The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  detached groups under Sir Robert Boyd and Sir Hugh Ross, right and

  left, to seek to work round behind, both to upset the advance and to support the bowmen.

  This battle, as it developed, held a less feverish note. Men were tiring, as well as wary. Towards the end of a hard-fought day, men who have managed to preserve their lives thus far tend to have a growing interest in prolonging them further. This applies to both sides.

  Moreover, the heavily armoured dismounted chivalry added a new dimension. There could be nothing feverish about their fighting, nor their movement amongst the undergrowth. But they were very hard to lay low. This, indeed, became a ding dong struggle, dour, hard-hitting, but lacking the fervour of heretofore.

  Bruce, well aware of it, recognised its dangers for the side with the smaller numbers. He racked his tired wits and splitting head, even as he fought, for some livener, some new factor-and could think of nothing. That insidious word stalemate had got into his mind. Damn Sandy Fraser for pronouncing it! But the situation did indeed seem to have become almost static, unsusceptible to successful manoeuvre.

  Who would have prevailed in the end it would have been hard to forecast. But, no thanks to Bruce, or any Scots plan, a new factor did arise. Angus Og and his Islesmen got tired of making gestures and shadow-fighting, isolated on the main enemy’s east flank-as fiery Gaels would-and came back to their comrades for some real fighting. They picked up most of the horn blowers in the process, who likewise had become disillusioned. But entry into a wildly confused battle in dense woodland is a dangerous operation, with friend and foe inextricably mixed and not always easily identifiable.

  The Lord of the Isles, therefore, had his 300 come in dramatically, vigorously chanting their wild Hebridean slogans, shouting for Clan Donald, and identifying themselves with great success, while trumpets and horns blew varying versions of the Scots advance.

  Certainly it sounded an infinitely greater influx than any mere 300. Moreover, and perhaps most telling of all, the newcomers sounded fresh, enthusiastic and vehemently aggressive.

  Almost everywhere the enemy foot wavered a little.

  When the majority of the Highlanders, left with Bruce, heard their fellows’ stirring arrival, they raised their own similar yells and slogans, in welcome. This could not but affect the rest of the Scots around them. Everywhere the shouts and challenge arose, with an inevitable if temporary increase in the tempo of the fighting.

  It was too much for a foe already weary and lacking confidence.

  There was no wholesale giving up or retreat; but from that moment the second assault on the wood was lost. The drift back southwards began.

  Nothing spreads faster than the aura of defeat. Soon it became almost a rout. Angus Og’s fire-eaters were, in fact, balked of their fine fighting.

  The Scots leadership, at least, had no regrets. Panting, thankful, they watched the tide ebb. It was not always that they blessed Angus of the Isles.

  Whether it was the ignominious return of his second attack, a cavalry engagement which seemed to be developing on his left flank-where Keith the Marischal was at last making his gesture -or merely the accumulated disappointments of a long day, Richard de Burgh suddenly seemed to have had enough. He was not so young as once, of course-now in his mid-sixties- and no doubt the stalemate was even more apparent to him than to his son-in-law. At any rate, to the surprise of the Scots, trumpets began to sound purposefully across the clearing-and these were clearly not for any further advance or attack. There was a marshalling of a screen of light cavalry behind which the main body could retire in good order. Riders went spurring off, right and left, no doubt to order the break-off of hostilities on the flanks. Without haste, with discipline and dignity, the Earl of Ulster turned and left the field in a south-easterly direction. He was no panic-monger, just a realist.

  From the woodland the Scots jeered-but none sought more actively to speed the enemy retiral.

  Heavily Bruce leaned against a tree.

  “Praises be to God!” he said.

  “But … what was that? A victory? Or a defeat? Or … a great

  folly? A waste?”

  “A victory, surely, Sire,” Colin Campbell averred elatedly.

  “Since we retain possession of the field.”

  The King looked around him.

  “The field! Such trophy, lad, for such battle-if you may call it

  that. Which ought not to have been fought.”

  “Your Grace is weary, dispirited,” Fraser declared.

  “It is a great victory, by any counting. An English knight we have captured, one Cosby, says that the Earl had 40,000 men.”

  “Dear God40,000? I’ll not believe it! Half that, perhaps…”

  “There were great numbers in the trees to the east. Foot. That you never saw,” Angus Og put in.

  “Mostly these Irish kerns. None too eager to fight for the English, I think.” “Aye My good-sire no doubt had his problems. And his own doubts. His super session must injure him. Divided interests. I could conceive that he loves me even better than he does Edward of Carnarvon! Or this Bishop!”

  There Was much to do, with the wounded and the dead of both sides to

  attend to. Even though the Scots had got off comparatively lightly,

  considering what might have been their fate, they were not less than

  severely mauled. And the enemy wounded was legion. The aftermath of

  battle was, in its way, as taxing, and a deal more distressing, than

  the fighting. However fierce a warrior, Bruce himself was ever

  affected by suffering. Not a few, even of his close colleagues,

  considered him soft, unsuitably weak, in this.

  It was some time, therefore, before he moved back to the road, and then on to the open space where de Burgh had waited for them, and when there was sufficient firm ground to set up camp for the night-for the early winter dusk was beginning to fall. It was hardly likely that there would be another attack, in the circumstances, but scouts and pickets were sent out all around.

  It was one of these who presently returned to announce the approach of His Grace of Ireland’s host, from further south.

  Edward rode up in style and flourish, as always. And in some haughty reproach.

  “I hear that you have had some fighting, brother!” he called.

  “A victory, of sorts. Over de Burgh. Need you have kept it to yourself? Might you not have deigned to share the honour with me? It is my territory. I have thought that we were to share more equally, henceforth?”

  Bruce drew a hand slowly over set features.

  “You conceive me at fault, Edward?” he asked, as his Scots lieutenants growled in their throats.

  “Would not any man of honour? You must always retain any glory for yourself. We were beleaguering Ratoath Castle, de Burgh’s house. Believing him within.”

  His brother turned away while he mastered his tongue.

  “I fear that there was little of glory to share in this,” he said

  stiffly.

  “Or honour. It was an unnecessary battle. We were in fact ambushed.

  And yet, we had 3,000 men as advance guard! To protect us from ambush!”

  The other drew up in his saddle. “

  “Fore God-you are not seeking to lay blame on me? For your fault!”

  “Fault, man! If there is fault in this, where lies it? In the main host, which rode into a trap? Or in its forward guard, which rode blithely through that trap, unknowing, with no flanking scouts-since such must have discovered a great army there. Some say as many as 40,000, lying close in wait.”

  Edward stared.

  “Forty thousand …!” he said.

  “Myself, I do not believe it was so many. A prisoner says it. But even half as many-what difference?”

  “They … they must have moved in after we passed.”

  “To be sure. But since they were largely foot, and we followed you within the hour, they cannot have been far off. I think, brother, that I am entitled to be
tter advance guarding than that!”

  “I sent you word, did I not? That the peasant said de Burgh was here, at Ratoath. Not at Drogheda.”

  “With a small number of men, only! No thanks to you that I did not believe that tale.”

  “If he lied, am I to blame? At least, I informed you…”

  “Aye.” Wearily Robert shrugged. His head was aching, had been since cessation of battle had given him time to recognise it-no doubt the effect of the arrow on his helm.

  “You informed me. Of that. But… let us have done, Edward. It is past…”

  “You still were at fault in not sending me word. Informing me.

  Of this battle. That I might have my part…”

  “Christ God!” Bruce burst out.

  “Are you crazed, man? What think you it was? A tourney? Young Campbell I did send, before the assault began. But he was himself ambushed. Well you know the advance’s duty to spy for and protect its rear. In this also you failed…”

  With a muffled oath, but no other leave-taking, the King of All Ireland wheeled his charger round and plunged off, waving his colleagues after him, to their great confusion.

  That night the two hosts camped a good mile apart. The royal brothers were wider apart than that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The battle of Ratoath may have been one which should never have been fought, but it proved to be a highly significant turning point, materially affecting more than merely those taking part. Although that was not immediately apparent.

  It changed the course of the Scots’ campaign in Ireland. Bruce’s force

  had to halt in its drive on Dublin, to lick its wounds and reorganise,

  and the vital element of surprise was eliminated. Then Richard de

  Burgh had the trouble which so often follows defeat in the field,

  having to face near-mutiny from lieutenants and allies who alleged mismanagement and halfheartedness He retired on Dublin, not Drogheda, presumably with the intention of strengthening the capital’s defence. But with unanticipated results. Instead of being welcomed as reinforcement and comfort, he was in fact arrested and warded in Dublin Castle by Sir Robert Nottingham, the mayor, presumably on the orders of Bishop Hotham, the Chancellor, charged with dereliction of duty and succouring the enemy. The Scots did not learn this until later. But they did know that his thousands were now in the city.

  Scouts brought back even more significant news, militarily speaking. The citizens, under this Nottingham, had risen to the defence of their town, with spirit. They were abandoning areas which had grown up outside the old walls, and these suburbs, being mainly of timber, had been set on fire, to offer no cover for the attackers. They had even pulled down the great church of St.

  Saviour’s, to use its stones to repair breaches in the said walls, and to extend the de fences of the quays, so that reinforcements might come in. Indeed, they had demolished the bridge across the Liffey.

  If these energetic measures were typical of the determination of the Dubliners, then a new situation had arisen.

  While Bruce reorganised and sought news and reports, his brother, hot for action to redeem his name, made a brilliant assault on Castleknock, only eight miles from the city, using MacCarthy’s Irish horse. He was successful enough to capture Tyrrel, lord thereof, and burned the town, church and district, sending its smoke billowing up within sight of the Dubliners. This was the sort of swift, individual operation at which Edward excelled. It was questionable, however, whether it did more than stiffen the Dublin people in their determination to resist.

  The royal brothers were now on coolest terms, for all to perceive.

  It could not go on thus.

  The third night after the Ratoath battle, Bruce rode with Moray and Angus Og to Edward’s camp at Castleknock -where they were kept waiting a considerable time until Edward received them in the castle hall. Robert was primed to set and deadly patience.

  “Brother,” he declared, when at last they confronted each other.

  “I have come for a decision. It is time that we took it. High

  time.”

  The other looked wary and hostile in one. “Decision? How mean you?”

  “Decide how and where we go, now. For no longer is it sound strategy to assail Dublin.”

  “What! You mean …? You resile? From Dublin? Now, before it. You shirk it… ?”

  “Call it that if you will. Only by surprise could we have taken it.

  With our numbers. Ratoath meant that there was no surprise. The city is to be held, and vigorously. To attempt to besiege it would be folly. And give time for our enemies to bring great numbers against us, from all over Ireland. I will not hazard my Scots in such case. A swift-moving cavalry force is not for siegery—as you well know.”

  “I’ faith-you it was who must take Dublin! Not Drogheda.

  Against my wishes …”

  “That situation has changed. Vastly. We must change strategy

  accordingly.”

  “We must! I’d mind you who reigns here. Not Robert Bruce!”

  The other ignored that.

  “We have three choices. We can turn back to Ulster-but that would look like defeat, and gain us nothing. We can move around Dublin and proceed towards the south-but this leaves the enemy in force between us and our base in Ulster. And the southeast is where the English are strong. Or we can turn west. All the West of Ireland is open to us, save Limerick.

  There the English are least strong, and your Irish princelings rule.

  Two-thirds of the land. How say you?”

  Edward gnawed his lip, his dilemma obvious. Clearly the last was the best course. But as clearly it was his brother’s course.

  “I do not say any,” he jerked.

  “I will not be thrown choice of this or that. By you!”

  Robert shrugged.

  “It is not I who offer the choice. I only put it in words. It is

  there. The facts are there. Only the decision is ours.

  Have you better choice, Edward?”

  “If you fail me over Dublin”, the capital…!” Edward looked away.

  “There is famine in the West, my lord King,” MacCarthy of Desmond, one of those who stood behind Edward, pointed out.

  “I know it friend. But we have a saying in Scotland that hungry men are angry men. They will rise the more readily against the English. And Englishmen are notable for their great eating! I think the hunger will bear more heavily on their people than on ours.

  Have you better course?”

  “No. Save for the famine, it is the best. We could win the whole West.”

  “If we could have surprised Dublin I would have preferred to move south

  and east. With a possible sea descent upon Wales. That was formerly

  my aim. But that is not possible now, with the enemy well warned.

  The West alone offers opportunity to us, in this pass.”

  “You are set to go West. Then go alone!” Edward snapped.

  They eyed each other.

  “Your Grace of Ireland-you would not split the host!” Moray put in.

  “Ask that of your uncle!”

  “And you? What will you do?” Robert asked.

  “I want Dublin. My capital.”

  “No doubt. But how to win it, and it embattled against us, with a few thousand men?”

  “Not a few thousand. I have a great army of foot at my back.

  Have you forgot? An army that will grow greater.”

  “I have not forgot it. Nor the pace at which it moves! Nor that it wars in itself. And lacks a commander! It will take two weeks to reach Dublin-if it ever does. By then, the English will have 100,000 in the city.”

  “And I will have more! I will call all Ireland to Tara. To Tara’s

  Hill, the true heart of this land. They will rally to me there,

  their

  Speechless, Robert regarded him, the cynical realist, the hardbitten cavalry leader. Could a crown do this to a man?

  “My lord King-you will not wait here, idle, for weeks?” MacCart
hy

  “Idle, man? Think you I am an idler? By the Mass-I will not be idle! While I wait I shall raise my standard on Tara. But I shall do much more.”

  All men looked from one monarch to the other.

  “Very well then, brother,” Bruce said at length.

  “This is the parting of the roads. I have had my bellyful of waiting, at Carrickfergus.

  I brought these thousands of picked men for swift warfare.

  I move west.”

  “As you will. Better thus, perhaps …”

  So, two days later, the Scots host turned its face from Dublin and trotted off to the west, without ceremony or formal leave taking. It would be debatable which brother heaved the deeper sigh of relief. Bruce left Angus Og and his Islesmen with Edward, since that man did not want to go too far from his ships; moreover he understood the Irish best.

  They forded the Liffey at Leixlip, the Salmon Leap, and then moved southwest to Naas, in Kildare, meeting no resistance, riding free. Almost a holiday atmosphere prevailed, after the strains and stresses of the last weeks. To be on their own, responsible only to themselves, with the clouds of disagreement and suspicion removed, was as good as a tonic.

  Not that it was anything in the nature of a joyride, from the first.

  At every township they passed, King Edward of All Ireland was proclaimed, and local lords and chiefs urged not only to declare their allegiance but to take or send contingents to Tara forthwith, lest their loyalty be doubted. They took the castles and manors of a number of Anglo-Irish barons who failed to declare their adherence to Edward Bruce, but wasted no time on besieging strong points. Their scouts and flanking pickets fought a number of skirmishes; but the main force was never engaged.

  Bruce by no means allowed either this easy progress or the holiday atmosphere to put him off his guard for a moment, to distract him from a commander’s duty. He was there, basically, to cause the maximum of concern and difficulty to the English occupying forces; secondly to give armed support to his brother’s throne. Both with as little loss to Scotland as might be. To that end he was seeking to draw the English and their allies away from the Pale, and from Eastern Ireland generally, into the native and wilder West where they would be infinitely more vulnerable. But that he was taking risks he knew well, especially in the essential matter of sustenance. Six thousand men and their horses require a lot of food and forage, and in an impoverished and war-ravaged country, such was hard to come by.