islands of firm ground, hemmed in on three sides by the Bannock Burn,
the River Forth and the Pelstream Burn. The fourth side, to the west, where the ground lifted to the New Park escarpment, was now barred by the half-mile-long line of advancing Scots.
It was no charge, of course, even of infantry-the ground precluded that. Cut up with runnels and stan ks and sum ps draining into larger canals and ditches, it was terrain to be hopped and picked and sidled over, even by nimble men. For cavalry it was practically impassable, save by circuitous routes.
The English, of course, were not idle while this wholly unexpected attack on so broad a front was being mounted. Swiftly they were rallying, forming up into their troops, squadrons and companies. Already there was a distinct drift of mounted men southwards towards the entrance point to the cars eland of the night before. Then the drift turned to something more definite at the cavalry of the English extreme left, bivouacked nearest to the Milton of Bannock, achieved some sort of formation and began to hasten to gain and hold that vital bridgehead. First to enter, the night before, it was Gloucesters section of the van. Yesterdays misfortunes had hot quenched the young Earls eagerness. His great banner well to the fore, his trumpets braying, he was going to be first into action again.
But another and equally impatiently active earl was intent on gaining the same bridgehead-Edward, Earl of Carrick. For this very reason Bruce had given his brother the extreme right today.
Leaping, bounding, even using their. long pike-shafts as vaulting poles across the pows and ditches, the Scots foot raced for the bridge.
Gloucesters cavalry was grievously hampered by the terrain, though it was better here than elsewhere, as the English had pulled off the doors and roof-timbers of every building in the Milton and around to form little gangways and bridges across the ditches. But even so the horsemen had to twist, go slowly and most often in many single files. As a result, though a few reached the bridge first, they were isolated, and went down before the charge of the thrusting pike men By the time that Gloucester himself reached the scene, Edward Bruce had roughly formed his men into two schiltroms, side by side, at the bridge. There was no room, firm ground, for the English to pause and marshal their horsed ranks. Oncoming riders pushed earlier arrivals forward. Undoubtedly Gloucester would have formed up for a less piecemeal attack if he could; but like Clifford the day before the lack of firm ground gave no opportunity.
He and his men plunged at and circled the schiltroms disjointedly.
Gallantly impetuous yet, and an example to his men, the Earl plunged into the narrow gap between the schiltroms, hoping no doubt further to divide them. None of his people followed him therein, not even his standard-bearer. With a wild yell the pike men of the inner sides of both formations broke and surged towards each other, spears and dirks jabbing. Gloucesters horse went down, and its rider disappeared under the press.
Edward Bruce yelled also, not to kill, to save the Earl as prisoner, for his great ransom; but it was too late. Gilbert de Clare, nephew of King Edward and kinsman of the Bruces also, was dead, in the first minutes of the battle.
Unhappily his scattered cavalry drew back into the marshs safety.
All of this was not, of course, evident to the rest of the advancing Scots line; but that their right had had the best of it was clear, and greatly enheartened many. Bruce himself, though cheered, was otherwise preoccupied. As well as having to pick an awkward way for himself, like the others, across the shocking terrain that he had chosen to fight on, his primary concern at this stage was the menace of the English bowmen. Properly handled they could yet end everything. The enemy might in heavy cavalry he believed he had neutralised, by fighting here; but the archers …?
Bowmen, to be of real advantage in any battle, had to be massed, preferably on a flank and if possible on ground somewhat higher than the rest, where they could see, and enfilade the enemy without endangering their own ranks. The previous night Bruce had recognised all too clearly where, in this situation, the archers should be placed. Indeed, there was little choice. Well to the northwest of the English position, on their extreme right not far from where Moray had fought Clifford at the Pelstream ford, was an isolated hogback of slightly rising ground amongst the marsh. Here the bowmen could stand secure and do maximum damage. But, in fact, no archers stood there this morning; instead heavy cavalry occupied this key position, excellent for weighty horses admittedly, but quite useless tactically in that they could not move from it without plunging into soft bog again. There the pride of Englands chivalry was safe, but unserviceable. It had been the first magnet for Bruces glance, when the mists cleared. Surely if Edward Plantagenet had not the wits to see it, Pembroke or Ulster should have done.
Now, amongst all that wild upheaval in the Carse, one double movement
at least was clear, definite. The heavy chivalry at last was being
moved south, out of the precious island, and from behind, nearer the
Forth where the enormous numbers of English In all the excitement and
confusion, it was some time before Bruce realised that they were not being showered with arrows. He could not pause in this undignified plunging amidst other jostling bodies, but he did make darting glances to the left. And there, on the higher ground, he could see Keiths banner flying bravely, and horsemen hacking and swiping at fleeing archers in every direction.
The Kings sigh of relief was only metaphorical, but very genuine, He knew now that this battle could indeed be won.
But that, of course, was only a future possibility, however heartening.
Meantime there was only bog to cover and English to kill, by the thousand, the ten thousand. That June Monday of 1314, hell had come to the Carse of Stirling, hell for all men, almost as much for the Scots as for their foes.
In fact, it was the Scots who grew exhausted first, since on them fell the greatest and most sustained exertions. And there were so many English to confront, to beat down, to drive before them, but still to cope with. Endless hosts and legions of men, penned in and therefore unable to escape, to be fought. There was no limit to it, no relief for flesh and blood on that terrible plain, hour after bloody hour.
At some stage Bruce realised, from his own state, that the said flesh and blood could not indeed stand much more. His men were dropping now, not so much from wounds as from exhaustion, stumbling into runnels and pools and just not rising again. The nine schiltroms now represented a barely recognisable line; in fact few were recognisable as even schiltroms any more. It was long since there had been any shouting and slogan-crying; only the involuntary screaming of agonised men and injured horses. And not half, perhaps not a third of the English host was accounted for. The vast mass of it was still there before them, ever more tightly compressed in its dreadful trap. Dying, yes-but dying so very slowly, selling its life so very dearly. This could not go on.
Yet-and here was the deepest hell of it-there could be no letup.
The Scots could not, dare not, stop and go back, content with their partial victory. Still outnumbered fantastically, if they turned now, with all that quaking bog to cover again, they could and would be overwhelmed in disaster. There were still scores of thousands of the enemy who had not yet had opportunity to strike a blow, had barely moved, were fresh, un blooded Give the demoralised cavalry a chance to get out of the way, and the untouched infantry behind could swarm forward to ultimate victory.
Bruce racked his tired, benumbed brain for what was to be done.
He was still the commander, the only man in all this tortured plain who could still influence other men, by his decision, to any effective action-since the English leadership seemed to be completely at a discount. He had long since given up looking for King Edward, or Pembroke, or Ulster his own father-in-law. He was just one man struggling painfully on, in all-enveloping mud, amongst other weary men. What could he do?
If he halted the entire forward movement, however sluggish now, by trumpet
call? What then? Exhausted men would sink, practically into torpor. He would never get them started again.
The English would be given time to rally. At the very least, they would see opportunity to cut their way through, to escape. And on firm land again, those untouched thousands would recover.
What else? For once, Robert Bruces mind, so fertile for stratagem, produced no alternative to this treadmill of horror.
Then, strangely, the matter was taken out of his drooping hands.
Distant trumpets and thin high cheering, from far behind, turned some heavy heads, the Kings included. There, coming rushing down the escarpment from the New Park, was a new host, horse and foot, banners flying. From nearly a mile away it could not be seen that its leader was a gaunt stooping bishop, William Lamberton, on a palfrey; that its cavalry were priests and grooms on packhorses; that its infantry were porters and cooks and old men, even women, with staves and meat-choppers and carving-knives;
its banners blankets and plaids tied to tent-poles. On it came, out of hiding amongst the knowes, a new and vociferous host, with no hint of exhaustion about it.
In that moment the Battle of Bannockburn was finally won. Appalled, the English commanders saw their enemy reinforced, and accepted it as the last straw. King Edward had esteemed the battle lost long before. He was no coward, however poor a monarch, and had been agitating, not how to save himself but how to extricate any large number of his people from this trap. But now even the veterans Pembroke and Ulster urged immediate flight-and when the King would have turned his horse instinctively southwards, towards their entry to that place of disaster, Pembroke it was who grabbed the royal arm and practically pulled his monarch off his massive destrier. Unseating squires and heralds from lighter, faster horses, the two Earls got the King mounted again, and were off with him, northwards. They had learned from Clifford of the north-about route to Stirling by the Pelstream ford, and rightly guessed that it was unlikely to be guarded now. A score or so of determined, cruelly-spurring men, they left that stricken field while yet most men stared unbelieving at the baggagetrain army.
Quickly, of course, the English commands flight was perceived, and
swiftly men reacted. The Scots, suddenly reinvigorated, yelled their triumph and surged forward. The English decided that it was every man for himself, and acted accordingly.
Abruptly, then, the battle was over, although the fighting was not. That was to go on for hours yet, as men tried to hack or race or swim their way to freedom, and died in the process, thousands upon thousands of men, so that the very River Forth was choked with bodies. Not all died, of course, but a great many did, singly, in groups and in large companies that stood and sold their lives dearly-for there was a mighty backlog of old scores to pay off, and ordinary soldiers and men-at-arms were not worth taking prisoner.
Lords and knights and gentry, of course, were different; their ransoms would set up many for life.
It was not much past noon, in fact, when King Edward fled the field; but King Robert was still there when the sun was sinking, still seeking to command, to control, to bring order if not mercy out of utter shambles and chaos. He had, indeed, exerted some major control from the beginning, detaching Douglas and sending him and Keith, with some part of the cavalry, in hot pursuit of King Edward and his fleeing nobility, round Stirling Rock. Then he set up some sort of headquarters on the green mound from which the archers had been dislodged, and from there endeavoured to bring order out of bedlam, fatigued as he was. And there, presently, William Lamberton came to him, and they gripped hands in silent, eloquent thankfulness, hearts too full for words, tears in their eyes for all to see, neither ashamed.
They were there still, as the sun sank, the Bishop superintending the treatment of wounded, Bruce, swaying on his feet, directing, directing, with all his commanders out supervising the clearance of that desperate field, halting massacres, shepherding prisoners, receiving belated surrenders, collecting and separating the dead, garnering and protecting booty-all this, when a party approached under Gilbert Hay. He brought a number of bodies borne on shields and hurdles, and beside one of these limped a tall, smooth faced man in middle years whose magnificence was only partly hidden by the universal mud and dried slime.
Here is one, Sire, who claims you owe him much, Hay said. It may be that he speaks false-for also he claims to be Earl of Gloucester. Whereas here is the true Gloucester! And he gestured to one of the corpses.
Robert Bruce knows who I am, the prisoner declared, with dignity.
And if I know him, he will not forget.
Aye-Monthermer! My lord-it is a long time. Twelve years, no less, Bruce said, and held out his hand.
I have not forgot Here are changed days-but had it not been for you, I would not have lived, I believe, to fight this day. My lord High Constable-this is the Earl Ralph de Monthermer, who held the earldom of Gloucester during his stepsons minority. He once served me more than well.
This was, indeed, the man who had sent Bruce the spurs and the shilling, that night in London in 1302, as hint to flee, when the Comyn had betrayed him to King Edward and he was to be arrested the next morning; the man who was Edward Longshankss son-in-law, having married Edwards daughter, after her widowing from the de Clare Earl of Gloucester, Bruces cousin, and so had been given the earldom until the child heir should reach mans estate. And that child heir it was who now lay, pierced by a score of Scots pikes, there beside his stepfather.
Bruce went to look down at the dead, once-handsome young man, his second cousin whom he had never met in the flesh, and shook his head.
Gilbert, he said, sighing.
Gilbert de Clare. At least you died nobly.
Aye. He leaves this sorry field in better state than do most of us! the older man said.
God knows, I could wish myself in Gilberts place. Here, for the rest of us, was shame on shame.
The fortunes of war, friend. Do not blame yourself. At least you did not run! With your brother-in-law!
I was not with him, the King, at the end. I took command of Gilberts men, when he fell. But … Edward, the King-he is a fool! And has shamed us all this day. Yet, he could not stay to be captured, Robert. The King. You must see it. His ransom-his ransom would have bought all Scotlands freedom!
Strangely, levelly, the tired Bruce looked at Monthermer, and then nodded.
Scotlands freedom is bought, I think! he said softly.
Not by a kings ransom, but by the courage and blood and sacrifice of her people. Remember it! Then he smiled, however slightly.
But you, Ralph-you are now my guest. You shall be treated as such. No ransom is required of you. I pay my debts-all of them! My lord Constable-have the Earl Ralph conducted to the Abbey of Cambuskenneth, to the Abbots good keeping. And bestow the body of Earl Gilbert, my cousin, in his chapel. I will come there anon …
But Hay had another body to show his monarch, covered by a cloak. Wordlessly twitching back the cloth, he revealed the dead but still arrogant face of Robert, Lord Clifford.
Clifford! Bruce cried, chokingly.
Robert Clifford, fore God!
And then more quietly, Aye-before God, at last! May He have mercy
… on his soul! May he … rest in peace. The King had made many
merciful pronouncements of late. But this was as hard a sentence to say as any he had ever enunciated.
He turned blindly away, as William Lamberton gripped his
Chapter Twenty-two
In the refectory of the Abbey of Cambuskenneth, almost is landed in a
great bend of the Forth only a mile or so north of the battlefield,
Robert Bruce played a new role, armour, weapons and the panoply of war
for once cast aside. He sat at a table, with the Abbot Bernard, his
Chancellor, and other clerks who yesterday had been soldiers, and was
flanked by other tables manned
by monks and priests, even of high
degree-any who could write and figure on paper. And all around them
men came and went, bringing, stacking, piling high, arranging,
documenting the greatest treasure Scotland had ever seen. When the
King of England went to war, it seemed, he did so in style-and in his
haste to be gone, he had left his style behind. Cambuskenneth had
become a counting house
Gold and silver vessels and plate, personal jewellery, gem studded ceremonial weapons, crosses, orders and the like, gold worked clothing, saddle-cloths, standards and banners, rich harness, was the last of it even though there were over 200 pair of knights golden spurs alone. It was the armour, helmets and shields, much of it gold-and silver-enriched, captured or cast away by fleeing men, that half-filled the hall. King Edwards own shield, even his royal seal, lay on the table at Bruces elbow.
The King yawned nevertheless. He was not much of an accountant-although none recognised better what this wealth meant to bankrupt, war-ravaged, all but starving Scotland. He had in fact slept no more that night than the nights before-though on this occasion he had been conducting a knights vigil, in the Abbey chapel, over the body of Gilbert de Clare, of Gloucester, his cousin, a vigil and personal thanksgiving combined. Few, indeed, had slept much anywhere in Scotland that night, save for the drunken-the bells had seen to that. Every bell in the land had been ringing since nightfall-and not all were so mellow and harmonious as the great carillon of Cambuskenneth which even yet kept the warm noontide air throbbing around them. The jangle from nearby Stirlings host of belfries across the river was head-splitting, nerve-shattering, and dearly the King would have liked to command its cessation-but did not. I calculate the treasure already listed now at worth no less than 200,000, Sire, Bernard de Linton mentioned, pen pausing for a moment.
Aye. No doubt, the King conceded.
Very good. A great sum.
The Path of the Hero King bt-2 Page 45
