Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3

by Robyn Young

  There was a sound somewhere off in the woods to the south – it sounded like a cheer. Thomas pushed himself from the wall, frowning as he listened over the hum of bees and the murmured conversation of his men.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said sharply, turning to those nearest to him.

  Suddenly, the sky over the woods darkened. The air filled with harsh caws as a huge flock of crows flew over. The men stopped talking, watching as the birds surged overhead. A few crossed themselves at the ill omen. After they had gone, Thomas heard more sounds: distant shouts and the shuddering echo of arms. He was turning to alert his men when two figures burst out of the woods and came sprinting across the meadow. They were his scouts, set to watch the track further down.

  ‘Sir!’ panted one, racing up the slope. ‘The English!’

  Beyond the meadow, from out of the fringes of the wood, came a mounted troop of men, five hundred or more strong.

  As Thomas tossed aside his water skin and yelled at his men, they began jumping to their feet, snatching up spears and pulling on helms. Swiftly, eyes wide, but focused, they moved into the formation they had been drilled in every day for the past five months.

  Where moments before they had been scattered across the grass in the shadow of the church, the company now became a giant crescent, six men deep, their twelve-foot-long spears balanced on shoulders and gripped, two-handed, so as to be effectively manoeuvred; jabbed and thrust when needed. Such formations of spearmen, known as schiltroms, had been employed at Falkirk by William Wallace, but unlike Wallace’s stationary rings, Randolph’s schiltrom was a movable hedge of iron-tipped death, capable of advancing in its crescent, then closing round into a ring to protect itself.

  At Thomas’s order, the fifteen hundred men began to move as one down the slope on to the meadow to meet the incoming cavalry, over the heads of which the banners of Robert Clifford and Henry Beaumont soared.

  Bannock, Scotland, 1314 AD

  Robert, shouting at his company to form up among the trees, saw the English vanguard break. Splitting from the main body, a pack of men came charging along the road, lances raised. As they plunged through the ford over the Bannock Burn, the hooves of their destriers kicked up plumes of water that glittered with fractured sunlight. They were about half a mile away, but gaining quickly, the powerful horses eating up the distance. He realised, as they powered their mounts up the road, that they weren’t going to fall foul of his traps. Rather than forming into a long line, as expected, they were coming in a fragmented column, with little sense of order. No matter. They would fall the same on to the points of his spears.

  Spurring his grey palfrey along his rapidly forming crescent of men, Robert urged them out of the trees in their schiltrom, spears forward, ready to shatter the cavalry’s charge. He bellowed that the might of St Andrew was in their arms and the blessing of God upon their souls. Angus MacDonald and the fifty other mounted men with their king, among them Malcolm of Lennox, Nes and Cormac, had ridden out of the cover of the woods, hefting shields into place and drawing swords, maces and war-hammers. The approaching hooves of the English were a wild drumming, filling the air. Battle cries were tearing from throats. Lances were levelling, couched for impact.

  ‘My lord king!’

  Robert, bellowing at his troops, twisted in his saddle at Angus MacDonald’s yell. The Lord of Islay had thrust his finger towards the road. One knight had split off from the others and was thundering towards him, up the grassy bank. Robert caught a wave of blue silk, the man’s mantle billowing as he came, lance levelled. Instinct took over, firing through Robert. Raking his spurs across the palfrey’s sides, he sent the animal plunging down the slope towards the incoming knight. In his hand, he still had the axe Christiana had given him. He tightened his grip on the shaft. Some of his men were crying out in fear and warning. He paid them no heed.

  The Scottish king and the English knight came together on the hillside in a shuddering rush of limbs and metal. The lance was thrust towards Robert. At the last moment, he swerved, pulling his body out of its lethal path. Its iron tip sliced on past him, missing him by inches. At the same time, he rose in his stirrups. With an almighty roar, Robert swung the axe, bringing it carving round towards the knight’s helmed head. The Blade of the Isles struck with such force it sliced through the helm, the padded coif and the skull beneath, all the way down through the brain. There was a wrench in Robert’s arm and a snapping sensation, then he was powering on past, the momentum of the charge carrying him some distance, before he was able to wheel his horse around. In his hand was a splintered stump of shaft. The axe blade had vanished, buried in the skull of his opponent.

  Behind him, an immense cheer rose, sending a flock of crows scattering into the sky from the woods. Turning, Robert saw the knight crumpled on the grass. His horse had bolted. The rest of the English had slowed their advance at the sight of their fallen comrade. Spurring his horse back up the slope, Robert saw six golden lions on the blue of the man’s mantle. Something cold went through him. The man’s head had been split like a nut, his face carved open and a fractured stub of wood sticking out obscenely. The gleam of the blade was visible in the grey sludge of brain. Although the face was ruined, Robert knew it wasn’t Humphrey. He felt an unexpected sense of relief as he kicked his horse back to his cheering men, drawing his broadsword as he went.

  Now, shouting at them to keep in good order, he led them surging down the hillside towards the faltering English vanguard, which had split itself into a ragged mess with the impetuous charge of the knights.

  Most of the English at the head were clad in gold surcoats emblazoned with three red chevrons – the arms of the Earl of Gloucester. The earl was visible among them, his helm crested with a spray of goose feathers dyed red. He was yelling, rousing his men to form up and charge the incoming Scots. Behind them, plunging along the road, the rest of the vanguard rode to aid their comrades.

  The first clash was brutal, Robert and the fifty horsemen with him crashing straight through the front lines of knights. Robert hacked his broadsword into the neck of a rearing horse, spattering himself and the beast’s rider in a hot spray of blood. The knight dropped his lance, but raised his shield to block as Robert swung the sword at him. The steel blade smacked into the wood with a resounding crack. As his horse, blood pumping from the deep wound, buckled under him, the knight fell forward. His free hand flew up instinctively, but was no defence for Robert’s sword that came arcing in at his neck.

  Close by, Malcolm of Lennox was clashing with another of Gloucester’s knights, the red roses on his surcoat livid in the sunlight. Grabbing his opponent’s bridle, Malcolm hauled the man in closer and rammed his sword into his side. The knight doubled over, retching blood that gushed beneath his helm. Beside them, another English knight, shouting furiously, carved the head off one of Malcolm’s men. Angus MacDonald was hacking through the front rows of the enemy. Having felled two squires, he cuffed a knight’s lance aside with his shield, then battered the man’s head with a furious chop of his sword. The man’s helm dented, the eye-slit crushed along the bridge of his nose. He tried to wheel his horse out of the mêlée, but his horse was cut out from under him by the spearmen of the king’s schiltrom, who now surged in.

  Destriers reared up, hooves striking at the men in front of them. Others gnashed at their tormentors. One beast bucked so violently its back hooves propelled the spearman it struck into two men behind him, knocking them flying. More English knights were ploughing into the fight, but they had lost any momentum and their horses were slowed by exhaustion after the day’s march. A number of them tried to form up in a line to charge the flanks of the crescent of spearmen, but as they spread out from the road they found themselves at the mercy of the hidden pits dug by the Scots. Beasts screamed piteously as they staggered into the holes, spikes puncturing hooves, laming them instantly.

  A roar came swelling through the trees of the New Park. The men of the beleaguered English vanguard twisted round, eyes wideni
ng in horror as hundreds upon hundreds of spearmen cascaded down from the woods. They were led by two score horsemen. At the front, sword raised, was Edward Bruce.

  Gilbert de Clare had been knocked from his warhorse and was fighting furiously on foot. A ring of Scottish spearmen were closing in on the earl, but he was making short work of them, clouting aside their spears with his broadsword and stabbing savagely at necks and thighs, unprotected by armour. Now, seeing this new host come to aid their king, he thrust his sword into the face of a young man in front of him, then turned and barrelled his way through the press. His retainers moved in at his back, fending off blows while he grabbed the reins of a riderless horse. Jabbing his mailed boot into the stirrup he hauled himself into the saddle and spurred his way out through the mass of men.

  Humphrey roared at the others to withdraw, before kicking his destrier out of danger, battering aside several spearmen as they lunged at him. Many of the English were doing the same, those who could breaking from the fight and charging down the road, back the way they had come. As the vanguard scattered, fleeing across the Bannock Burn, many Scots howled in triumph and raced to follow, but Robert, panting hard and soaked in sweat, bellowed at them to stay. He had seen too many men charge a fleeing army in blind exultation, only to find themselves cut off and cut down.

  The dust on the road was clotted with blood, the ground around it littered with bodies of horses and men. Robert wiped the sweat from his eyes and did a quick reckoning. He had lost maybe a score, although a fair number were also injured, some badly so from the cries and groans as their comrades tried to help them. The English, however, had suffered far worse casualties. Casting around, Robert counted more than sixty dead or wounded men, many in the colours of Gloucester or Hereford. Ordering Angus MacDonald and Malcolm Lennox to take those left alive prisoner, he turned to meet his brother, who was riding towards him.

  Edward shook his head with a grin as he pulled his horse to a stamping halt by his brother. ‘You left none for me.’

  ‘There will be more,’ said Robert, between breaths, thinking of the host James Douglas had described to him. He looked in the direction of the fleeing knights, who had crossed the Bannock Burn and were already disappearing in the shadow of the Torwood. Although their faces were covered by helms, he was certain Humphrey de Bohun had been among them. He wondered what on earth the earl had been doing. It seemed unthinkable that Humphrey would have headed such a disorganised charge. ‘They might as well have thrown themselves on our spears,’ he murmured.

  ‘My lord king!’

  Turning, Robert saw Cormac approaching. His foster-brother’s axe was dripping blood and his horse was snorting and agitated. He was escorting another rider, whose blood-drenched surcoat was decorated with three white stars. It was Thomas Randolph.

  The earl’s face was flushed and sweat soaked his cheeks, but he was grinning broadly. ‘My lord, we defeated Robert Clifford’s company! They tried to come at us through St Ninian’s, but my men sent them into a rout.’

  Cormac, too, was grinning. Malcolm and Angus, having caught wind of this victory, were riding over, calling questions, their faces filling with exultant disbelief.

  Somewhere in Robert, a flame sparked to life, but he kept his calm, unwilling to let it burn out of control. This wasn’t over. Not yet.‘Gather the prisoners and tend to the wounded,’ he told his men. ‘We make camp.’

  Chapter 47

  Near Stirling, Scotland, 1314 AD

  It was late in the day when the main host of the English army crossed the Bannock Burn. Scouts sent south from Clifford’s company, vanquished by the spears of Thomas Randolph’s men, had warned King Edward the Scots held the New Park and they would not be able to ford the stream by the Roman road. At this news, the vast train of men headed by the king and his rearguard diverted from the road and moved across open country, following the prints of hooves gouged in the track by Clifford and Beaumont’s knights. Endless lines of weary infantry limped in their wake, followed by the baggage train, the wheels of two hundred wagons groaning round in the dust.

  East of the ford, the Bannock Burn twisted its way through a wooded gorge, flanked by steep banks, as sheer as cliffs in places, trees and bushes clinging to the muddy sides. Where the gorge opened out the track descended into the wide burn. The muscular destriers of Clifford’s company had waded easily enough through these waters earlier, but it was a different challenge for thousands of infantry, let alone the supply wagons. A halt was called, men sent off to find materials with which to bridge the stream. They returned gradually, carrying doors and roof timbers from houses at the nearby settlement of Bannock, as dusk lit the land in a crimson haze.

  Once across the water, a copse of trees gave way to a great plain, sheltered on one side by an escarpment, the ridge of which was shrouded with the darkness of the New Park woods. To the north-west, Stirling Castle was now visible, towering on its crag of rock. For the English, their target was now tormentingly close, but cut off by the waters of another burn, the Pelstream. In the twilight of the midsummer’s eve, the flat plain seemed an inviting place to camp, tufted with sweet-smelling heathers, but as the cavalry struck out across it they soon discovered the long grasses concealed a riddle of streams and pools that stretched all the way to the mighty River Forth, a looping silver ribbon to the north. It was here – men floundering in this honeycombed mire, cursing as the ground gave way suddenly beneath them and swatting uselessly at the midges that swarmed up around them – that the vanguard finally found them.

  Gilbert de Clare and Humphrey de Bohun urged their spent horses through the vast crowds, who were trying as best they could to set up camp, the hooves of horses making a black soup of the soft peat. Men stopped what they were doing, eyes lingering on the blood-soaked trappers and mantles of the knights of the vanguard riding through their midst. A few were slumped in their saddles, wounded, squires leading their horses. Humphrey and the others ignored the men’s anxious, questioning looks, winding their way through the tortuous labyrinth of streams towards the king’s company, marked by his royal standard.

  The Earl of Gloucester rode in sullen silence, mounted on a palfrey several hands shorter than his magnificent Andalusian destrier, left for dead on the road by the ford. Humphrey too was silent. A cold fury had been welling in him these past few miles at the actions of his co-commander, whose recklessness had led to the deaths of many of their men, including his own nephew. The sight of the army hunkering down in this insect-plagued quagmire did little to temper his mood. The infantry were exhausted, the cavalry demoralised; all of them disheartened by the prospect of an uncomfortable night ahead after the day’s long march. Glancing over his shoulder, up the escarpment to the distant trees, Humphrey thought about Robert and the strategy the rebel leader had favoured these past years. If the Scots attacked tonight, they would be in dire straits.

  Clustered around the king and his household knights were the barons, among them Aymer de Valence, Richard de Burgh and Ralph de Monthermer. They were clearly involved in a council. Torches, thrust into the ground, illuminated their backs. As the vanguard approached, Ralph, standing on the outer edges of the circle, was the first to spot them.

  Moving to greet them, his expression changed from relief to shock. ‘What happened?’ he asked, crossing straight to Humphrey.

  ‘We were repelled by Bruce’s forces at the ford.’

  ‘Dear God. How?’

  ‘Ask your stepson.’

  Gilbert de Clare, hearing Humphrey’s sharp remark, jumped down from his horse. He had removed his helm and his face was contorted with anger. ‘We might have won had you not hung back like a damn coward!’

  Humphrey felt the fury close over him, numbing any sense of restraint. ‘You useless fool,’ he breathed, striding towards Gloucester, grabbing for his sword as he went.

  He was stopped short by Ralph, who planted a warning hand on his chest. ‘Easy, my friend.’

  Humphrey forced back his rage with effort. Bla
me and reprisals would do no good right now. There would be time for those later. Releasing his grip on his sword hilt, Humphrey thrust a finger at Gloucester. ‘Just know that the blood of my nephew – of all our men – is on your hands.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  The harsh voice belonged to Aymer de Valence, who had broken from the king’s company and was heading over. His boots and mail hose were caked with mud. More smeared the plates of his greaves. The men of the vanguard were dismounting, some helping wounded comrades, calling for water and wine.

  Aymer and Ralph listened, tight-lipped, as Humphrey recounted the skirmish, his tone terse.

  ‘Sir Robert and Sir Henry suffered similar losses,’ said Ralph, when he’d finished.

  Following his gaze, Humphrey saw Robert Clifford nearby. The knight was talking to Henry Beaumont. He had a cut on his forehead that was trickling blood down his face. Every so often, he would wipe at it with the back of his arm. There were wounded men there too, laid out on blankets, servants and priests hovering around them.

  ‘Four score men dead,’ said Ralph. ‘Eight knights.’

  Aymer turned and spat. ‘Curse Bruce and his dogs.’