Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  Above the harsh breaths of foot soldiers struggling up the hill to join the knights on the ridge, the sound of hoof-beats rose. Two figures emerged from the darkness and hauled their horses to a halt before Valence.

  ‘Scots have overrun the place, sir,’ panted one.

  ‘Have they formed a perimeter?’ Aymer questioned. ‘Any defence?’

  The rider’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. ‘No, sir. The churls have left themselves wide open. The river cuts off their path to the south. If we ride now, we can block their escape.’

  Robert, staring down at the blazing town, wondered just who was in those streets. No more faceless castles, manned by unknown garrisons; there might be men he knew, comrades even, down there.

  Valence drew his sword and nodded to Robert Clifford, mounted beside him. ‘You and your men take the town. I’ll secure the periphery and keep the whoresons penned in. Remember, brother, the king wants as many ringleaders brought to him alive as possible. He wishes to deal with John Comyn personally.’ The knight’s tone roughened as he spoke his brother-in-law’s name.

  Robert watched as Valence swept the company with his stare, his face shadowed by the raised visor of his helm, his eyes like pools of pitch beneath the rim.

  The knight fixed on him. ‘You will join him, Bruce.’ Leaving Clifford to summon his men, Valence pricked his destrier closer to Robert. ‘If you hesitate to confront, kill or capture any one of your countrymen I will know of it.’ He leaned in, hefting his broadsword. ‘I’m going to ram my steel into the gut of every Scot I find down there.’ The wire in his mouth gleamed as he bared his teeth, before wheeling away with a shout. ‘We ride!’

  ‘What did the bastard say?’

  Robert turned to see his brother looking at him. Edward, whom he’d set in charge of the knights of Annandale, wore their father’s arms, his yellow surcoat divided by the red saltire. He had taken off his helm and his face glistened with sweat in the moonlight. ‘Just follow my lead,’ Robert told him.

  As Clifford and his men set off at a canter down the hillside, Robert snapped down his visor. He couldn’t think about who he might meet in those streets. If he faltered, the sacrifice he had made in submitting to Edward would be in vain. He had to seize this moment, no matter the cost. Had to prove he was one of these men. Kicking at Hunter’s sides he followed Clifford, his brother and Nes to either side of him. Around them rode knights and squires of Annandale and Carrick, summoned to arms by Robert. The men of Annandale had seen the devastation wrought in their lands by the rebels under John Comyn, whole towns ravaged by sack and slaughter. They now showed no compunction about confronting fellow Scots. They were out for blood.

  The flames grew in the slits of Robert’s visor and smoke tainted the air as he and his men plunged through a harvested field. Clods of soil were kicked up, stones skittering off helms and shields. Spurring their horses over a bank, they joined a track that led into the settlement. Canter became gallop as they approached the town, their blades and the bosses on shields burnished by the glow of the fires. In their wake came Valence and his knights. Behind, the foot soldiers hastened to form a barrier on the outskirts.

  Clifford didn’t slow as he neared the first houses, the roaring flames masking the hoof-beats. In the street, two men were bent over a chest. There was a body on the ground close by. A third man was watching his comrades open the chest. He had a cask in his hands, which he upended and guzzled from, wine dribbling down his tunic. On lowering the vessel, he looked straight at the knights cantering towards him. His mouth widened, the cask slipping from his hands. Staggering back, he turned to run, a shout tearing from his lips.

  The Scot only made it a short distance before Clifford caught him. As he swung his sword down, the blade hacked through the running man’s neck, beheading him. His body continued for a couple of seconds, before he crumpled in the dust. His two comrades were cut down where they stood, one taking a slash of a sword that split his face, the other stabbed through the throat. Clifford and his knights swept on into the burning streets.

  Robert led his men through the buffeting heat. Above the thudding hooves, he caught jubilant cries and anguished shrieks. The streets were strewn with debris. Through his visor he glimpsed dozens of corpses among the wreckage. Here, a half-naked woman, split from groin to throat, there another whose face had been staved in. A man burst from the door of a burning house and lumbered into the street, skin and hair flaming. One of Clifford’s knights rode him down and, with a chop of his sword, ended his screams.

  Beyond, the thoroughfare was filled with Scots, mostly infantry. Here, looting continued, as did rape, judging by the tortured screams coming from the few buildings not yet on fire. Shouts filled the air as the Scots saw the English coming, but half of them were too drunk on pillaged ale to form any adequate defence. Few wore mail and many of those with helms and shields had discarded them, the better to drink and pillage. Clifford’s knights rode right through them.

  As swords swung in, blood splattered the walls of houses and strangled howls were lost in the clamour of hooves. Many Scots turned and ran, but a few defended themselves, roaring and wild-eyed as they leapt at the riders, or hacked axe blades into the legs of horses. Now, the first English went down, knights hurled from tumbling mounts, or grappled and pulled to the ground. The crack of blades meeting shields echoed in the confined streets. One of Clifford’s men lost control of his horse as its neck was split open by a Scot’s falchion. The destrier careened into the side of a burning house, causing the roof to collapse inwards with a burst of sparks that showered the men in the street.

  The charge of the knights was quickly brought to a stop, choked by the press. Scots were running away down side streets, shouting the alarm. Among them, Robert caught sight of tunics emblazoned with the white lion of Galloway. The symbol of John Balliol fired his blood. With a shout, he led his men off between the buildings. A huge man with a black beard lurched out of a doorway in front of him. He had a dirk in one fist and something long and wispy trailed from the other. Robert just had time to see it was a hank of blond hair, before he brought his sword down in a cut of wrath that cleaved through the man’s leather aketon and into his shoulder. Wrenching the blade free, he cantered on, the forty-two inches of Damascene steel christened in the first blood of the battle.

  Heart pumping furiously, he drove Hunter on into a market square where the Scottish force was concentrated. Among the foot soldiers were knights, sprinting for their horses as Robert’s men rode into their midst. Fleeing Scots were falling prey to their own devastation, stumbling over strewn furniture and sacks to be trampled by the brutal charge of iron-shod hooves that could burst a man’s skull or snap his spine. Some darted to the houses for cover, but were faced with fires they had set. Smoke choked the air.

  Outside the church, from which the invaders were carrying coffers and candlesticks, Robert saw a knot of red surcoats. Glimpsing the Comyn arms illuminated by the flames, he kicked Hunter towards the looters. Somewhere, a horn began to call. One man, foot already in his stirrup, turned at the sound. Robert, plunging towards the group, caught sight of his face. His heart gave a fierce leap. It was John Comyn. Robert spurred Hunter harder. By capturing the rebel leader he could prove his loyalty to Edward and rid Scotland of his greatest obstacle to the throne in one move. Comyn had mounted, but his back was to Robert. In the chaos he hadn’t seen him.

  Robert’s concentration was so intently fixed on his enemy that he only saw the rider rushing up on his left at the last moment. With barely a second to spare, he dropped the reins and raised his shield to block the sword that came crashing at him. The impact was brutal, the concussion jolting all the way up to his shoulder, weakening the nerves in his hand and arm. The momentum of his charge carried him some distance past his attacker, before he could veer Hunter round with a jab of his knee to counter. As they came together again, swords arcing above the heads of their horses, Robert realised he knew him. The man, whose white surcoat bore th
e arms of the Red Comyns, wore a conical helm with a nasal guard, the ventail of which hung loose, exposing his mouth and jaw. It was Dungal MacDouall; the man whose father had been killed by his in the Bruces’ attack on Buittle Castle.

  As Robert cut in at him, the captain smacked the blade away with a cuff of his shield, then rammed his sword towards Hunter’s head. Robert reacted quickly, jabbing his spur into the horse’s flanks, causing the destrier to rear up. He was rocked back against the cantle as Hunter’s hooves pummelled the air, one of them catching MacDouall’s palfrey on the side of the head. The palfrey stumbled, crashing into Hunter’s side, causing the destrier, still up on his hind legs, to lose his balance. The palfrey, stunned by the kick, went with him as he toppled.

  Luck jolted Robert from the saddle, throwing him sideways out of the way of Hunter’s massive weight. He rolled as he struck the floor, his gambeson absorbing most of the impact, mail crunching on the hard-packed ground. Somehow, he managed to keep hold of both sword and shield, but his helm had been knocked out of place, meaning the slits no longer lined up with his eyes. Robert pushed up the visor to see MacDouall struggling to his feet a few yards away. The captain’s shield strap had broken in the fall and the shield was hanging off his arm. Between them, the horses untangled their limbs and thrashed upright. All around, the clash of battle continued. Robert’s brother and knights were engaged in fierce fighting with men in the colours of Badenoch and Buchan. More horns were sounding, both near and distant.

  Tossing the shield aside and grasping his broadsword two-handed, MacDouall strode in through the smoke. Recognition sparked in his eyes as he saw Robert’s face. He came in fast, bringing his sword swinging down. Robert, still on his knees, hefted his shield to block. The blade bit into the wood, scoring a deep gash through Carrick’s red chevron. Robert stooped under the strike, then heaved upwards, forcing MacDouall to reel away. Once on his feet, Robert moved quickly. Their swords cracked together, splinters of metal flying from the blades in sparks. Robert had lost sight of Comyn, all his attention now focused on the captain, who clearly intended to kill rather than capture him. As the two of them hammered and thrust at one another, men streamed past.

  The English knights under Clifford had overrun the town. Though greatly outnumbered by the Scottish infantry, they far outmatched the disarrayed and drunken soldiers. Many Scots not yet caught up in the fray ran down the streets bearing whatever loot they could carry as the horns continued to sound. Those running south would be faced with the river, those heading north would find themselves in Valence’s killing ground.

  The timbers in the house beside Robert collapsed inwards with a groan, a wave of heat gusting out of the doorway and windows. He ducked out of harm’s way as smoke and sparks billowed towards him. MacDouall wasn’t so fortunate. A clump of blazing thatch fell from the roof on top of him, causing him to lurch away. While his defences were open, Robert barrelled into him with his shield. The captain, caught unawares, was rocked backwards, his arm flung wide. Thrusting his sword up under the edge of his shield, Robert punched the tip through MacDouall’s mail coat and gambeson to pierce the flesh of his armpit. Snarling with the effort, he rammed the blade home.

  The captain roared, his sword falling from his fingers to clang in the dust, but he managed to kick out, catching Robert above the knee. As Robert stumbled back his sword pulled free of MacDouall’s body. His foot caught on a grain sack discarded by the looters and he went down, dropping the weapon. Mad-eyed, MacDouall wrenched a dirk from his belt with his left hand. His right was clamped to his side where blood pumped, staining his surcoat. Robert reached out, his fingers curling around the grip of his fallen sword. As MacDouall thrust towards him with the dagger, he brought the sword up and round in a mighty arc. The blade came down on the captain’s wrist, cleaving mail and flesh, its momentum halted only by bone. MacDouall’s mouth stretched in a hideous scream. He dropped to his knees, his hand, still in its mail glove, now hanging at a sideways angle, dangling from the wrist. Blood spurted from the wound.

  Hauling himself to his feet, Robert stepped towards MacDouall, meaning to finish it.

  ‘Earl Robert!’

  He turned, distracted, to see Robert Clifford riding towards him with a score of knights.

  The knight pulled his horse up sharp. ‘Sir Aymer’s men are being attacked from the rear. Come,’ he ordered, slamming his spurs into the flanks of his destrier.

  Lungs burning from the exertion and the smoke, Robert looked around for Hunter. The destrier, well-trained, hadn’t bolted. He was close by, stamping in agitation, eyes reflecting the flames rippling up the sides of the buildings. Shouting to Nes and his brother, who had despatched three Galloway men between them, Robert climbed into the saddle. Leaving Dungal MacDouall curled over his bleeding hand, he and his men rode away across the market square into the corpse-strewn streets.

  On the edge of the town, fierce fighting had broken out. In the red glimmer of fires, Robert saw the white and blue striped surcoats of the knights of Pembroke. They were clashing with a motley crew of mounted men. Many of the English foot soldiers had forsaken their positions and were engaged helping Valence and his men tackle this company, creating a breach in the perimeter through which scores of Scots were fleeing. Some Scots, dazed by the darkness beyond the flames, or slowed by injuries, blundered straight into the mêlée, but many more escaped thanks to the efforts of this new force.

  Clifford was riding ahead. As the royal knight entered the fray, Robert caught sight of a massive figure, scything an axe into the crowd around him. There were few men so impressive in height and size. Robert, still some distance away, knew instantly that it was William Wallace. A jolt went through him. He slowed his horse, letting other men ride on past him, his eyes fixed on Wallace, who roared as he hacked into an English foot soldier, sending the man flying backwards in a mist of blood. An English knight charged in at him from the side. Wallace turned, moving with surprising speed and fluidity for such a large man, and, with a savage arc of his axe, took the top off the man’s helm as if he were slicing open an egg. Half the knight’s skull went with it. He fell forward, spilling his brains as he slipped from the saddle. Robert had not been on the field at Stirling or Falkirk. Although he had watched Wallace in training and often heard tell of his prowess and fearlessness during his time in the rebel army, he had never actually seen the man in the heat of battle. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

  More of Valence’s men were closing in, moving to surround Wallace. Robert had a mad impulse to shout a warning. He caught himself in time, but he needn’t have worried. All at once, Wallace veered away, his men following at his shout. It seemed they had only engaged in order to give as many Scots a chance to escape from the town as possible. All who could were now withdrawing, turning and riding into the night after the rebel leader, leaving hundreds of wounded and dead behind them. To his left, Robert glimpsed a group of horsemen moving fast out of the town. Several were wearing the red and black surcoats of the Comyns. Seeing Clifford gesture to him, Robert forced Hunter in pursuit. His brother and several Carrick knights, seeing him break away, followed swiftly.

  The horsemen had a good lead, but Robert managed to compel Hunter to a last burst of speed. Fixing on a man at the rear, a knight judging by his trappered horse, he galloped up on him. The knight turned, too late. As Robert smashed his sword into his back, the man was pitched from the saddle and caught up under the hooves. Edward Bruce rode up behind another who bore John Comyn’s arms. With a sideways swipe he hamstrung the man’s horse, which went down, crushing its charge.

  Sensing motion behind him, Robert turned and came face to face with a snarling Scot, bearing down on him. It was Alexander Seton. Time seemed to slow. In the few seconds it took for them to pass one another, the swing of their blades faltering and going wide, Robert saw the shock of recognition reflected in Alexander’s face. Then, his friend was galloping on past to be swallowed by the darkness. As the Carrick knights tackled the last few r
iders, Robert brought Hunter to a shuddering stop. Removing his helm and letting it fall to the mud, he collapsed back against the cantle, taking great gasps of clean night air. Smoke coated his mouth with its acrid tang and it burned when he swallowed. Sweat ran into his eyes.

  ‘Did you see Comyn?’ His brother came up alongside him. Edward had removed his helm and his nostrils and mouth were stained black. With his bloodshot eyes, it gave him a demonic look. ‘Bastard just rode right by me. I couldn’t get to him.’

  ‘William Wallace was with them,’ Robert told him between breaths. ‘I think he made it out.’

  Edward’s eyes widened. ‘Wallace? He’s back in Scotland?’

  Robert nodded. For a moment, they stared at one another, the surprise of this sinking in through the numbness of battle.

  Clifford rode over, his surcoat, sword and horse all slathered in blood. ‘Comyn?’

  ‘Gone,’ Robert answered. He nodded to where the Carrick knights were rounding up the Scots they had managed to bring down in the pursuit, checking the bodies for signs of life. ‘We took six.’

  Clifford cursed. ‘We would have got them all if not for that company. They came out of nowhere.’ He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving a smear of blood across his face. ‘I think it was William Wallace leading them.’ He cursed again, bitterly. ‘More men and we could have taken both him and Comyn. The rebellion would have been done for.’

  ‘No matter. We have done them great harm this evening.’

  Clifford nodded after a pause and gave a hard smile. ‘That we have.’ He gestured to the fallen Scots. ‘Make sure your men secure them. The king wants prisoners.’ Clifford paused, before riding off, his eyes lingering on Robert. ‘Well fought, Sir Robert.’