Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  In early June, knights gathered with their lords beneath the walls of castles, surrounded by squires, banner-bearers and wagons laden with tents and equipment. In towns and villages across the northern counties men kissed wives goodbye before heading out to join the gangs of soldiers thronging in market squares. White bands of cloth decorated with the red cross of St George were handed out, the men binding them proudly around their upper arms. Nervous and excited, some never having fought in a war, they fiddled with tunics and adjusted helm-straps to the shouted orders of commissioners and sheriffs. Tramping along dusty roads, sweating and complaining beneath steel-blue skies, these companies made their way north to join the army of Welsh foot soldiers gathering on the border.

  From the south, the ships carrying the host’s supplies set sail, sweeping their oars into a dead calm to glide slowly up the east coast of England. Far out in the North Sea, towering clouds that pulsed with lightning trailed misty bands of rain. The sailors watched this darkening sky uneasily as they rowed through the airless days.

  Aching with hunger and weariness, heads down, determined, they trudged through the fields, their blistered feet throbbing with every step. Dawn was breaking on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene, the eastern sky pallid with its approach. Already, the men of the English army could feel the heat building in the air, promising another stifling day.

  Humphrey de Bohun rode in the retinue of his father, the Earl of Hereford and Essex, and Constable of England. In the pale light he made out the faces of his father’s knights and, beyond, those of his comrades: young Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster since the death of the king’s brother; Aymer de Valence, who had also lost his father in the French war, but who wouldn’t acquire the earldom of Pembroke until the death of his mother; Robert Clifford; Henry Percy; Ralph de Monthermer; Guy de Beauchamp. Beards bristled on their faces, burned an angry red, but despite their obvious exhaustion there was a sense of grim purpose about them this morning that Humphrey hadn’t seen in weeks. It gave him heart, as the ashen sky lightened to reveal a blighted landscape, where traces of smoke still hung over blackened fields, the crops burned down to stubble.

  From Roxburgh all through Lauderdale to Edinburgh, the English army had marched through a land scorched and silent. Past deserted villages where larders stood empty and wells were poisoned with the flyblown carcasses of sheep the army had traipsed, their eagerness for the fight fading in the oppressive heat and desolation. Infantry were sent into settlements to search for inhabitants, but none was found. Neither was there any sign of Wallace and his forces. All the while, the dark fastness of Selkirk Forest stretched away to the west, its sprawling depths hinting at the dangers of ambush and attack, while in the east the sky grew bruised with the promise of thunder.

  The storm had come from the sea late one evening, lightning turning night to day. Rain poured from the heavens, drenching every man to the bone and making swamps of the fields. The next morning, thunder still growling around them, the army had set out, rust blooming on mail, horses’ soaked trappers swinging heavily. Stinking mud dried to a crust on skin and clothing, men and beasts plagued by flies that hovered around their mouths and worried at the corners of their eyes. These things were tormenting, certainly, but it was only when the English reached the outskirts of Edinburgh that they learned the true cost of the storm, for the supply ships due to meet them at the port of Leith were nowhere to be seen.

  Leaving some of his troops to await the vessels, King Edward ordered the rest of his forces on to the domain of his allies, the Knights Templar at Temple Liston, west of the city. Here, the army camped outside the preceptory of the crusading order, who had supported the campaign, waiting, tense and hungry, for supplies and word of the enemy’s location from scouts the king sent out. A few unripe apples were picked from the Temple’s orchards and handfuls of peas from a field that had escaped the Scots’ burnings, but there was little else to augment the dwindling rations. Days crawled by without sign of the ships or word from the scouts. The Welsh, angered by their meagre rations, protested that the knights’ horses were eating better than they were. Men, starving and half mad with thirst, squabbled over puddles of rainwater and scrawny carcasses of birds and hares. When one ship, sheltering down the coast from the storm, finally limped into Leith, its cargo was carted to the famished army, but it brought only wine. The king, in a moment of folly, had the barrels freely distributed among the discontented infantry and the subsequent drunken brawl between Welsh and English soldiers turned into a riot that left over a hundred dead. What had started as a determined march north to engage and destroy the enemy had become a bitter, exhausting endeavour to stay alive.

  At last, when it seemed the English army would perish in the field, or destroy itself, carts of grain, meat and beer trundled into the camp from Leith, to the hoarse cheers of the men. Later that day, when their bellies were full and their spirits lifted, a company arrived led by Earl Patrick of Dunbar and the Earl of Angus. The two Scots, who had remained loyal to Edward, had brought the location of the enemy. Wallace and his forces were little more than ten miles away, near the town of Falkirk.

  As Humphrey looked ahead, past his father’s men, he could see the king’s banner hoisted high in the pale dawn, three gold lions on scarlet. Edward and his knights were leading the vanguard. Last night, after leaving Temple Liston, the English army had camped out in the fields. The king had bedded down on the ground along with the rest of his men and in the dark his warhorse, Bayard, had trodden on him, breaking two of his ribs. Word of his injury had whispered round, the men troubled. The king, however, had defied their concerns and after his page had strapped him in a rigid coat of plates he had mounted, much to the admiration of the watching troops. Humphrey could see how stiffly Edward sat in the saddle and how his face creased with pain whenever Bayard lurched on the uneven ground, but it was clear nothing would now turn the king from his target.

  Behind the vanguard rode the earls and their retinues. Sir John de Warenne was rather inconspicuous among them. The Earl of Surrey had been humiliated by his defeat at Stirling and, with Cressingham dead, had taken the full force of the king’s displeasure. Following the earls were fifty Templars, their white mantles emblazoned with red crosses. Behind them came the archers: crossbowmen from Gascony, hunters from Sherwood Forest and longbowmen from south Wales. An immense train of wagons drawn by carthorses followed in their wake, the wheels thunderous on the hard-packed soil. Bringing up the rear were more than twenty-five thousand infantry, trudging in endless columns.

  It was a vast army, the like of which Humphrey had not seen before. The sight of it stretching behind him, banners and lances bristling into the distance, made his pride swell and he hefted the dragon shield higher on his arm. The lingering fear that they would not even live to meet the Scots on the field of battle had gone, replaced by a fierce resolve. The rebellion had left a sour taste in all their mouths, especially Humphrey, who blamed himself for putting his faith in a man who had turned out to be the greatest traitor of them all. He had wondered darkly whether he would meet his former friend on the battleground, but according to the report of the Earl of Dunbar, Robert Bruce had retreated to his headquarters at Ayr. Humphrey had been surprised by his absence, for most of the Scottish nobility were said to be in Wallace’s force, including the Comyns, whom the king had a special desire to capture after his release of them had been rewarded with treachery. Still, if they were victorious today, it would not be long before the rest of the men who had defied the king were brought to justice, including Robert Bruce.

  Hearing shouts, Humphrey was drawn from his thoughts. Men were pointing ahead. There on a distant hillside, glinting in the pallid dawn, were thousands upon thousands of spears.

  The youth’s arms throbbed with the weight of the twelve-foot spear, the shaft of which was slippery with his sweat, the butt of the iron-tipped weapon sinking deeper into the ground.

  ‘Keep it up, Duncan!’

  Duncan jerked round and saw K
erald’s face turned towards him. Blue veins stood out on the older man’s neck. His right hand, gripping the spear, looked solid, the left, where only stumps remained of two of his fingers, appeared to be giving him pain, the skin around the recent amputations black and swollen.

  Kerald bared his teeth through his beard, half grin, half grimace. ‘Let’s show these southern dogs that Scots have steel in their poles!’ he yelled, over the din of the battleground.

  A few of the men in the crush of the shield ring laughed harshly, but most stayed silent, each concentrating on keeping his spear in place, waiting for the next charge of the English heavy cavalry. The warhorses were turning in the distance, the knights regrouping after another failed attempt to break the bristling rows of men. Horns blared and commanders roared orders, their rough voices echoing on the dead air.

  William Wallace had set his four shield rings, schiltroms he called them, on the high ground between Callendar Wood and the boggy banks of the Westquarter Burn, outside the town of Falkirk. Each ring was made up of around two thousand men, facing outwards in an enormous circle. Those at the front knelt, their spears pointing up at an angle. Those behind stood, the barbed shafts thrusting out over the heads of their comrades. Between the schiltroms Wallace had placed tight knots of archers under the command of John Stewart, brother of the high steward. Beyond, on the dark fringes of the wood, were the Scottish cavalry. If he twisted his head, Duncan could just see the horsemen on the brow of the hill, waiting for the signal to enter the fray. The English were sprawled across the slopes below. Duncan couldn’t guess how many they were, but it looked like the hordes of hell were arrayed before him. Above the vast battleground the sky was the colour of ash.

  Raising his spear with effort, Duncan exhaled through his teeth. The ground was slick with viscous mud, which had splattered up his hose and tunic. All the men around him were covered in the stuff, which gave off an earthy, mouldering reek. It was, Duncan imagined, how the grave would smell. The thought made his eyes flick to the corpses scattered across the churned ground in front of him, where a low palisade of bound stakes looped defensively around the schiltrom. A mighty warhorse was slumped over the barrier, its dead eyes murky, froth dribbling from its nostrils. Still half in the saddle was the knight who had ridden the beast to its doom, curled over the length of the spear that killed him. Nearer were the bodies of a few Scots. One, a lad younger than Duncan, was face down in the mud, his head cleaved by a broadsword. The weapon was still stuck fast in his scalp, fluid oozing around the steel.

  Forcing his eyes away, Duncan murmured a fortifying prayer.

  ‘Here they come!’

  As the cry went up around the shield ring, drowning the blare of horns, Duncan’s gaze fixed ahead, down the slope to the line of knights approaching.

  They started at a walk, no breaks between the warhorses, their bulks covered with coloured trappers, the heavy swing of which gave away the mail skirts beneath. The walk turned into a trot, the horses growing in the Scots’ vision. Quicker now, the pounding of hooves, at first a steady drum-roll, building to a rapid tattoo. The earth began to shudder. Duncan could feel the pulse beneath his feet. Away across the hillside, more knights were riding towards the other three shield rings, but he barely saw them. Fear was liquid in his belly. His hands wrapped fiercely around the spear, every part of him tensing for the strike. Almighty God, spare me.

  A hail of arrows shot through the sky from the left, curving up and over to rain in on the incoming knights, loosed by Wallace’s archers. Most of the missiles clattered off helms and mail coats. One horse, wearing a blue and white striped trapper, panicked and veered out of the line, careering towards the adjacent shield ring, but the knight expertly wheeled it around. As the others came up fast behind him, trot turning to canter, he dropped back into their line, kicking viciously at the horse to match their tumultuous stride. The world seemed to shake with the onslaught of their approach. Iron hooves pummelled the muddy ground, the destriers’ great heads thrusting forward, the beasts as fearless as the men who spurred them on. Now, at the last moment, the knights levelled lances or swung swords, coming at the Scots in a brutal stampede. Duncan felt more than heard the roar of the men around him, a wave of sound, rushing and incoherent. Blood pounded in his head. He sensed Kerald and the others pressing against him, desperation and determination interchangeable in gritted teeth and wild eyes. He loosed a cry as the English knights came charging up, their lances coursing towards the spears.

  The impact was staggering.

  One Scot, next to Duncan, flew back, an English lance punching into his chest, hurling him into the men behind. There was a flail of limbs, harsh shouts. Men scrabbled in to close the gap. More Scots went down all around the ring, some knights throwing short swords and axes into the rows of defenders, then wheeling away. Most of the Scots wore only woollen or leather tunics and these weapons, thrown with the momentum of the charge, were deadly.

  Duncan barely heard the screams of the dying. He was yelling, clinging to his spear, the tip of which had sunk deep into the neck of a horse. The beast was rearing, squealing, the knight atop it hauling on the reins. As the animal thrashed, caught on the barb, Duncan felt his arms almost wrenched from their sockets. Suddenly, the horse collapsed on to its forelegs, the spear shaft snapping to leave the iron in its flesh. Duncan stumbled with the release. The knight was thrown from the saddle on to the sharpened stakes of the palisade, the impact enough to cause one to pierce his mail. He convulsed on the spike, coughing blood through the visor of his helm. Around the schiltroms other men, thrown from their horses into the thicket of spears or else crushed by fallen mounts, lay dying. The rest, lances spent and weapons thrown, steered their chargers around and galloped away, leaving scores of Scots littering the mud behind them.

  But for every Scot that had fallen, another was there to take his place, the lines rearranging themselves around the gaps that had formed. The wounded were dragged into the centre of the schiltroms to be tended by comrades, or else despatched with quick mercy and a prayer. The English had made little dent in the rings and they had lost valuable men and horses in their effort, like a lion attacking a porcupine and coming away bloody and more furious every time.

  Duncan clutched his broken spear, his hands seeming to have seized around it. The knight whose horse he had stuck was struggling on the stake, gagging on his own blood. Duncan could see a bulge appearing in the man’s back, under his surcoat, where the spike had gone clean through to the other side. He choked back an urge to vomit and closed his eyes, breathing in lungfuls of stinking air. Beside him, Kerald set down his spear and slunk out of the line. Bending, he pulled off the knight’s helm, revealing the pale, sweat-soaked face of a young man. His eyes were slits of agony, but he hissed something through his bloodstained teeth at Kerald. The old Scot drew a dirk from his belt with his good hand. Moving in front of the knight, obscuring his face from Duncan’s view, Kerald thrust up. Duncan saw the knight’s body spasm and a gout of blood flow, then the man sagged over the palisade. Kerald tugged a skin from the knight’s belt, then, sheathing his bloody dagger, returned to the line, pulling the stopper from the skin and sniffing suspiciously. Satisfied, he drank greedily, his eyes widening in appreciation, before handing it to Duncan, who took it gratefully. The wine was strong and sweet. Duncan managed to force it from his dry lips to pass it to the man beside him. Grinning, Kerald took up his spear, his beard flecked with red.

  Around the schiltrom, the voice of William Wallace sounded, roaring at his men to stand firm.

  I have brought you to the ring, their leader had yelled that morning, as they formed up. Now let us see if you can dance!

  Dance they had. After months of oppression under the English yoke, bowing to officials and cowering from soldiers, months as outlaws living in the wild, this was their chance to win back their liberty. Wallace had led them to victory on the meadows outside Stirling, despite overwhelming odds. Now, Scotland’s new guardian seemed determined
to win through again.

  Buoyed up by Wallace’s words of encouragement, Duncan cast aside his broken spear to draw an undamaged one from the muddy ground. The English horns were still sounding, but instead of reforming for another charge the knights were riding back to the main body of the army, where King Edward’s banner was raised.

  ‘We’ve got them now,’ growled Kerald. ‘They cannot keep this up. They’re losing too many knights.’

  Duncan stayed silent, watching with the others as a long line of men jogged on to the field in the wake of the knights. His eyes narrowed as he saw the curved weapons in their hands.

  ‘Archers,’ murmured someone.

  Kerald’s grin faded.

  Duncan had heard rumour of the Welsh archers and their deadly longbows. He tightened instinctively, moving his arms in close over his body. He had no shield, none of them did – they needed both hands for the spears and, besides, the rings were shields themselves, protecting the men within. Like most of the men in the schiltroms, Duncan wore little in the way of armour, except for a pair of ill-fitting schynbalds taken from the body of an English soldier after the battle at Stirling. He wished now that he had taken a coat of mail.

  The archers formed up. Despite the distance, Duncan could see that some had different weapons: squarer and squatter than the great curves of the longbows.

  ‘Crossbows,’ muttered Kerald. ‘The bastards have crossbows.’