Authors: Robyn Young
‘My lord king!’
Turning, Robert saw Cormac approaching. His foster-brother’s axe was dripping blood and his horse was snorting and agitated. He was escorting another rider, whose blood-drenched surcoat was decorated with three white stars. It was Thomas Randolph.
The earl’s face was flushed and sweat soaked his cheeks, but he was grinning broadly. ‘My lord, we defeated Robert Clifford’s company! They tried to come at us through St Ninian’s, but my men sent them into a rout.’
Cormac, too, was grinning. Malcolm and Angus, having caught wind of this victory, were riding over, calling questions, their faces filling with exultant disbelief.
Somewhere in Robert, a flame sparked to life, but he kept his calm, unwilling to let it burn out of control. This wasn’t over. Not yet.‘Gather the prisoners and tend to the wounded,’ he told his men. ‘We make camp.’
Chapter 47
Near Stirling, Scotland, 1314 AD
It was late in the day when the main host of the English army crossed the Bannock Burn. Scouts sent south from Clifford’s company, vanquished by the spears of Thomas Randolph’s men, had warned King Edward the Scots held the New Park and they would not be able to ford the stream by the Roman road. At this news, the vast train of men headed by the king and his rearguard diverted from the road and moved across open country, following the prints of hooves gouged in the track by Clifford and Beaumont’s knights. Endless lines of weary infantry limped in their wake, followed by the baggage train, the wheels of two hundred wagons groaning round in the dust.
East of the ford, the Bannock Burn twisted its way through a wooded gorge, flanked by steep banks, as sheer as cliffs in places, trees and bushes clinging to the muddy sides. Where the gorge opened out the track descended into the wide burn. The muscular destriers of Clifford’s company had waded easily enough through these waters earlier, but it was a different challenge for thousands of infantry, let alone the supply wagons. A halt was called, men sent off to find materials with which to bridge the stream. They returned gradually, carrying doors and roof timbers from houses at the nearby settlement of Bannock, as dusk lit the land in a crimson haze.
Once across the water, a copse of trees gave way to a great plain, sheltered on one side by an escarpment, the ridge of which was shrouded with the darkness of the New Park woods. To the north-west, Stirling Castle was now visible, towering on its crag of rock. For the English, their target was now tormentingly close, but cut off by the waters of another burn, the Pelstream. In the twilight of the midsummer’s eve, the flat plain seemed an inviting place to camp, tufted with sweet-smelling heathers, but as the cavalry struck out across it they soon discovered the long grasses concealed a riddle of streams and pools that stretched all the way to the mighty River Forth, a looping silver ribbon to the north. It was here – men floundering in this honeycombed mire, cursing as the ground gave way suddenly beneath them and swatting uselessly at the midges that swarmed up around them – that the vanguard finally found them.
Gilbert de Clare and Humphrey de Bohun urged their spent horses through the vast crowds, who were trying as best they could to set up camp, the hooves of horses making a black soup of the soft peat. Men stopped what they were doing, eyes lingering on the blood-soaked trappers and mantles of the knights of the vanguard riding through their midst. A few were slumped in their saddles, wounded, squires leading their horses. Humphrey and the others ignored the men’s anxious, questioning looks, winding their way through the tortuous labyrinth of streams towards the king’s company, marked by his royal standard.
The Earl of Gloucester rode in sullen silence, mounted on a palfrey several hands shorter than his magnificent Andalusian destrier, left for dead on the road by the ford. Humphrey too was silent. A cold fury had been welling in him these past few miles at the actions of his co-commander, whose recklessness had led to the deaths of many of their men, including his own nephew. The sight of the army hunkering down in this insect-plagued quagmire did little to temper his mood. The infantry were exhausted, the cavalry demoralised; all of them disheartened by the prospect of an uncomfortable night ahead after the day’s long march. Glancing over his shoulder, up the escarpment to the distant trees, Humphrey thought about Robert and the strategy the rebel leader had favoured these past years. If the Scots attacked tonight, they would be in dire straits.
Clustered around the king and his household knights were the barons, among them Aymer de Valence, Richard de Burgh and Ralph de Monthermer. They were clearly involved in a council. Torches, thrust into the ground, illuminated their backs. As the vanguard approached, Ralph, standing on the outer edges of the circle, was the first to spot them.
Moving to greet them, his expression changed from relief to shock. ‘What happened?’ he asked, crossing straight to Humphrey.
‘We were repelled by Bruce’s forces at the ford.’
‘Dear God. How?’
‘Ask your stepson.’
Gilbert de Clare, hearing Humphrey’s sharp remark, jumped down from his horse. He had removed his helm and his face was contorted with anger. ‘We might have won had you not hung back like a damn coward!’
Humphrey felt the fury close over him, numbing any sense of restraint. ‘You useless fool,’ he breathed, striding towards Gloucester, grabbing for his sword as he went.
He was stopped short by Ralph, who planted a warning hand on his chest. ‘Easy, my friend.’
Humphrey forced back his rage with effort. Blame and reprisals would do no good right now. There would be time for those later. Releasing his grip on his sword hilt, Humphrey thrust a finger at Gloucester. ‘Just know that the blood of my nephew – of all our men – is on your hands.’
‘What the hell happened?’
The harsh voice belonged to Aymer de Valence, who had broken from the king’s company and was heading over. His boots and mail hose were caked with mud. More smeared the plates of his greaves. The men of the vanguard were dismounting, some helping wounded comrades, calling for water and wine.
Aymer and Ralph listened, tight-lipped, as Humphrey recounted the skirmish, his tone terse.
‘Sir Robert and Sir Henry suffered similar losses,’ said Ralph, when he’d finished.
Following his gaze, Humphrey saw Robert Clifford nearby. The knight was talking to Henry Beaumont. He had a cut on his forehead that was trickling blood down his face. Every so often, he would wipe at it with the back of his arm. There were wounded men there too, laid out on blankets, servants and priests hovering around them.
‘Four score men dead,’ said Ralph. ‘Eight knights.’
Aymer turned and spat. ‘Curse Bruce and his dogs.’
‘The night isn’t over,’ Ralph reminded them. ‘David of Atholl should be in place by now. We’ll sour the Scots’ victory before daybreak.’
Humphrey nodded after a pause. ‘What does the king plan to do?’
‘We move against them at dawn, in force,’ answered Aymer. ‘Let the whoresons taste our blades.’ He nodded towards the circle of men gathered around the royal standard. ‘Come. He will want to hear your report.’
Looking round, Humphrey realised Gilbert de Clare had already moved off in the direction of the king. His jaw tightened. He would be damned if he’d let Gloucester use him as a scapegoat. Leaving Hugh to deal with his weary horse, Humphrey headed with Aymer and Ralph over the uneven ground towards Edward. As he approached, an infantryman, marked by the cross of St George, peeled from the outer edges of the assembly, where he was lingering, holding a bucket. In his haste, the man almost knocked into Aymer de Valence.
‘Careful, you oaf,’ growled the earl.
As the man murmured an apology, Humphrey caught a glimpse of a bearded face, lit briefly by the glow of a torch. Feeling a tug of recognition, he paused, staring after the man, who was hurrying away. Humphrey went to move after him, trying to get a better look at his face, certain he knew him.
‘Humphrey.’
Turning at Ralph’s call, seeing the king had risen and was looking in his direction, Gloucester at his side, Humphrey continued on. Before he reached Edward, he glanced back with a frown, but the infantryman had disappeared, swallowed up in the great mass of men and horses that covered the plain beyond the Bannock Burn.
The New Park, Scotland, 1314 AD
The Scottish captains gathered in the gloom of a glade. The circle of sky above them was still light despite the lateness of the hour. There was an atmosphere of taut excitement, men talking eagerly among themselves; some leaning in to grasp Thomas Randolph’s shoulder and praise his victory against Clifford’s forces, more shaking in their heads in admiration as they listened to another telling of their king’s heroic duel with an English knight. The weapons of those involved in the fighting had been cleaned and wounds dressed, but the copper odour of the enemy’s blood, soaked into surcoats and mail, was sharp on the mild night air.
With the war leaders were three high-ranking clergymen. William Lamberton stood alongside the Bishop of Arbroath Abbey and Abbot Maurice of Inchaffray, who years before had aided Robert’s flight through the wilderness, along the old pilgrim road to St Fillan’s shrine.
Robert stood before them all. He had removed his helm and mail coif. Only his gold crown now encircled his head. As he raised his hand, the hum of voices died away and all eyes turned to him. ‘Your grace, will you say a prayer for the fallen?’
As Lamberton spoke, commending to God the souls of those who had died, his strident voice softened by the solemnity of the prayer, the men around the glade bowed their heads. When the bishop had finished, a rush of heartfelt amens rose from the company, many of those present caught in the uneasy conflict of guilt and relief that followed survival of a battle.
‘And a cheer for our king,’ called Thomas Randolph, ‘for letting the English know fear today!’
Loud applause followed the earl’s call, lightness spreading through the company in the wake of the prayers.
‘
Long live King Robert!
’
Robert noticed Angus MacDonald glance over at him. The lord didn’t join in the cheers. After the English vanguard had been repelled across the ford, the older man had quietly cautioned his rashness in charging the English knight. He reminded Robert that he was their head, as well as their heart. Without him, the body of their army would collapse. They needed him now more than ever. He had to protect himself. Robert had brushed off his concern, saying he was more worried what Christiana would say about her father’s broken axe. But, privately, he knew the lord was right. Despite the day’s triumphs, they remained in great peril.
‘We have all shown valour here today,’ Robert said, addressing the men. ‘We stung the enemy badly – with wounds they will not soon forget. What is more, we now have a number of noble prisoners.’ This, for Robert, had been the real boon of the day. The capture of English knights would perhaps give him the bargaining power he needed to release more members of his family. Such hope had never been far from his thoughts, even more so since Mary’s liberation. ‘My scouts have told me the main host of the enemy is now camped on the Pows. Tomorrow is midsummer – the last day they have to reach Stirling before Sir Philip Moubray surrenders the castle. My guess is they will attempt to move on it at first light.’
‘The Pows?’ said Gilbert de la Hay. He let out a snort. ‘They couldn’t have chosen a worse place to spend the night, unless they picked the Forth itself.’
A few men chuckled.
‘We should take advantage of their folly,’ said Edward Bruce, turning to Robert. ‘Let us attack them tonight, before they have a chance to move against us.’
Thomas Randolph, Neil Campbell and others added their agreement.
Robert cut in across their keenness. ‘We faced only two companies today. Against both, we had the advantage of a good position and the element of surprise. The Pows, at night, would prove as much bad ground for us as for them.’
‘My lord,’ said Malcolm of Lennox, ‘I share your caution, but I believe Sir Edward may be right – we have a chance, now, to damage them badly.’
Robert said nothing for a moment, watching the determined nods among the company. He wanted to believe them – to agree with them; the flame that had sparked in him after the battle still fluttered inside him. But he knew something they didn’t. ‘I kept something from you all today – something I thought would lead to panic if it was known.’ He glanced at James Douglas. ‘Master James, will you tell them the truth of what you saw today.’
As James spoke, describing the vastness of the army he had seen coming down the road from Falkirk – the cavalry in their thousands, the endless columns of infantry too numerous to guess at – the men in the clearing fell silent.
Robert saw the accusation in Edward’s eyes, his brother clearly wanting to know why he hadn’t shared this with him. He scanned the rest of them. ‘I share your wish to destroy the enemy, but we have half their number, maybe even less than that. Yes, we won today. But we were tested against only four of their captains. King Edward will have many more with him. Pembroke, Gloucester, Essex and Ulster we know are here. No doubt the earls of Lancaster and Warwick, Surrey and Arundel are also among his retinue.’