by J. R. Tomlin
A smile flickered across Thomas Randolph's face. This was a fight he had always called for since the day he returned to the King's side. He gave a small nod.
James's heart thudded. “We've won before against terrible odds.” He licked his lips, tried to keep his voice cool. For Alycie. For poor lost Isabella and all of the others, he must say it. “Perhaps not so bad as this, but nearly. I think—I believe, we must fight.”
For once Sir Edward de Bruce agreed with him, thumping a hand down on the table. Ever cautious, Maol of Lennox shook his head. “Before any decision is made, we must see the army we stand against. And be sure our people are prepared. Can Linton find us the armor we must have? Can our people—so very many—form the schiltrons you want—and manage to charge?”
“I am prepared to stand and fight. To die if it comes to that. But... for our kingdom's sake, we will keep the choice open. Until the day.” The King stood. “We have much to do. We'll meet again in three days. I want reports on how your men progress in their training. Stakes cut and sharpened. Pits dug.” He glared at his chancellor. “And that armor delivered.” He turned abruptly and made for the door.
Outside, another lines of wagons creaked into the camp stacked high with barrels of ale and apples, barley and oats and hay, rolling past men returning from the practice fields, sweat drenched and weary. The camp was a chaos of snorting horses and shouting men.
The hot, oppressive day weighed James down as he strode through the throng. There was a threat of rain in the air and yet it did not come. When he reached his pavilion, he sent for Gelleys. The scout came at once. “You sent for me, my lord?”
“Our scouts are not doing their job,” James said. “Bishop Lamberton and a group of friars walked right into the camp. It will be the English next.”
“I've kept every man you've given me out, my lord. I could spread them more thinly.”
“We can't afford that. We must know every lark that flies over the border.” James frowned. “But every man I give you is another not in the schiltron. And my best men to scout are ones I need here.” James frowned. He had no choice even though he couldn't spare the men. “Double the number of scouts. Choose the ones you know best. And they're to return only with news. Nothing—and I mean nothing—is to cross the march that I do not know of.”
“As you command, Sir James.”
“I'd ride out myself, but the King would have my head. I have too many duties here.” When he had gone, James sat in his camp chair with a cup of ale brooding. Somehow they had to win this battle, and he didn't see how.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
June 23, 1314
The camp had begun to stir. James cantered with Robert de Keith and their half-dozen men past cook fires where oak bannocks steamed over cook fires, for today was the Eve of the feat of St. John. They'd break their fast with bread and with water. Archers sat around a small fire bent over their fletching. Men rubbed sleep from their eyes and stumbled to the latrine pits to piss, grumbling.
Sweat dripped down James's face as he flung himself off his lathered horse. Even early in the day the winter heat was like being boiled in a pot. “Gelleys, see to the men,” he said and tossed the scout his reins. He strode for the door of the King's pavilion, the Keith panting behind him. He shoved his way through the door, not waiting for ceremony. “Sire.”
Robert de Bruce stopped his pacing and raised his eyebrows.
James swallowed. “Today.” He licked his chapped, peeling lips. “The reports were true... except not as dire as they should have been.”
Robert de Keith cleared his throat. “Ten divisions. Each with more men than we could count. Two thousand each division was the best I could guess. We spotted the High Constable's banner. Aymer de Valence... Henry de Beaumont... Robert de Clifford... Ralph de Monthermer...”
“I saw Comyn of Badenoch's banner and other of the traitors,” James spit out.
“Never mind them,” the King said, impatiently. “Who leads the van?”
“Hereford and Gloucester.”
“Gloucester?” He leaned a hand on the table. “You're sure, James?”
James blinked. He wouldn't say it if he weren't sure, and so the King should well know.
The King broke his stare. “To give command of the van to a lad, even with the high constable to guide him... He is only newly knighted. Edward must be crazed. So Pembroke is not in the van then.”
“Some of our scouts picked up rumors that there were arguments. The Edward is furious with Aymer de Valence and refused him the van. They're all still at odds and the King still angry over Piers de Gaveston's murder. It's said that they've come near to blows over who is to lead. But the King made young Hereford constable of the entire army, it's said.”
“How many chivalry?”
“More of those than we could count as well.” James narrowed his eyes as he considered. “They cover the hills like a flood. Four thousand?” He raised a questioning eyebrow at the Keith.
The Keith grunted. “Perhaps. So many that it doesn't matter that we couldn't count them. Those Pembroke leads. Never have I seen so many knights. On barded destriers all. Miles of them. The shine of the armor could blind you.”
The King's eyes gleamed as he sat down and leaned back. He smiled a little. “And they force the march, you say?”
“My spies are still watching. Some have slipped into their train. If the English camp they're to bring word with all speed. But whilst we watched...” James puzzled over the King's good cheer. “Yes, they were forcing their march. They rested during the few hours of dark. We watched them march pass Falkirk. They'll reach the Bannockburn before noontide.”
The King jumped to his feet. He strode to the doorway. “William! Have the trumpets blow assembly for the Privy Council.”
James crossed his arms and examined his feet as the King paced. The pavilion was silent except for a rustle as the Keith shifted his feet in the rushes that cushioned the ground. Sir Edward's voice boomed, “What is ado?” as he stomped inside.
The King continued his pacing back and forth across the wide enclosure. “Wait for the others.”
Were the English three times their numbers? Four? They had at least one hundred times the Scottish heavy cavalry. And none of the Scots rode the barded destriers that the English had by the thousand. Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Boyd muttered a greeting and Maol of Lennox followed on his heels. Panting, Bernard de Linton stood aside for Bishop Lamberton and Bishop David de Moray. James caught the others eyeing him as they waited. They must know that he and the Keith had brought news. Rumors had run like wild fires for days. The King made another progress back and forth across the pavilion. Angus Og strode in, his mail clanking, polished to a brilliant shine though his arms were bare except for gold armbands.
The King turned and faced them, his face grim. “It's the moment of decision, my friends. We have no more time. We retire now. This moment. Or we stand and fight.”
There was a deathly silence in the pavilion.
The Bruce paused as his eyes, hot and blazing, raked over them. “Make no mistake. If we fight and lose, we will die. And not just in battle. They'll kill any they take. But if we win... If we win, we win all. I'll call no man a coward who says to retire. The decision is yours. Do we run? Again? Or do we stand and fight?”
“I will not run!” Edward de Bruce said. His sun-browned face reddened. “Enough of that. We must stand.”
James almost smiled. When had Sir Edward ever said else?
“Stand! We must,” Thomas Randolph put in over the competing mutter of voices, the cleric nodding and speaking at the same time, Maol of Lennox saying something softly under his breath.
“There are many of them, but...” the Keith was saying a worried tone.
“Fight!” Angus said loudly.
“It's time,” Boyd said. “We stand.”
James caught Sir Edward's glance and nodded. For once, they agreed. “I don't fear dying. Whatever more we suffer
than already we have, our country shall be free.”
The King slowly nodded. “If we do lose, someone must be prepared to lead whatever retreat is...”
“Your Grace!” William de Irvine burst through the doorway. “There is someone here... He's come from the English, he says.”
“What the...” The King's mouth made a thin line. He gave a curt nod. “Bring him in.”
“Sir?” Irvine said over his shoulder.
A man shouldered his way past young Irvine, wearing a pale blue cloak and mail clinking as he walked. He was spare, with streaks of gray in his brown hair and beard. He strode to the King and dropped to one knee. “Your Grace.”
The King tilted back his head as he stared, set-faced, at the man. “Alexander Seaton. It is many a year since you have graced your homeland.”
"Sire." The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Will you hear me?"
When the King slowly nodded, Seaton went on. “I rode from the English—rode hard ahead... Because, Sir King, if you mean to win Scotland, now is the time. Never have you seen so much dissension. They have a boy who knows nothing of war commanding the van. The rest are at each other's throats. The men are weary. Beginning to despair of their leaders.”
The Bruce raised an eyebrow. “And you, Sir Alexander, would now stand with us?”
Seaton glanced over his shoulder and his eyes looked a bit wild, James thought, as he looked at the men glaring at him. But he looked back up at the King. “If you'll have me.”
A little smile quirked the King's mouth. “In time to save your lands from being forfeit.” But he held out his hands to take the knight's oath.
The man muttered the words and the King waved him impatiently away, obviously no patience today for ceremony. “Angus, a quarter of your men are not in the schiltrons, so I want them to guard the small folks. See that all the camp followers and all the supplies are moved onto that wooded hill. The tents and pavilions must come down. Set guards and see that they only attack at the sound of your horn.”
Angus grunted an assent and left with an almost-bow, stubborn, willful islander that he was.
The King blandly watched the man leave, lifted his war axe from in front of his armor and said, “Thomas. See that your men are in place, guarding our flank. The rest of you with me. We'll inspect the field.” He walked into the bright sunshine that gleamed on his simple coronet, shouting for his horse.
Philp galloped between the tents. A squire shouted as he dodged out of the way. Philp shouted, “My lord, they're crossing the Bannockburn!”
“Wat,” James called, turning in a circle as he searched for sign of his sergeant amidst the running, shouting chaos and spotted him shoving his way through men scattering in every direction. “Form up the men. They're to stand ready!”
The King grabbed his reins out of Irvine's hands. “It will take them the rest of the day to cross. We have time to look over the field one last time.”
Walter pelted up leading two horses, his tunic only half fastened and his hair wild.
Sweat dripped into James's beard and he gave a wry laugh, swinging into the saddle as Walter mounted. “Fighting when it's freezing or melting. I'll never decide which is worse.”
Robbie Boyd snorted. “Freezing. Last winter I was sure I'd freeze off something more precious than toes. My lady wife would be right annoyed.”
Thomas Randolph shook his head. He never joined in the banter, but he wasn't so very bad. At least, he knew how to fight.
Bishop Lamberton made the sign of the cross over them. “We'll celebrate mass in the morning. In the meantime, the blessings of God go with you. I'll see that the clerics go with Sir Angus and are out of the way.”
The trumpets began their call to battle, wild, clamorous. Sergeants shouted to form their squares, men ran yelling curses and crude jokes, pikes clattered, barrels were thrown into wagons, fires sizzled under buckets of water.
“Earl Thomas,” Bishop Moray said blandly, “I've given my men who follow you into battle my blessings already.”
Irvine twisted his hands in alarm, almost reaching for the King but not willing to lay hands on him. “Your Grace, of a certainty you should don your armor.”
“Not yet,” the King said. “They'll take hours to move into position, but we must be ready.” He wheeled his horse in a tight circle. “With me, my lords. Lord Marischal, summon your cavalry to ride with us.” He wheeled his light gray palfrey in a tight circle and trotted off.
Robert de Keith stood put his hand to his mouth and shouted, “Trumpets.” To horse, to horse, the trumpets called in a blaring clarion.
James gave Irvine a sympathetic look but managed not to roll his eyes behind the Bruce's back.
“Watch him,” Irvine said.
James snorted, put his spurs to his horse's flank, and rode to catch up. He had spent half his life trying to shield Robert de Bruce's back. This was not a day he would stop.
James's standard unfurled above a square of pikesmen. Behind them a double line of archers formed. Beyond, near St. Ninian's road Thomas Randolph's banner rose above men massed in a hedgehog of spears.
Knights buckled on their sword belts as they ran to horses held by their squires. Mounts snorted and hoof falls drummed as they rode to catch up with the King as he rode eastwards.
The King slowed his trot for the others to catch up with him as they rounded the shoulder of land above the Forth. Below them the sun glittered on a river of steel, wave upon wave of it as the English army crossed the sluggish little water of the Bannockburn. “We need a closer look. We'll to the New Park, and I'll have a last look at those pits.” The Bruce wheeled his horse and plunged down into a hollow, crushing through dried, brittle broom and gorse. The day smelled of horse sweat and dust as they rode, and behind them strung out three hundred of Keith's men on their light chargers. On the edge of the open plain, James pulled up beside the Bruce.
James leaned forward over his horse's neck. The plain's splotches of purple-red heather and sun-browned gorse were divided by the brown streak of empty road. A trumpet sounded in the distance, a long, peace-shattering sound. Past the bend a mile away, the first of the English army surged into view. Hundreds of horses, cavalry heavy with the weight of their armor, horses barded in chain and draped with bright cloths, massed together into a riot of colors under a hundred banners. The flood of steel spread and spread, under a leopard banner as large as a sail. Beside it flapped the banner of St. George and dozens more. Hundreds. Armor like waves in a spreading sea.
“Hold here,” the King called to Robert de Keith. “I don't want to chance the men getting near the pits. We have hours whilst the main of their force arrives.” He paced his horse slowly into the plain, bending over the horse's withers and watching the ground.
James rubbed his nose and glanced at Robbie Boyd who shrugged. If the King said to hold, they would hold. James rubbed the back of his neck as the King walked his horse along a line next to the broom-covered pits.
Below in the distance, a fragment of the river of steel broke away. A dozen knights surged onto the plain, trotting towards the Scots. The silvered steel of their mail flashed and silken plums streamed from their war helms. As a trumpet blared, James stood in his stirrups and called to the King, “Sire!”
“What device is that?” Boyd said. He nudged his horse a few steps forward, hands twitching anxiously around his reins. The King was almost halfway between them and the galloping English riders. “Bohun?”
“Hell!” James drew his sword, heart hammering. “The High Constable? It can't be.” There was no way he could reach the King first. He kicked his spurs into this horse's flank and bent over its withers as it surged into an arm-jolting gallop.
The King had turned his horse and was riding casually at an angle towards the oncoming riders. The knight in the lead bearing a blue shield scattered with lions shouted, “The Bruce! Himself! He's mine!” His blue and white tabard flapped in the wind. The point of his lance glittered, pointed str
aight at the King. “Back! Back!” He crouched low over his lance and hurtled towards Robert the Bruce.
The other English drew up, horses skittering.
Dear Jesu God, the King didn't even carry a shield. James brought the flat of his sword down on his horse's flank, desperate.
The Bruce continued at his slow trot, turned his course slightly to face the man thundering towards him. He balanced his war axe in his hand. James could hear nothing over the thunder of his heart and his own horse's hooves. Too far. It was too far.
Bohun reached him. The King shifted the second before impact, jerked his reins and kicked his mount. It danced to the side. Reared. The lance plunged past the King's face. He stood in his stirrups. Raised his axe high and slammed it down on Bohun's helm.
Bohun's horse carried him past as he slid sideways from the saddle. He sprawled in the dirt, a foot caught in his stirrup, the horse snorting and dancing.
There were ululating shouts behind James. “A Bruce! A Bruce!”
The rush of relief made James sway in the saddle. He pulled up from his headlong gallop. Keith's men galloped past him and surged around the King and the body that lay leaking a thread of blood onto the ground. James took a deep breath as a sudden flush of hot fury went through him. They'd nearly lost the King and with him they would have lost the battle and the country.
His hands were shaking with rage as he slowed to a walk. James knew his voice shook, but he couldn't help that, as he said, “You might have died.”
Boyd's face was white as whey. “Sire...” He shook his head, obviously speechless. Maol of Lennox's mouth hung open.
The King held up the shattered shaft of his axe. “I broke it.” He smiled a little and shrugged. “Keith, call your men back here.” He swung from the saddle and squatted next to the body. The top of the helm was crushed but the tabard was clean as though the man might rise in a moment. “Sir Henry de Bohun, I think.” The King stood and mounted. “Nephew of the High Constable.”
