An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  “And today?” queried Hereford.

  “He merely hopes to scare us off. But I shall not be intimidated by the brute. The initiative lies entirely with us, I tell you. The only thing remaining to be known is how many of his own the Bruce is prepared to sacrifice before he flees back into the hills. I say we sleep well tonight, and tomorrow, when our men and horses are refreshed, we move on to Stirling and wrest control of this land once and for all from Robert Bruce. We have finally arrived at the very heart of Scotland. He who controls Stirling controls the north. We are safely across the burn and need but march the remaining two miles to the castle. If Bruce proves stubborn, then we shall attack and rout him. His paltry force of foot soldiers will be no match for our cavalry. I tell you, the battle of Stirling is already won!”

  None responded further. The King had made his will explicit.

  The order was given not to rouse the men by trumpet until half past six. They needed a good night’s sleep.

  Twenty-Seven

  Humphrey de Bohun of Hereford left Edward’s tent some minutes later and walked slowly back to his own. It was late and as dark as it would get. His men were exhausted, and he heard snoring all around him.

  He stopped and looked out westward, up the hill away from their camp. There the distant fires of the Scots camp twinkled like a hundred earth-stars.

  What will the morrow bring? Hereford thought.

  Bruce was a shrewder man than either Edward or Gloucester gave him credit for. Against Hereford’s own foolhardy nephew he had today shown clearly enough what he thought of retreat. Young Henry had possessed the same advantage over Bruce’s small light battle-axe as Edward’s army possessed in numbers over the Scots. Bruce had not retreated a step, and now Henry was dead.

  Hereford sat down to remove his soggy boots. He had stepped in four or five bogs and small streams, one to his knees, before arriving back at his tent. This marshland was an evil place, he thought to himself. A gloomy sense of foreboding passed over him.

  But there was nothing he could do. He had voiced his cautions. Neither the King nor his would-be commander had heeded them.

  He lay down with a sigh. It was time to see what sleep he could manage. Tomorrow’s fate would have to decide itself.

  Twenty-Eight

  A mile and a half from where the earl of Hereford slept uneasily, Robert Bruce paced anxiously about, squinting down across the incline at the English in the same way that Edward’s displaced high constable had earlier eyed him.

  What were the English planning?

  Bruce knew but one thing—that he could not wait for Monday morning to dawn. His most important ally was surprise. The strategic position of the two armies offered him an unthinkable advantage, more than he had dared dream of. If he would seize it to full measure, he must move before the sun.

  This time it would not be trumpets that would awaken his men, but whispers.

  Sometime between three and four in the morning, Bruce personally shook his commanders awake.

  “Up . . . rouse the host—prepare your men as quietly as possible.”

  It was a simple order, and soon whispering circulated quietly through the camp, effecting a stirring that took considerably longer than one done with the assistance of bugles.

  It was the day of the Feast of St. John the Baptist, and again the morning began with Mass. Once more the night’s fast was broken with bread and water.

  The King sought his mount—this time a sturdy war horse—which was saddled and ready, held by his groom.

  “The morning of battle has come, MacDarroch,” he said, taking the reins from his groom. “It seems your suggested ploy has worked. Edward has been lured across the Bannock. Now we must see what we can do with him.”

  He paused, took the reins, then added, “The clergy, packhorses, porters, and other grooms are already making their way to the high ground on the ridge north of St. Ninian’s. The attack will be visible from there. Will you join them?”

  “As I said before, I will march at your side if you will have me.”

  “I believe you,” said Bruce. “But a good groom is difficult to find. I would be loath to lose you.”

  “The decision is yours,” replied Donal. “I will do as you command. But if you will have me among your men, my lord, I will take my place with those who fight for Scotland’s freedom.”

  “You are the bravest groom I have ever met,” remarked the Bruce.

  “You spoke the words two nights ago in your tent, my lord.”

  “What words?”

  “You said it was time to lay claim to the birthright of the land of our fathers. Though royal blood does not flow in my veins as yours, no less is Scotland the land of my fathers and my heritage. No less, therefore, am I prepared to die for the freedom of my land and defend the honor of its name.”

  The Bruce stood as one transfixed by the words, listening as to a Celtic prophet rather than to the nineteen-year-old who had charge of his horse. The words penetrated the King’s heart, as if giving voice to the courage he prayed the rest of his force likewise felt. He found himself momentarily speechless.

  At last the King spoke. “Hail Caledonia!” he said. No other words seemed appropriate.

  “Hail Caledonia!” repeated Donal.

  The two men clasped hands, the King of the land and the young groom who was descended from another who might have ruled Caledonia, but chose instead to roam its Highlands. The eyes of the two met, as if in that moment a silent bond had made of them equals.

  Robert Bruce now mounted, swung his horse around, and rode to the head of the army.

  He had already made the situation plain to his commanders, and they now began to marshal their men according to the plan.

  The schiltrons of the four divisions would leave their high defensive positions to form a tightly compacted arc stretching from the ridge at St. Ninian’s around to the bridge across the Bannock at Milton. If they could move this arc forward while the English were yet spread out on the south of the carse, and if Edward Bruce could bring his division far enough along the road to his right, preventing retreat across the bridge over which they had come the evening previous, the vastly superior English army would find themselves hemmed in on three sides by water.

  As silently as possible, the Scots commanders moved their divisions into position—Edward Bruce on the far right closest to Milton, Randolph next to him, Douglas and the Steward next, with King Robert following slightly back and far to the left near St. Ninian’s.

  The misty gray light of dawn had still not given way to sunrise when the silent advance began on foot down the mile-long gradual incline toward where the English camp still slept. No sounds disturbed the morning air. Hushed footsteps crept across the soft terrain, betraying nothing of their approach toward the Bannock Burn.

  Twenty-Nine

  The earl of Hereford had been awake since shortly after four.

  He was exhausted, but could not sleep. Never had he felt so trapped.

  Dawn was coming at the edge of the eastern sky. He could lie still no longer. Even though he had been stripped of command, his senses still reacted as a leader. He must be up to assess the situation.

  He rose, pulled on his wet boots, and strode out into the misty pale light.

  All was silent. Most of the army still slept. It was an eerie quiet, he thought, that spread out over the flatland. The sensation did nothing to dispel the anxiety that had plagued him all night. Picking his way through the bog, finding patches of dry earth as best he could, he walked to the western limit of the camp near the edge of the meadow where the ground began to rise.

  It was from this side that he intuitively sensed danger. To the west lay the high ground, the hard dry earth . . . and to the west was encamped the Scots army.

  He reached the sentry outposts.

  “My lord,” one of the guards greeted him.

  Hereford nodded.

  “Any sign of activity?” he asked, tilting his head westward.


  “All is quiet, sir,” answered the man.

  The earl glanced about, then continued along the sentry line, greeting the guard units somberly as he went, straining his eyes and ears for any hint of danger.

  The sense of eeriness deepened. A presence was about . . . an invisible presence. He did not like the feel of this morning air. Light from the coming sun was just beginning to send a thin orange line up the horizon behind him. Hereford, however, was preoccupied with thoughts of what might be approaching from the opposite direction.

  He glanced again westward, for the dozenth time.

  He could make out no fires from the Scots camp. He had not realized it before, but all was deathly quiet up the hill where the night before had been scattered hundreds of campfires.

  Unconsciously Hereford’s step turned onto the carse west of the sentry outposts. Slowly he began to walk toward the plain.

  Something was wrong! He could feel it, but he could not identify—

  Suddenly he arrested his steps and froze. A chill swept down his spine.

  Had he detected movement out against the gray horizon, mingled with the dark shapes of trees in New Park?

  He squinted.

  Panic surged through his frame as he unconsciously sucked in a sharp breath of shock.

  The entire host of Scots was moving against them!

  Hereford turned and sprinted back for the closest sentry unit.

  “Sound the alarm!” he cried.

  The guard hesitated.

  “Blow your trumpet, man—Bruce is upon us!”

  Within seconds, as Hereford made for the main camp, the sound of bugles broke the stillness—first one, then two, then everywhere trumpets sounded shrilly through the thin fog.

  Already King Edward and the earl of Gloucester had leapt to their feet to see what was the commotion.

  Thirty

  The moment Bruce heard the English bugles, he knew the element of surprise must be grabbed quickly if it was to weigh to his advantage.

  No one had seen the form of Hereford, but it didn’t matter. They had been spotted. They must push the charge immediately.

  Within seconds Bruce’s own trumpeters were sounding the alerting flourish.

  Onward they came, running now, down the plain . . . toward destiny.

  From the carse, in the midst of which he and his nephew still did not fully divine their great peril, England’s Edward II stood surrounded by his commanders. It was light enough now to see the approaching Scots army. Yet still the astonished King did not believe they would actually attack.

  “They . . . they will not fight—surely they do not mean to engage us?” he said in continuing disbelief. “They are on foot. They will not go against a fully mounted cavalry!”

  Edward’s commanders gave no response to his words.

  At last the grim truth began to dawn on them—even as their thousands of troops rushed to ready themselves for battle—that closer heed should have been given to Hereford’s warnings of the previous night.

  “Will they fight?” the King said again.

  At last one of his men replied.

  “They will fight,” said Ingram de Umfraville. The measured determination of the tone of his voice left no further doubt in the rest of their minds. If anyone would know the disposition of the Scots, it was Ingram. He had once been a guardian of Scotland but had joined Edward’s cause and was now Bruce’s enemy.

  “They will fight,” he repeated almost to himself. “You may depend on it.”

  Thirty-One

  Robert the Bruce, self-proclaimed King of Scotland, was about to wage battle to determine whether the kingship he had claimed at Scone eight years before would endure or whether it would end with the spilling of his own blood into the waters of the Bannock.

  He spurred his mount quickly to the front of his men, dismounted, took the Brecbennoch of St. Columba from the hands of Abbot Bernard, then sank to one knee.

  “In the name of God and John the Baptist, and with the help of St. Andrew of Scotland, we hereby commence battle for the just cause of Scotland’s freedom and independence!”

  He rose and turned to face his army. Already half of them had sunk to their knees and were intoning the Lord’s Prayer, some in murmurs, others in shouts.

  The other half, motivated less from piety and more with sound battle instincts, took opportunity of the brief halt to tighten the formations of their schiltrons and sink their spears into the ground toward the English horsemen who were already massing.

  Suddenly the King of England came to attention where he stood with his generals. He peered excitedly into the distance.

  “Look!” he cried, pointing westward. “I knew they would not risk it. They will not engage. See, they have stopped. They yield already!”

  His companions followed his gesture. There could be little doubt a sudden change had indeed come among the ranks of the Scots. But what?

  “They have seen the size of our force and know that to advance further is suicide,” Edward went on excitedly. “Look, I tell you—they kneel there, on the open plain! They plead for mercy.”

  “Not from you, my lord King, I fear,” said Hereford, whose eyes on this morning proved sharper than the King’s, just as his senses had been on the previous night.

  “What do you mean?” barked Edward.

  “They pause to kneel, it is true,” replied the earl. “But it is to God they pray, not the King of England.”

  Bruce handed the Brecbennoch back to the Abbot. He remounted his steed, then drew out his large two-handed sword and raised it aloft over his head.

  “God be with you!” shouted Bruce. “For Scotland, for honor—and for freedom!”

  A great cry went up. The host of Robert the Bruce surged forward.

  They were already well down the slope toward the carse and found the footing increasingly difficult—but not so bad as the English cavalry found it as soon as it was mounted and attempted to move toward the advancing Scots.

  Even as the Scots were praying and gathering themselves, the young earl of Gloucester—perhaps to show himself a better commander on this than on the day before and to rectify his contribution to the now-apparent colossal blunder of positioning—was frantically rallying his squadrons. He set his sights on his first objective: the bridge at Milton. His company had bivouacked nearest it and would have the best chance to seize and hold the bridgehead against any Scottish attempt to escape. Already Gloucester was leading his men toward it with trumpets blasting away.

  The going for the hoofed beasts beneath them, however, was nearly impossible. Hereford’s warnings had underestimated the trouble many times over. The English troops had come across here to make camp last evening easily enough, keeping in single file and managing to probe their way by circuitous pathways on dry ground. But now, suddenly, in attempted charge, the same route became impassable. Everywhere through the marsh lurked streams and sump holes, ditches, and marshy ground that acted like quicksand for the heavy-footed creatures.

  From the west, Edward Bruce had observed Gloucester’s ploy and immediately recognized the bridge as his objective. He must secure it first!

  The moment the elder Bruce lowered his sword, the brother of the King sent his division sprinting for the bridge. The enemy was mounted, it was true. But through the carseland, bounding and jumping and vaulting over brooks and canals and puddles, the Scots came on foot from the opposite site and made much quicker work of it. Bruce’s men reached the bridge in a yelling human tide about the same time as a handful of Gloucester’s mounted soldiers.

  Now the eight- and ten-foot poles by which they had formed their schiltrons proved to be effective offensive weapons as well. Jabbing and thrusting at both riders and beasts, the Scots soon dispatched Gloucester’s advance party. Terrified and wounded horses screamed and kicked and reared, then sprinted off riderless to safety, while the blood of their masters gave the Scots their first victory and temporary control of the bridge.

  The earl of Glou
cester himself, however, and much more of his cavalry were arriving on the scene rapidly.

  “Into schiltrons!” shouted Edward Bruce.

  Well practiced at the exercise, his battalion hastened into two ovals next to each other at the very entry to the bridge. Thrusting their long lances into the ground and angling them in an outward fan all round, Bruce’s men presented two huge battlefield hedgehogs to the English horsemen, and at the end of each quill stood an angry Scot!

  No solid ground existed on which the horsemen could assemble into a widespread attack position. Lead riders plunged at the Scots, but swords and even lances were too short to penetrate the schiltrons. From behind them their comrades were arriving. But as the horses pushed their way forward, they gradually shoved the first arrivals straight into the deadly spears.

  Gloucester’s cavalry attack fell apart into chaos. Circling the twin hedgehogs, nowhere could they find an opening by which to penetrate, while one by one the long poles of the Scots poked and stabbed and knocked the riders away. Panicked and whinnying horses plunged and reared.

  Sensing that an opportunity for heroism had befallen him, the impulsive nephew of the King circled around to the opposite side, ordered his men away, then spurred his horse forward and straight into the narrow gap between the two schiltrons. He would break their flank himself. His men would follow and overwhelm them!

  But his confused and constricted battalion did not follow. Seeing him suddenly alone and isolated, the screaming Scots pikemen attacked and drove the earl of Gloucester from his horse, then broke forward in a wild melee.

  “Stop—don’t kill him!” cried Edward Bruce behind them. “It’s Gloucester. We’ll need him for ransom!”

  It was too late. The earl had fallen, run through with more than a dozen spears and swords.

  The battle was only minutes old, and already the King’s nephew had gone to join Hereford’s.

  Thirty-Two

  Meanwhile, to Edward Bruce’s left, the line of Scots under Randolph and Douglas advanced down the hill. Seeing their advantage over the cumbersome struggling English cavalry, they came quickly now, keeping their flank tight and unbroken, spears leveled toward the enemy.