by Robyn Young
Outside, gulls hovered in the sky, their white wings catching the moonlight. The sea glinted, each wave sparkling as it curled far below to break upon the rocks. For a moment, Robert held the shield before him, gripped in his fists. He thought of Humphrey and the Knights of the Dragon. He had believed himself their brother and comrade, but that was just an illusion. The truth was he could never be one of them, the blood in his veins would not allow it. He had a duty, not just to his grandfather’s memory or the people of Carrick whom he’d sworn to protect, or to his comrades who had followed him into danger, but to his ancient heritage and the great men from whom he had sprung. Downstairs in the hall, faded by the years, hung the tapestry that depicted Malcolm Canmore killing Macbeth and taking the throne. It was time to assert his right. Blood demanded it.
Banishing the image of Humphrey, Robert hurled the wooden shield out over the battlements. As it fell, the golden dragon flashed and spun, tumbling over until it smashed on to the rocks. The next wave took it. For a moment it was visible on the foaming surface, then it slipped into the depths and was gone.
57
Flames billowed from the bridge, flaring crimson through the smoke, the glare reflected in the surface of the Forth. Sparks scattered into the air as the timber boards and piers burst in the heat. The sky over Stirling had turned black, obscuring the castle perched high above the meadows. The vapours smothered the marshy plain that lay between a great loop of the river, where a causeway ran from the bridge to the foot of the Abbey Craig, a rearing cliff a mile distant. Beneath the pall of smoke was a scene from hell.
All across the meadows to either side of the causeway were the bodies of thousands of dead and dying men. The grass had been trampled into a grey sludge, streaked with streams of foul fluid and matter. Men and horses were entwined, a tangle of shredded limbs and clothing. Banners lay unfurled, drowning in blood. Knights, squires, foot soldiers and archers, all were heaped together regardless of status, sliced into gruesome configurations of flesh and bone, some barely recognisable as human. Eyes had been gouged, noses split and jaws torn to the teeth. Helms had been battered on to heads, the metal dented and scored by hammer blows or axe strikes. Gambesons were torn, felt stuffing bursting up out of chests and stomachs. Swords and arrows protruded from bodies like hundreds of exclamations of death. The stench was enough to turn even the hardest veteran’s stomach.
Here and there men writhed and twisted in agony. Faint whimpers and tormented cries rose ragged into the smoke-dark sky where crows circled expectantly. Some of the wounded hauled themselves along the ground trailing useless limbs, gagging on the stink of the opened corpses they crawled through. They did not get far. Scottish foot soldiers moved like angels of death among the bodies, dirks gripped in their fists, drawn to movement and to the cries of the dying. Anywhere a man struggled or called out they swooped, stabbing the last life from the victims. In the carnage it was almost impossible for them to tell who they were despatching: English or Scot, Welsh or Irish. Only status was knowable, displayed in clothes and weapons. Knights, the most identifiable of all, were not spared these swift, brutal murders. Wallace had ordered no survivors. There were to be no ransoms. No mercy.
Other Scots picked through the bodies, not for signs of life but for spoils. Men who had fought in the battle barefoot now gratefully eased the boots off dead men’s feet. Some cut pouch strings from belts or tugged wine skins from saddle packs. Many more took up helms and fallen swords, or salvaged items of armour. Around the knights, the richest of the dead, little knots of scavengers grew and skirmishes broke out as they vied for the best plunder.
Elsewhere across the battleground pockets of more intense fighting continued as men, wild with pain and horror, hacked each other apart. One Scot collapsed in the mud as an arrow punched into his throat. The Welsh archer who loosed it was cut down a moment later by an axe blade that split his spine. A blood-soaked foot soldier, faint with exhaustion, plunged his dagger into another man’s gut. As he twisted it with a groan of effort, they fell to their knees together. Close by, an English squire was roaring, slashing madly out with his sword as the Scots closed in. He rammed his shield into one man’s face, sending him reeling, before another Scot grabbed his sword arm, pulling the weapon wide and giving someone else a chance to step in and stab a dirk up under the squire’s ribs.
An English knight, one of the few still horsed, tried to break through the massing Scots by charging his destrier down the causeway towards the Abbey Craig, the only way out of the killing ground now the bridge was aflame. Men scattered from his path, several knocked savagely aside. One of Wallace’s commanders ducked down, blade out ready as the knight came towards him. Steeling himself, he swung his sword into the animal’s back leg as it passed. The momentum cracked the sword from his hand, but the damage was done. The horse screamed and crashed on to its front legs, breaking them beneath its own weight. The knight was thrown violently from the saddle and sent tumbling along the causeway. As he tried to push himself up, three Scots fell on him. One yelled in victory as he tore off the knight’s helm and slashed his dirk across the man’s throat, making a wide red line below his screaming mouth.
More cries rent the air, followed by splashes as men fell or were pushed into the waters of the Forth, clogged with English infantry and Welsh bowmen. God alone knew how far to the bottom they went. Hundreds had gone in during the battle, overwhelmed by the legions of Scots. The knights had gone down first, their mail dragging them under. Others, unencumbered by armour, floated on the crimson surface. At the head of the bridge the piles of dead were at their highest, some corpses already consumed by the fire, the charred bodies visible in the flames. Stirling Bridge, the key to the north, with which the English had planned to unlock the kingdom, had been their doom.
That morning, after William Wallace roughly rebuked the offer of parley, the vanguard of the English army had crossed under the command of Hugh de Cressingham. With the treasurer were several hundred knights, a large contingent of Welsh longbowmen conscripted from Gwent and numerous companies of English infantry, augmented by Irish troops. There was only room for two horsemen to ride abreast and the rest of the English force, under the authority of John de Warenne, had waited on the other side for the van to cross.
Wallace and Moray had watched from the top of the Abbey Craig as the English set out along the mile-long causeway in a great, glittering line, their drums beating an ominous tattoo. Below the Craig, a pitifully small number of Scottish cavalry waited, all on light horses, no match for the English destriers. But what they lacked in heavy cavalry the Scots made up for in the infantry force that covered the lower slopes of the Ochil Hills in a sprawling mass of thousands, armed for the most part with long spears. Still, the English had shown no sign of trepidation, riding confidently along the firm ground of the causeway, heading straight for the waiting Scots. Cressingham had ridden in the midst of the knights, a shiny slug in his polished hauberk, silk robes and mantle, his horse plodding beneath his great weight.
Around seven thousand had crossed, the front lines not far from his cavalry, when Wallace had given the signal. With a blast on a horn that echoed down to his troops below and made the English knights look up, the young outlaw spurred his horse down the steep path from the Craig. Meeting up with their men at the bottom, he and Moray led the small mounted force along the causeway, riding hard towards the English. At the same time, the Scottish foot soldiers charged down from the lower slopes. They came with a roar that rolled over the meadows in a shuddering wave of sound that made the English horses startle. Cressingham urged the knights on to meet the approaching Scottish cavalry, while the Welsh bowmen were commanded to shoot at the mass of infantry headed straight for them.
Hundreds of Scots went down under the onslaught of arrows, many picked off their feet by the impact and hurled into those who came behind. But many more came on, leaping fallen comrades. A large part of this force veered off towards the mouth of the bridge and it was here that t
hey closed the trap Wallace had set, cutting the English army in two. By the time Warenne and his men, still on the other side of the bridge, realised what was happening, it was too late. The Scots had hacked a determined path through the scattered English infantry at the bridge-head, who had little time to form a united defence. Moving quickly to take the bridge itself, they formed a lethal wall of spears that could not be penetrated, even by the mounted knights Warenne had sent to tackle them. Had the Welsh archers not been in the vanguard the Scots might not have been so fortunate, but as it was Warenne and the bulk of the English army could only watch, helpless, as Cressingham’s forces were cut to pieces in the meadows beyond the broad waters. In the end, Warenne had ordered the bridge set alight and led his forces south towards the wooded hills, knowing the battle was lost.
Now, the grim end was in sight.
William Wallace was with his commanders on the corpse-strewn causeway. The rebel leader was hunkered down in the mud, his breathing laboured, every part of him singing with pain. His skin and clothing were covered in blood, dark globs of it congealing in his hair and coating the length of his great sword, now strapped to his back. Lying prone on the ground beneath him was Andrew Moray. The young knight who had led the men of the north was gasping through his teeth, his face knotted, as one of his men worked to clean a gaping wound in his side, through which Wallace could see the bones of his ribs. He had never seen so much of men’s insides before today: a slippery mess of parts held so tentatively together in a frail web of skin. One cut here, another slice there and all came tumbling out. There was something ungodly about it. Something to remind a man he was all just meat for the maggots in the end.
Moray’s pain-glazed eyes flicked to Wallace. ‘Is it over?’
‘Yes.’
Moray grinned fiercely. ‘We beat the bastards.’ His head lolled back, the grin turning to a grimace. ‘Praise God, we beat them.’
Wallace looked up at the men around them, some of them his, some Moray’s. Most were injured, all were exhausted, but through the pain their eyes were bright with triumph. They had done what nobles like Sir James Stewart and Bishop Wishart had said was impossible: they had beaten the English cavalry in battle, with barely a knighthood or a mail coat between them.
Adam appeared at Wallace’s side and thrust a wine skin into his cousin’s hand. His fur-trimmed coat was long gone and his bald head, running with sweat, was gore-spattered. Wallace took the skin and drank, tipping it back until it was empty. The wine stung his parched throat but it was the sweetest he’d ever tasted. He stared at the skin as he finished it. The leather was studded with jewels.
Adam smiled unpleasantly. ‘I took it from the Treacherer.’
‘Cressingham?’ said Wallace sharply. ‘You found him?’
Adam nodded to a circle of Scotsmen, close by. ‘Over here, cousin.’
Leaving Moray to be tended by his men, Wallace crossed to the circle, followed by Adam. The men parted as he approached and he saw on the ground the corpse of a grossly fat man. The man was naked and the folds of his flesh that flopped over one another were so riddled with wounds it was impossible to tell which had killed him. His face was mostly intact, though one of his eyes was filled with blood. But it was his mouth Wallace was drawn to, or rather the bloody piece of flesh that had been thrust into it. Looking down the length of Cressingham’s bloated body, Wallace realised what it was. Barely visible between his flabby, vein-streaked thighs was a dark wound where his manhood should be.
‘A fitting end,’ growled Adam at his side.
Some of the men laughed. They were sharing around another of the jewelled skins. Several of them, Wallace noticed, had silk garments, clearly the treasurer’s, slung over their shoulders or stuffed in their belts.
One man crouched down suddenly and drew a dagger. He glanced up at Wallace. ‘Master William, can I take a piece of him?’ He looked back at Cressingham’s corpse, his dagger gripped in his fist. ‘I want to show the good men of Lanark that I helped bring the Treacherer down.’
‘Take what you want,’ said Wallace, ‘he’ll not need it where he’s going.’
The man grinned. Lifting one of Cressingham’s stubby hands, he set to work sawing through a forefinger. Some of the others watched for a moment, then moved in to get themselves a piece of flesh, a token to show comrades and families that they had brought down the tyrant who had bled their kingdom dry.
Wallace left them to it. He would let them have all the spoils they wanted, then when they’d had their fill he would push them on again. This wasn’t finished. Not yet. ‘Gather Gray and the others,’ he told Adam. ‘We move out within the hour.’
‘Cousin?’
Wallace stared through the shifting layers of smoke across the Forth to where the rear columns of Warenne’s force were visible, moving south. ‘We’ll cross the Fords of Drip at low tide and pursue them. They still have the baggage train with them. We can get supplies and pick off as many as we can.’ His blue eyes lingered on the retreating army. ‘All of them will take the horror of this day back to England.’
As the Scots celebrated their victory beside the smoking ruins of Stirling Bridge, the crows gathered in a black cloud, circling over the red feast below.
PART 6
1298–1299 AD
They shall load the necks of roaring lions with chains, and restore the times of their ancestors. He shall . . . be crowned with the head of a lion. His beginning shall lay open to wandering affection, but his end shall carry him up to the blessed, who are above.
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
58
All through the rain and winds of autumn, while the Scottish forces were revelling in their victory over the English at Stirling, Robert was travelling the length and breadth of Carrick, raising the men of his earldom and reinforcing Turnberry Castle.
Initially, despite their resentment towards the English, many were afraid to support him, fearing reprisals from Percy and Clifford. Robert could have demanded their service, but, believing nervous, doubting men would be of little use, he had taken only those who were willing. Most of these were ambitious youths, landless knights and second sons, few of whom had served his father, all of whom were keen to win his favour. Gartnait of Mar and John of Atholl remained at Turnberry with their men and wives, and with Edward and Christian there the crowded castle reminded Robert of the days when its sea-stained walls were filled with his family and their retainers.
Late in October, when the men were busy in the fields, gathering the last crops and slaughtering excess livestock, he had visited Affraig to offer an end to the exile his father had imposed upon her. But the old woman had declined, choosing to remain in the wild rather than return to the village.
Gradually, as the weeks went by, others drifted to Robert’s company. It was hard work and sometimes he had to swallow his pride, but he soon discovered that gaining a man’s trust was a matter of time and patience. When his vassals saw he intended to stay and bolster their defences more began to support him willingly. As his retinue grew, so did his reputation. He found he had a natural gift for diplomacy, learned at the feet of his grandfather. A lion when provoked, a lamb when necessary, the old lord had been both feared and admired by his subjects, qualities Robert now saw were essential for leadership of a people. His father had been a rigid master who had treated his men more as servants than subjects. Robert’s determination and his willingness to listen soon won him the respect of his vassals. It was, he knew, the first step on the path to the throne.
In Irvine, when he had made his decision to lay claim to the kingship of Scotland, Robert understood the enormity, perhaps even impossibility of the task before him. He had blood on his side and his grandfather’s claim on record, but that was all. Most of the men of the realm did not trust him, many still openly resented him. The Scots led by Wallace were fighting for the return of John Balliol, not the election of a new king, and the Stone of Destiny was held in Westminster. In
order even to announce his decision, he needed much greater support. To gain that he must prove himself; must do what Wallace and the others were doing and win the hearts of his people by winning back their lost lands. And, as the storms of autumn gave way to an iron-cold winter, this was what he set out to do.
With a force of more than fifty knights and two hundred foot soldiers, Robert moved north through Carrick into Ayrshire. Henry Percy had gone south to England, escorting the prisoners taken at Irvine, leaving the port town of Ayr defended by a small garrison. One frozen dawn in late November, Robert and his men stormed the town, overrunning Percy’s garrison and breaking their way into the English barracks. Six of Percy’s men died in the attack and the rest escaped using a boat moored on the River Ayr, but with the assault English domination in Ayr was at an end. It was here, in the liberated town, much to the excitement and relief of its people, that Robert made his new base. This meant he could keep his family safe down the coast at Turnberry while he concentrated on leading raiding parties to Irvine and other settlements to rout the rest of Percy’s soldiers.
Some weeks later, Robert learned the price of his uprising. Henry Percy may have been distracted in England, but Clifford had remained in Galloway and at once turned his attention to the Bruce lands of Annandale, where he burned ten villages and terrorised the people in retaliation. Lochmaben Castle, still garrisoned by vassals of Robert’s father, had held out, but terrible damage was done to the outlying settlements, damage that would take seasons to repair. For Robert it had been a hard blow. Annandale might belong to his father, but the place was his home and the thought of it in flames was devastating.
The assault had, however, one unlooked-for advantage. That a prominent English commander had attacked Bruce lands in Scotland proved to many who doubted Robert that his defection was genuine. It made him an enemy of the English – a fact the leaders of the rebellion hadn’t failed to notice. Early in the spring of 1298 messengers came, asking Robert to attend a great council of men in the heart of Selkirk Forest, the cradle of insurrection.
