
men with horns, trumpets. Send them over into the woodland to the
left. To scatter. And blow. Sound as though we have a host
marshalling there. Continue to blow. It may trouble de Burgh …
The expected charge of the enemy foot erupted-and the Scots bowmen had but few arrows left for them. It made a terrifying sight, with thousands coming. Bruce drew back his line deeper into the wood, to allow the scrub and trees to fight for them, break up the impetus. In a way it paralleled their own first charge from the road-save that they had been charging archers, specialists with a high assessment of their own skins. These would meet a less careful reception.
In yelling fury the enemy foot hit the tangled woodland, pike men sworders and dirk-wielding Irish kerns-and the last were the most effective. Utter chaos resulted, in seconds, and continued, a crashing, slashing, cursing, stumbling frenzy, wherein all sense of lines and fronts disappeared and men fought perforce as individuals and little groups-when they could fight at all. Pikes were proved useless, indeed a handicap, and abandoned, long swords being only a little better. Battle-axes, maces, dirks and knives were the weapons that counted-and here the Scots were better equipped and versed.
For once Bruce could partially forget his allotted role of the calm, detached general who stood back and directed. The man was, in fact, a fighter of fierce and terrible effectiveness, especially with his favourite weapon the battle-axe. Seldom indeed in these last years had he had opportunity to indulge this savage prowess.
Now he could and did. Tireless, shrewd, wickedly skilful, he wielded
the dripping, slippery axe, and left a trail of felled men behind
Time had little relevance in these circumstances, and how long it was before a slackening in the fury of the struggle indicated to the King that this particular stage of the battle was ending, there was no knowing. His personal awareness had been of consistent victory, but as to how his cause had gone, he had only a vague impression. Now he perceived that not only was he, and other Scots, still in sight of the southern edge of the wood, but that they were in fact edging still nearer to it. Which could only mean that the enemy, in general, was retiring.
Presently it became obvious to all, and the retiral turned into headlong retreat, as men turned and ran from those damnable thickets for the open ground and freedom from probing, thrusting steel. The Scots retained possession of the wood.
Breathlessly Bruce took stock, wiping blood-stained hands on torn surcoat. Horn and trumpet-calls were still sounding from the east. Peering out of the trees, he could see that there was considerable stir on the right wing of the enemy host across the clearing.
Angus Ogs diversion, plus all the horn-b
lowing, was evidently preoccupying them there. The Marischals projected thrust on the other flank could hardly have developed yet; but something had kept the main body of the mounted men inactive and in their place.
How now, Sire? Alexander Fraser asked, mopping blood from his jaw.
These are dealt with. But how do we deal with the mounted host?
We do not. We leave them to try to deal with us. Are you hurt,
Sandy?
A thrown dirk. A graze only. He shrugged.
It is stalemate, then? They cannot risk to charge their heavy
chivalry into this wood. And we cannot attack them.
Scarce that, yet. They have still many foot. They will try again.
If only the others would come back. In their rear. The Lord
Edward…
Forget the Lord Edwards host-as I have done! That was harsh.
In the breathing-space they regrouped, assessed casualties. On the whole they had got off lightly, so far. The fallen enemy lay thick around them, and not all were dead, by any means-but this was scarcely the time to tend them. Men grumbled, but more at the clutching brambles and thorns than at their hurts.
It could be seen that some proportion of the English cavalry was dismounting. And there was more marshalling of foot.
Another assault. This time stiffened by armed knights and cavalry on foot. Slower, but harder to bring down, the King said.
Archers forward, Sire? Fraser asked.
Few arrows left.
No. Hold them back. Then, move into position behind the attack. A few shafts at de Burgh, then. To keep him from moving in his mounted host in support. More value in that.
Trumpets blaring, men yelling, the second assault began, though inevitably it came much more slowly. With no arrows aimed at them, many men must have been grimly relieved. But the leaders seemed wary, too.
This time, save for the hundred or so archers, who remained hidden,
Bruce withdrew his men before the long enemy line. The deeper into the
woods entanglements, the more broken those ranks must become. But he
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