Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  I raised a hand to interrupt them. “We will dispatch Beaumont and Clifford along the track toward the river where they can cover the Scots’ rear flank if they take flight, should the vanguard be engaged. If not, they can proceed on to Stirling with all haste.”

  Pembroke narrowed his dark eyes at me, noting the omission of his own name in these rapidly dispersed plans.

  “You, Lord Pembroke,” I said to him, “will keep by us. I require the benefit of your counsel ere tomorrow breaks.”

  Satisfied with that, he gave a subtle nod and fell quiet.

  “What of my right to lead this army?” Hereford bellowed.

  “On that I defer to the king,” Pembroke prudently said.

  “Well?” Hereford’s breath came in broken gasps. His fingers opened and clasped the hilt of his weapon repeatedly.

  The Earl of Hereford was a veteran of many tournaments, but in an intimate knowledge of military matters he was limited. On that account, I laid my trust in my nephew, Gilbert, despite his present unwillingness. “Hugh? Call Clifford and Beaumont forward and inform them of our instructions, per the Earl of Pembroke’s plan. Hereford, ride forward... but with Gilbert de Clare as your joint commander. Understood?”

  Hereford did not need to be told twice. He pricked his horse so hard in the flanks with his spurs that it bucked. Then he flew off toward the cavalrymen to prepare them.

  Gilbert tarried behind. He eased his horse toward mine, the bright colors of its trappings dulled by dirt. There was a coolness in his tone as he spoke to me. “I’ll do as you command, my lord, but damn you if you think that blundering swine was ever more loyal to you than I.”

  “Then do more than talk of it,” I said.

  He snapped his reins smartly and wheeled away to join Hereford.

  When the larger part of the army had drawn up along the old Roman road – the men, the horses, the carts and arms – all choked in a swirling, hot cloud of dust, details of the plan were worked over and set in action. Beaumont and Clifford assembled their men toward the river and the cavalry set off toward the stand of woods embracing the steeply sided stream known as the Bannock Burn. I sent Mowbray back to Stirling with a curt reminder to hold the castle in waiting for us until the Scots were dealt with.

  Much to the disdain of both, Gilbert and Hereford rode side by side in the fore. But as their front line dipped down toward the stream, one of them took the lead, galloping hard through the leafy archway, his lance balanced skyward. I could barely make out a flash of yellow and red – the colors of Gilbert’s surcoat – as he disappeared from view.

  You were never like that in the hunt – never out ahead. Usually, you were asleep beneath an oak tree while Piers took down a stag with his bow or speared a boar. But it was always you who spun the tale of the hunt later on as we nursed our cups of wine and filled them again.

  Have a care and hasten back. I might find it in me to mete out a soothing word or two for you, whom I love as a brother.

  Ch. 35

  James Douglas – Bannockburn, 23rd of June, 1304

  The powerful steed of the red and yellow clad knight galloped out into the open. With every strike of its hooves, its muscles rippled. Dark patches of sweat stained its brown hide. Its deep muzzle was tucked to a bulging chest. Black eyes, surveying the ground before it, begged no forgiveness from a hard-driving master. Some distance behind the knight, there followed the splash of hooves crossing the burn and the clatter of other mounted knights in the wake of his thunder. The road itself had been left free of the waist-deep pots, so as to give the appearance that nothing had been tampered with. Just beyond where the road crossed the burn was a small stretch of woodland and it was there the traps had been laid on either side. The lone knight was a hundred feet or more free of the line of trees and still the rest had not appeared. He was far out ahead, but to what purpose other than sheer insanity...

  Robert had not moved from his post, nor had he looked to his lines or called out for assistance. He lowered his visor. Gripped his shield. Coaxed his pony into a canter.

  Walter gasped beside me. “My God. What is he doing?”

  Baffled, frozen in disbelief, I watched as witness and could not move or speak or breathe.

  The English knight braced all his strength against his lance and lowered it as Robert came at him. The Englishman’s horse dwarfed the king’s and was pressed to a full gallop. Robert by now had slowed his mount to a gentle clip over the parched grass of the meadow. The lance tip bore down – aiming for Robert’s heart.

  The hooves of Robert’s pony plodded. The heavy feathering on its forelegs danced with each restrained stride as it kept its course. The knight leaned into his long-reaching weapon, yearning toward a victory beyond expectation. The distance closed. Robert’s pony dipped its head and veered suddenly to the left, crossing in front of the knight. The move was too swiftly done for the knight to shift his lance or alter the direction of his own mount. As his lance bolted harmlessly past the king, the knight jerked his head to the right, only long enough to see Robert shoot up straight-legged in his stirrups to gain height and swipe his axe downward.

  The axe blade struck squarely on the front of the knight’s helmet. And the blow had been delivered with such power and accuracy, that it cleaved the metal and embedded itself in the knight’s skull.

  Robert’s arm whipped back with the force. The knight reeled in his saddle, swayed left, then right and finally back as the panic-stricken steed reared. When its hooves struck the ground, it spun tightly, tossing the knight from its back. The knight’s head struck the ground in a spray of scarlet – the axe blade still buried in his riven skull as blood bubbled from the cleft. One foot, twisted in the stirrup, entangled his lifeless body, which bounced and kicked up dust as the horse continued on.

  Gripping nothing but the splintered handle of a broken axe, Robert watched the knight’s body being dragged across the baked earth. For a stunned moment, there was absolute silence. Then, as the English cavalry broke through the trees, a war cry rose in challenge from the throats of a thousand Highlanders who spilled down the hill where Robert’s division had lain in wait.

  But the host of English horsemen, who had followed behind the now fallen knight, were emerging in disorder. The pots had claimed their victims – swallowing heavy horses burdened with their armored masters and sending other animals in such a tumble that they screamed with the terrible agony of shattered bones. The riders that broke over the northern bank of the burn and out into the open were cautious, glancing back, holding their mounts in check until others could come abreast of them. Those to the fore had gained daylight by luck alone. But those behind, if not horseless because of the spiked caltrops driving into their horses’ legs or crushed by the weight of others falling on top of them, were either hindered by the erupting chaos or crying out from the rear. In utter futility, the English were attempting to draw up into a line to meet the onslaught of frenzied Highlanders tearing down the hillside, their bare legs churning, swearing oaths of annihilation in the Gaelic tongue, drumming their round shields, their faces streaked in blue, their limed hair flying out behind.

  Robert turned his pony back, at last. He waved madly, trying to signal Angus Og to recall his men. Angus gave the word and a horn sounded over the valley and the wild men slowed, still screaming, still beating their weapons against their shields in a terrible, deafening clamor.

  And the English, turned... and went, back to where they had come from.

  As if in a fog, Robert stood and stared at the splintered axe handle in his palm. After scouts had been sent and returned with new information of the progress of King Edward’s army, Randolph, Edward and I had parted from our divisions and joined Robert’s temporarily.

  “And what the bloody hell was that about?” Edward scolded, dropping from his saddle as he rode in. Arms swinging, he strode angrily toward his older brother.

  But Robert said nothing. Just stared at the jagged wood of the axe handle, then glanced vagu
ely off toward where the body of the fallen knight was being laid out behind the front line of his division. A few Highlanders had managed to calm the terrified knight’s horse and cut through the stirrup strap to free the dead man. It was with a watchful eye and numerous curses that Angus Og restrained his men from stripping the body of its valuables.

  Edward slammed his palm into Robert’s shoulder to get his attention. “What in the –”

  “Gilbert,” Robert said with a twinge of melancholy, blinking. “Gilbert de Clare... of Gloucester. His stepfather once saved my life.”

  “An Englishman, Robert. I prefer them all dead, myself.” Edward pulled off his gauntlets and smacked the dust from them. “Speaking of ‘dead’ – you could have been killed. That would have left me in charge and I hasten to say I doubt that was your wish as you sat there like a blatant fool begging to have your heart rammed through the back of your spine, was it?”

  Robert ignored him, gazing off into the distance, his eyebrows twitching with concentration.

  Boiling under his mail, Edward stepped in front of him. “For a year you never once failed to remind me of the risk I had put upon you. This is no bloody time for heroics. Dead men don’t lead armies.”

  I could never be certain if Edward Bruce had his own abrasive way of displaying a protective side for his brother, or if he merely grabbed at every barb he could because in patronizing Robert it elevated him. One thing was without question: Edward believed he had been cheated in the birth order.

  Chewing on his patience, Robert lowered his head a moment. Gil spared him a reply by speaking.

  “I would say,” Gil calmly observed as he tightened a bothersome strap of his right arm plate, “that I have never seen so many Scots up on their feet and cheering at one time. Sinclairs, Macdougalls, Frasers and Campbells, shoulder to shoulder with Highlanders and... my God... do you ever recall seeing them all on the same side of a fight at once? Incredible.”

  The others nodded in agreement. Edward gave him a killing glare that went unanswered. Most men knew that the best way to keep from getting trampled on by Edward was to ignore him – a tactic which only infuriated Edward further at being so offhandedly dismissed.

  The mood turned quickly somber again, as Robert glanced at the bloodied corpse of the Earl of Gloucester being laid out and wrapped in a sheet. Randolph spoke, “If you wish, I’ll tell them to have the earl’s body taken to the kirk in St. Ninian’s.”

  “Should I fetch Abbot Maurice?” I asked, not knowing what was proper or timely, given the circumstances.

  “Of course,” Robert answered tersely, as he brushed past me. He rushed forward several quick strides, out away from the front line clinging to the edge of the wood. He glanced at Randolph, then back toward the land beyond the village of Bannockburn and raised a finger to point. “Thomas? Do you see? They couldn’t penetrate by the road, so now they’re evading us by the bridle path. As we guessed. Vain, rock-headed bastards. Best go from here, Thomas, or else you’ll miss your opportunity altogether.”

  In a moment, Randolph was remounted and flying down the road toward St. Ninian’s. Another English division of cavalry was moving along the narrow bridle path on the carse. Unlike the vanguard that had been scattered by the pots on either side of the old Roman road, this division was a cohesive one – riding at a steady, yet unhurried pace, their lines tight and straight.

  Randolph’s men were on their feet and armed by the time he arrived and called them into formation. Moving as one, the circle of spears went forward. The English had their opportunity to go on and avoid battle, but it appeared that today they would not have it so. Pride had a way of compromising sensibility. Drawing out in a line, the first wave of cavalry rushed at the prickling mound of spears.

  There are never times as helpless as watching a friend toil for his very existence and sitting there, doing nothing about it. Bridling, I rode my horse from where Robert was, stoically watching the fight go on, and to the vacant ground between the king’s division and my own. Randolph’s schiltron held, but there were casualties – as many Scots as English. More times than I could count I rode that distance back and forth, finally plunging to my knees before Robert and begging for him to allow me to take my men and aid the Earl of Moray.

  “Not yet, James. Not yet.” Compulsively, his right thumb stroked his left forearm. He leaned forward, squinting. “There. Another English knight down. And another. But it is hard to tell with our own. They just... disappear.”

  “Then let me go, I beg.” I lifted my shield from its holding place on my saddle and strapped it to my forearm, as if I knew he would yield at that. “If you let Walter and me go to him –”

  “No, no. Not yet, I told you. Don’t take what belongs to Thomas. Faith, faith. He will persist.”

  Exasperated, I took to my saddle, slapped my horse on the rump and sped back to my division, where at least I could watch more closely and go to him if his men fell into worse trouble – with or without Robert’s blessing.

  The sun began to slide behind the looming silhouette of Stirling Castle. The fighting had slowed, for their strength was waning. A wounded Scottish soldier, one arm hacked off just above the elbow crawled from beneath the crowding legs of his comrades. He pulled himself along with that bony stump of a limb and one good hand, biting his lip in silence, trying to escape without notice. But an English knight, or perhaps a squire judging by his piecemeal, rusted armor, who had been pushed from the fray and could not find a hole to go at the schiltron, saw him and ran him down, clubbing him in the back of the head with a mace. Leaning from his saddle, the knight struck again and again as the Scotsman lay there helpless, his legs twitching and his face drowning in his own pool of blood.

  Now. I motioned to Walter and told him to make ready to go to Randolph’s aid. He called the men up into their circular formation and as our lines shifted forward and took their first steps, several English knights fell back, shouting to the others to retreat. They had suffered too many losses and could neither rip nor hammer their way through. Randolph’s schiltron had held together, warding off last moment blows of desperation. The English trickled away, beaten and bedraggled on wounded horses, back along the path and over the burn. With a collective moan, Randolph’s men sank to their knees. They leaned against their spears and looked around them.

  A cheer broke – first from my own men and then from each of the other divisions. Randolph managed to rally his men back up the slope a ways, collecting the wounded and clearing away the fallen as they went.

  That night, there was a great celebration among the soldiers of Scotland. King Robert called together his commanders and we met in the woods of New Park at the southern foot of Gillies Hill as dusk yielded to darkness. But while we floated giddily about, voices raised in song and men already re-telling the tale with the usual Scottish embellishments, the English were beginning to move onto the carse. Not a detachment of vanity-laden cavalry, but the whole of the English army. They took their axes to the houses of Bannockburn and ripped loose the doors, the rafters and the thatch of those empty shells and began laying them down across the boggy places so their men, horses and wagons could pass over. I watched for a long time at the edge of the wood. Their progress was so slow and the number of men yet needing to cross so huge, that I surmised it would take them most of the night. They had come a long ways in a short time and would get no rest this night.

  Sunrise would come early. The day had been brutally long. I had divested myself of my mail and all but my sword, intending to gain a few precious and direly needed hours of sleep before the morrow arrived. First, I would attend to Robert’s call and so I went from the edge of the wood to the place where Robert’s tent stood. Joyful voices came from within and the light of a lamp threw shifting shadows on the canvas walls. Just outside, Randolph parted from some of his men. The infusive exhilaration of their victory had washed away all traces of fatigue.

  “Hugh? How is he?” I asked uneasily.

  “Never b
etter, James. Brave and strong as any Douglas. I will tell him that you asked after him when I see him again. Come on.”

  I followed Randolph inside.

  Boyd crushed Randolph in his brutish arms. “Ah ha!” he laughed. “By God, you sent the bastards off with a sound thrashing!”

  Robert stood in the middle of the gathering. His hands were clasped behind his lower back. “You have done well today, Thomas. Edinburgh and now this. You and your men are to be congratulated.”

  A sheepish grin flicked over Thomas Randolph’s mouth. The lamplight revealed a bruise, slowly purpling, on his right cheek. He nodded in thanks. “I fought as a Scotsman, that is all.”

  “And tomorrow, my lord,” I addressed the king, “tomorrow, what would you have of us? The day is here. We are armed. They have come and shown they’ll fight. Tell us... what to do.”

  All went silent inside. The evening’s jubilation continued on outside the crowded tent. Robert came to me and laid a hand firm upon my shoulder. “The English came thinking we would do nothing but watch as they passed by. Twice today we stood them down and sent them running. So what do you suppose they think now, James?” He gripped both of my shoulders, then let go and turned to the others in the circle. “Thomas, Edward, Gil, Keith?”

  Sir Robert Keith, one of only three yet in full mail, said, “I would think we had come up against a mob of stubborn fools begging for a lesson in humility.”

  “Ah.” Robert raised a single finger and tapped at his temple. “You’re thinking as knights, though. Boyd, what would a footsoldier, an English footsoldier, think of his predicament? Of facing us, after his own leaders have been turned back by mere Scotsmen?”

  Rubbing at his belly, Boyd chuckled. “I’d think I might as well be a lamb on a spit.” He sniffed. “And I could damn well smell my own flesh roasting right now.”

  “So?” Edward jumped to the heart of the reason for our gathering. “You’re saying we’re going to fight?”