The Fall of the Templars

by Robyn Young

  “The longer we dally, the more resources are drained,” said Cressingham, into de Warenne’s taut silence. “Lord Edward wants this rebellion crushed quickly, so he can concentrate his efforts in Flanders. Those were our orders. Besides, the men are impatient.” He flung a stubby hand behind him. “The youngbloods are keen to fight. Let us loosen their leashes.”

  The earl wanted nothing more than to kick the fat treasurer from his saddle, but he bit back his temper. Cressingham had launched himself with gusto into his appointment, and even with rumors that he was scraping a percentage off the revenues his sheriffs collected, he was still favored by Edward. De Warenne, on the other hand, had spent most of his time as lieutenant of Scotland on his Yorkshire estates, hunting and feasting, with little thought for the realm he was governing. In his notable absence, Cressingham had become Edward’s eyes and ears in Scotland, and however much he loathed the official, de Warenne now had no choice but to heed his counsel. Cressingham had already sent a company of reinforcements back to Berwick to save funds. He had the authority to do more damage, if pushed.

  “We will give it another hour. If the Dominicans haven’t returned by then, we cross.” Not allowing Cressingham time to reply, John de Warenne wheeled his destrier around and rode back to where his knights were waiting. Despite his tension, he was confident that the two friars he had sent to parley with the Scots would return. He was also confident of the answer they would bring and that this would settle any further debate. The Scots were outnumbered and outmatched. They were peasants, led by outlaws and thieves. What contest were they against the cream of England’s nobility? They would surrender.

  But although the Dominicans did return, their ragged robes whipping about them as they crossed the causeway like birds of ill omen, they did not bear the tidings the earl of Surrey expected.

  The generals of the English Army gathered on foot outside de Warenne’s tent to hear the verdict, the wet grass staining the hems of their surcoats and glistening on their mailed boots.

  “Well?” demanded Cressingham, as the friars approached. “What did the brigands say?”

  “The Scots will not surrender,” replied one of the friars grimly. “They want to fight.”

  One voice rose above the exclamations of angry surprise. “Want to fight?” scoffed Henry Percy, an ambitious young lord, whose star was rising in the English royal court, along with his fortunes. “Do the churls even know what faces them?”

  “They know,” replied the second friar. “But their leader, Wallace, said they would rather die than live another day under English rule.”

  This time, along with the mutters, were snorts of laughter.

  “Wallace said they were there to avenge their country and their dead,” continued the Dominican gravely, “not to make peace with tyrants. He said he would prove this to our very beards.”

  The snorts died away. A couple of younger lords spoke up.

  “Then let us give them what they want!”

  “Prove it to our beards? We’ll prove it in their gullets!”

  De Warenne, whose spirits had sunk with the news, now stirred, his resolve settling in him. “Their decision has been made and let the Scots rue it. Our decision rests on where to make their graves. In their present position, they have the advantage.” He turned to one of the friars. “Was our guess of their numbers correct?”

  “They have many foot soldiers. But only a handful of cavalry.”

  A couple of the generals offered their opinions, but over them all Cressingham’s shrill voice rang. “I do not see what decision there is to be made. You already gave the order to cross the bridge,” he added to de Warenne. “Let the men now follow that command and have at it! Enough money and time has been wasted with all this vacillation.”

  De Warenne’s cheeks darkened, but before he could respond, an officer from Percy’s retinue spoke.

  “I understand Earl de Warenne’s reluctance,” he said, inclining his head to the brooding earl. “The bridge is narrow and the terrain beyond treacherous. But there is a ford not far upriver, where at low tide many more men could cross at once. The area is heavily wooded and we could approach from the north in secret. While our infantry cross here, luring the Scots to attack, we can come at them from behind.”

  De Warenne frowned thoughtfully at this suggestion, but it was hard enough to think with his head thick from a bad night’s sleep, harder still with all the generals shouting over one another.

  Yet again, Cressingham’s was the voice that prevailed. “No. Waiting for low tide will add hours more to this needless delay. Let us stop arguing and cross the damn river! Once the Scots see us marching, they will most likely turn tail and flee. If not, we will destroy them where they stand. They had the advantage at Dunbar,” he said shortly, to de Warenne, “and you made butchery of them there. And that was the feudal host of Scotland, not a gang of ill-disciplined peasants.”

  “I agree,” said Percy determinedly.

  No one dared disagree with two of their leaders. All eyes now turned to de Warenne, who looked from the young lord to Cressingham. Not only was Percy favored in court and fired with ambition, he had also brought three hundred knights and eight thousand foot to the battlefield. To fight Cressingham and his tight purse strings was risky, to fight Percy as well was folly. Besides, he had given the order for the army to cross last night; he had thought it the best way then. The earl rubbed irately at his brow. He wanted to lie down for a few more hours until he could think clearly. But he needed to make a decision. “Very well,” he growled. “We cross the bridge.”

  THE SCOTTISH CAMP, NEAR STIRLING, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 11, 1297 AD

  Will shortened the reins as his horse, a smoke-gray gelding, tossed its head agitatedly. All the mounts were growing restless, feeling the tension in their riders, lined up on a gentle slope, watching the English cross the river.

  It was an awe-inspiring sight.

  First across the bridge came the Welsh archers with their longbows, the deadly range and power of which was just becoming known, and dreaded. In their midst, banner bearers marched, hoisting the flags and pennants of their leaders high. The colors shone: blue and purple, yellow and red, the flags adorned with stags and lions, griffins and eagles. Behind rode great barons and lords, surrounded by knights and squires, the iron-shod hooves of their armored destriers pounding a tattoo across the wooden bridge, the waters of the Forth swirling dark beneath them. Next came the foot soldiers, their helmets and swords a sea of bobbing light, channeling across the bridge then fanning out to flood the fields around the causeway. Once over the bridge, a company of horsemen, fifty strong, broke off from the main host, now heading down the causeway toward Abbey Craig. This company lined up in tight formation on the edge of the bank to cover the advance. It was slow, steady progress. Behind, on the south side of the river beneath Stirling Castle, the bulk of the English Army waited, ranks drawn up, thousands upon thousands, ready to cross when the lines in front had gone on ahead. Over the rumble of the hooves, horns bellowed, resounding across the plain, all the way to the Scottish host waiting on the hillside.

  Will squinted against the sun’s glare. Even at this distance and with the enormous mass of men, he couldn’t see the distinctive white block that would indicate a company of Templars anywhere in the English force. The lack of them made him wonder briefly if Edward was getting less support for his war, but he thought it more likely that the king felt so confident of the outcome of the campaign he hadn’t called upon the order’s service. Edward hadn’t even come himself. It was rumored he was in Flanders, fighting the French.

  “Mother of God.”

  Will glanced around at the murmur. A young Irishman, mounted at his side, was staring at the advancing army in appalled fascination. He was one of Stephen’s men.

  The man caught Will’s eye. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  Will thought of Antioch and Acre.

  When he nodded, the Irishman blew through his cheeks. �
��Mother of God,” he said again, his gaze pulled back to the English host.

  He wasn’t the only one showing his nerves. Everywhere Will looked, he saw wide eyes and rigid faces, veins pulsing in necks locked with tension, hunched shoulders, glistening lines of sweat. Fear was infectious. It seeped from the one hundred and sixty cavalry into their horses and spread out across the slopes creeping over the ten thousand foot soldiers arrayed there, under the joint command of William Wallace and Andrew de Moray.

  Last night had been different. Listening to the men around the blazing campfires, their laughter and their songs, Will sensed only their confidence. But rather than concerning him, as it had the previous year when he rode into Scotland to discover a nation keen, but sorely unprepared, he found himself lifted by it. They had learned their lessons hard during Edward’s invasion, from the brutal sack of Berwick to the imprisonment of their king and their own persecution. Their confidence now was tougher, born partly out of the remarkable victories achieved by Wallace and de Moray, but more from a growing patriotism that unified them in common cause, binding them in loss and longing. More than anything else, that sense of unity had been visible to Will last night, hearing these lowborn men, brought together from across the realm, talking of their families and homes. Unlike the English soldiery, many of whom had been pressed or enticed into service, these Scottish peasants had come freely to these sunlit hills. They weren’t landed knights or mighty earls, few of them wore the mail armor donned by the English; some were even barefoot and bare-chested, clutching spears and axes, dirks and clubs. But against the odds and despite their fear, they stood there all the same, ranged before one of the most formidable armies in the world.

  Somewhere in the throng were David and Simon. Will scanned the sprawling infantry lines, but couldn’t see them. He prayed fervently that whatever happened to him, his nephew would live through this. Their leaving had hit Ysenda hard, David forced to pull himself out of her embrace, leaving her weeping bitterly in Christian’s arms, as the Scottish host rode out of Selkirk Forest.

  Turning back to watch the English come, Will felt his heart settle into a determined rhythm that beat in time with their drums. As the inexperienced troops around him fidgeted and murmured, toyed with weapons and needed to piss, he felt his own nerves falling away to be replaced by solid calm. There was a peace that came with the decision to fight. It was like a stone falling in the center of him; a heavy resolve, grounding him. No turning back now. Soon that calm would rise into anticipation. His heart would pick up pace and the blood would throb in his temples. Then it would begin to feel like a thrill and he would grin as he couched his lance, fixed his eyes on a target. Aimed.

  The sun was rising higher. It was almost mid-morning. Will guessed around seven thousand had crossed the bridge. The signal would come any moment. In expectation, he raised his eyes to the rocky summit of Abbey Craig, where he knew Wallace and de Moray, along with their generals, would be watching the English advance. They had set their trap late last night in a closed war council. Will, hearing the audacious plan as he was given his orders that morning, began to understand just how Wallace, the younger son of a minor knight, had accomplished what he had these past years. Despite the fact that the young giant was almost half his age, he found himself as inspired by him as he once was by men like his father, Owein and Everard.

  We are here to fight in the name of King John! Wallace had roared at the troops as they had drawn up. We are here to fight for the sons and daughters of Scotland, crushed beneath the heels of tyrants!

  As a blast from a deep-voiced horn rang from the top of Abbey Craig, Will felt a rush of blood go through him. The sound resonated across the hills, drowning the English trumpets and sending a shiver of anticipation through the Scots. Will leveled his spear, bracing it against his body, as battle cries sounded all around him.

  We are here to fight for our lands and our livelihoods.

  Together, the Scottish force charged. First the cavalry, Will among them, sweeping down from the shallow hills toward the head of the causeway, beneath the shadow of Abbey Craig.

  We are here to fight for our liberty.

  Behind came the infantry, a huge, ragged wave, surging over the fields. The right wing of this force, made up of spearmen, split away from the main group at a shout from one of their commanders. They sprinted hard to the south, making for Stirling Bridge, where the fifty horsemen were lined up covering the English troops, still advancing.

  As Will rode, the world rushing past, his body jarred by the ferocious stride of his horse, Wallace’s words reverberated in him. They echoed, louder and faster, until they became his own. His fight. His reasons for being there. Like this small Scottish force against the English might, like David and Goliath, it was him against Edward; a knight against a king. Edward wasn’t here, but his army, his pride was. That was something. That was enough. Hatred swelled in him, firing his blood, making him slam his spurs into the sides of his horse, his lips pulling back in a savage grin inside his helmet. The lines of soldiers ahead were coming rapidly up before him, horses wheeling around, shields rising, lances leveling. They were the soldier who had run Tom through like he was nothing and the tax collector who had stabbed Duncan in the back. They were no longer men, but pieces of Edward to be hacked away.

  Arrows stabbed down as the Welsh archers on the causeway let fire. But the Scots came on, fast and furious. Horses leapt up and over as some mounts crashed into the earth, baying in pain, struck by the feathered missiles. Men lurched from saddles and were slammed into the ground. Some rolled and staggered to their feet. Others didn’t. From the lower slopes of Abbey Craig, the generals, led by Wallace and de Moray, swept onto the plain to join the main force. Wallace roared as he rode, whirling a massive axe.

  With a convulsive clang of swords and spears, armor and shields, the Scottish cavalry punched into the English on the causeway. Their own horses, lighter and sturdier, fared better on the boggy ground than the English war-chargers, weighed down by armor and trappings. Will fixed on a man in a faceless helmet and thrust out with his spear. His momentum carried the iron tip straight through the man’s mail shirt, snapping rings apart, to sink through the padding beneath and into his chest. As the man was thrown back, the spear was wrenched from Will’s hand. Drawing his falchion he continued on, driving into the English ranks. His grandfather’s blade, although much shorter than a cavalry sword, was nonetheless effective in these close quarters. Pressed in by men on all sides, he had little room to maneuver, let alone swing a broadsword, but with the falchion he could jab and stab at those around him. His horse was knocked in the press. It reared up, eyes rolling, and crashed into another beside it. A sword whistled past Will, missing his neck by inches, another smashed into his helmet, concussing him. Guiding his horse with his knees, he raised his wooden shield to block impact after impact, the blows jarring his arm.

  Wallace, meanwhile, had cut a bloody swathe through half a dozen English knights, to thunder into the lines of Welsh archers, still firing at the Scottish infantry sprinting across the fields. The archers scattered as he charged them, his axe felling men as if they were stalks of corn.

  As this fierce combat settled in around the north end of the causeway, the Scottish infantry barreled into the English foot soldiers, now fanning out to meet them. Among them ran David, his thoughts burning with his father’s image and fueled by the need for revenge. He held a long spear that he pointed at the men speeding up to meet him, holding it balanced as Wallace had taught him. Close behind was Simon, no longer in his sergeant’s garb. He too wielded a spear.

  Ten thousand foot soldiers slammed into the English advance with shocking force. Men screamed as they were lanced with spears. Exposed flesh was slashed open, skulls crushed. Their feet churned the boggy ground into a slick, black mud as they pushed against one another, face to snarling face. But the English were outnumbered and many of the infantry were pushed back toward the Forth, the banks of which crumbled away behind
them. The water was deep and those who fell or were pushed drowned trying to swim to the far shore, weighed under by armor. The English knights and commanders, stretched thinly along the causeway, were too far apart and too involved in the battle to marshal their scattering infantry effectively.

  While the main Scottish force struck at the advance, the right wing of spearmen who broke away at the start of the charge were slicing a path through the fifty English cavalry protecting the bridge. The ground here was even marshier and the knights floundered in the mud, their horses slipping and stumbling as they led a futile charge against the incoming Scots. A few tried to ride back across the bridge to escape the ferocious onslaught. This caused a violent stampede as men on the other side surged forward to aid their comrades and those being hacked at by the Scots tried to retreat. Horses bucked and reared in the melée, trampling men beneath hooves or knocking them from the bridge. There were several huge splashes as horses tumbled in, their riders throwing themselves from saddles to plunge into the swirling waters. Men flailed for a moment, mouths gasping, before sinking. Others clung to the bridge piers, but were pierced by spears launched from the Scots crowding the banks.

  Will blocked the sword of a knight with his shield, hefted the blade away, then stuck the man through the throat. As the knight slipped from his saddle and caught in the stirrup, his horse bolted. In the gap, Will spurred his mount up onto the causeway, now littered with bodies. Sweat stung his eyes as he drove through a group of English foot soldiers. Ahead, he saw Wallace. The young giant had been unhorsed and fought on foot, swinging his claymore in two-handed strokes. The blade carved through anyone who stood against him, ripping through armor and flesh. He was covered in blood and his eyes were wild. Adam fought at his side, slick with sweat and splattered with mud, his club swinging out, pulverizing jaws and skulls. Together, the cousins were a fearsome sight. As he kicked his horse toward the fray, Will saw an archer rising to his feet, bow in his hands. Swiping an arrow from his quiver, the man fixed it and aimed at Wallace.