Muttered curses ?ew down the line as the men of the king's schiltron caught their ?rst glimpse of a party of English heavy cavalry heading fast toward the burn. Some of the foot soldiers instinctively shrank back into the sheltering shadows of the forest, but Bruce was quick to rea.s.sure his troops.

"Never fear, lads," Arnault heard him call with an easy chuckle. "Go for the horses, and the riders will fall at your feet like ripe apples. See, I'll even draw them out for you!"

Before Arnault could call out a word of remonstrance, the king broke from the front lines and trotted out into the open, pulling his axe from his saddle and brandishing it above his head, where the sun made a glittering halo of the golden crown that encircled his leather helmet. It looked for all the world as though he was ready to stand alone against the advancing enemy.

The sight of Bruce's bravado kindled the hearts of his men, his presence drawing them forward like iron drawn to a magnet. Arnault could feel the schiltron starting to stir, ready to back their king, and he knew he could not hold them back-nor should he. A surge of excitement set his crusader's blood on ?re.

"Men of Scotland, forward!" he cried, drawing his sword. Other voices took up the cry as the men of the schiltron began moving forward.

Young Henry de Bohun reached the burn well in advance of the rest of the English company. Hungry for action, he urged his powerful destrier into the water. Halfway across, he turned to shout derisive encouragement to those who hung back.

"Look, Henry! There they are!" one of his friends called, pointing with his lance in the direction of the forest edge.

De Bohun looked. The Scots were, indeed, emerging from the tree line, led by a lone ?gure meanly mounted on a st.u.r.dy, rough-coated gray pony. As he spotted the kingly circlet of gold surmounting the rider's leather helmet, de Bohun's eyes gaped wide. Could it truly be Robert Bruce himself?

Breathing an exultant prayer of thanksgiving-for here was a G.o.d-given opportunity to conquer Scotland at a single stroke!-the young knight couched his lance and drove his spurs hard into the flanks of his huge warhorse.

Turf ?ew as the destrier broke from a trot to a canter, headed straight toward Bruce. Alerted by the rumble of hooves, Arnault looked up and saw the danger, but caught in the midst of the Scottish spear ranks, he was powerless to intervene.

"Sire, take care!" he shouted.

But instead of wheeling about and riding for the safety of the Scots' lines, Bruce reined his pony ?rmly to a standstill, gloved ?ngers closing harder around the haft of his axe, watching as the English knight converged at the gallop.

Arnault's blood ran cold. He knew the arms of the charging knight, and he knew the reputation of Henry de Bohun- as did Bruce!-but the king's demeanor was calm, as if he were about to greet a messenger, rather than meet a murderous attack.

Powerless to intervene, Arnault watched the tip of de Bohun's lance drop, aiming directly at Bruce's breast as he braced its weight against his side and leaned forward. The destrier thundered on, gathering speed and momentum at every stride, but Bruce stood his ground as the distance closed. Even as de Bohun let out a bellow of triumph, Bruce was jerking his pony aside to avoid the killing thrust and, with a battle-hardened arm, swinging his long-handled axe aloft. Then, as de Bohun swept past him, he stood straight up in his stirrups and, with a sweeping blow, struck.

His freshly sharpened blade split the English knight's helmet, the clang of metal on metal mingling with a more hollow crack as the axe clove the skull beneath, blood and brain matter spewing everywhere like pulp bursting from a crushed melon. The force of the blow shattered Bruce's axe haft and left him gripping a jagged shard of wood, but his enemy tumbled dead to the ground, the axe blade still embedded in his cloven head.

For an instant, stunned shock and surprise trans?xed the ?ghting men on both sides, until Arnault suddenly shouted, "To the king!"

The Scottish spearmen rallied at the sound of his voice, surging forward to form a defensive screen between Bruce and the enemy. Arnault shouldered his way through the ranks to confront the king.

"What madness prompted you to sustain de Bohun's charge?" he demanded in stricken tones. "What would become of us if you had been killed?"

Bruce didn't seem to hear.

"Would you look!" he exclaimed, brandishing the broken haft of his weapon in disgust. "The battle's barely begun, and already I've lost my best axe!"

The English vanguard was ma.s.sing on the far side of the Bannockburn. From their movements, a full-scale attack was imminent. Bruce tossed his broken axe shaft aside and drew his sword, bellowing the order to form the schiltron.

Promptly the Scots drew together into bristling hedgehogs of spears. Scarcely had they formed ranks when the English received the order to advance. Led by the earls of Gloucester and Hereford, several hundred knights plowed impetuously across the Bannockburn and, without pausing to form ranks, charged forward, bent on retribution.

Several English knights fell victim to the ditches the Scots had dug and concealed to the right of the road.

Hemmed in by trees on their left ?ank, the rest found themselves con?ned to a narrow front.

Undaunted, they quickened their pace. Heavy hooves drummed the earth like thunder as the forward ranks converged on the Scottish infantry brigade. Formidable in their heavy armor, the English knights loomed large as giants astride their tall destriers, eyes ablaze with battle l.u.s.t as they lowered their lances for the attack. But from the midst of the schiltron, Bruce's voice rang firm.

"Hold your ground, lads! This is as far as they come!"

The gap narrowed with breathtaking speed, and the knights struck home. The crash of steel split the air, riven by the squeals of wounded horses, but the Scots withstood the impact. The English line broke apart on the spear wall like a flawed blade shattering against a stone.

Gloucester's mount foundered beneath him, impaled on the Scottish spear hedge, and he pitched from the saddle and rolled to the ground. Only a desperate, ign.o.ble scramble saved him from being seized and dragged captive into the Scots' lines. All around him, other knights hurled themselves at the schiltron wall, only to be ?ung back in disorder. The copper tang of blood was in the air, maddening the horses, and many of them shied away from the hedge of spears. Riders collided, entangling one another's weapons.

What began as a charge disintegrated rapidly into disarray.

A derisive roar went up from the Scots as the knights abandoned their efforts and fell back to reform.

Inside the schiltron, broken weapons were hastily replaced and injured men sent to the rear. The front rank retired to catch their breath, and the second rank moved to the fore. A hundred yards away, the English chivalry made ready to charge again.

Gloucester's squire brought him a fresh horse. Flushed with fury, the earl seized a new lance and mounted up. Brandishing the weapon high, he rallied his fellow knights around him.

"That was mere practice!" he shouted out to them. "Now do England proud!"

The English vanguard lunged forward in a body. Seeing them come, the Scottish spearmen leaned grimly forward, presenting a fearsome thicket of steel to the enemy. The air throbbed with the pounding of hooves, and the thunder broke with a rending crash as the English chivalry drove hard at the Scots' line.

Horses were ripped through the gut and collapsed squealing under their riders. Some of the horses stumbled over beasts already dead or dying. The knights tried in vain to press the attack, only to ?nd themselves unable to outreach the length of the Scots' spears. Once again the English were forced to withdraw.

Axemen darted out from the Scottish ranks to dispatch any riders who had fallen. The edges of the schiltron began to fray as men ventured rashly forward to loot the bodies of their enemies.

"Stay your ground!" the king shouted.

The order was repeated throughout the ranks. Soldiers were pulled roughly back into line until an unbroken spear wall once again presented itself to the foe. On the far side of the ?eld, Gloucester and Hereford called up reinforcements, and both sides braced for a third encounter.

Chapter Forty-one.

June 23, 1314 FARTHER BACK ALONG THE ENGLISH COLUMN, BARTHOLEME DE Challon watched the melee with growing impatience. The entire army had ?oundered to a halt, and only the clumsiest efforts were being made to deploy the various divisions into proper battle order. The French knights were caught between the brigades of Sir Robert Clifford and Sir Henry Beaumont. The latter could only look on as his fellow n.o.bles in the vanguard continued to charge the Scottish spears. The road ahead was too clogged for them to join the fray. The restive stamping and snorting of the horses seemed to echo the evident frustration of their masters.

"The Scots have rendered the direct route to Stirling impa.s.sable," Bartholeme said aside to Count Rodolphe. "If the English are to prevail, they must adopt a different approach."

To the west lay the dense woodland of the New Park, manifestly unsuitable for cavalry.

"There is open ground to the east," Rodolphe noted, pointing to the far side of the burn. "And it appears to be quite undefended."

"So it does," Bartholeme replied.

Wheeling his horse around, he forced his way to the side of Sir Robert Clifford.

"What is the point of this skirmishing on the road?" he demanded. "To the east, the way to the castle lies clear."

Clifford regarded the French knight with disdain. "We must keep to the road," he said. "How else are the wagons to reach the castle?"

"Devil take the wagons!" Bartholeme replied. "None of us will reach the castle unless we put the Scots to ?ight. We must use our superiority in cavalry to envelop them."

"The ground is dif?cult in that quarter," said Sir Thomas Grey, one of the other senior knights. "And there is no safe ford across the Bannockburn except where the road and the stream intersect."

"We are not riding Highland ponies," Bartholeme reminded the Englishman. "Is this trickle of water a suf?cient obstacle to unman you?"

Clifford considered but a moment before throwing caution to the winds. "Very well, let's hazard it," he said. "With luck, we may strike the Scots in their underbelly."

King Robert's schiltron still held the road through the New Park, despite repeated attacks by the Earl of Gloucester. Temporarily exhausted by their efforts, the English at last abandoned the a.s.sault. Casualties among the Scots had been light. A mood of jubilation took hold of the men of the schiltron, to see the enemy turned back at so little cost to themselves.

"This ?ght is well won!" Abbot Bernard of Arbroath declared. Bruce's friend and chancellor, he had joined Arnault and Ninian at the king's side.

"We've broken Edward's nose all right," Bruce said, "but he can still punch and kick."

"I think there's a punch coming now," Arnault warned.

He pointed to the east. At some distance from the ford, a force of English knights were braving the deeper waters of the Bannockburn. The other members of the king's entourage took a closer look.

"Are they just scouting, do you think?" Ninian ventured.

"No, there must be a good three hundred horse in that band," Arnault replied, and scowled at the strategic implications. "They probably hope to out?ank us and attack our left wing."

"It's what I'd do," Bruce agreed. "There's no getting past us through the woods, so what other route lies open to them?"

"They could just turn around and go home," Bernard said dryly.

"Aren't you going to meet them before they bring more troops over?" Ninian asked.

Bruce shook his head. "I'll not let them force my hand before I'm ready. They're just feeling their way as yet, and I trust Randolph to act as my shield."

The men of Randolph's brigade had taken up position among the trees adjoining St. Ninian's Church.

From a vantage point of high ground, Torquil had a comprehensive view of the ?atland between the Bannockburn and the Pelstream Burn to the north of it. After crossing the Bannockburn, the English chivalry wheeled aside to avoid the boggy ?ats of the Ca.r.s.e, a stretch of uncertain ground broken up by meandering rivulets-which did not surprise Torquil, for the Ca.r.s.e was dif?cult country for men and horses alike.

Brother Ciaran stood nearby, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he leaned on the staff of Randolph's standard.

"Do you sense anything out of the ordinary?" Torquil asked.

The wiry cleric knotted his dark brows. "I'm not sure," he whispered, almost as if he feared an enemy might be listening in.

Uneasy, Torquil moved to Randolph's side.

"Is it your intention to let them go by?"

"No, but surprise is a weapon, and we must use it as best we can," Randolph said. "We'll let them get as far from their own army as possible before we show ourselves."

He pa.s.sed a hushed order along his lines for his men to make ready. The English completed their crossing and set off north, with the boggy ground to the east. Randolph waited until the enemy came abreast of their position. Then, satis?ed that he had them pinned, he drew his sword.

"Up, lads, and at them!" he yelled.

The Scots poured out of the wooded churchyard like water from a sluice. As they sped across the open ground, they held their spears high to keep them from becoming entangled with their feet, for speed was vital. If the English found room to charge before the Scots could re-form, the latter would be cut to ribbons.

The possibility of a Scottish infantry charge was the furthest thing from Sir Robert Clifford's mind as he reined closer beside his counterpart, Sir Henry Beaumont. Having mustered nearly three hundred heavy cavalry troops between them, he was con?dent that they would be able to achieve their objective.

"Not far to go now," Clifford declared, peering ahead with satisfaction. "When we reach the castle, we can lead a sally that will take Bruce in the rear and drive him out of the woods."

Skirting the Pelstream Burn, they struck a stretch of solid ground and lengthened stride. As the troupe set off north toward Stirling Castle, amid the thunder of heavy, steel-shod hooves, Beaumont wondered how the earls of Gloucester and Hereford were faring. The spire of St. Ninian's Church caught his eye, but even as he reined back for a second look, a dense wave of Scots burst from cover and came pelting across the open ground straight toward him.

Clifford saw them, too, and reined short in sudden consternation.

"What madness is this?" he exclaimed. "Common footmen charging knights?"

"Mad or not, they'll regret their rashness," Beaumont cried, as he wheeled his mount to face the onrushing Scots.

An incredulous murmur swept the English ranks as they prepared to mount a counterattack. But Beaumont knew that nothing less than a ma.s.sed a.s.sault would sweep the Scots away before them.

"Hold!" he cried, calling out to his men to restrain them. "Let them come on! Give them some ground. We must draw back, the better to charge."

With the distance shortening, Randolph, too, called his Scots to a halt, for they had run forward far enough to challenge their enemy's progress, and were close enough to rob him of valuable maneuvering room. His lieutenants directed their soldiers this way and that, shoving and kicking them when necessary, until they had packed together to form a new schiltron, bristling with rank upon rank of spears in every direction, ready to receive the enemy's attack.

And amid the advancing enemy ranks, Sir Thomas Grey confronted Beaumont in angry tones.

"They are only low churls, and nothing to us! Why attack, when we can easily bypa.s.s them and proceed to the castle?"

"Flee, then, if you're afraid!" Beaumont replied with a sneer.

Grey bristled at the affront to his honor. For a n.o.bleman born and bred, there could be only one answer to such a challenge.

"Fear will not make me ?ee," he retorted hotly.

Lowering his lance, he spurred his horse forward and galloped headlong at the Scots. Other knights from all along the English line immediately followed suit, pennons ?uttering, hooves drumming the earth, making a bold but ragged charge.

On the Scottish side of the ?eld, Randolph watched the enemy converge-and watched his schiltron brace to receive the charge.

"Spit 'em, boys! Spit 'em like rabbits!" he urged.

Grey was the ?rst to dash himself against the schiltron. His horse was skewered by spears in throat and belly. As he slid from the saddle, greedy hands seized him and dragged him into the midst of his enemies, and those who followed him also foundered or were driven back by the barbed array of steel.

Realizing that there was no time now to form up properly, Beaumont and the rest of the knights joined the charge his rebuff had incited. They crashed into the schiltron, only to be driven back, leaving mangled horses and slain men littering the ground at the feet of the Scots.