by Young, Robyn
In the heart of the king’s company, Cormac of Antrim hefted his axe, two-handed, and swung it into the chest of a squire who had just tried to run him through. The Irishman’s face was feverish, sweat streaming down his cheeks. His two front teeth had been kicked out by a horse and his top lip was a bloody mess. Not far away was Robert himself, his surcoat misted with blood, the gold crown on his head flashing as he cut and thrust from the saddle of his palfrey. Angus MacDonald fought alongside him, roaring the battle cry of Islay. Nearby were Nes and Malcolm of Lennox, the earl’s handsome face smeared red. There, too, was Alexander Seton, fighting on foot with his falchion. The cross of St George was gone from his arm. That morning he had begged Robert to allow him to fight and the king had finally agreed. Alexander was pushing forward, his eyes on the white and blue stripes of Pembroke around King Edward, visible beneath his banner, beyond the shifting battle lines. In his mind, his cousin’s face burned like a beacon. Close by was a riderless horse, caught in the fray, stamping and tossing its head. It wore a trapper in the colours of Gloucester. Snarling with effort, Alexander propelled himself towards it.
At the ferocity of these captains and their king, the English cavalry were falling back, closer to the slope; back, closer to the mass of infantry still trying to surge forward. Suddenly, from behind the Scots came a clamour of cries.
The camp followers, watching the battle from the safety of a hill beyond the woods, had seen their countrymen winning and now, spurred by jubilation and the chance for glory, they rushed to join them – cooks wielding pans and knives, grooms brandishing hay forks, servants and carters with sticks and rocks.
Humphrey de Bohun was caught in the core of the fighting when he saw this new host swarming down the field towards them. They were too far for him to tell whose men they might be, but his heart quailed at the sight of fresh forces, come to join the ranks of the enemy. Gloucester had fallen, as had Robert Clifford. So, too, had many of his own knights. Humphrey glimpsed Ralph de Monthermer nearby, surrounded, fighting grimly for his life, but he couldn’t get to him.
As Humphrey battered aside another spear and stabbed at the man who held it, the muscles in his shoulders screamed with pain. The favour Elizabeth had given to him was still tied around his arm, but the blue silk was now sodden with blood. His horse was wild-eyed and bleeding from several cuts, but the mail skirt beneath its trapper had saved the beast from mortal wounds. Jostled and shoved in the crush, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle. His helm had been dented by an axe blow. The visor had broken and was hanging by its hinge. Up in his saddle, he could see the full extent of the chaos. Everywhere was a sea of helmed heads and a tangle of spears. The Scottish schiltroms were pushing in, relentless. He could hear his own men panting, struggling for breath, but the Scots were starting to shout, their voices lifting in triumph. He knew they could smell victory – just as he could taste defeat. They were coming on too hard, too fast. He could feel his horse staggering backwards under the onslaught. All around, men were falling on top of one another, a wall of bodies building. In Humphrey’s mind flashed a memory: his father going down at Falkirk, sinking in the mire, his side pierced by a Scottish spear.
There were more shouts from the Scots.
‘On them! On them! They fail!’
Humphrey cried out as the tip of a spear grazed past his cheek, slicing open skin. He swerved from the worst of it, then struck at the man wielding it, almost severing his arm at the elbow. The man reeled away, but another stepped in to take his place. Some knights, those who could, were wheeling their horses around, tearing free from the crush. To his left, Humphrey saw a gap in the crowds. In desperation, he jerked on the reins and kicked his way towards it.
All of a sudden, the English lines broke.
Aymer de Valence was with the king when they witnessed the avalanche begin. It was just a few men at first, peeling from the lines, then more followed, until everywhere horses and men were fleeing, surging towards them. Aymer, who had raised his visor to get a better view of the battle, realised the peril. They were trapped – caught between the advancing spiked wall of Scots and the thousands of their own men on the slope behind them. To the left was the defile of the Bannock Burn. The only way out was right, along the edge of the escarpment towards Stirling Castle.
‘My lord!’ He twisted round to the king, who was yelling hoarsely at his impotent captains to send in the infantry. ‘We must go! Now!’
Edward jerked round, staring at the earl aghast. ‘Give up the battle?’
‘We’ve no choice!’ Aymer’s eyes flicked to the raging flood of men, almost upon them. He swung his shield from his back and drew his sword. ‘If you’re captured we lose this war!’ Turning, he shouted at Giles d’Argentan and Marmaduke Tweng. ‘Get the king to safety.’ He pointed his sword along the ridge.
The two veterans didn’t need telling twice. Giles spurred his horse through the fray, clearing a path, while Marmaduke grabbed the king’s bridle and, kicking at its sides, forced Edward’s piebald destrier along with him. Aymer moved to follow, shouting at those of his men still around him to withdraw. The royal standard-bearer galloped hard after the king, the retreating banner signalling many more knights and squires to follow their leader.
All at once, a horse came hurtling towards Aymer, a gold trapper flying behind it. For a moment he thought it was one of Gloucester’s men, then he realised the man astride it looked nothing like a knight – dressed in the poor, mismatched clothing of an infantryman. The man’s bloody face was lit with furious intent. Aymer knew him. Alexander Seton. The Scottish lord rose in his stirrups, the short sword in his hand swinging towards him. Aymer lifted his shield to block the blow. At the same time, he brought his own sword slicing in.
First, there was the concussion in his arm as Seton’s sword struck. The blade scored across the edge of the shield, then skidded off. Aymer felt its sting as the tip slashed across his face, partly exposed by his raised visor. In the same moment, there was the impact in his sword arm as his own blade connected with Alexander’s chest. The man flew back, hurled from the saddle, and disappeared among the hooves and feet of those now trying to follow their king. Aymer, gritting his teeth at the searing pain in his cheek, wheeled his horse around. Taking one last look behind him, the earl’s eyes fixed on the royal banner of Scotland, closer now, the red lion clearly visible, rearing triumphant. With a bitter cry, Aymer de Valence kicked his destrier after his fleeing king.
When King Edward fled the field, the English forces knew the battle was lost and the Scots under Robert knew they had won. As the Scots poured down the hillside on top of the stampeding enemy, disorderly rout turned into disaster.
The English cavalry, bearing down on the infantry, began a great, tumultuous exodus. Men knocked down in the press found themselves suffocated by the hundreds who crawled on over them, burying them in the churned earth. Those near the back, still spread out across the boggy plain, pushed north, stumbling over the stream-riven ground. Many threw themselves into the deep waters of the Forth. Those who could swim made it to the far banks, but many more were dragged under the broad river’s current. Thousands of others floundered on the plain, twisting into the sudden dips and pools, easy targets for the hordes of Scots swarming to engulf them. Horses careered, knocking men down. Porters and grooms around the baggage train, some distance from the fighting, jumped from the wagons and fled, wading back through the Bannock Burn.
Up on the ridge, in the blind chaos of the rout, knights and squires, trapped between the Scots and their own infantry, urged their horses into the woods to their left, many unaware of the defile that opened beyond. The animals plunged through the trees only to hurtle off the edge of the cliff-like banks. Men and beasts screamed as they fell, the destriers breaking trees and branches on their tumbling downward course. Water and mud burst up from the wide stream as they plummeted into its depths. Others crashed down on top of them, forcing those struggling in the weight of their mail beneath the sur
face. Hundreds met their fate here. Others, gasping, fought their way over this bridge of writhing flesh to get to the other side. The waters of the Bannock Burn were churned brown with the flailing limbs of drowning men.
Chapter 50
Near Stirling, Scotland, 1314 AD
It was over, a little more than two hours after it had begun. The battleground, a vast, ruined canvas, was daubed all over with the blood of the fallen. The stink was horrific. Men staggered about, retching, stomachs turned as they waded through the mess of burst and broken corpses. Already, scores of crows were circling in the sky, drawn by the promise of a feast. Others settled in the trees, hunched like black gargoyles.
Cries and groans, whimpers and pleas rose all around, cut through by triumphant yells and cheers. Some Scots punched fists into the air, wide-eyed and battle-drunk, some sat in silence, numb with exhaustion. Many leaned on the shoulders of comrades, laughing and crying with relief, gulping at skins of water and wine. Others crouched beside injured friends, trying to comfort them in their last moments of life. Hundreds of the remaining English nobles, those who hadn’t fled or been killed, were being rounded up, taken prisoner.
Robert was up on the ridge with his captains, overseeing the aftermath of the battle. He had dismounted from his horse and had handed his helm and shield to his squire. His muscles felt as though they were on fire, but victory animated him, pumping the blood hot through his veins. His heart still hammered in his chest, as if it didn’t know the fight was over. As Nes passed him a skin, he pulled off his padded arming cap and upended the skin over his head, closing his eyes as the water poured on to his scalp and down his face. It stung as it trickled through the deep wound over his left eye, where a stray sword strike had carved skin to the bone. Later he would have his physician stitch it closed, but for now he was needed here. His commanders were returning to give reports from different parts of the battleground and receive new orders.
James Douglas rode up with Walter Stewart, both men, along with a host of knights, having pursued King Edward along the ridge.
‘My lord,’ greeted James, breathless. ‘The king has fled south.’
‘He didn’t make it to the castle?’ asked Robert, surprised.
‘He did,’ answered Walter Stewart. A faint grin flickered at the corner of the youth’s mouth. ‘But Sir Philip Moubray refused him entry. He was forced to turn back.’
‘The king was seen riding with Aymer de Valence, through the Bannock Burn,’ finished James. ‘Our men reckon he had around five hundred knights with him.’
‘I want you to follow, as far as you can,’ Robert told the two young men. ‘Take as many of them as possible, but take them alive. I want prisoners – not more dead to bury.’
As James inclined his head and turned his horse, Robert saw his brother approaching. Edward had removed his helm. His face was streaked with sweat that had tracked lines through the blood. Behind him came a company of Carrick knights, hauling more bodies to add to the rows already being set out on a cleared stretch of grass. These dead men were nobles, whose bodies would be respected as befitted their rank. For the common soldiers, a mass grave would be their resting place.
Edward’s knights had to step carefully on the ground, slippery with blood and covered in the debris of broken lances, discarded swords, dead horses and men. One of the corpses already laid out there was Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, his face a mess of livid cuts and bruises, eyes wide and bloodshot. Beside him, the men placed the first of the bodies they were carrying. Robert recognised the arms. The dead man was Giles d’Argentan.
Edward halted beside his brother, his eyes on the English knight, whose armour had been rent in numerous places. ‘Sir Neil says he saw him taking King Edward to safety. He must have ridden back into the battle once he got the king out.’ He shook his head, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. ‘It took three of my knights to bring him down.’
Robert caught the admiration in his brother’s tone. He nodded. ‘He will be returned to his family with the others. Make sure no one plunders their—’ He fell silent, catching sight of another of the corpses being brought down. This one was even more familiar. It was Robert Clifford, royal knight, veteran of the war, and once his brother in the Knights of the Dragon. Clifford’s body was utterly broken, his head lolling back as they hauled him to the row. ‘Careful,’ Robert called sharply.
His eyes lingered on this growing line of bodies of knights, earls and lords. Truly, the flower of English chivalry had been plucked.
‘My lord.’
Turning, Robert saw Thomas Randolph escorting two prisoners. One, held up by two squires, face pale, teeth clenched in pain, was Ralph de Monthermer. The other, walking unaided, his hands tied behind his back, was Humphrey de Bohun.
As they came closer, Robert locked gazes with Humphrey. He saw the devastation reflected in the earl’s eyes – the horror, the humiliation, the bitterness of this defeat. Such a thing, he knew, could undo a man. Robert felt no joy, no triumph in the knowledge. Instead, he felt pity. Old threads of friendship pulled inside him. But for the countries in which they had both been born, but for their destinies that had diverged on two different roads, they would have still been friends.
Nes appeared at his side. ‘My lord, there is someone asking for you. I think you should come.’
‘Have my physician tend to him,’ Robert told Thomas, motioning to Ralph. His eyes flicked back to Humphrey, briefly, then he turned away and followed Nes down the field to the edge of the slope, where the dead were thickly clustered. ‘Who is it?’
‘Alexander Seton.’ Nes glanced at him. ‘He is badly injured, my lord.’
Robert had to climb over the bodies to reach Alexander. He was lying on his back, one of his legs trapped under a dead horse, his arms splayed out to either side of him. His face was marble white. Sweat soaked his hair. Robert’s eyes moved to the wide red slash across his chest, which had torn through his gambeson and the flesh beneath, clearly made by the mighty stroke of a sword. He could see the splintered bones of ribs, beneath the raw mess of muscle.
Alexander’s eyes went to Robert as he crouched beside him. He licked his lips. ‘Aymer de Valence.’
Robert’s jaw tightened.
‘But I gave him a mark of my own.’ Alexander tried to laugh, but his lips just twitched. ‘Something to remember me by.’
‘You and me both then,’ said Robert, with a grim smile.
Alexander stared at him. ‘I didn’t just betray you to the English, Robert. Katherine, your first wife’s maid – I made it so she lay with that man in Ayr, made it so you found them. I wanted her gone so you would have nothing to distract you from the throne. But in helping you fulfil your own ambition I merely wanted to satisfy my own.’ He closed his eyes with a grimace, then opened them again. ‘I have no right to ask it, but, still, I beg your forgiveness. For all of it.’
Robert took a moment to answer. ‘You have it.’ He grasped Alexander’s shoulder, felt the man shuddering beneath his hand. ‘Christian had a son in Sixhills. I have heard he looks like his father.’
Alexander reached up and gripped Robert’s wrist. ‘Get her out, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘Get them all out.’
Robert glanced back up the hill to where the noble dead were being laid out and the prisoners corralled; all of them worth their weight in ransoms. ‘I will,’ he murmured. Feeling the hand around his wrist release, he looked back.
Alexander Seton died with his eyes open, staring at the midsummer sky.
Rising, Robert moved off. He stood for a moment, surveying the carnage of the battlefield. Both the cost and the value of this victory were visible on every inch of ground. The implications of what he had achieved here today were starting to form, nebulous, in his mind. To the north, the walls of Stirling Castle blazed gold in the morning sunlight. He lifted his face to heaven, closed his eyes.
Lochmaben, Scotland, 1314 AD
In the autumn, when the trees that encircled
Castle Loch had changed their colours, their reflections gilding the waters like the gold borders of a mirror, Robert returned to Lochmaben. He came with a large company of men, including some of his captains, Thomas Randolph, James Douglas, Walter Stewart and Edward. Their sister, Mary, accompanied them, as did William Lamberton.
Others of his men, Angus MacDonald, Gilbert de la Hay, Neil Campbell and Malcolm of Lennox among them, had returned for the time being to their estates, some of which had been recently gifted to them. Christiana MacRuarie had gone too, sailing back to Barra. In the final days of summer, they had spent their last night together on the wild Carrick coast. The next day, Robert had stood on the sands of Turnberry, watching her war galley pull out into the waves. Christiana had stood at the stern, the sail filling with wind behind her, the divide of the sea growing between them.
Standing with Robert and his men, at the crossroads where the road led west to Dumfries and south to Carlisle, was a prisoner. Humphrey de Bohun was clean-shaven, dressed in a black doublet and hose, a cloak around his shoulders. His own clothes, ruined, had been burned after the battle. The wounds on his face were mostly healed, although the scars stood out starkly in the afternoon sunlight. It was three months since the battle on the plain by the Bannock Burn.
King Edward and his knights, pursued relentlessly by James Douglas’s company, had made it as far as Dunbar, where the king boarded a ship and set sail for Berwick. Sir Philip Moubray, the Scottish commander who had held Stirling for the English, had surrendered the castle to Robert and had since come into his peace. Many of the dead, too numerous to count, were thrown into a grave by the banks of the River Forth. The bodies of the nobles were returned to their families for burial. Of those who survived and had been taken prisoner, some had already been exchanged for ransoms. Others, Robert had released without penalty, among them Ralph de Monthermer, his old friend in the Knights of the Dragon, who had saved him from Longshanks’s wrath with a pair of spurs. Now, only Humphrey remained in his custody. The earl, Constable of England, had been his greatest prize.
