They had perhaps five hundred yards to cover, the last third strewn with bodies and slippery with mud and blood. The English cavalry down there were in milling, circling thousands, though with many standing back, looking on, unable to push their way in at the surrounded spearmen, ploutering in the deep mire, or just licking their wounds.
But many as there were, expecting nothing of this sort, they were not
marshalled to resist and break up such an attack, however many times their numbers.
Nor, at this stage of the battle, were they under any unified control.
Trumpets began to neigh within moments of the attack becoming apparent. But more than that was required to organise and present a coherent front; and the very diversity of trumpet calls bespoke too many commanders. There was no overall general of the chivalry, on the spot;
Edward himself had been kicked by a horse the previous night, while he slept on the ground like any soldier, and was sufficiently incapacitated to be directing this battle from a distance.
Time, here, was all-important. Bruce, at the front of the V, saw that they would, in fact, bore through to the battling Scots almost inevitably, and probably without great difficulty or casualties.
It was the turning and getting away again that would be a problem. But he also perceived another inevitability; they could hardly help but ride down the upper front ranks of the Scots themselves, for they dared not rein back and lose their impetus too soon. It made grim recognition.
But it was the littered debris of the fighting that demanded their major attention in this crazy, furious descent, as they drove down through the dead, the dying and the wounded, amongst screaming men and fallen, hoof-lashing horses. Their hill-ponies, the most surefooted mounts there were, nevertheless had not been trained to battle and blood, and savagely firm mastering was necessary to hold them on through the hell of it, to keep the wedge in shape and straight on course.
A hundred yards or so from the first of the beleaguered Scots, a hastily turned and jostling group of English cavalry barred the way. As he hurtled down on them, Bruce waved his sword round and round above his head, redoubling his shouting, the men behind doing the same, a fearsome sight. It was asking more of flesh and blood than it could take for stationary horsemen to stand there unflinching in the face of such furious downhill onslaught, however armoured. Well before the impact, the Englishmen were reining aside. Some bold spirits actually spurred on to meet the crash in movement at least; but most pushed to one side or the other, turning back, breaking away.
Bruce drove for the point of greatest confusion. Nigel was laughing almost hysterically just half a length on his left.
A red-faced knight in rich armour was suddenly before them, eyes round, mouth open. Bruce, flinging himself aside in his saddle to avoid the wild swinging blow of a gleaming battle-axe, all but cannoned into his brother. Jerking his beasts head back, as he swept by the knight, he felt their legs scrape together. His own sword slashed back-handedly right across the knights surprised face in red horror. Then he was past.
There was another man directly in frontbut he had his back to them, bolting out of the way, as well he might. But he was not nearly quick enough. His blade straight before him, stiff-armed, like a lance, Bruce drove the point in right below the back of the fellows helmet. The victim pitched forward over his mounts neck, dragging the struck sword right out of its owners hand.
The mans careering mount carried him away to the side, falling.
There were two more in frontbut these were decidedly getting out of the way. Swordless, Bruce was shaking a clenched fist at them, when he realised that he was in fact through the press.
There were still mounted men between him and the Scots spears, but these were not drawn up, not standing, not going to challenge that mass of yelling riders.
And now, this other problem. How to draw up, not only himself but the close-packed ranks behind him, so as not to crash too terribly into the waiting ranks of spearmen? Those spears in themselves! Would men, seeing themselves about to be ridden down, not be apt almost involuntarily to seek to save themselves?
By using their spears? On the riders-down? He would.
Dragging desperately at his beasts head with his right hand he raised his left, to make urgent circling signals, half-right, praying that the men behind would in their frenzy perceive what he meant and the need for it. Savagely he dragged and jerked at his horse, and stumbling, its legs sprawling at the suddenness of the change of direction, the brute did manage to swing right.
Bruce heard a crash immediately behind him as somebody went down, unable to take the turn. He hoped it was not Nigel.
Still he bore right, so that now he was plunging along the wavering edge of spears, their blood-red tips before his eyes.
Some were raised, to allow him passage, but others remained thrust out still, menacing. There were screams at his back now, where some of his Northerners had been unable to bring their beasts round in time and had crashed into their fellow-countrymen.
Bruce did not glance round.
His eyes were on Wallace. He stood just behind the kneeling front row
of spearmen, a little way along to the south, leaning now on his great
sword, head bowed. He had lost his helmet and appeared to be wounded,
blood running down his face and into his red bushy beard-though with so much blood splashed everywhere, it need not be his own. Stooping, he nevertheless stood above the press of those around him like a forest tree amongst bushes.
Bruce was seeking to draw up now, with the pressure behind slackened by the turn. He waved and shouted to Wallace.
Quickly! he cried.
Come. A chance. To win free. To me, man.
The giant raised his head to stare, but made no other move. He did not answer. He looked dizzy.
Hurry, I say! Do not stand there, Bruce yelled.
We cannot wait, or all is lost. They will rally. Come.
Wallace shook his head, and gave a single dismissive wave of a huge bloodstained hand.
Fool! Bruce was close to him now, shouting and gesticulating over the heads of kneeling men, horse sidling nervously.
Do you not see? You must break out. While you may. Or you are a dead man.
You … you would have me leave these? Abandon my folk?
Away with you, Bruce. That was thickly, unevenly cried out.
The man was obviously far from clearheaded.
You can do no good here now. Come away. And fight again …
No! Run from my friends? Never!
Others were pleading with him now, arguing, pointingScrymgeour his standard-bearer, Blair the priest, Boyd. Bruce saw behind them the drawn and anxious face of James the Steward.
And Crawford. All the nobles had not deserted the Guardian.
Desperately Bruce remonstrated, his voice breaking as he heard the battle joining behind him, the English recovering from their surprise and beginning to hurl themselves against the light Scots horse.
Wallace! he yelled.
You are the Guardian. Of Scotland.
All Scotland. Not just these. If you fall now, Scotland falls. Mind who you are-the Guardian …
Nigel was shouting now, at his side.
These others can break.
Into the marsh, and away. Where horse cannot follow. Many will escape. If you stay, all will die.
Aye! Aye! All around men saw the sense of that, and cried it.
Hands were pushing and pulling Wallace forward, towards the Bruces.
The 700, or what was left of them, now formed a chaotic barrier between the Bruces and the enemy, those towards the rear turned to face outwards and taking the brunt of a so-far disorganised English attack. Others were mounting fellow-Scots behind them.
Get the Steward, Bruce ordered his brother. He waved to others.
Crawford. Lennox. Scrymgeour. I take Wallace…
A Ma
r-man pushed up with a riderless horse.
Herefor Wallace.
Aye …
Eager, desperate hands were propelling the reluctant giant forward, all but lifting him on to the head-tossing, wild-eyed gar ron He seemed to be no longer actually resisting.
Hardly waiting for the big man to be astride, Bruce grabbed the others reins. A swift glance round had shown him that the only possible route of escape was southwards, up the Westquarter Burn. There were English there, yesbut not in the numbers that were behind them, massing everywhere.
Come! he commanded.
After me. A wedge again. Keep close. He dug in his spurs.
It was a ragged and much smaller wedge that began to form again behind him, to pound away southwards, along the front of spears. Many of his men had fallen, not a few chose their own route of escape, the rear ranks were too closely engaged to break away with the others. But perhaps two hundred could and did obey his call, and made up a formidable enough phalanx for any but an organised English squadron of cavalry to seek to halt.
They were burdened now, of course, with two men to most horses. They had no longer the advantage of a downward slope.
And they were in softer, boggier ground. But this last militated more against the heavier enemy horse than themselves. It was no headlong gallop, but at best a canter. But a determined canter, before which the scattered enemy swerved away, even if thereafter they closed in on the flanks and rear. Indeed, from all sides the English gave chase rather than sought to intercept, but even double-burdened, the nimble hill-ponies were swifter, lighter, than chargers.
Wallace, swaying about alarmingly in the saddle, his long legs
positively trailing the ground, was pounding along between Bruce and
Nigel, who now had the Steward clinging behind him, heavily-armoured and a great weight. Bruce heard trumpets braying a new and distinctive call, from across the valley. He guessed what that meant, and his heart sank.
The arrows began to come at them in a matter of moments thereafter. They were nearing extreme range, and a moving targetbut the bowmen needed only to loose off into the brown mass.
Havoc quickly followed. Nigels horse was one of the first to fall, pierced through the neck, and throwing both riders. They were all but ridden down immediately. Bruce, reining round violently to the right, more uphill, to increase the range and change of direction of flight, yelled for his brother and the Steward to be picked up-but did not himself slacken pace or leave grip of Wallaces reins. Somehow the pack behind him swung after him, their formation much broken. And still the arrows hissed down on them, amid the screams of men and horses.
Bruce was surprised to find his right ankle gripped, and glanced down to see Nigel leaping along beside him, mud covered, bare-headed and lacking his sword now also, but apparently unhurt. Bruce reached down a hand and somehow his brother, after three or four attempts, managed to haul himself up behind him, lying stomach down over the beasts broad and heaving rump.
Steward safe … safe, he gasped in Bruces ear, as he got himself upright.
Many down?
Aye. Curse the bowmen!
Not long now. Range. Too far…
The hail of arrows had at least one advantage; they effectively inhibited over-eagerness on the part of the English pursuers.
These advisedly left a very clear field for their archer colleagues.
Bruce was now leading almost directly uphill towards the wood but perhaps quarter of a mile further south than where they had come down. This meant, of course, that it was the rear ranks of his party which had to take the main punishment from the bowmen, with only the odd spent shaft failing forward amongst the leaders. Only a heroic dolt would have had it otherwiseand Robert Bruce was not that.
At last, in the blessed shelter of the trees, Bruce pulled up his spume-covered, panting, almost foundered horse. All around him others did likewise. Wallace gripped his saddlebow and stared blindly ahead of him, wordless. The Steward came up, spitting blood on a gar ron from which the owner had fallen. Scrymgeour and Blair came running to Wallaces side.
Bruce looked back, downhill, on chaos and confusion. There was no longer any pattern to the scene, only a hopeless medley of men and horses, heaving and surging this way and that, darting, circling eddyingor not moving at all. The schiltroms had finally broken up, and most of the spearmen appeared to be seeking escape through the marshland, where the cavalry could not follow, or even in the loch itself, splashing through the shallows, or swimming in deeper water. Some were fleeing uphill towards these woods. Many would escapebut more would the.
Bruce was looking for more than the fleeing foot. Scattered all over the littered slopes, the remnants of his own seven hundred were striving to make their way up here, in ones and twos and small groups, avoiding contests and heroics. Most seemed to be likely to succeed, with the enemy perhaps lacking in enthusiasm for any difficult chase and the battle won; after all, Edwards host was said to be next to starving, horses fodder as scarce as mens.
Bruce was thankful to see that many of his Northerners were winning clear-for no more than one hundred and fifty had managed to follow immediately at his back.
He turned to Wallace.
You are wounded, Sir William? Can you go on? Sit that beast? Or … shall we make a litter?
The big man stared downwards.
I … am … very well, he said.
That you are not! But can you ride …?
I am very well, he repeated, heavily.
But others … are not.
Those who looked to me …
Here is folly, man! A battle lost, ayebut others to be fought. And won! What good repining …?
So many dead. Fallen. Pate Boyd. Sim Fraser. Rob Keith.
Sir John the Graham. Young Mac Duff of life, the Earls son.
Sir John Stewart…
Aye, my brother, the Steward broke in thickly.
I saw him shot down. An arrow. And my son…? Where is Walter?
I saw him. Taken up on a horse, someone called.
Riding to the north …
Quiet! Bruce burst out, cutting the air with his hand.
Here is no time for this talk. Men have fallen, yes. Fighting. They came to fight-And fall, if need be. Time enough for talk, after. But what now? What to do? Edward will not wait and talk.
Aye- Obviously with a great effort, the dazed Wallace pulled himself
together.
You are right, my lord. And I thank you. We fight on. But not here. We cannot stand south of the Forth. Even at Stirling. Not now. We must rally again in the hills to the north. And burn the land behind us. Burn Stirling. Burn Dunblane. Burn Perth, if need be. Starve them. Starve Englands war host. That is his weakness, now. No more battles, backed by nobles that I cannot trust! I was a fool, to think that I could out-fight Edward Plantagenet, his way. No more! I fight my own way, now. Wallace the outlaw! The brigand …!
You are still Guardian of this land, man.
Ayeand I shall fight Edward with the land. What he can ride over but never defeat. Would God I had used my own wits, instead of listening to others. But it is not too late. While Scotland lives, it is never too late! And Scotland will not, cannot, die. The mans great voice shook with a mighty emotion.
Bruce scarcely shared it.
So it is Stirling now? he demanded impatiently.
Stirling, and beyond. The North?
Yes. Take me to Stirling, my lord. But not the North, for you. The lurking in the hills. The raids by night. The burning.
The ambuscade. The knife in the back. This is no work for great lords! So back to your West, Bruceto your own country. And mine. You claimed to be Governor of the SouthWest, did you not? Go there, then. Hold the SouthWest. Harry the English West March, if you can. While we starve Edward. Raid into England. Nothing will harass hungry men more than t
he word that their homes are threatened, endangered. Go west from Stirling, my lord-and such other lords as are not fled I I shall require the West at your hands.
Bruce eyed him levelly for a moment, and then nodded.
Very well, Sir Guardian. NowStirling…
Chapter Ten
In the selfsame hall of the castle of Ayr where Wallace had hanged Percys deputy sheriff, Arnulf, and where Percy himself resided during the long farcical negotiations of Irvine, Bruce paced the stone-flagged floor, three weeks after the battle of Falkirk.
Only one other man shared the great shadowy apartment with him, its walls still blackened by Wallaces burning, the August evening light slanting in on them through the small high windows. This man sat at the great table, eating and drinking -and doing so in the determined fashion of one hungry, though tired, even if his mind was hardly on what he ate. He was dressed in travel-stained and undistinguished clothingnon-clerical clothing, too, and with dagger still at hip, and a sword laid along the table nearby, strange garb for the Primate of all Scotland. For this was William Lamberton, now duly consecrated and confirmed by the Pope as Bishop of St. Andrews and leader of the Church. A good-looking, strong-featured grave man, youthful seeming for so high an office, at thirty-five, he nevertheless looked older than his years tonight, weary, stern. But he watched Bruce at his pacing, keen-eyed, nevertheless.
It would not serve, the younger man declared, shaking his head.
Not with him, of all men. I could not do it. Besides, Wallace is wrong in this. Mistaken. He should not give up the Guardianship. You must persuade him against it, my lord Bishop.
You do not know William Wallace, if you think I could I Once he has determined a matter in his mind, nothing will shake him. He is now so decided. He deems himself to have failed the realm, at Falkirk fight. To have forfeited the trust of the people …
That is folly. The folk all but worship the man! As they do no other.
Think you that I have not told him so? New back from Rome as I am, I have seen and tested the will of many in this. But he will not hear me. He says that though they still may trust him, he is not fit to be Guardian. That the Guardian must have the support of all the realm. And he has not. The nobles will have none of him …
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