“I doubt that Robert Bruce will retreat. He has not shown himself to be easily cowed by the sight of Englishmen.”
“Fortunately,” rejoined Gloucester with bite in his tone, “you are not in command—”
Hereford knew the bitter fact all too well, and hardly needed to be reminded.
“—and I say we have suffered too much in this heat to stop now. We shall continue straight into Stirling!” he added with emphasis.
“You will not wait for the King?”
Hereford’s question brought Gloucester up short. He thought for a moment.
“You and I will lead an advance party across in two columns of five hundred men each. Once we have secured the north bridgehead, we will give orders for the rest of the main van to follow. No, I think we will not wait for the King. We will have Stirling secure by the time he reaches Milton.”
“If the Scots attack?”
“They will not.”
“If they do?” asked Hereford again.
“Then you wait until Pembroke reaches the burn before engagement.”
“Is that an order, sir?” The tone was unmistakable in its intended implication.
“That is an order, my lord Hereford!” replied Gloucester angrily.
It was an absurd strategy, now thought Hereford, recalling the conversation as he rode along. But he had done his best, and now they were nearly to Milton . . . with a mere boy in command of the entire English army!
Twenty-Four
The columns led by jealous and competitive rivals, the earls of Gloucester and Hereford, reached the narrow bridge of Milton.
Without even a pause, the iron hooves of Gloucester’s heavy destrier started across and soon echoed on the wooden planks, followed within minutes by hundreds more, clomp-clomping across in their relentless advance upon Stirling.
From where he watched under cover of trees, Robert Bruce’s pulse began to quicken.
They were crossing the bridge!
He could hardly believe his good fortune. He had hoped and planned for this moment but hardly dared imagine that the English would fall right into his trap.
He turned and ran for his horse. It was time to prepare for the next phase of his daring plan.
Thirty minutes later, Hereford, with his nephew at his side, led his advance column across the Milton bridge. Sir Robert Clifford had already brought three hundred men across and was now making along the flat meadowland of the carse, escorting Sir Philip Mowbray back to Stirling. The main van was starting to cross behind them.
“You see, my lord,” said a gloating Gloucester, riding up to the earl of Hereford as they clomped over the wooden planks, flushed in the apparent success of his command, “there is nothing to worry about! We shall be inside the castle within the hour.”
Hereford hated to admit it, but maybe the young blackguard was right.
But wait—up the hill toward the New Park was a small regiment of Scots moving toward the wood. Why hadn’t he seen them before?
“My lord!” Hereford called after Gloucester.
But Gloucester had seen them now too.
“After them!” he cried, kicking his heels into the flanks of his horse and galloping forward. “They retreat!”
Suddenly the Scots regiment disappeared. There emerged from the wood a single Scots horseman.
Gloucester reined in, momentarily confused about what to do. Hereford likewise brought his column to a halt. They were across the bridge now and on the edge of the carse. They continued to look up at the solitary figure on the hill—out in the open in front of them. What could he be doing?
The Scotsman stood his ground, unmoving on a small gray Highland pony, facing the charge. A silence of uncertainty followed.
Beside Hereford, suddenly his nephew recognized the lone Scotsman who had come out to meet them.
“It’s the Bruce!” he cried. “It’s Bruce himself . . . and alone!”
Just as suddenly, he dug his spurs into the sides of his mount and bolted forward at full gallop.
“Stop—stop, Henry!” cried Hereford. “Don’t be a fool!”
But his nephew was as unheeding of his cautions as the earl of Gloucester. Here was a moment for heroism. Young de Bohun would seize it for himself.
Up the hill, Bruce saw the charge . . . and waited.
He had no lance, and his sword remained sheathed. His only weapon was the light battle-axe in his hand. Hardly a match for the charging rider’s lance point if it struck its mark.
On de Bohun came, in full armor, his lance taking deadly aim at Bruce’s chest. The English troops paused in their march to watch the drama unfold. Still Bruce sat without moving. The lanceman charged close and closer . . .
At the last possible instant, suddenly Bruce kicked and wheeled his small mount aside. Barely avoiding the spear tip with which the young Englishman would have ended his life, he deftly maneuvered with yank of reins and kick of boots, clutching tight the handle of his weapon.
No heroism would come to Hereford’s nephew that day, only a defeat to fuel the morale of the Scots to new heights. For as he jerked himself to the side, Bruce rose up in his stirrups, lifting his arm high in the air. Bringing the tip of his axe down with great force as de Bohun missed his mark and thundered past, Bruce drove the steel blade through the young man’s helmet and bone in a single blow.
The skull was split from crown to chin. Blood spurted out. What was left of the mangled body slumped to the ground in a pool of red.
Bruce spun his light horse around. Even as he did, a battalion of screaming Scots charged forward down the hill.
Stunned by what they had witnessed, Gloucester immediately ordered retreat. Hereford, face ashen and with stomach lurching, did his best to recover himself and get his men back over the bridge they had just crossed. Meanwhile, down the hill into the carse, Thomas Randolph’s division of Scots was attacking Clifford’s party, which found itself trapped in bog as it likewise attempted to get back to the bridge.
Leaving the ensuing attack to his men, Bruce rode back toward his groom, patiently awaiting what might be required of him.
“It seems I shall not need you to drag me away after all, MacDarroch,” he said as he rode up to Donal, positioned some forty feet behind. “Your recommended strategy has dispatched one Englishman, at least, which I hope bodes well for what follows. But I have broken a good battle-axe—and they are retreating back across the bridge. I fear we have sprung our trap too soon. We may not get another chance.”
The retreat was indeed well under way. The onrushing Scots suddenly seemed to the English a huge host. Within minutes the startled and dismayed English horsemen were so disbursed that they were spread out in confusion among the holes and spiked balls of iron. Horses reared and screamed. Spears seemed to be coming at them from all sides. It was a far messier retreat than had been the approach.
Knocked from his horse, the young earl of Gloucester picked himself up, mortified but happy to find himself unwounded, ran after his mount, managed to reseat himself in the saddle, and now made for the bridge in full and inglorious retreat.
Within two hours, the entire advance party of King Edward’s army was safely back on the south side of the burn, licking its wounds.
The earl of Hereford, however, took no pleasure in the failure of his rival’s strategy. What mattered his pride when such a hideous death had come to his nephew and the house of Bohun?
Twenty-Five
Bruce’s men withdrew up the slope to their previous positions.
They knew they had attacked too soon. The unexpected charge of Hereford’s idiotic nephew had thrown their whole plan into disarray. Now there seemed no hope of luring the English back across and onto the carse as previously planned. Perhaps, thought Bruce as he watched the vast English army continue to arrive and pause on the far side of the river with the retreating vanguard, retreat would now indeed be the most prudent course for him as well.
The sultry day wore on. Steadily the English army
continued to arrive, spreading out and halting short of the bridge, gradually choking and congesting the entire south bank of the burn. They would not make Stirling today, as predicted by the earl of Gloucester. More importantly, they had little opportunity to water their parched horses, for the south bank of the Bannock was steep and in many places inaccessible.
For hours there was no change. The English horses grew thirstier and thirstier but were unable to reach the river’s edge from the steep south bank.
As the afternoon gave way to evening, the van of the English army, which had remained stationary for hours, gradually began again to move forward. Rather than making camp where they were, it appeared they would attempt to get at least a portion of their huge army across the burn before nightfall.
Still Bruce was watching every move of his enemy. This movement now, so late in the day, puzzled him. They were not actually going to start across the bridge again . . . not so late in the afternoon.
But as he gazed, a mass of men and horses and wagons began gradually to crowd across the Bannock Burn. Bruce and his commanders watched from their overlook, their perplexity mounting. What could possibly be Edward’s design? Where was he planning to put these men for the night?
Surely the English King was not thinking of a dusk battle? If he still had hopes of making Stirling, he could not do so without encountering the Scots again. There was scarcely dry land enough on this side of the Bannock to hold such a colossal force. Edward’s vast supply of horses, as well as fifteen or more thousand men, were parched and dry, it was true, and on this side there was certainly water to be had in plenty. But it still seemed a monstrously foolish move to cross the Bannock now.
The low meadowland between the Bannock Burn and the River Forth amounted to little more than a waterlogged plain, crossed by a thousand runnels and veins, creating a boggy carse of water and marshland. Had Edward’s scouts given him wrong information about this land? Surely this was a gigantic blunder! There could be no more treacherous place for them to put up, hemmed in on three sides by water, mud, and mire.
The astonishment of the Scots observers mounted. After leaving the bridge, the English columns bent to the north and moved down into the marshy carse, slowly picking their way through pools and ponds and ditches and streamlets and bogs, while behind them the rest of the English host followed. Were they trying to effect a large circular approach to the town?
But no! The front troops were now stopping. The soldiers were unsaddling their mounts, pitching tents, and gathering materials for fires. The English army was making camp for the night in the middle of the Carse of Stirling!
Robert Bruce wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t witnessing it with his own eyes!
As night began to fall and campfires sprang up, there could be no doubt that the English army was in the middle of the carse to stay.
But for how long? And what should the Scots do now? Everything about their planned strategy had now changed. Now there was no need to feign retreat. The English were already across the river. Now it was just a matter of where to attack . . . and when. And the most nagging quandary of all was whether the crossing had been effected in order that the English could attack the Scots in the middle of the night.
The question plagued Robert Bruce long into the darkness as he paced back and forth, eyeing the fires in the distance, afraid that any moment one of the English commanders would suddenly awaken to the peril of their position and order a relocation.
Bruce’s gravest fear continued to be that the English had perhaps chosen their ground in readiness for a dawn attack.
Leading with their cavalry and now well away from the pits and calthrops, they might possibly move out of the carse and onto the incline. Then they would have the advantage, and he would have no choice but to consider retreat.
If only . . . if only they remained where they were throughout the night!
Bruce and his groom had agreed that the carse was the only place where an engagement could successfully be waged. If he could just spring a trap and attack the English while they were yet in the midst of the carse and mostly surrounded by water, his inferior numbers could exploit the terrain to their maximum advantage.
All he could do was wait for dawn . . . and hope.
Thus it was that the Scottish King passed the night, vacillating between fear of being attacked and trembling with anticipation at the incredible trap the English had laid for themselves.
If only he had time to spring it!
Twenty-Six
A mile away, on the Carse of Stirling, within the silk enclosures of the tent of King Edward II, the atmosphere was less anxious.
“When would you have the bugles sound, my lord King?” asked the recently appointed commander over the forces, Edward’s own nephew of but twenty-four years.
“The men are exhausted, are they not?” said Edward.
The earl of Gloucester nodded. “But both men and beasts are recovering by quenching their thirst.”
“There is a great deal of water here, to be sure. The encampment was well chosen. And you—have you recovered from today’s blow?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gloucester with imperceptible wince, not wanting to be reminded that he had been unseated. The thought of it, however, also reminded him that he had not had it so bad as Bohun.
“And Hereford?” said the King. “Tell me, Gilbert, are you and he . . .”
Edward let the tone of his voice complete the sentence for him.
“The earl is a soldier,” replied Gloucester. “He will obey orders even when they come from one so many years his junior as myself.”
The King nodded. A moment later, the object of their discussion, along with the earl of Pembroke and Sir Robert Clifford, entered the King’s tent. The English high command was now assembled.
“I am grieved to hear of your nephew’s death, Humphrey,” said the King.
“Thank you, my lord,” replied Hereford with a grave nod. “It was a foolhardy move, even though Bruce was alone. My nephew underestimated the man the Scots call King . . . which mistake I hope you will not make, my lord King,” he added with obvious significance.
“I do not think any of us in this tent underestimate Bruce, my lord Hereford,” rejoined the son of the Hammer testily. He knew well enough that the veteran high constable was annoyed at his appointing Gloucester over him as commander for this campaign. Everyone knew it.
“Perhaps,” said Hereford. “I pray it is so. But I must again lodge the most urgent protest against our position. We are enmeshed in a bog, my lord. We must get out of it before engagement.”
“The site has been chosen, the men are already resting comfortably, horses have had their fill to drink for the first time in days, and here we shall remain,” replied Edward firmly.
Hereford sighed. “At least, then,” he added resignedly, “swing the infantry troops around to the west so they might encamp between the horsemen and the Scots. As it is, our infantry is hemmed in between our cavalry and the river. They are trapped.”
An outburst, half of astonishment, half of derision, burst from the mouth of young Gilbert de Clare of Gloucester.
“What?” he laughed. “Would you pen in the horsemen behind fifteen thousand foot soldiers! The way up the hill to the west must be kept clear so that I may make an attack with my cavalry. You have your logistics exactly backward. Our horsemen will attack up the hill, and the foot soldiers will follow. They are not trapped as you say. All is exactly as it should be.”
Hereford sighed in frustration. The earl was too inexperienced to understand the danger. Today’s debacle had proved that well enough. Unfortunately, the young fool had the King’s ear.
“So then,” Hereford said to the King, vouchsafing no answering comment to his youthful commander’s ridicule, “it has been decided to attack?”
“Nothing has been decided,” replied Edward. “We shall see how the Highlanders dispose themselves in the morning. Perhaps we shall awaken and find they ha
ve disappeared. Then the way will be clear for us to march straight into Stirling and take control of the castle, the town—and all of Scotland.”
“Impossible,” said Hereford. “I know Robert the Bruce better than that. We will awake to find him no farther away than he is at this moment. Perhaps even closer.”
“Reports today indicate that Bruce’s forces appear to be withdrawing. Their van is on the far side from us.”
“They hardly withdrew today. Have you considered that their position might be intentional, to trick us?”
“I do not believe it for a moment. Today it was you who appeared reluctant to engage, not Bruce,” said Clifford to the earl of Hereford. “I needed more support.”
“I was under orders,” shot back Hereford, “not to attack until the earl of Pembroke should reach the burn.”
Hereford’s irritation had by now turned to seething anger. He had been furious all afternoon over Gloucester’s bungling of the initial encounter and silently blamed the King’s nephew for the death of his own.
A heavy silence descended over the gathering.
“In any event,” Hereford resumed, calming himself, “I must emphasize my strong conviction that Bruce will not withdraw and that we must, therefore, protect our western flank with infantrymen.”
“And I state again that I must have the west open, therewith to attack the Scots with my cavalry,” repeated Gloucester.
“And if the Scots should attack us first?” queried Hereford.
“Impossible!” insisted Gloucester, again with a laugh. “We outnumber them four to one. They will not attack.”
“Three to one at the most,” interposed the former high constable.
“Three, four—what difference?” said the King, tiring of the dispute between the two. “Bruce will never attack—of that I am convinced. He is a coward, and he knows this battle for control of Stirling is already ours. My father knew him a coward, and I know him a coward. Whenever there is a threat, he retreats to the safety of his idiotic Highlands. We have seen it time and again. His deployment before Stirling is a gigantic ruse.”
An Ancient Strife Page 55
