Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (24 page)

Then a second item of news reached Durham. The Lord William, waiting for none, had pressed on to reach the Ribble, where he had fought a major battle against West Midland forces at Clitheroe and defeated them soundly. He was now advancing up the Ribble line north-eastwards, objective achieved, and called upon the High King to meet him at Tees, to be the new Scots Border.

This was heady stuff, of course, for the rest of the Scots army and the immediate demand was for a move to be made for Tees, for York itself, leaving this Durham to stew in its own juice. David, who was not a rash man, was doubtful as to the wisdom of this, strategically and politically. But he had also to consider other factors—the dangers of idleness in his heterogeneous host, the passage of time with the vital corn harvest at home beginning to preoccupy his troops, and the all but unanimous advice of his lieutenants.

He decided to leave a small force besieging Durham and to move his main army south by west towards Tees, and to link up with William of Allerdale. He did not commit himself, however, to go on as far as York.

Somerled stood unhappy—which was not like him on the eve of battle. The less so in that all around him men were in highest spirits, eager, impatient. All except one or two, that is—David mac Malcolm himself, notably, who, unlike the great majority of his leaders, looked distinctly uneasy, not to say anxious.

They stood in a large group around the High King, the cream of Scotland’s lords, Celtic and Norman, some eyeing their monarch askance, more gazing south-westwards across Cowton Moor towards the enemy, the foe that they had come so far to find and fight, brought to bay at last.

David was staring in that direction also, but not so much at the mass of gleaming steel which seemed to clothe a small hill which rose out of the comparatively level moorland and rough pasture half-a-mile away, as at the little group of three riders who rode midway between the two armies, under a white flag—and rode away from the Scots now. Two of these horsemen, had they not been riding under a flag of truce, would have been sporting very different banners, prestigious and Scots, the banners of Annandale and Cavers, in the West and Middle Marches of the Borders; for these were Scots lords—or at least Norman Scots—Robert de Brus, Lord of Annandale and Bernard de Baliol, Lord of Cavers in Teviotdale. Yet they were riding in the wrong direction, back to the English lines from which they had come. Leaving David set-faced.

These two, like sundry others of David’s Norman friends and importations, had in time succeeded to manors and lands in England on the death of fathers or brothers. Brus and Baliol had, in fact, been visiting their English properties when this present invasion venture started. And today they had come to the King of Scots under that white flag, not to offer their swords to their sovereign-lord but to try to dissuade him from fighting, to urge him indeed to turn back and retire again to Scotland. They had been very insistent, despite the jeers and even threats of their fellow Scots lords, declaring that they were much exercised for the High King’s and for Scotland’s own good; that England needed a male and fighting king not a weakly woman like Maud, especially one domiciled abroad; that the host facing them was strong, determined, assured, Norman armed knights by the thousand; and most important, that it would fight under the authority and protection of Holy Church, with the Archbishop Thurstan threatening excommunication, no less, on all who raised the sword against the Papal power. When David had told them that he would not, could not turn back weakly now, that they had come to the Tees-Ribble line in Scotland’s own interests as well as the Empress Maud’s, the visitors had turned in their saddles to point back at what the Scots were seeking to pit their strength—the Lord Christ Himself. Staring in astonishment, the King and his lieutenants had been informed that they were in fact facing not mere steel and armed might but the Most High Himself, for on the hill there the standard raised against them was a great mast on which the Archbishop had affixed the holy pyx, the consecrated host of the Body and Blood of the Lord Christ flanked by the sacred banners of St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley and St. Wilfred of Ripon. If they drew sword, it would be against not only Holy Church but Holy Church’s Master. Speechless, appalled and angry too, the Scots had gazed aghast. Oddly, it had been left to Fergus of Galloway to save the day, for he had cursed roundly and laughed at the same time, declaring that old Thurstan must be scared out of his tonsured pate to think of such a device; and this had to some extent broken the horrified spell of that terrible standard. Brus and Baliol had been dismissed empty-handed and had gone off, pursued by reproaches and cursing, evidently preferring to fight on the side of Norman might and Holy Church, if not Stephen the Usurper, than on that of their adopted country.

If it was his friends’ defection and the dread of challenging this dire power of Holy Church, which was troubling King David, the sainted Margaret’s son, it was otherwise with King Somerled. He, belonging to the Celtic Columban Church, had no concern for the Vatican or its minions or anathemas. It was the mass of the Norman armour on the hill which worried him, glistening and glittering in the sunlight, the serried ranks of steel-clad knights and men-at-arms drawn up under a host of colourful streaming banners. Seldom reluctant for a fight, he was nevertheless apprehensive as to the prospect of hurling his lightly-armed swordsmen and axemen unprotected save by leathern targes or round shields, against such iron-encased foe—especially as the Earl Fergus had been vociferously insisting on the age-old right of the Galloway men to lead the van in war, so that it looked as though his Argyll force would be in the forefront.

If David had any thoughts of postponing the attack or engaging in any sort of negotiations with the enemy, his lieutenants made it clear that nothing of the sort was to be contemplated. One and all they demanded immediate assault, what they had marched one-hundred-and-twenty miles into England to do. Strike now, before this wretched Archbishop and his turncoat crew were further reinforced. An army such as this, made up of the levies of individual lords and chiefs, had its weaknesses, the most basic of which was that its many leaders had all too great a say in the strategy and tactics applied, as against the wishes of the overall commander, since to fight at their best, even to fight at all in certain instances, each grouping had to be at least moderately satisfied and placated. When, as now, the consensus was wholly in favour of prompt action, the figurehead, be he monarch or general commanding, had little option but to agree, even if against his own better judgement. Otherwise there would be next to mutiny.

Fergus of Galloway forthwith demonstrated the truth of this in no uncertain fashion, demanding immediate attack and reiterating his claim to lead the van. When there were angry counter-claims from the Earls of Fife and Strathearn, who pointed out that they were of the
Ri
, the ancient Seven Earls of Scotland, not jumped-up newcomers, Fergus drew his sword and shouted that the Galloway host would lead or the High King’s army would be six thousand men fewer there and then. Galloway would either have the van or march for home.

That there was not greater protest and outcry from the others, notably the Normans, possibly had something to do with that daunting hill of steel across the moor.

David bowed to the inevitable and ordered his leaders to place themselves at the head of their hosts, the Earl Fergus in the front, the Earl Cospatrick of Dunbar on the left, supported by, of all people, Malcolm MacEth, Earl of Ross, whom David had allowed to come along, William of Allerdale and the Earl of Strathearn, with the main mass of the foot, in the centre, and Prince Henry and the young Earl of Fife, with the cavalry, on the right. The High King himself, with the Knight Marischal, the High Constable, and the bodyguard of Norman knights and a reserve force, would remain in the rear meantime.

There were not much more than some twenty-five thousand men available, for quite sizeable numbers had been left behind to neutralise sundry castles and fortresses, notably Durham; there had been the inevitable casualties; and as always in such affairs, some parties had quietly turned about and gone home, with stolen gear and cattle. Here, on Cowton Moor, they were six miles beyond Tees, half-way between Durham and York and only a mile or two from Northallerton.

Somerled found himself allotted by Fergus the least honourable position on the left of the van and behind the Galloway front lines—but made no complaint. He for one had not agitated to lead the attack. Otherwise, Fergus divided his force into three sections, with only a small reserve behind the centre. The Galloway kerns, however savage and undisciplined, were nothing loth now, for, whatever else they were, they were born fighters. Impatient, they waited, actually inching forward in their eagerness.

On the left wing, it was all utterly foreign to Somerled’s ideas of warfare. He was used to planning, surprise, device and artifice and making the land fight for him, usually with few against many. This head-on confrontation of scores of thousands in sheer battering mass appalled him, especially against ranked and embattled armour. He kept asking himself why he was here, a mere pawn in others’ mismanaged game.

They had to wait for some time for the various detachments of the great army to get into position. At length, the trumpets blew from David’s command group at the rear. And like a spring released, with a mighty roar of “Albani! Albani!” the ancient Pictish war-cry, the Galloway front surged forward immediately into a run, Fergus well in the lead under his blue-lion-on-white banner. Argyll followed on, however doubtfully.

The van had some five hundred yards to cover from its advanced stance to the foot of that hill, racing over the uneven moorland in yelling, screaming fury, brandishing swords, axes, maces and dirks, a fearsome sight. By contrast, the enemy massed on the rising ground seemed scarcely animate, utterly still, silent. About halfway across the gap, David’s trumpets sounded again, signal for the rest of the host to start the general advance. As though afraid of being overtaken, the Gallowegians even increased their pace.

Despite their bounding haste, before they had covered most of the remaining open space they were indeed overtaken, on their far right, by the main cavalry wing under Prince Henry and the Earl of Fife, a gallant cohort under fluttering flags, riding at the gallop, lances levelled, the ground shaking under the thunder of thousands of hooves. It made a rousing sight, reassuring to Somerled at least, even though Fergus himself actually shook his fist at the horsemen, presumably wrathful that they were stealing pride of place.

Somerled’s reassurance did not last for long. As the Galloway front reached to within about one hundred yards of the first rows of kneeling English spearmen, the leaping, yelling ranks suddenly seemed to wither and crumble and collapse, in extraordinary, apparently causeless disaster. One moment they were furious, shouting menace, the next they were shrieking, falling ruin, over which the following files stumbled in heaps. Soundlessly death rained down in a terrifying and unrelenting storm—arrows of course, the dread English archery, developed here as nowhere else in Christendom. Up on the top of the hill, behind the massed armour, the longbowmen were ranked in their hundreds, utterly unassailable. Once within range, the Galloway men were entirely at the mercy of those vicious clothyard shafts, shot into the air above the heads of the main English host, to descend in an unceasing hail on the close-packed Scots, their fall regulated only by the speed with which the marksmen could aim, loose and fit new arrows to their bows.

Yet the Galloway charge was not to be halted, even so. A mixture of sheer momentum, hate and elemental courage carried it on, the oncoming horde tripping and sprawling over the growing mounds of slain, but surging unevenly on like a driven tide on a broken shore. Wider and wider grew the belt of the screaming fallen, and nearer and nearer the survivors came to the crouching spearmen. Three times Somerled saw the blue lion banner fall and be snatched up again to wave crazily over Fergus, who seemed to bear a charmed life—although, of course, he wore a chain-mail shirt which arrows could not penetrate.

Somerled had more than such observations on his mind. He and his men were almost within range of those deadly bowmen also, and it was not his intention to charge on regardless, like the others, squandering Argyll’s manpower in useless gallantry. His mind working swiftly, assessingly, he reached for the bull’s horn at his side, to blow three ululant blasts, and then waved his arm left, left, left, pointing with his sword. Thankfully, no doubt, his people perceived, and swung off in that direction.

Typically, Somerled was seeking to use the land to aid him. He had noted the configuration of that hill, how there was an outcropping knoll of bare rock shouldering the east summit, steeper than the rest, rising above the thickly-clustered English. Not unnaturally, none clung to that inhospitable rock. By swinging his men over some way to that side, he could put that knoll between them and most of the archers. They would still be in view of a few, he imagined, but at a very extreme angle of shot. So, making a major curve, he led his now somewhat bunched force round to the east, and then bored in again from that flank, comparatively protected, for the moment. One or two arrows, dropping shots, fell amongst them, but nothing to do much damage.

Now they had the spearmen to face, a long line of them, kneeling in front, standing behind, their eight-foot spears thrusting out in a fearsome frieze, a formidable barrier indeed. But at least, unlike the arrows, there was something the attackers could do to help nullify this, as the Highlandmen had learned against Norse spears. They were mostly wearing plaids across one shoulder, the tartan shawls which served as both coat and blanket. In the lead, Somerled and Saor snatched off their own plaids and, waving them, rushed on. It was a simple device but effective, for some hundreds of flapping plaids bearing down on only a limited front of spears can cause a deal of upset, confusing the wielders, entangling and muffling the spearheads and deflecting thrusts. It could not wholly neutralise that bristling array but it greatly lessened the menace and allowed swords and axes to beat and slash in amongst the staves and their holders. And now the crouching position of the front ranks, from being an added strength and protection for those behind, became a weakness, kneeling men being at a disadvantage as against close-range swordery; and when they sought to rise, they got in the way of those at their backs.