The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  Sir Alexander Fraser, the Chamberlain, an impatient man, stamped about on the fallen leaves of the wood, cursing their inactivity -until Bruce, rounding on him, out cursed him into muttering quiet.

  Gilbert Hay, the Constable, touched the King’s arm, and pointed upwards to the left.

  “Stones,” he said briefly.

  High on the northern of the flanking shoulders, the English infantry, spreading quickly along in the wake of the retiring Highlanders, were beginning to prise loose stones and rocks, large and small, and send them hurtling down into the gut of corrie.

  Bruce nodded.

  “Campbell and MacRuarie should have been off earlier,” Fraser

  growled.

  “How could they, man? Seen from up there too early, and Richmond might never have moved. He had to be committed to the descent before I dared send them. Douglas will have to thole the stones meantime. Besidesso long as they roll stones down, it must mean that Richmond is not seeking to attack Douglas’s flanks.

  Or the rocks would hit their own men, first.”

  With that doubtful consolation they had to be content. They waited.

  Presently, again it was Hay who pointed. This time downwards, not up. He pointed at the stream which ran close by, and which came tumbling out of the corrie. It was running red.

  None commented.

  At last, when inactive watching and waiting and listening had become almost insupportable, there was a diversion. On the same northern shoulder of hill, Campbell’s clansmen came into view, from the far side, in their hundreds, running and leaping and yelling over the skyline-to the obvious alarm of the stone-rollers.

  Quickly a new infantry battle developed up on the high ground.

  “Thank God for that!” Fraser jerked.

  It was less easy to see to the top of the right-hand and southern

  shoulder, from here; but within minutes noise was coming from up there

  also. Presumably there was less available loose stone there, for the

  fighting seemed to be taking place on the crest of the hill, as

  Christina MacRuarie’s nephew attacked.

  Now trumpets were blowing again, up on the main escarpment, in a crescendo, as the English rear saw a new and utterly unanticipated menace developing. Bruce sighed his relief.

  The trumpeting continued. Somebody in command was in major alarm Richmond himself perhaps, if he had not ventured down into the corrie personally. Thereafter a novel feature could be discerned in the confused picture-a distinct trend of some few horsemen spurring uphill out of the corrie again, back to the escarpment, against the stream, as it were-although this itself was now slackening notably. Recalled captains, undoubtedly.

  “There!” Bruce cried.

  “There is what I looked for, schemed for!

  They are confused now. Where have these new Highlandmen come from! More than ever Douglas had, in the vale. We have them in doubt.” He turned.

  “Willie Irvine-now!” he ordered, playing his last card in this game of bluff.

  “Up there, to Douglas’s aid!”

  Thankful for action at last, Irvine, the former royal armour bearer, led his 300 mounted men out of the cover of the woodland, straight uphill towards the corrie, at the canter, yelling as they went. They had been sitting their horses amongst the trees all this time, for this moment. Their own three trumpets brayed their lustiest, to draw attention to themselves.

  The braying was more than echoed from above, as this surprising cavalry reinforcement for Douglas appeared on the scene. Indeed the English buglers sounded almost hysterical.

  “Pray that is sounding in the Scawton gap,” Gibbie Hay said.

  “If it is not, what then?” Fraser demanded.

  “Then we move up to rescue Jamie Douglas,” the King answered.

  “And say farewell to any chance of capturing Edward Plantagenet Butwait you. Learn what it is to be a King, Sandy!

  Who commands-and then waits.”

  Even Brace’s apparently steely resolve was wilting before, at last, a young Stewart esquire came crashing his horse through the woodland glades, shouting for the King.

  “Sire!” he called, “Sire-word from the Lord Walter! The enemy are riding out of the gap. Back to the east and north. Up the hill. In force. They leave, he says-they leave. They draw out, towards yonder fight, up there …”

  “All the saints be praised! My lords-to horse! Our’s the opportunity now …!”

  The change from frustrating idleness to hectic movement was crazily dramatic. The entire woodland burst into feverish activity, and in only moments the King was leading the way in a headlong dash by thousands, due southwards along the foothills. Avoiding the thicker cover now, since it delayed them, he accepted the certainty that they would be seen from above, for only a mere haze of smoke remained caught by the trees, and led out by the higher and open brae sides Speed was everything-speed, allied to the effect of appalled surprise and confusion above.

  They had almost two miles to cover, and did so in a wild, strung out gallop, more like an enormous deer-hunt than a disciplined cavalry advance, Bruce caring nothing. Never had the shaggy, sure-footed garrons of the Scottish hills better demonstrated their qualities.

  Just before they reached the knoll where the Stewart had lain hidden and watching, with his 200, another messenger met them.

  The Lord Walter had ridden on, up the Scawton road, he reported.

  To take it and hold it, at all costs. Not many of the enemy had appeared to remain … Without so much as drawing rein, Bruce swung his mount round, eastwards, into the gap.

  For those enthusiasts demanding more militant action than mere hard riding, there was disappointment in that shallow groove through the escarpment and the moorland behind-no pass by Scots standards. Obviously, by the horse-droppings, the still burning fires, and abandoned material such as cooking-pots and horse blankets, quite a large force had been guarding it, and presumably settling down for the night, hot anticipating any large-scale assault so late in the October day. Their withdrawal had been sudden, and any numbers left must have been small, for only one or two bodies of men and horses lay scattered along the roadway, indicative of a running fight, a mere chase on the part of Walter Stewart’s 200.

  There was nothing here for the King’s force to do, save ride after, at speed.

  As they went, however, Brace’s glance was apt to be as much preoccupied with the rising ground to his left, as to the front. His host’s emergence from hiding, in force, could not fail to have been observed; and Richmond, or whoever was now in command on the escarpment, must surely recognize the extreme danger to his left flank. He was almost certain to send the former gap-stoppers hastening back, and with reinforcements. It was a race, then.

  The little water shed between Swale and Rye was only three miles wide,

  with the hamlet of Scawton at the far end. Over it the King’s force

  streamed, no impediment developing from the left flank. Where the land

  began to drop, from tussocky moorland to the gentler levels of the

  Rye, less wide a vale than Mowbray but very fair, Walter Stewart waited. Wordless he pointed northwards.

  Behind the escarpment, the Hambleton Hills sank much less dramatically, in rolling green waves of down land to the riverside.

  Stretched along these, over a wide front, a large cavalry host was in process of advancing southwards, at right angles to the valley, its ranks less than a mile off. Bruce looked from it, eastwards, across the levels, to where, about three miles further, the mellow stone buildings of the great Abbey of Rievaulx stood out clear amongst copses, orchards and gardens. A sigh escaped him.

  “I must attend to these others, Walter,” he called, reining up only partially.

  “I had hoped …” He shrugged.

  “I fear that Edward will be warned. He is fleet of foot! Go you, and try to take him. Take another 200, 300, of swift riders. Enough to grip him, if he is not gone. You understand? To Rievaulx. If he is gone, do not pursue too far.
In darkness, you could run into trouble. Myself, I have work to do here!”

  “Aye, Sire-I will bring King Edward, if it may be done.”

  The King waved his son-in-law off, and turned to his brothers-in-law and Hay.

  “Three divisions,” he barked.

  “Quickly. Each to make arrowhead. And all three in another arrowhead.

  Sandy-the right. Hugh, the left. Gibbie, with myself in the centre.

  You wanted fighting! Quickly, I say. No marshalling. Work into

  formation as we advance. We will teach these Southrons how we fight

  in

  It was all, necessarily, a very hurried and rough-and-ready division and forming up. But these men were, in the main, hardened veterans, and their captains amongst the most experienced cavalry commanders alive. Moreover, they all knew the Bruce’s methods, and had complete confidence in his leadership. In only a brief minute or two, out of seemingly hopeless, streaming confusion, two distinct divisions appeared in the still turning Scots host, divisions which grew wider. It would be foolish to assert that the three resultant groupings approximated to any recognisable shape or order, or even were roughly equal in numbers; 15,000 mounted men cannot be so readily marshalled. But at least the advance uphill, northwards, began in triple formation, the centre foremost, and gradually its composite arrowheads began to form.

  That they had time to do so was the measure of their foe’s uncertainty and indecision. They should, of course, have been swept down upon at once, the English using their advantage of height and impetus, though probably not numbers. But this did not happen. It might be that there was in fact no overall and accepted commander up there, if Richmond and his chief captain were over in the corrie dealing with Douglas and Moray. These people would be mainly the formation which had been recalled from the Scawton gap, and then hastily turned back again, with, probably, the rear guard left up on the escarpment-a hurriedly patched-up company. Moreover, they were strung out in a wide line abreast, covering a lot of the down land country, a sensible formation enough for an assault on an enemy threading a long pass through hills; but unmanageable as to unified command, and hopeless for dealing with a tight-wedged charge aimed at one point.

  And it was such that Bruce was mounting. An uphill charge is almost a contradiction in terms; but the slopes at this side of the hill were comparatively gentle, and the Scots’ garrons bred to the hills.

  Gradually, from a fast trot, the King, at the very apex of the central arrowhead, lashed his own mount into a heavy canter-and none behind him were prepared to allow their middle-aged and allegedly sick monarch to outdo them. Gilbert Hay and young Scrymgeour, now standard-bearer, with the great Lion Rampant banner of Scotland held high, vied with each other to be closest to the King, so near that their knees rubbed his at each side.

  “A Bruce! A Bruce!” the famous, dreaded slogan rose from thousands of panting throats, as men savaged their beasts forward and up.

  It was hardly to be wondered at that the English line lost its

  momentum, indeed faltered, and those who found themselves in the

  unenviable position of facing directly the spearhead of the charge took

  thought as to how to be elsewhere. Efforts were being made to

  concentrate, to draw in the spreading horns of the long line; but

  obviously this could not be done in time.

  In the event, Bruce was not even involved in a clash, did not so much as swing his battle-axe. The enemy flung themselves aside right and left, to avoid the dire impact-and the Scots point was through. The ever-broadening wedge behind thereafter inevitably created its own effect. Sliced in two, the English front was rolled up on each side, without any real fighting developing, out manoeuvred rather than defeated.

  Fraser and Ross did not require their liege lord’s urgent

  trumpet-signals to tell them their duty. As with one accord they

  wheeled their respective commands around, outwards, east and west, to

  double back on the confused halves of the enemy front which was thus

  abruptly no front. Now they would have their bellyfuls of fighting

  but it would be a great number of close-range, hand-to-hand tulzies

  rather than any practical battle. Bruce had seen to that The King

  himself, with his 5,000 rode directly on, content to leave that matter

  to his lieutenants. Before him now was approximately a mile of

  slightly rising ground lifting to the escarpment, and thereon only

  scattered groups of infantry, spearmen, archers and a few horsemen and wounded men come up from the battle in the corrie-nothing that even a genius of a commander could whip up into a coherent and effective force in a few minutes. The spearmen could form themselves into one or two hedgehogs, schiltroms, and the archers could do some damage before they were overwhelmed; but they could by no means halt or break the charging mass of light cavalry.

  That infantry, nevertheless, earned any renown available to Richmond’s force that evening. Some, but only a few, fled. Most formed up to face this dire and unanticipated threat, in tight groups-it would be too much to name them schiltroms -and stood their ground nobly until ridden down in the rush of pounding horses and yelling men. There were no very large numbers of bowmen, but these acquitted themselves well and almost all such Scots casualties as fell were the victims of these. But they had no backing and there was no unified command. Gilbert Hay lost a horse shot under him, and was in dire danger of being trampled to death by his own oncoming followers. The standard-bearer took an arrow in his shoulder, but his chain-mail and the padded leather doublet he wore beneath saved him from serious hurt. Bruce himself was untouched. They plunged on and past the scattered and heroic infantry, leaving them for the rear ranks to deal with.

  And now, in front, was only the escarpment edge and empty air.

  Bruce indeed saw himself in real danger of being forced right over the lip of it by the charging press of so many behind, and yelled to his personal trumpeter to sound the halt. Only just in time the pressure relaxed, as the arrowhead’s flanks swung outwards, amidst savage reining in of pawing, rearing, slithering, colliding horses.

  And there, lining the edge, the Scots sat their panting, snorting, steaming mounts, and stared down into the already shadow-filled cauldron of the corrie, at the quite extraordinary sight of a separate and quite self-contained battle, a tight-packed struggle, concentrated by the shape and dimensions of that hollow of the Roulston Scar, where in a huge U-shaped conformation Richmond assailed Douglas’s elongated schiltrom, 15,000 men locked in a death-struggle- or as many of such as could get to grips with each other, which was no large proportion at any one time. Some subsidiary activity was still going on along the flanking shoulders, distinct smaller battles of Highlanders and English infantry.

  Bruce did not plunge down that slope to the rescue, as all impulse dictated. Instead, he called orders to be passed along for every trumpeter, and bugler in his host to sound the Rally, and to keep on sounding it. Ragged and scarcely recognisable as such, the call began to blare out, along the escarpment edge, and went on, gaining in power, coherence and authority.

  The effect down in the corrie was quite electrical, almost comic.

  Suddenly the contestants therein seemed to become the merest puppets, toys that abruptly ceased to be manipulated. As with one accord, friend and foe left off be labouring each other to pause, to stare upwards.

  Douglas and his Scots recovered first, since they were the less surprised. Raising a tremendous, spontaneous shout of triumph, they renewed their efforts with redoubled vigour and entire confidence.

  Their tight-pressed ranks surged outwards. There was little

  corresponding renewal of the conflict on the English side.

  Their fate was writ altogether too clear.

  In fact, the battle ended there and then. So obvious was it that they were trapped between the upper and nether millstones that, whatever Richmond himself might d
ecide, his people unanimously recognised complete and ineluctable defeat. Escape was the only recourse now, all perceived.

  But that corrie was a difficult place to escape from, hemmed in steeply on all sides save the west and lowermost. On either flank the mass of the enemy, as with one accord, sought to stream away westwards, around the Scots. Douglas saw it, and ordered his men to press still further right and left, well up the enclosing brae sides to stop the escape routes. And Bruce despatched contingents slantwise down both shoulders of hill, to aid in the business. Men still got past, but only individually and in small groups.

  Otherwise everything was over, to all intents and purposes.

  Fighting died away, save for isolated incidents. At the head of the corrie, the Lord John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond, sourly yielded his sword to James Douglas, his lieutenants with him. Or such as remained on their feet.

  Not a few had died, and died bravely, with their men. Fully a score of knights lay amongst the slain, there in the gut of the hanging valley, for it had been a fierce and prolonged struggle.

  Douglas’s own casualties were not light.

  He and Moray, the latter slightly wounded, his sword-arm roughly

  supported in a sling made by his golden earl’s belt, brought their

  prisoners slowly up the steep slope, to present to their monarch, who had sat motionless in the saddle from the time of his arrival at the escarpment edge.

  “A notable victory, Sire!” Douglas cried.

  “Hard smiting-until you came. As stark a tulzie as I have known since Bannockburn.

  But-it all fell out as you judged. I have here the swords of sundry lords, for Your Grace.”

  “Aye, Jamie-a notable victory. And all yours. You have borne the brunt-as I said you would, lad. And you, Thomas. Myself, I have not struck a single blow! Has it cost you dear, Jamie?”

  “Dear enough, Sire. For this fight. But, if all is won elsewhere, a great victory-then the cost is light indeed. Our fallen are not yet counted-but I would say 500 perhaps. With many more but lightly wounded. As my good lord here.”