If independence for this nation required temporary retreat to avoid massacre, Robert the Bruce would not hesitate to order it. He had no desire to martyr either himself or his men so that he might become a hero like Wallace. For though Wallace was a hero, Wallace was also dead. Scotland needed her King alive, or there would be no freedom . . . nor any kingdom at all.
Bruce, however, did not openly state his own doubts just now. The silence continued several minutes.
At length the King turned his head unexpectedly toward his groom, a youth who looked no more than twenty standing behind the others.
“And you, young MacDarroch,” he said, “what advice would you give your King on the eve of battle? You have heard the objection. What does your stout heart tell you in the matter?”
Whatever the reaction of the nobles around the tent to the King’s asking such a one to render opinion on the momentous proceeding, their faces displayed nothing. They had already grown accustomed to the King’s fondness for the groom and had hidden their astonishment at Bruce’s asking him to join this conclave.
“My lord Douglas speaks wisely, my lord King,” replied Donal after a momentary wait, and with a confidence in excess of his years, “when he warns care on your part. He speaks truth when he says your courage will be required as long as the battle wages.”
A brief pause followed.
“And it shall be so given, I am confident,” Donal went on, if possible even more boldly. “Of one thing I am certain: the English King underestimates his opponent. So I say, my lord King Robert, go out to meet the battle as you suggest—perhaps mounted on one of our small horses. Let them ride against you on their huge destriers in their hauberks of mail. They will grow stupidly confident in their own might. Let them think you are in retreat. Then let them discover whom they have chosen for an adversary . . . and what manner of man rules over Caledonia.”
“Bravely spoken,” commented Bruce.
Donal stood motionless.
“Would you ride beside me to await them, MacDarroch?” asked the King, thinking back to the words they had exchanged earlier.
“With honor, my lord King.”
The Bruce waited but a moment more, then turned his piercing gaze back to the nobles gathered with him.
“It is decided, then,” he said decisively. “If this stalwart youth places such confidence in me as to answer thus without a tremble of fear in his voice, shall I begin to doubt myself? No, I will meet them as proposed, whomever they send to dispatch me—and on a palfrey, as MacDarroch suggests.”
“And then?” asked the King’s brother. “If they cross the bridge, will we engage them immediately?”
“No, Edward, that is the one thing we must not do,” replied Bruce. “If we succeed in luring them across, we must allow most of their force to get over the bridge before engagement. Otherwise we will spend ourselves, possibly with great loss, and the remainder of Edward’s force can then march over and easily rout us. No, we must defeat their whole army . . . or decline the engagement altogether.”
The words revealed his continued wavering on the question of whether there would be a battle fought at all.
He glanced around at his commanders. Each in his turn nodded solemn consent. No one questioned whether the King’s final words meant he was considering a midnight withdrawal.
Again there was silence. The candle burned low.
Robert Bruce spoke once more. “The time has at last arrived,” he said softly, but with the fervor of the great warrior-heart rising to fullness in his breast, “when the interloping Sassenach must be sent back across the border not for a mere day, or year, or season . . . but forever. What we could not achieve with Edward’s father now rests with us to do on this occasion. It is for this season that we have fought for twenty years. The moment has come for us to lay claim once more to the land of our fathers, the land of our Kings, the land of our heritage, the land of our birthright.”
There was another pause, this time brief. Then Bruce added:
“Hail, Caledonia! We pledge here and now, that you shall not be taken from your own people again!”
Twenty-One
Bruce’s army slept but little after the fateful conclave of its leadership in the King’s tent.
At four o’clock on the morning following, an ethereal mist hovered over the lowlands surrounding Stirling. Trumpets sounded among the host, summoning the Scots to Mass.
By the time the many clergy had completed administering Communion to the soldiers, the morning had dawned bright and warm. It would be a hot Sunday. Breakfast for the troops was ordered: bread and water. They were a Spartan race and would dine according to the severity of their present calling.
Donal MacDarroch had been lying awake, it seemed, for most of the hours between leaving the King’s tent and the sound of the trumpets. It was a relief to rise at last. Mass completed, he ate his bread in haste. He must be ready when the King required him. He set about immediately saddling the small gray horse that would lead the battle.
Bruce met first with Douglas and his marischal Robert Keith, ordering them to ride swiftly toward Falkirk that he might have a reliable firsthand report on the enemy’s position and strength. He then went in search of his groom.
“My mount is ready, I see, MacDarroch,” said the King. “Well done. Now that the day has arrived, are you afraid?”
“No, my lord,” answered Donal.
“If you were, would you say?”
“No, my lord.”
“You remember your father?”
“I remember.”
“He lost his life in my cause.”
“A worthier one he could not have given his life for, my lord.”
“And if such should be your fate?”
“I will try to meet it with courage and say the same.”
Bruce eyed the young man with steadily mounting approval.
“Last night you said you would go out with me to meet the enemy—even if I went alone.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Now that the day of battle has dawned, will you make the same answer? You do not now want to stand behind the army with the supply wagons and other grooms?”
“No, my lord. As I said, I would go at your side with honor.”
“So you shall, then,” declared the King. “I shall give you that honor. Besides,” he added, “should I fall—if Douglas is right and it proves a fool’s gambit—you are perhaps the only one I could trust to drag me back to safety! What say you to that, young MacDarroch?”
“You will not fall, my lord,” answered Donal. “But I shall count it a privilege to ride out with you.”
“Good, then prepare a mount for yourself as well—though you shall stay well behind me and remain out of danger unless, as I say, I am unseated.”
He took the reins Donal had been holding, mounted, and rode off to inspect the honeycomb screen of holes his troops had dug that would protect his men if the English did attack today. In the front of them, along the road from Milton, had also been scattered spiked iron calthrops. If King Edward attacked, his horses would pay a heavy price. Pleased with what he saw, Bruce rode to each of the four battalions to give final encouragement to his men.
Douglas and Keith returned from their reconnaissance mission several hours later. They appeared haggard and worn.
“Their force is as an unending sea,” said Douglas. His voice contained obvious dismay. “—Countless riders . . . infantry stretching all the way to Edinburgh, say some of the scouts.”
He paused to take a swallow of water from the tin handed him by Keith. Bruce gravely contemplated his words.
“How many has King Edward in all?” asked Bruce.
“Twenty thousand . . . fifty thousand—who can tell?” said Keith.
“How far off?”
“Close—the leading van approaches within two or three miles.”
“How aligned?”
“Medium cavalry, probably six thousand, several hundred mounted Welsh
archers, three or four thousand armored knights on destriers.”
“The cavalry leads?”
Keith nodded.
“And the infantry?”
“Well back, several miles—behind the horsemen,” replied Douglas, “spreading behind farther than any of our scouts could see—a numberless horde, to Falkirk and beyond.”
Bruce again took in the words. If they caused fear, his facial expression did not show it. In his own mind he could not help wondering if retreat now indeed loomed as his best option. It seemed impossible that young MacDarroch’s plan could succeed.
After a moment he spoke.
“Good . . . what you say is good news. The battle will be one of infantry.”
“But King Edward brings his cavalry first to meet us.”
“Yes, exactly as we wish! Were he to attack with his infantry, their superior numbers would doom us from the outset. But with our infantry against his cavalry, we will carry the day. We will choose the high ground and fight where we decide to fight. Then we must make certain their footmen remain penned up behind their horsemen. Their cavalry will be useless on the carse, and their infantry will not be able to get at us. What is the condition of their horses and men?”
“Weary, very weary—that much is clear. They have marched hard from Tweeddale and Lauderdale. They are hot and exhausted, and slept little last night.”
“More good news! I am more confident than ever, despite their numbers.”
The King paused, then added in a subdued tone, “Keep what you have seen to yourselves. Spread the word that the English are in disorder.”
Bruce turned, mounted, and rode off to address the battalions that had been ordered to assemble so that the King could be heard by as many as possible.
To himself, Bruce wished he were truly as confident as he had displayed to his commanders—and as he was about to sound to his men.
Twenty-Two
The Scottish force stood to arms while their King, Robert the Bruce, rode up and down before them. For seventeen years, some of these men had fought behind him. This day represented the culmination of all they had struggled for. Robert Bruce had almost entirely ousted the English presence from Scotland, but all would be for naught if he could not gain control of Stirling.
As he went, Bruce spoke with many of the men individually, encouraging and exhorting. A commanding figure of a man, the King sat astride a small gray horse. He was fully clad in light chain mail from neck and head to legs and arms. A great outer surcoat of bright yellow and red flowed down from his shoulders, upon the chest of which was emblazoned the red lion rampant, the emblem of the Scottish crown. A sword of great weight hung at his side. He also wore his crown. He would discard it prior to heavy fighting. But for now it was a needful symbol of what they were attempting to do—secure a kingdom from foreign occupation.
At last he began to address his men.
“You faithful soldiers,” he said in loud voice, “have been with me, some of you, for years, through victories and retreats. We have scaled the walls of Perth and Edinburgh. We have steadily rid our land of the English intruder. But all has been preliminary to this day. The greatest army ever assembled on this soil has invaded and now marches toward us. On this day will Scotland stand or fall.”
He paused to allow the weight of his words to sink in.
“With the help and by the grace of God,” he continued, “we shall prevail. The Brecbennoch accompanies us, with the bones of our dear St. Columba. We shall, therefore, send this mighty host back across the border whence it came. It is an exhausted and hungry army, for its supply train lags far behind. The leading van is led by Gloucester, the King’s own nephew, a child of little more than twenty who has never fought a battle in his life. I tell you, it is an army unprepared to give its all, and thus, whatever its numbers, we shall defeat them. This is our land. We know the ground. We are rested and ready. Therefore, we win . . . or—”
Already a cheer had gone up in response, drowning out his words. He waited until it had subsided.
“But I would not deceive you,” Bruce went on. “United though we may be, we are few in number beside the English host. There will be loss of life. Such cannot be avoided. Some of you now hearing my words may be dead before the setting of today’s sun. Certainly Scots blood will be shed along with English. As I said, either we win, or we die.”
A solemn silence now replaced the revelry.
“So I speak now to each individual man among you. Remain with me not a moment longer unless you are prepared to die for Scotland’s freedom. I now give you the choice, without fear of reprisal, to leave the field of battle and return to home and family. In good faith, I will thank you for standing by me until this day and will wish you godspeed. Nor will your fellows mock or jeer you. If you have not the heart to face the battle knowing your own blood may be required to make Scotland free, you must act now, for united against the enemy we must remain.”
He paused.
Not a muscle moved to disturb the deathly silence between Milton and the New Park. No horse stirred.
It became clear not a single man of them intended to avail himself of the King’s offer. Gradually the rumble of a renewed cheer began to rise over the throng. It grew into great shouts of readiness and eager support.
Bruce smiled, allowed the celebration to continue a moment, then raised his hand high. “Thank you, my faithful!” he cried. “Now, for God and St. Andrew—and for Scotland!”
Again a cheer rose as Bruce sent his men back to take up their positions in their battalions.
The wait did not last much longer. The first of the English troops had already been seen on the south side of the burn.
Twenty-Three
Sir Humphrey de Bohun, the English earl of Hereford, rode silently along at the head of an unending column of horsemen. Beside him, his nephew Henry—in full battle armor and holding a long and heavy lance—appeared more prepared for a jousting tournament than combat. He was young and eager, thought Hereford, but such preparations would do him little good in battle.
Hereford had told him so this morning, but Henry hadn’t listened. Youth was not inclined to heed the counsel of its elders, preferring instead its own reckless schemes and ideas.
The very thought of someone half his age giving him orders still kept the earl’s blood at a simmering boil.
It had been with more disbelief than anger that Hereford had first heard the King’s words at Berwick: “I am appointing the earl of Gloucester high commander for the invasion of Scotland and the relief of Stirling Castle.”
Pembroke, Clifford, Beaumont, and the other commanders were as stunned as he by Edward II’s decision, but no word of objection broke the silence. Gloucester, the King’s nephew, was obviously a royal favorite, and, Hereford had to admit, not without some skill and courage. But he was barely old enough to grow a beard, much less head an invasion of such proportion. Worse—he had never so much as commanded a single battle! He would as soon put his own nephew Henry de Bohun in command—though that would be equally disastrous.
It wouldn’t surprise him, Hereford thought to himself, if neither of the two young men—his nephew Henry and the King’s nephew Gloucester—lived through this day. Both were idiots and mere boys.
Ever since his appointment, Gloucester had been lording it over the others, taking special delight as they marched north in exercising his heavy-handed command over the man who should rightfully have been in charge—he himself, the earl of Hereford and high constable of England. Hereford felt as if he had been demoted to the status of foot soldier from the way the young Gloucester spoke to him, never heeding his counsel, never even asking for his recommendations.
Hereford glanced ahead to where his young rival led the front column, or van, at the head of the army.
The young fool, he thought, thinking he will defeat Robert Bruce with sheer force of numbers.
Hereford knew better. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know better! But the King was
n’t listening to him these days, and he had learned the impossibility of trying to talk sense into Gloucester’s brain. The boy had grown so puffed up by his own importance that he thought he was invincible.
Hereford sighed.
Maybe Bruce would be discouraged by their numbers and retreat.
It was a good sign that the Scots had let Mowbray through this morning from Stirling. The governor of Stirling had given his English allies a reasonably reliable report of Bruce’s position. Edward’s army of reinforcements had arrived within the appointed time, with one day to spare. Technically, Hereford supposed, the moment Edward II and Mowbray had shaken hands, the transfer was made. The terms of the bargain from the previous year had been met, and Edward of England had gotten the best of Edward Bruce’s deal. What was the point of an engagement now?
Only pride.
King Edward was not about to march so far with such a gigantic force just to turn around and return to England. No, he would take Stirling and hold it—both castle and town—and thus maintain his grip upon Scotland. If Bruce and his small army got in the way, they would be destroyed.
Thus, Gloucester’s order this morning had been that they would march across the bridge at Milton and continue straight on. The river was only two or three miles from the castle. Tonight they would sleep in beds in Stirling Castle!
An hour ago they had stopped for a final rest before reaching Milton. Hereford had ridden back, surveying and speaking with the men in both columns. Distressed by what he saw, he had returned to the front to attempt one final time to reason with the young earl.
“I believe the men and horses are so parched and weary that we should encamp for the night south of the burn,” he urged.
“What, so close to our objective? We are almost in sight of the castle. Why should we stop when we are so close?”
“Bruce and the Scots stand between Milton and Stirling. That will not be so easy a two miles as these last.”
“Nonsense,” said Gloucester. “When we arrive and begin crossing the bridge, they will disburse.”
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