by Robyn Young
Piers’s eyes were intent, his gaze unwavering. Edward gave a small nod. Pushing himself to his feet, he smoothed down his tunic and ducked out into the warm evening, followed by Piers. Making his way past the campfires of his comrades, who were all flushed with wine and laughter and suddenly seemed far too relaxed, he fixed his attention on the company of horsemen who had gathered a short distance from his tent, the horses stamping, excited by their ride.
Humphrey de Bohun was at their head, the six gold lions on his mantle glittering in the flame-light. The earl had dismounted and was speaking to his nephew. Edward thought of his fears that Henry could have been killed in the tournament and what trouble that would have caused him. It was a horrible coincidence that the squire’s uncle should now turn up in his camp. He wondered uneasily whether the bruises and cuts the young man sported after coming off his horse in the joust would look like war wounds.
‘My lord prince,’ greeted Humphrey, with a brief bow.
Edward thought the earl seemed even more direct than usual, his tone curt. He noticed Humphrey’s gaze flick to Piers and seeing the flash of disapproval in the constable’s green eyes found himself moving to block his view. ‘Sir Humphrey, it is a surprise to see you here, so far from my father’s camp. Do you have word from him?’ Edward went on before Humphrey could answer. ‘Has Master Henry been telling you of my success? I have taken Turnberry Castle and burned Bruce’s lands. His tenants have been scattered to the—’
‘I beg your pardon, my lord prince,’ interrupted Humphrey, ‘but time is of the essence. I have come with all speed from Durham with orders from the king. Robert Bruce is fleeing west. We are to intercept him.’
Chapter 10
Near Tyndrum, Scotland, 1306 AD
From the sprawling thicket of birch and alders, Alexander Seton stared at the distant wooded fringes of the River Fillan, where a broad meadow curved out of sight, folding into a valley. His eyes strained, searching for movement beyond the great plain of grass that rippled like a green sea. Around him, crowds of men were adjusting helms and armour, hefting weapons. Some spoke in low voices to comrades, or to quieten horses. Most were silent. The muggy air was clogged with their combined stink – stale sweat, leather and tarnished steel.
Alexander’s attention was diverted as his arm was knocked by one of his two guards who viciously swatted a fly from his face. There were scores of them buzzing about the nostrils of the horses and the piles of dung around the cavalry lines; more still around the six corpses. Alexander glanced at the bodies. He didn’t know any of them by name, but he recognised two as Robert’s scouts. The dead men’s eyes and mouths were already busy with flies, laying eggs in the openings. Come nightfall, worms would make a feast.
‘Eyes forward.’
Alexander realised the guard was staring at him. The man’s fist was raised as if to strike. He looked back at the plain, not wishing to give Comyn’s thugs any more excuses to beat him. They needed little encouragement – the myriad bruises that throbbed and ached across his body a painful testament to that.
‘That’s right. You don’t want to miss the approach of your king.’
Alexander felt a surge of hatred, bitter as bile, as the guard chuckled, but he couldn’t say anything, even if he dared, for a filthy gag, which tasted of his own blood, was tied over his mouth.
Dear God, let him see them. Let him see them before it’s too late.
As he clasped his bound hands together behind his back to cement the prayer, Alexander felt again how loose his bindings had become after endless hours of struggle, his skin chafed raw by the ropes, but the possibility of freedom offered little hope. Where the hell would he run to? He was surrounded by fifteen hundred men.
The Black Comyn and John MacDougall had two hundred horsemen on palfreys and hobbies. The rest, on foot, made a grim band, armed with spears and the wicked, long-handled axes of Highlanders. Alexander thought of the women and children in the king’s company and closed his eyes. However angry he was with Robert, however much he had wanted out of the man’s company and his own life back, he hadn’t wanted this. He should have let the Black Comyn and that one-handed thug MacDouall kill him – but his wasn’t the only life they had bargained with.
After MacDouall took him from Perth to Leuchars, Alexander had been beaten for hours, the earl demanding to know everything about Robert’s plans. At first he resisted the punches, the kicks and the threats against his life. Finally, when he was barely conscious, the earl had Will dragged in. Alexander had watched through eyes misted with blood as the knight was forced to his knees in front of him. Will’s face was ashen, but he held his head high, looking him in the eye, even as Alexander refused to answer their questions, even when the dagger was pressed to Will’s bared neck. Even when they slit his throat. They did the same to Ewen and, still, Alexander did not speak.
It was Tom who had broken him. Young Tom, his squire, begged as they put the blade to the corner of his eye, threatening to put it out. When the tip punctured his skin the lad, sobbing, had pissed himself. Alexander had surrendered then, one of the earl’s men having to lean right down into the pool of blood and spit he had made to hear his words.
‘Islay. He’s going to Islay.’
His submission did not matter. The sons of whores had killed Tom anyway.
Alexander had wished then that they would end him, but the Black Comyn had ordered him kept alive, in case he might still prove of use.
‘If nothing else,’ he had heard the earl say, ‘his delivery into English custody will help strengthen the king’s trust. Bring him with us. I’ll hand him over myself. I imagine Lord Edward will relish dealing with one of Bruce’s commanders.’
A shudder of expectation rippled through the army hidden in the woods as away across the plain a host of men came slowly into view. Alexander stiffened, seeing the column wind its way up from the valley into the sea of grass like a thick black snake. The column lengthened as more men appeared, some on horses, others on foot. Around him, the murmurs were accompanied by the scrape of weapons and stamping hooves. Within moments, after sharp commands from the captains, the waiting army quietened. Men tensed, sweat trickling down their faces.
Alexander’s heart beat a rapid tattoo in his chest as he fixed his eyes on the host emerging on to the sunlit plain. He strained against the ropes around his wrists, the knots biting into his skin as he fought to pull his hands apart. His guards didn’t notice, all their attention fixed on the approaching army. The company was a long way away, but however hopeless, he had to act. There was one thing he could do – though it would most likely be his last act on this earth. At last, wrenching his hands free from the bindings, Alexander pulled down the gag, threw back his head and roared Robert’s name.
Robert glanced round as John of Atholl urged his horse up alongside him at the vanguard of the column of men.
‘No sign of them?’ murmured John.
The visor of Robert’s helm was raised. Beneath its iron rim, his eyes were narrowed, scanning the plain before them. A wedge of cloud was looming over the peaks of Lorn, all the blacker in contrast to the gold of the afternoon sun that bathed the broad meadows beyond the River Fillan. It had rained a short time ago and the plain was a vast shimmering cloak, spread out beneath the mountains. Finches and plovers darted from the flower-dappled grasses.
‘You told them to scout out the road,’ reasoned John. He nodded north towards Tyndrum, where the mountains became densely wooded hills. ‘It’s a fair way.’
David manoeuvred his horse up alongside his father. ‘The scouts?’
John shook his head.
‘They should have returned by now,’ said Robert, looking over his shoulder down the first dozen rows of mounted men. Sunlight caught on the metal bosses and rivets of shields and winked on the domes of helms. His gaze moved on, past the lines of foot soldiers who trudged alongside the knights, to where the women and children rode in a tight group. He had put them in the middle with the servants,
grooms and pack-horses, partly to keep the company moving at the same pace, partly to surround them with a shield of men.
Elizabeth rode at the head of the women on a sleek white palfrey. His wife wore the grey mantle he’d had lined with sable to surprise her years ago in Essex. The garment was frayed and sun-bleached. Beside the queen was Marjorie on a sturdy-legged pony. His daughter looked tired. His sisters and the wives and children of his men rode behind in silence. Gone was the gaiety of the wedding day. That had faded days ago while they prepared for the next leg of the journey, James Douglas and Gilbert de la Hay leading hunting parties to supplement their dwindling supplies. As they had loaded the pack-horses that morning, Robert noticed Elizabeth was pale and anxious. Overhearing her talking to Isabel Comyn, he realised she was worried about the sea voyage to Islay. His wife had almost drowned as a child and had been terrified of water ever since.
‘Maybe they met with company and had to lie low?’ offered John. ‘The road leads to the Pass of Brander before it splits. It’s unlikely to be free of travellers.’
Fixing his eyes forward again, Robert cursed. ‘We’re travelling blind.’
‘We could wait.’ John shifted in his saddle, one hand sliding to rest on the pommel of his sword. It was an instinctive movement, but one that betrayed his own unease. ‘Give the scouts more time to return?’
‘No,’ said Robert, after a pause. ‘The longer we stay out here, the longer we’re in danger of being seen. We move on. With luck we’ll make the head of Loch Awe before nightfall and we can disappear in the hills. Tomorrow evening, by Campbell’s reckoning, we’ll reach the coast.’
He flicked his spurs across Ghost’s sides, urging the palfrey into the waving sea of grass at a brisk walk that was quickly matched by the men of the vanguard. Ghost moved easily across the marshy ground, even with the weight of Robert’s mail, augmented by a coat-of-plates over which he wore his surcoat and a woollen cloak. Hunter would have been too heavy for such terrain. The thought brought a painful memory of the night in Aberdeen when he’d been forced to confront the reality of the animal’s injury. The warhorse had lain down in the stables at his command, snorting as he stroked his nose. When Nes crouched beside him in silence, holding an iron spike and a hammer, Robert had taken the tools himself. He had talked softly, setting the tip of the spike against the animal’s head. One strong swing of the hammer, as the stable-master had instructed.
Robert was brought back to the present by a noise somewhere off in the distance. It sounded like an animal’s howl. A flock of crows burst from the tangled canopy of a wood, half a mile or so to the south, their calls rising ragged on the breeze.
‘What is it?’ asked John, seeing his intent expression.
Robert strained to listen over the jingle of mail and bridles, the grunts of horses and thud of hooves, but all he caught was the wind singing in the grass. ‘I’m not sure.’
Neil Campbell, riding to their left, looked round, his eyes alert.
‘You heard it?’ Robert asked him.
Neil nodded. ‘Could have been a wolf,’ he ventured, although his hand was curled around the grip of his sword.
‘What’s wrong?’ Edward kicked his horse up alongside his brother. He was quickly joined by Christopher Seton and Niall.
Robert held up his hand, gesturing for the men of the vanguard to halt. They did so, one by one, their horses fanning out. The black wedge of cloud was drifting over the mountains, trailing curtains of rain down into the foothills. Robert stared into the woods, out of the depths of which the birds had scattered. He felt the first drops of rain misting the air. The clouds were advancing on the sun, bringing a wave of shadow towards him. Before the sun winked out, Robert caught several flashes along the tree line. Sunlight on metal. His instincts flared. He went for his broadsword, shouting the alarm, just as a tide of men came pouring out of the woods.
Their distant roar was drowned by the thunder of hooves as two hundred riders broke from the front lines, urging their horses into a gallop. Behind, men came running, the stormy light sparking off spearheads and axe-blades. Banners billowed above the riders, decorated with the black galleys of Argyll and the arms of the Black Comyn.
All around Robert, men began shouting and drawing their weapons. Horses reared in fear as alarm swept through the company. A few pack-horses broke free from the grasp of startled servants and bolted. Some of the women began to scream, setting the dogs barking and threatening to send more horses into flight. Christian had snatched Donald from the arms of his wet nurse and was grasping the wailing boy tight to her chest. Mary clutched at the reins of Matilda’s horse, her sister’s animal panicked and stamping. Isabel Comyn was staring numbly at the incoming charge of horsemen, transfixed by the sight of her husband’s banner.
Robert, the blood pumping through his veins, looked from the cluster of terrified women and children to the approaching riders. The horsemen were still some distance away, but the gap was closing rapidly, more and more of the plain disappearing under the pummelling hooves. Behind them, men continued to emerge from the trees. There were hundreds – maybe thousands.
‘There’re too many!’ shouted John. ‘We’ll be overrun!’
Robert made a decision; no time to think whether it was right or wrong. ‘Niall! Edward!’ He pointed his sword towards the women. ‘Get them out of here! Take the foot soldiers and archers. Go back to the valley – make for the woods beyond the Fillan. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.’
‘Like hell—’ Edward began.
‘Do it!’ roared Robert, so fiercely his brother flinched.
Edward’s jaw pulsed, but he wheeled his horse around and, with Niall’s help, drove the foot soldiers into a protective wedge around the women, children and servants, forcing them back the way they had come.
Robert had one last glimpse of Marjorie – looking over her shoulder at him, stricken with terror – before he snapped down his visor. Kicking viciously with his heels, he spurred Ghost towards the advancing mass of horsemen. ‘On them!’ he roared, his voice echoing around the encasement of his helm.
His men rode with him, their horses ripping through the grass, kicking up black clots of mud. The rain was falling harder, gauzing the air. Ahead, the enemy were coming swiftly to meet them. Finally it was upon him: the reckoning Robert had known was coming for the murder of John Comyn. These men rushing towards him, swords and axes raised, were his judges and executioners, come to avenge the blood of their kinsman. But he would not falter, nor give them ground. The lives of all those he loved were at stake. With the image of his daughter’s face imprinted on his mind, Robert compelled Ghost, with brutal rakes of his spurs, into the front lines of the enemy.
The two forces came together in a vicious clash that resounded across the plain. Men and horses smashed into one another, spears splintering on shields, bones breaking under impact. Some men were hurled from saddles and sent tumbling to the marshy ground, where the mud was as slick as pitch. More managed to right themselves, shaking off the initial concussion, and set about those they found themselves among, hacking and battering. The rain pelted them all, blinding in its intensity, as if the heavens wanted to join in the battle.
Robert swept into the heart of the enemy line, thrusting his blade into the throat of a man who slashed out at him, eyes wide and white through the slit of his helm. The man convulsed and blood spewed over Robert’s blade as he wrenched it free. He felt a concussive crack on the side of his helm, which made his head ring. He roared as he struck at the men and horses crushed in front of him, ignoring the brutal pain in his shoulder as his shield was knocked and battered. His world narrowed into the shifting wall of flesh in front of him, which needed to be struck in every vulnerable place to bring it down.
The two cavalry forces were almost evenly matched, but all that would end when the foot soldiers, charging across the plain, reached them. Robert’s only hope in these few desperate minutes was that he and his men could kill or wound as many cavalr
y as possible so as to slow pursuit. That should give the women long enough to escape into the forest beyond St Fillan’s. His breath bursting hot inside his helm, he slammed his shield into the face of a man whose surcoat was adorned with the arms of Argyll. As the knight recoiled, Robert drove his sword into his ribs.
John of Atholl was fighting fiercely alongside his son. James Douglas was close by, his pale cheeks splattered with blood. He fought like a fury, teeth bared, his blade moving in whip-quick arcs. Christopher Seton had been carried deep into the mêlée, along with a dozen of Atholl’s knights. They were clashing with men wearing the arms of the Black Comyn. Gilbert de la Hay went at one unfortunate Argyllsman, whose helm had fallen off. As Gilbert swung a mighty blow towards his neck the man ducked, but not low enough. The blade bit into his forehead and went on through, taking the man’s scalp clean off, padded coif and all. Looking obscenely like an egg with the top sliced off, he sank from his saddle, a stunned look on his face. His horse bucked, its back hoof catching the face of one of the fallen man’s comrades. He reeled, retching blood and teeth. Other horses were going down, struck by swords and axes, squealing as they collapsed, pulling men down with them.
As another Argyll knight fell, gored by his blade, Robert twisted in his saddle. The women had disappeared from the plain, herded into the valley by his brothers and the infantry. The enemy foot soldiers were almost upon them, their fell voices ragged on the air. Robert went to yell the retreat, but his cry was cut off abruptly as he was jerked to one side. An Argyllsman had grabbed hold of his cloak and now wrenched him towards the point of his sword. Robert pulled back. The brooch that pinned his cloak snapped apart and the garment came away in his enemy’s fist. The man snarled and clutched for Robert’s reins instead. Crushed in between two horses, Robert couldn’t free himself. James Douglas, seeing the danger, lunged in at the Argyllsman’s blindside, hacking his sword deep into the man’s thigh before jerking it free, with an arc of blood.
