by J. R. Tomlin
A wide-eyed squire dodged backward, stumbling on the broken earth. "The king sent me. He wants you."
An unhorsed Englishman screamed as a slashing hoof crushed his head. He fell atop a knight already dead. James's own men wore helms and studded leather marked with the blue and white Saltire of Scotland, now streaked with mud and blood and gore. The steel tide surged against the crumbling mass of a panicked foe. Another step forward.
For six hours, they’d fought since the cool of dawn, hacking at an army that seemed without number. His arm suddenly was heavy with the fatigue from a day of slash and thrust.
The English trumpets shrilled thinly. Harooo Harooo… Retire… Retire…
He blinked the sting of sweat from his eyes. Where was Walter Stewart? In the chaos, James spotted Walter’s blue and white checky pennant. He grabbed Iain’s arm and pulled him out of the line of pikemen. "Find Sir Walter. Tell him that he has sole command of our men." He shoved his sword into his black leather sheath and jerked a nod to the squire. "Lead on."
The lad led James across the broken sod, past a sprawled knight, his armor still agleam as his blood soaked into the dry earth. They passed thousands of shrieking men screaming "Scotland!" as they hacked at the English. For a moment, a wind from the east gusted the smell of the salt sea and cut through the fug of blood and shit. Who would have imagined such a battle? A body clad in a studded brigandine marked with a Saltire lay pierced by the shattered remains of a pike next to a gutted stallion. A crow, its black feathers gleaming in the sun, took flight from the guts spilled onto the ground with an angry kraaa. They trudged past it all, and the uproar faded behind them into a rumble.
Beyond a stand of alder, leaves drooping in summer’s heat, the king’s scarlet lion banner hung limp in the still air. The lad pointed. James slapped his shoulder and strode through the welcome shade of the trees while reaching up to wrench off his helm.
Robert de Bruce’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his head tilted as he listened to what the Keith was saying. At the Bruce’s feet sat a helm topped by a gold crown. Enemy blood streaked his armor and cloth-of-gold tabard. He ran a hand through fair hair dripping with sweat. "Jamie," the king exclaimed.
James worked spit into his parched mouth. "Your Grace."
"Bring him water," the Bruce said and the squire scurried away.
The Keith said, "King Edward fled the field."
James felt his eyes widen as he looked from his good-father to the king.
"Come." The Bruce strode through the alders so they could watch the battle. On a distant hill, Stirling Castle loomed gray against a cloudless noon sky. The king shook his head. "If someone took command they might still win the day."
"They’re in full flight." The Keith pointed toward the battle and past to the deep gully cut by the Bannockburn. "They’re forcing their horses down the slope into the burn. Already it’s mired with bodies. Some are fleeing for the River Forth."
"Our men are so weary they can barely lift a pike," the king said, squinting at the roiling mass of the battle. "How many hours can a man fight? If the battle turned now, we’d be in a desperate case."
The squire ran up with a cup and flagon and thrust the cup of water into James’s hand. He gulped the water, and it ran down his throat like rain after a drought. He held the cup out and let the squire refill it. "But without their king?" His voice was clearer now.
"I want to pursue Edward," the Keith said. He slid a glance toward the king. "No one is left to rally them. Aymer du Valence fled with Edward. They say young Gloucester died in the first charge."
"We don’t know where Robert de Clifford is or Humphrey de Bohun or Ralph de Monthermer. And Gloucester… I pray God you’re wrong for the sake of his family. But even broken, such a vast army is dangerous. Like a wounded boar." His gaze was fixed on the chaos of the battle. The sound was a roar of a distant sea. Remorseless. "I won’t chance it."
"Did King Edward make for Stirling Castle?" James asked.
The Keith jerked a nod. "I pursued him so far. Mowbray must have refused him entrance. They turned south."
"No, Lord Marischal. I’ll have sixty of your chivalry. That will leave you a full four hundred if we have need of them." The Bruce skewered James with a look. "You’ll lead the sixty to follow the curst English king."
James blew out a long breath. His whole body was a mass of weary aches. He looked at the cup in his hand, lifted it, and dumped the water over his head. It ran through his hair and down his cheeks to drip from his close-cropped beard, mixing with sweat, until he shook his head hard like a wet hound.
The king and his good-father were watching him.
"We’ll skirt the battle and take the North Park road." James scraped his wet hair back with a hand as he pictured the way. "We can ford the Bannockburn to the east where its banks are lower."
"Sir Robert’s horse and one for Sir James," the Bruce said, with a thrust of his chin at the waiting squire. The lad gave a quick bow and ran.
"How many ride with him?" James asked.
"Five hundred…" His good-father narrowed his eyes. "Mayhap more."
"I can’t take them with sixty knights."
"I know that," the king said. "Harry them. Capture any who fall behind. See them out of Scotland."
"It’s too bad to let him escape," the Keith said.
"Do you think I don’t know that, man?" The king glared at the Keith. "Even now with your men, could you defeat them if I dared give leave? They number more than our chivalry, are better mounted. Experienced knights all. And I dare not lose my only mounted men."
"I could defeat them!"
The Bruce put a hand on the Keith’s shoulder. "You saved our lives for us, breaking the English archers with your charge. If you hadn’t, it is we who would have died this day. But this you cannot do." The Keith bowed his defeat, though his tight face showed how reluctant he was.
James turned at the rattle of harness and took the reins of a horse from the lad. He blinked trying to remember which squire this was and shrugged the thought away.
The king laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Whatever you do, do not try to fight them, Jamie."
He bowed and swung into the saddle. "Let’s find me my men, my lord." He twitched a smile that felt more like a grimace.
His good-father mounted, his face knotted in a frown. James shook his head at him. He couldn’t argue with the king’s stand. Even fleeing, the guards around King Edward and Aymer du Valence would fight to the last man. Outnumbered, upon lesser mounts, he doubted the Keith’s knights could defeat the English king’s guard, however determined the Keith might be.
Behind them, the king was shouting commands. Hours of fighting remained, albeit that wasn’t James’s problem now. Sir Robert de Keith set his horse to a canter, and James followed. To the left flank of the battle, Scottish knights stood beside their mounts, tending their light coursers, pissing, scratching, talking, and laughing, though the laughter had a weary sound to it.
James grunted. "My banner is still with my men. I’d not care to be taken for a Sassenach on the road."
"Best have one of the men retrieve it." He pulled up and gave his troop a frowning survey before he called out to young Loccart, knighted only the day before, "Sir Symon, you and your men are to follow Sir James."
The knight, his sweaty red hair still smashed to his head from a helm that rested at his feet, blinked up at James. Sir Symon picked up the helm, donned it, and swung into his saddle. "Mount up."
Loccart sent one of his men to retrieve James’s battle banner. The talk died as they mounted, muttering and giving James long looks. These weren’t his own men, and they knew him only by reputation.
James stood in his stirrups and shouted, "The English king ran like the craven dog that he is. We’re to see he keeps running." He paused before he went on. "We’ll not stop even to take a piss. Not until the damned English thieves are out of our lands."
He wheeled his horse and gave the command to mo
ve out. He sent a dozen men to spread out ahead and scout as they headed toward Stirling Castle to find the English king’s fleeing party. The victory should have had the men in good spirits, but a day of bloody battle and a ride with not enough for a real fight had their faces somber. James felt their unease at his back.
As he rode, James peeled off his gloves to flex his hands and worked his shoulders. If he let himself stiffen, it would go ill in a fight. A man could never relax.
James led them wide around the battle, but the sound of screams and the blare of horns followed them. Sir Symon spurred his horse to catch up as they wended their way past a thick stand of oaks and down the low slope to the River Forth, a gleaming gray ribbon. The fresh sea air of the firth blew in his face as he turned toward the ford.
"Will we find them, you think?" Sir Symon asked.
"Aye, we will."
They rode in silence except for the clatter of harness and armor until Sir Symon said, "When we do—"
James shrugged. How could he know what would happen? He would follow the Bruce's command, albeit the chase still might come to a fight. Before he voiced the thought, one of the scouts galloped down the far slope and into the river, water spraying. "Riders ahead, my lord, coming this way," the man shouted.
James pulled up his mount with a jerk and the animal danced under him. "How many? What banner?"
"Four score. Fresh. They’ve seen no fighting. Under a pennant with a red lion. They rode out of the Torwood."
Wheeling in a tight turn, James yelled, "Close order." Many pennants had a lion device. A pennant meant it wasn’t one of the great lords though, especially not with such a small number in his tail. He tightened his hand on the hilt of his sword as he kicked his horse to a canter, splashed through the low water of the ford, and gave the horse a smack on the flank. Its haunches bunched as it labored to keep a fast pace up the slope. This would be a ruinous spot to be caught. He spurred it, and it heaved to the top of the rise.
He pulled up and narrowed his eyes in the glare of a bright summer sun: a band of armored riders, eighty strong. The yellow pennant wasn’t one he knew, but from the shout and the sudden halt of the armed party, he suspected they knew his. He snorted and glanced up at his banner. The night before, Robert de Bruce had cut the tails from his pennant and raised him to a knight banneret. His heart had pounded at the honor, but the stars on a blue chief had not changed. He smiled as he pulled his sword from its sheath.
"Will they fight?" his young companion asked.
"We’ll soon know." James nudged his horse a couple of paces ahead to yell, "Who goes there?"
"Who asks?" came the answer from a knight in unsoiled armor, yellow tabard bright in the afternoon sun.
James raised his blade. "Swords to the ready." Sir Symon shifted his shield onto his arm as he urged his horse a pace forward and to James’s right. He heard the sound of hooves and clatter of weapons as his men formed up on him to attack.
"Wait!" The knight rode half-dozen paces toward them. "The Black Douglas?"
"Your name and your title."
"Sir Laurence Abernathy of Saltoun." The man kneed his dun another step forward. "You've fought the English? There’s been a battle?"
"You want to join them? They are dying on the banks of the Bannockburn. It runs red with their blood. And I pursue their king."
"They’re defeated?" The man gaped, open-mouthed. "Truly?"
"Do I look like I jape?" James knew how he looked, blood and dirt streaked as he was.
Abernathy was shaking his head. He slowly raised his sword arm, hand empty. "No. King Robert— He’ll take me into his peace. I’ve heard he does those who return and swear to him. I’ll aid you in pursuing King Edward."
James snorted. Of course, the Bruce would take the man’s oath. Another traitor taken into the king’s peace, but hell mend him if he liked having Abernathy at his back. That Randolph had proved true, and his good-father as well, didn’t mean he would trust the rest of the pack of traitorous dogs. Yet the English king had almost ten times his number, and he needed these men.
James leaned to hawk and spit. He'd take the devil as an ally against the invader and swallow the foul taste of it. Straightening, he eyed the man and gave a silent sigh. "Your word then. You’ll swear to King Robert when we return to his camp. Until then, you aid me."
"My word as a knight. I swear it."
James laid his sword across his saddlebow. The thought of turning his back on traitors always made the skin between his shoulder blades itch. "Then welcome home, Sir Laurence." James’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. Behind him, the men were muttering, and he heard a curse.
"What happened?" Sir Laurence asked as James and Symon nudged their horses to a canter. He motioned his men to join theirs.
"We won. And the damned English lost." He had no reason not to tell the man more, however much he loathed returning traitors. "We trapped them in a bend of the Bannockburn and our pikes tore them to bloody shreds."
The ash and oak giants of the Torwood spread before them, the old Roman Road wending its way through. James led them into its shadows. The shade of the green canopy cooled them from the heat of summer sun and battle, and James pushed them to keep a fast pace. At a shallow burn where sunlight broke through the leaves to dapple silver, splashing waves, James stopped to water the horses. They had no time for rest.
The scouts returned with no news. He sent them again to search the road near Linlithgow.
"Won’t they make for Berwick?" Symon asked as they rode beneath the towering trees.
In the dappled shade, James scanned the dusty road. "Castle Dunbar is nearer. The towers there have passage down the cliff to the sea where galleys are kept." James nudged his horse ahead, too weary for idle chatter. They rode in silence, the thud of hooves accompanied by a whisper of the breeze through the leaves.
The sun was half dropped behind rolling hills when they emerged from the forest, a mosaic of purple and green and the yellow of gorse flowers stretching before them. James spotted three of their scouts atop the nearest low swell, waving their arms over their heads. He spurred his horse to meet them.
"We found them! They halted to rest!" A bald scout, thin as a pike, beamed as he pointed to the south. "Just past the next hill." Overhead, a hawk flew in slow circles.
"Swords to the ready!" James shouted. They had no time to waste. His sword sang as he took a practice swing. He wheeled his horse and spurred it to a gallop. It stretched its legs into a ground-eating stride, hoof beats rattling like hail. They topped the low hill.
A bowshot away, knights held the reins of their horses, squatting and talking, and a few were mounting to ride—hundreds of knights in battered armor and tabards still bright beneath streaks of dried blood. A tall man with a crown atop his gilded helm sat a dappled gray charger. Next to him, a standard-bearer mounted a dun. Above them streamed the scarlet Plantagenet leopard banner.
"Wedge!" James shouted. They formed the flying arrowhead with him at its point. Sir Symon took the place on his right; on his left rode Sir Laurence, sword in hand. He heard horses thudding behind him. "A Douglas! A Douglas!" he shouted.
English knights scrambled onto their lathered mounts. Voices bellowed, "To horse! To the king!" Horses reared and plunged as riders jumped into the saddle. One jerked its reins free. Its knight ran after it a few steps, threw down his shield, and dropped to his knees as it departed in an unfeeling gallop. The fleeing men streamed around the kneeling knight like a gleaming river surging past a rock. They flogged their horses as they coursed after the king.
James cursed and jerked on the reins, pulling his mount to a rearing halt. Symon was off his horse, sword at the throat of the kneeling Englishman. The man dropped his sword, shoulders sagging. "I yield."
James gritted his teeth. He couldn’t disobey the Bruce’s command further than he had, but letting them escape made his face hot with fury. "Symon, chase down yon mount and bring your prisoner. You’ll have to catch up to us." At le
ast, he would make the English flight to Dunbar a dangerous and miserable one.
They rode through the warm summer twilight that never fully darkened. Once when the English stopped to water their horses, James swooped in on them, screaming his battle cry, but let them gallop away. One of the Lacys who’d stood facing a tree taking a long piss moved too slowly and yielded to James’s sword at his back. Hands bound, he joined Symon’s prisoner, horses led by one of their men. The rutted road turned and twisted through the hills in the purple night.
During the long ride, every muscle clenched and cramped from James’s neck to his toes. He wanted to rub his thighs where the muscled burned, but they were encased in mail. Summer nights were short, but this one seemed never to end. They'd fallen behind, so he kneed his horse to a lope. Shortly, he heard ahead the thud of hooves and clatter of armor and weapons.
A breeze sighed, carrying a scent of the sea. James breathed it in deep. At last pewter fingers stretched above the eastern horizon to outline Dunbar Castle high atop a cliff. Gulls squalled as they plunged to the water. Shouts too far to make out came from the walls and the sound of horns in challenge. A drawbridge crashed down.
"Merciful St. Bride, we’ve done what we were sent for." He slid from the horse and grabbed his saddlebow when his legs wobbled, needles of pain flashing through cramped muscles. He listened to shouts of welcome as the English king went beyond his reach within high, thick stone walls. Metal squealed on metal as chains lowered the portcullis of Dunbar Castle.
"They might yet ride for Berwick," Symon said. "Mayhap we could take more prisoners."
James stretched his back and a joint popped. He grimly contemplated climbing into the saddle and decided to walk for a few minutes. He turned to go the way they had come. "They will escape by sea. At least Edward of Caernarfon will. I must return to the king."
* * *
James spied Cambuskenneth Abbey, a mass of gray granite topped by an enormous square bell tower, where the bells tolled, sweetly and unceasing. Bells clanged from every steeple in Stirling Town in the distance. On and on they cried out… A carillon for Scotland’s great victory. He let out a gust of a sigh as he reined up at the carved wooden doors twelve feet high and climbed from the saddle.
