by Robert Low
He scrabbled frantically at the helmet ties, lost in the dark and airless cave of the bucket helm; finally, he tore it off in a mad, frenzied shriek and whooped in a breath, his vision no more than a blur. He saw the man come at him and lifted his good hand, free of weapons, out in front, sobbing with relief and pain. Ransomed.
Fat Davey saw a man fatter by far than himself these days, a man weeping with fear and holding his hand out, pleading for mercy. He had no idea who he was, only what he was.
Nae quarter the day wee mannie, he snarled to himself and drove the pike deep into the three swans on the man’s swollen belly, put his horny, crusted. bare foot on the astonished terror of the man’s iron-framed face and levered the weapon free again.
‘Remember Berwick,’ he growled and moved on.
***
No quarter today, thought Addaf, seeing the horses crashing and falling. Which made this no place for us. He turned to Heydin Captain and saw the grim set of his face.
‘Away lads,’ he heard Heydin say. ‘Away as you value your lives.’
Addaf looked at the bow and the nocked arrow. He had not shot once, he thought with disgust, drew back to his ear in a sudden, swift movement and released the shaft blindly into the air, heard it screech away from him as the air hissed through a maker’s flaw in the head.
He threw the bow-bag to one side and slung the weapon across his back still strung, wincing at what that would do to the tiller. He headed after the others, throwing away the entangling shoes from around his neck, the iron-rimmed hat, unlacing the gambeson as he went.
Down at the river, with the howling at his naked heels, he threw off the precious, expensive gambeson and wondered if he could dog-paddle well enough with a bow in one hand, for he would not give that up save at the very last.
They were broken and Thweng was not surprised. The French Method, he thought bleakly, which means ruin when inflicted on a wall of points. His own horse fretted and mewed from the pain of the great bloody scar down one shoulder, where a pike had torn through the thick padding, spilling out the wool in pink-stained skeins.
The Angels circled and milled, no more than a dozen of them now, balked by spearpoints, reduced to hurling insults and their lances and maces and even their great slitted helmets; he heard one chanting, as if he knelt in the cool still of a chapel – blessed be the Lord my strength, who teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight.
Around him, Thweng saw the foot waver, take a step back, away from the wet-mouthed snarls behind the thicket of steadily approaching spearpoints. A blade was thrown down; a shield was dropped.
Then they were off like a flock of chickens before the fox.
‘The bridge,’ Thweng yelled and pointed. The Angels swung their mounts.
The bridge. The only way left to safety and plugged by a ragged square of points, like a caltrop in the neck of a bottle.
The arrow came out of nowhere, spinning and wobbling, the weight of the bodkin point dragging it down like a stooping hawk and shrieking as the wind howled through a small maker’s flaw.
Moray, who was trying to send the Selkirk bowmen to the right, down the river to dissuade the other two English Battles from crossing, had just turned to Berowald, smiling.
‘Et fuga verterunt angli,’ he had called out and Berowald, who knew the last words embroidered on the cloth story consecrated to Norman victory in Bayeux, waved one hand. And the English fled – he was chuckling at it still when he saw Moray look up at the sound of the thin whistling, his domed, crested helm under one arm so that he could call out clearly. He was smiling, because he knew they had won.
The arrow hit him below the right eye, drove downward, smashed the teeth on his right jaw, came out under the lip of the bascinet, speared through the coif and into the join between neck and shoulder, finding the thin treachery of space between flesh and the protection of padding, iron and maille.
Not long after, a rider churned his way over the litter of bodies and blood and bits that had been men until he found the panting, gasping figure he sought. Clotted with gore to the elbows, his wild hair stiff with it, Wallace snarled like a mad dog, dancing his own bloody jig in the raving centre of a knot of axemen. His new lion-blazoned jupon was shredded and he had long since hurled himself from the unfamiliar horse to fight on foot.
The rider was almost attacked, but someone spotted that he was the Flemish knight, the kin of Moray. Wallace heard the man’s news and the axemen, panting and straining impatiently at the leash to be led back into the mad slaughter, were rocked back on their heels at the great, rolling, dog-howl of pain and anguish that came from the flung-back throat of their hero.
Hal saw the knot of riders split from the mass. The pikes were being flung to one side now, the squares melting away into vengeful packs of men dragging out long daggers, swords and falchions. The kerns and caterans, whooping now, unshouldered the long axes looped on their backs and plunged, like joyful leaping lambs, into the slaughter.
But a knot of riders headed for the brig, led by a man whose silver shield had a red slash and some birds on it. Argent, a fesse gules between three papingoes, vert, Hal translated and grinned to himself, wondering where the Auld Sire was at this moment. The arms of Sir Marmaduke Thweng, he remembered suddenly, the knight who had delivered Isabel and Bisset to the camp at Irvine.
Headed, he saw with a sudden lurch of utter terror, for the ragged knot of wavering spears blocking the escape route, already beset by fleeing hordes of the desperate, where a familiar figure stood in the midst of a misshapen copse of shafts like a rock in a flood.
His father.
‘Sim,’ he bawled and started running, whether Sim followed or not. A figure cannoned into him, realised he was an enemy and spilled away, weaponless and panicked. Another came at him, swinging a sword; Hal took it on the shield, cut left, then right and lurched through the blood the man spewed down his front as he died.
His horse was flagging and, later, Thweng realised it had probably saved him, for it let Angels overtake him and smash into the pikes in front of him, a terrible rending, ripping sound of metal and splintering wood. The French Method, he thought again, seeing a warhorse leap entirely off the ground, as if trying to clear a fence. It smashed down and died almost at once, but the carnage it created broke the hedge of points apart.
Thweng hit the remnants, striking left and right, trotting through almost unopposed, a handful of knights trailing after him. The helmetless, white-haired man weaved out of the press, almost in front of him; behind him came a snarling, stocky figure in a torn, studded coat, who swung the tangle of a blue, white-crossed banner at the legs of Sir Marmaduke’s staggering horse and brought it down.
It was the tourney that saved him, the much-used roll from the saddle of a falling horse that had kept him in the fray many times before. He hit the scarred planks of the bridge and felt the pain lance into his shoulder – dislocated, he thought, perhaps even broken. Then he was up and on his feet, facing the white-haired man, who came at him, shield up, sword ready, his mouth open and gasping from weariness. Behind him, the man with the banner struggled to bring it upright in one hand and fend off the Angels clattering past.
A Sientcler, Thweng saw as his sword spanged off the cock rampant on the shield. Not the Auld Templar of Roslin, though – he took the weak return blow, stepped, half spun, smashed his shield forward despite the pain that stabbed him with and saw the old man go down, the sword spilling from his grasp.
‘My lord…’
An Angel had flung himself from his horse, his earnest bascinet-framed face flushed and concerned. He handed the reins to Thweng in a clear indication and Thweng felt a pang at the youthful, careless courage that put chivalry beyond life. He wondered where along the way he had lost it in himself -then the old man at his feet coughed and stirred.
‘Up,’ he said, dragging the man to his feet. ‘Sir Marmaduke Thweng.’
‘Sir John,’ gasped the man. ‘Herdmanston.’
‘Do y
ou yield?’
‘My lord…’ the Angel said warningly, seeing men spill up the bridge to them. He cast the horse reins at Sir Marmaduke and moved to meet them, shield and sword up.
‘I yield,’ the old man declared.
‘Just as well,’ Thweng answered, dropping his sword and putting a supporting arm round him. He threw the reins away and, supporting the old man, hobbled after the ambling horse.
‘The pair of us are done up.’
Hal saw his father go down and roared. He hit the crush of men around the brig entrance, was caught and held by it like a fly in amber, struggled and cursed and raved to be free. He used his elbows and knees, snarling his way through them, stumbled and fell, found himself staring into the dead, blood-streaked face of John Fenton.
He forced himself up, there was a blow on his back that shot him forward, out of the press and on to his hands and knees again, then Tod’s Wattie was hauling him upright with one hand, the other still clutching the tangle of banner.
‘Yer da,’ he yelled in anguish and Hal followed his gaze, numbed.
Sir Marmaduke Thweng had hauled his father up and the pair of them were lurching away, like drunk friends from an alehouse. Hal screamed with frustration, for he knew his father had yielded.
The knight got in the way. He was off his horse, which wandered absently behind him and a brace of his friends stopped in the middle of the brig, uncertain as to whether to go to his aid, or continue protecting the back of Sir Marmaduke and his prisoner.
Hal knew, with a sinking lurch, that he was too late to free his father – then saw the knight in front of him, yellow surcoat stained and torn, the battered shield scarred, but up and set. Or, three chevrons gules, avec a fleur-de-lis – Hal had no idea who it was, only what it was.
‘Sim, Wattie – tak’ him alive. Alive, ye hear? Ransom.’
Sim heard and knew at once. Ransom this knight in exchange for the Auld Sire – he swung wide and Tod’s Wattie, cursing the flapping tangle of blue banner, went the other. Hal closed in, yelling, ‘Mine.’
Sim swore. If this chivalry matter was to be done right, it had to be Hal who did it, for he was a knight and Sim a commoner to whom no knight would properly yield.
They closed and the knight fell into a crouch, crabbing sideways; arrows wheeped and plunked round them – short dropshots, Hal realised, from the English bowmen on the far side, shooting overhead at their Scots counterparts.
He was fast and skilled, the knight. A tourney knight, Hal thought, used to rough and tumble, but not what was happening out in the pows and burns, where the kerns and caterans were butchering with no thought of ransoms, screaming ‘Berwick’ as a watchword.
Hal snarled and swung a sideways scythe that struck the knight’s sword and made the man yelp, the clang of it belling out. He fell back, hefted the shield and launched himself at Hal.
A point flashed, Hal twisted sideways, gasping as the cold slither of it rasped past his cheek, skidding along the maille coif, dangerously close to his eyes. He felt the skin-crawling lack of a helmet of any kind, turned fear to anger and swung; he felt the blow, heard the clang and then was away.
A cut left, then right; the knight whirled the sword in a fancy display of wrist and strength, closed in again, slammed his shield into Hal’s and staggered him, hooked it to one side, stabbed viciously so that his blade again glissaded along the maille on one side with a snake hiss.
The knight knew how to use sword and shield and Hal buckled under his attacks, while Sim growled, watching the men on the far side, trying to keep an eye on Hal, so that he could leap in if things went badly wrong.
The next blow tore wood and leather from Hal’s shield, bounced up and spanged off his helmet. Sweat stung his eyes and he could barely see, his breath loud and rasping in his ears. His limbs were made of melting wax and the sword seemed to have gained three times its old weight.
He knew he was done and the next blow ripped the sword from his grasp. He heard the knight cry out in triumph, thought of his father and gave a roar, hurling himself at the man like a battering ram. His head caught the man’s metal framed cheek and stars burst in his head; yet he heard the knight yell, high and thin with shock.
They went over in a crashing tangle of metal and grunts, Hal flailing his way past the knight’s shield, battering his bare face with quick, ugly stabs of his forehead, pounding the man with huge two-handed blows of his own shield.
He crashed the sharp end of it just below the man’s breastbone and heard the air drive out of the knight like a sick cow dying. He heard himself scream; his mouth was full of the salted metal taint of his own blood and his head throbbed with the thundering of his heart. He lost the shield, grabbed the knight’s bloody head and slammed it again and again into the timbers of the bridge, so that the bascinet turned slick with gore.
Then, suddenly, Hal was upright, weaving and staggering. The knight lay gasping, bloody, half-blind, dazed, astonished. This was not Tourney. Not even the worst of Melee was like this…
‘Sir Henry Sientcler,’ Hal yelled in French. ‘Do you yield?’
The fallen knight acknowledged it with a weak flap of one gauntlet.
‘Sir Richard Fitzralph,’ he replied in a weak voice, thick blood and mushed with the loss of teeth. ‘I am an Angel.’
‘If you do not yield,’ Hal bellowed, all courtly French lost, ‘ye will be singing with them, certes.’
‘I yield.’
Thank Christ, Hal thought and slumped, panting, to the slick planks of the brig.
‘My lord, where is Cressingham?’
Thweng turned as the rider came up, his face stiff with shock and bewilderment. The Main and Rear battles waited in serried ranks to cross, but fully a third of the army was gone and Thweng looked wearily up at him, then back across at the carnage.
‘Almost certainly dead,’ he said and the knight’s face paled, throwing his neatly clipped black beard into sharper focus ‘Taken, surely, my lord.’
Thweng turned to look at the maggot boil across the bridge, the howling, shrieking slaughter of it, then turned back into the knight’s shocked gaze and said nothing at all, which spoke loudly enough to turn the knight’s face paler still.
‘What should I do?’ the knight said uncertainly and Thweng pointed a weary flap of hand back to the eyrie perch of Stirling Castle, where he knew De Warenne watched.
‘Who are you?’ he asked and the knight, for all his shock, drew himself up a little. Proud, this one, Thweng thought wearily, to be so vainglorious in the face of all this.
‘Sir Robert Malenfaunt,’ the knight answered, his saturnine face sheened with sweat and so pale now that Thweng thought the man might faint at any moment. One of Lord Ughtred of Scarborough’s men, he recalled, and part of the retinue from Bamburgh.
‘Gather oil and anything that will burn,’ he said. ‘In a little while, a messenger will arrive and tell you to torch the bridge and retire.’
Malenfaunt nodded dumbly and Thweng could see the relief in him, that there had been a plan for this moment. There had not, Thweng knew, but it is what he would have done. In the end, it was what must be done – though God save us all when Longshanks hears of this.
There had been a moment when Malise felt the fire of it course in his blood, when he saw the blocked shapes crash on one another and heard the distant rumbling roar, the strange eldritch shriek of dying horses brought by a stray tendril of wind.
By Gods Wounds, he exulted, we are winning this. Scots are winning this. Then sense flooded back and doused any flames of triumphant passion. Rebels were winning this and so the Buchan and Comyn cause was not served by it, no matter how huggingly gleeful the thought of such a victory might be.
He hunched himself back on the horse and urged it on up the slope of Abbey Craig. This was none of his business, he reasoned. His business was with the Countess and a Savoyard mystery.
It took him until the sun was sinking to get to the baggage camp, which swarmed like crows on a p
loughed field, and Malise was barely challenged, for the only men he saw were the ones hauling themselves in, or being helped by friends. Blood skeins slicked back and forth, giant slimed snail-trails marking the wounded and dying brought out of the fighting; no-one here knew who was winning.
He found himself numbed, almost fixed by the screaming, groaning, dying horror of it, managed to snag a passing brown-robed figure.
‘Countess of Buchan,’ he growled and the priest, his eyes haunted and the hem of his robe sodden with blood, blinked once or twice, then pointed to a bower with a drunken cross leaning sideways outside.
‘Hold him,’ he heard as he came closer. ‘Hold him – Jeannie, cut there. There – that’s it. Now stitch that bit back together.’
She turned as he came in and her eyes widened a little, then went flat and cold. She was bloody to the elbow, her green dress stained, her cheeks streaked. Hair fluttered from under the creased ruin of her wimple.
‘Come to help? Well done, Malise… take the legs of this one.’
Dumbly, Malise realised he had done it only when he was lifting the man. On the other side, the Dog Boy held the shoulders and tried not to look Malise in the eye.
‘Over there,’ Isabel said and was amazed when Malise obeyed like a packhorse to the rein. It was only when he realised that the man he carried was dead and he was stacking him with a host of others, like cut logs, that Malise stopped, then stared at the Dog Boy.
‘I know you,’ he declared, then curled his mouth in a sneer and dropped the legs. ‘The wee thief from Douglas.’
The weight of the released dead man dragged the shoulders from the Dog Boy’s grip and the man lolled, his head bouncing.
‘No thief now,’ the Dog Boy spat back, though his heart was a frantic bird in the cage of his chest. ‘Ye have drapped him short. Do ye pick him up, or leave me to struggle?’
Malise took a step, his mouth working and his face blackening, but found the Dog Boy crouching like a snarling terrier, not about to back away. It astounded him as much as it did the Dog Boy, but Isabel’s voice cut through the moment.