An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  “Well, MacDarroch,” said Bruce after a moment, “it seems I shall not have to look far for my new groom—that is, if you want the assignment.”

  “I would be more honored than I can say.”

  “Spoken like a brave son of Scotland!”

  The King took the reins, mounted, and rode away. From that day forward, Donal MacDarroch took the place of the departed Aonghuis as Bruce’s groom.

  The struggle against the English continued. One by one, Scotland’s castles fell into the hands of the Bruce.

  Eighteen

  1313–1314

  These were days when loyalty was everything, yet loyalty could be fleeting. Allegiances must be chosen with an eye to the future, and great were the risks of miscalculation. While King Robert Bruce gradually reclaimed Scotland, the fortunes of two Scottish families shifted dramatically as each weighed the odds of probable outcome and chose two very different paths to walk.

  A certain Adam de Gordon, descended from a Norman family that had been granted lands near the village of Huntly in Berwickshire two or three generations earlier, had all his life been loyal to the English King. In 1313, however, he defected to the Scottish King’s cause. Robert Bruce, not one to forget loyalty, would suitably reward Gordon’s timely change of heart.

  A very different altering of sympathies took place in the region of Strathbogie where Bruce’s groom had been born. There, the new earl David turned against the very King who seven years earlier found refuge one Christmas season at the castle which he now called home and which the ancestor of that groom had helped build. It was a foolish decision on the part of the scion of the family who had crowned Bruce King, and one for which young Lord David would pay dearly.

  Perth fell to the Scots in January of 1313. Robert Bruce himself, heavily outfitted in armor, led his men into the icy waters of the castle moat, then scaled the wall with the great weight of his armor on his back and himself led the bitter fighting inside.

  Dumfries, Lochmaben, Dalswinton, and Loch Doon followed. By midyear, most of Scotland was back in the hands of her King.

  But Stirling Castle, held by English troops, seemed impenetrable. Edward Bruce besieged the high fortress for months. Yet while the rest of the country gradually came into his brother’s possession, the younger Bruce could not overcome the mighty rock at the center of the nation.

  In the summer of 1313, Stirling’s English commander, Sir Philip Mowbray, weary of the siege, offered cunning terms for a temporary peace: He would surrender Stirling to the Bruces if he was not relieved by an English army appearing within three miles of the castle by Midsummer’s Day the following year. Edward Bruce, unsuccessful with all other attempts, accepted Mowbray’s terms and called off the siege.

  While the truce halted fighting at Stirling, there was no letup against the few other English-held garrisons. Early in 1314 came the daring capture of the great fortress of Edinburgh. While a handful of attackers led by commander Thomas Randolph diverted attention near the main gate, thirty men crept in the middle of the night along a treacherous path up the northern cliff face of the rock behind, scaled the castle walls, and opened the gates to Randolph’s men.

  By the summer of 1314, only one castle still remained in the hands of the English—the great fortress of Stirling, where fighting had ceased now for a year. More than a few battles had been fought through the years at this critical juncture where the geography of the land forced a confluence of all things.

  Now again did all eyes focus upon Stirling.

  Nothing could have suited the English better than Edward Bruce’s agreement with Mowbray, which gave the English King an entire year to prepare for a renewed invasion. Edward II had responded to the terms by raising the greatest army ever to march upon England’s troublesome northern neighbor. He mustered his forces at Berwick in early June, then set out to relieve Mowbray’s command and take Scotland back once and for all.

  A climax was inevitable. Two kings and all the forces each could assemble would meet, and the future of two kingdoms would be decided.

  Nineteen

  JUNE 1314

  The evening was warm.

  Midsummer was approaching as inexorably as Edward’s army was marching north. Destiny drew nearer as surely as day followed night. Every man in Bruce’s army felt it.

  Robert Bruce felt it most keenly of all. The King of a nation that was at last united behind him walked out toward the makeshift stables of the encampment in the serene hours of the gloaming.

  It was early June. The year was 1314.

  The first person Bruce encountered as he approached the enclosure where the horses were kept was his groom. An urge came over him to talk to the youth who had served him so well ever since old Aonghuis’s death.

  “Well, Donal MacDarroch, son of Fergus the farrier,” said the Bruce casually, yet with an edge of seriousness in his tone as well, “I have been listening for weeks to the counsel of my lords and earls. What do you think—shall we live to see the end of this summer which is now upon us?”

  “Of course we shall, my lord King.”

  “You sound more confident than most of my generals,” smiled Bruce, though the upward turn of his lips could not dispel the wrinkles of doubt which continued to plague his forehead.

  Donal said nothing. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the shuffling of horses’ hooves behind them, broken by an occasional snort from their large fleshy lips.

  “You have surely heard the reports,” Bruce went on after the pause. “Edward mustered, some say, twenty thousand men to relieve Stirling Castle. We scarcely have a third that number.”

  Donal nodded. He also had heard the reports.

  “And you remain confident?”

  Once more Donal nodded.

  “You are a young man of few words,” remarked Bruce.

  “I would not render an opinion unsought, my lord.”

  “Wise words for one of tender years. But now I do ask—what would you do, son of Fergus, if you were my general? If I gave into your hands the disposition of our men against Edward’s vast host, how would you respond?”

  “I would be loath to presume to advise one whose generalship has already won Scotland,” replied Donal.

  Bruce broke into a chuckle, which gradually gave way to laughter.

  “You are not merely wise—you are also a diplomat, I see!” he said. “But I ask your opinion sincerely. I have consulted my men. I am not without ideas of my own. But I am curious what a groom might say. You have shown yourself a stout and intelligent fellow. No harm will come to you even should you counsel retreat. So again I ask—what would you do?”

  A long silence this time intervened. The evening was peaceful. The King had never spoken to his groom in such a manner.

  “Are you committed to engage the English King?” asked Donal at length.

  “No,” replied Bruce thoughtfully. “In the face of such odds, wisdom may in fact dictate retreat rather than engagement. I will not so lightly throw away all we have gained. We would be foolish to fight if the cause were doomed from the start.”

  “But you are willing to fight?”

  “Certainly,” answered the King quickly, as if the question was an affront. Donal did not flinch. Bruce’s eyes continued to probe the young face.

  Another silence ensued. Donal considered his words with care.

  “Position and strategy will be everything,” he said at length.

  Now it was Bruce’s turn to nod without comment. He was a master of both, and his groom knew it. By now every lord in Scotland who had attempted to hold out against him knew it.

  “The English cannot be defeated unless the position of battle greatly favors you,” Donal continued.

  Again came the thoughtful kingly nod.

  “If Edward of England is determined to march upon Stirling,” continued Donal, “it would seem that the most likely—the only—position from which you could possess such an advantage would be if his army were on the Carse of Sti
rling.”3

  “Edward is no fool,” rejoined the King. “His scouts know the danger of that marshland as well as we. He would never willingly choose to fight from such unsuitable ground.”

  “But if he could be enticed upon it . . .” suggested Donal.

  “Are you suggesting an attack before he reaches the Bannock?” asked Bruce. “How would we then confine him to the southeast of the carse when he is coming from Falkirk? If we crossed the bridge at Milton, Edward could spread out in a semicircle around us and force us back into the carse—or into the waters of the Bannock!”

  “But if you could lure Edward to cross at Milton?”

  “Do you mean bring his army across the bridge onto the carse?”

  Donal nodded.

  “But how?” said Bruce. “Why would he cross the bridge and put his army with its back to the river? He would never cross.”

  “Unless you lured him across under false pretense.”

  “Again I say, how?”

  “By massing on the ridge between Tor Wood and St. Ninian’s kirk and then feigning retreat. And, perhaps, by then standing out yourself, alone . . . to goad the English after you.”

  Bruce took in the words calmly but seriously. He had been discussing options along such lines with his brother, but the pretended retreat and the use of himself as bait were new ideas.

  Gradually his head began to nod.

  “He has scouts, as you said,” Donal went on. “They will know that my lord Randolph commands the vanguard and you, my lord, command the rear guard. If you position my lord Randolph’s battalion toward the castle—at St. Ninian’s, perhaps—and yours, my lord, nearest Milton, the scouts will report to Edward that our direction is likely west, away from engagement.”

  Bruce continued to nod, then smiled.

  “Luring him, in effect, to chase us across the bridge and onto the carse . . . luring him to chase me.”

  “That is how I see it, my lord.”

  “It is a bold strategy, young MacDarroch,” he said. “So daring it might just work—or else get me killed! I shall have to bring you to my commanders and let them hear it from you.”

  “Across the Bannock at Milton is the nearest route to the castle. Surely that will be King Edward’s objective.”

  “I am certain you are correct. By then he will be highly confident, which will add to our advantage. He will assume retreat to be my best option.”

  Donal did not comment further. He had offered his thoughts on the matter. Now it was time to let the King determine how best to meet the approaching enemy.

  “Do you recall the day when I first saw you?” asked Bruce after both men’s thoughts had strayed in different directions from battle strategy.

  “How could I forget, my lord? It was the day my father was killed.”

  “Which I have always regretted.”

  “He taught me to honor my King,” said Donal. “His death no longer counts a grief in my memory. He served you and died without fear. I hope I am worthy to walk in his footsteps.”

  “Do you trust me, Donal?” asked the King.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “You would go wherever I ordered you?”

  Donal nodded.

  “Are you afraid of what might lie ahead?”

  “I do not fear death, my lord,” he said. “Though I must confess I fear what it may be like to die. Some deaths are very painful.”

  “In war, nearly all. Do you count yourself a brave young man, son of Fergus?”

  “That would depend on what you consider bravery, my lord.”

  Bruce thought a moment.

  “To meet the foe gamely and not shrink from the battle—even in the face of fear,” he replied after a moment.

  Donal considered his words.

  “I do not know if I can answer you then, my lord,” he said finally. “I have not faced battle as your men have. I have only observed it from a distance. Therefore, I cannot count myself courageous, for I have not been tested with the foe—and possibly death—staring me in the eye.”

  “Wisely spoken. Though I do believe I detect bravery even in such an admission.”

  “I pray that whenever the test comes, I shall, as you say, not shrink in the face of fear.”

  “I am sure you shall face it with courage.”

  Bruce eyed his groom another moment, as if sensing such a moment approached for the young man as surely as his adversary marched to meet them.

  He said nothing, however, but turned and made his way back to his own tent.

  Twenty

  The night was late. It was Saturday night, the twenty-second of June, shortly before eleven.

  The strategy was decided. The ground the Scots would occupy to face the English had been chosen with care and cunning.

  After arriving earlier that same day, Bruce’s army had been divided into four oval spear-ring schiltrons and placed to insure maximum protection throughout the area called New Park, just above Tor Wood. The left flank was led by Thomas Randolph, that nearest him commanded jointly by the Steward and Douglas, the next by Edward Bruce. The right flank schiltron was commanded by the King himself.

  The men of Bruce’s own division had dug a series of pits and trenches, each a foot wide and three feet deep, between the trees of Tor Wood and the water of the Bannock, then covered them with brush, to protect the critical right flank of the army against the horses of the English cavalry.

  Now, at this late hour, the throng of men under their four commands were either asleep or soon would be. Edward’s army would arrive on the morrow, and the future of a nation would be decided. If the English marched straight on and could be lured across the bridge at Milton and onto the carse, the schiltrons and pits of the Scots would be ready for them. If the English waited on the solid ground of the other side of the river, where and how the battle would be fought must remain in doubt for now.

  The King had called his most trusted advisors, the commanders of the other three battalions, to his tent for final discourse: his brother Edward, James Douglas, who commanded young Walter the Steward’s battalion, and Thomas Randolph. One other also was present.

  An unsteady flame flickered low in the late summer’s night.

  Bruce had just spoken, saying he had decided to ride out upon the plain alone, in plain view of the English vanguard, as soon as it reached the bridge. To do so would set a tone, he said, of bold defiance. He would let them see him, he said, as a single rider, hoping the sight might entice them across the bridge to do battle.

  All depended on which side of the river they could engage the English, on whether the larger English force stopped short of the Milton bridge or continued across. Bruce’s daring idea of going out alone, he hoped, would tip the balance in their favor.

  “I argue against this last, my lord King,” said Douglas. “Your marching out to challenge them as you describe is unwise.”

  “Why do you say so? Give me your reason, Douglas,” said the King.

  “They may send an entire regiment, or perhaps a troop of longbowmen.”

  “The first across the bridge will be their heavy cavalry,” replied the King. “I am sure of it.”

  “One man against many will invite their attack.”

  “They will not attack en masse, for it will take hours to get all their troops across. The bridge is narrow. I would only challenge their van.”

  “One man against even a small contingent would not be able to stand.”

  “It will not be a division, I tell you, so let them attack,” insisted the King. “I want to anger Edward and thus cloud his judgment. If I can anger him so that he does not stop to consider the danger of crossing, but thinks only of sending his men after me, then I will have been successful—especially if he thinks we are retreating and charges after us. Then, once his cavalry is on the carse, and while his foot soldiers are just getting across and spreading out between their horses and the stream, we will turn back on them. It is our only chance of success.”


  “What if they make camp on the far side, and do not come across the bridge to take your bait?”

  “Then we will have to devise another strategy. That is one of the reasons I must do as I have proposed—so that they do not stop and make camp before crossing.”

  “I salute your courage, my lord, but the enemy’s superior strength demands that such courage be sustained throughout the charge. You must be there to give heart to our men when time for the major battle comes.”

  It required courage on the part of the lieutenant as well to raise the specter of doubt on the night prior to battle.

  “If you die, my lord, Scotland is doomed,” Douglas added. “None other can unite the country and lead its clansmen and nobles as you have done.”

  “What if we could somehow lure them to make camp on the carse itself?” now asked Randolph.

  “Impossible,” declared Edward Bruce. “Even Edward of England is not that big a fool. No commander would order his men to make camp on such a bog. It would be suicide.”

  The tent grew silent.

  Douglas had voiced the reservation several of the King’s high-placed officers held in their hearts concerning Bruce’s final suggestion.

  Bruce sat motionless, staring into the thin flame of the candle, pondering what lay ahead. Douglas had been prudent in saying he must not act rashly. How many might the English have when they marched out the Roman Road from Tor Wood tomorrow? Reports varied widely. His four schiltrons contained but fifteen hundred men each. They would almost certainly be seriously outnumbered.

  In truth, he had not yet decided to engage the English in battle at all. The doubts which had surfaced in his conversation with his groom continued to nag at his brain. He must not allow a repeat of Wallace’s defeat at Falkirk. If the English proved too many, retreat was the most prudent policy. He had all of Scotland except Stirling. He could not throw everything away in a foolishly fought battle they could not hope to win.

  That was one of the reasons he had chosen this high position near St. Ninian’s and New Park. He had to keep his troops well away from the swampy carse. The alignment of the battalions was only partially to feign retreat. It was also to make retreat possible should it prove necessary. His army might well have to beat their way back west in the middle of the night.