The sight of the Scots emerging rashly from of their hiding place was met with astonishment and derision by the English, who had stood to arms all through the night, lest the Scots attempt raids during the brief hours of darkness. Come the day, Edward had determined to form a battle line and advance against any Scots foolish enough still to block his way to Stirling. He had, however, antic.i.p.ated eating a proper breakfast and a.s.sembling his troops in battle order before driving back any resistance.

"What?" Edward exclaimed, upon hearing of the Scots' advance. "Will those Scots ?ght?"

"Evidently, my lord, they intend to," said Sir Ingram de Umfraville, a Scot who had once been guardian of Scotland, now loyal to Edward.

"Well, they are mad to invite us to destroy them," Edward said. "But it would be churlish to refuse the invitation."

He smiled as he languidly stretched out his arms to allow his sword belt to be buckled on, watching the Scottish advance, half-turning in some annoyance as Gloucester rode up on his charger at impetuous speed, not yet armed, and reined in with such vigor that the king had to step back to avoid being showered with dirt and sand.

"The rebels have appeared, my lord," Gloucester reported.

"I can see that," Edward snapped. He was drawing breath for a further comment when, after advancing so far, the whole Scottish army halted in its tracks, the men dropping to their knees like supplicants.

"What is this?" the king declared. "These men kneel to ask me for mercy."

"Aye, they ask for mercy," Umfraville said, "but not from you. They ask it of G.o.d, for their sins."

"Well, that's a pretty piece of arrogance for an excommunicate king," Edward replied, with a curl of his lip. "The cheek! G.o.d has better things to do with His time than listen to the false penitence of that black-hearted villain Bruce."

But he resumed arming with rather more alacrity as the Scottish army rose and continued forward once more. Watching them, Umfraville began to perceive Bruce's intent-for the English were caught in a restricted position that would not allow them to take full advantage of their numbers. To their right, spread along the river, lay the broad, marshy ?atlands of the Ca.r.s.e of Stirling, while the area to their left was honeycombed with holes-treacherous footing for man and beast.

"My lord, perhaps we should consider our position," Umfraville suggested to the king.

"Our position?" Edward echoed, somewhat derisively. "They have thrown down a challenge, and we must answer it!"

"What are your orders, Sire?" Gloucester asked.

The king gave a derisive snort. "We attack, of course, you idiot!"

The English ranks were still stirring sluggishly. Individual commanders were doing their best to muster their followings, but the lack of any formal battle array was evident. Umfraville cast a worried look at the advancing Scots' vanguard. With the Bannockburn right at their backs, the English would have a dif?cult time withdrawing.

"If we are to attack, then it must be soon," he said, "while there is still suf?cient distance to charge."

"We have ample ground yet," Gloucester said belligerently.

"Then go!" Edward shrilled. "I have braggarts aplenty, but I look about me for warriors!"

Stung by the rebuke, Gloucester spurred his horse back to his men to ?nish arming. Eight hundred strong, the largest of ten English cavalry squadrons, his company had the distinction of forming the English vanguard-already standing mounted and ready while the other squadrons were still readying their mounts.

Still scowling, Gloucester beckoned curtly to one of his equerries, omitting to don the surcoat that would identify him in armor.

"Tell Tiptoft to get his men in order and support us," he ordered. "I mean to smash these upstart Scots at a single blow."

The man galloped off. Gloucester s.n.a.t.c.hed his lance from his esquire and rode to the front of his line of hors.e.m.e.n. Open ground lay before them, and nothing to stand between them and revenge for yesterday's defeat.

A small force of English bowmen, readier than the rest, were sent forward to form a skirmish line-which brought Scottish archers darting out of the ranks to counter them. Flurries of arrows ?ew in both directions, but the Scots were swiftly outmatched by the power of the English longbows. As the exchange continued, the English arrows ripped through the Scots' padded jerkins as though they were made of parchment, sowing red ruin in their ranks.

Still the Scottish archers tried to hold their ground and keep the enemy bowmen out of range of the schiltrons. But before the English bowmen could follow up their advantage, the heavy rumble of hooves to their rear warned that the cavalry was advancing. Abandoning their ?re, the bowmen broke ranks and scattered to avoid being caught in the way of the horses. The Scottish archers, likewise, scurried back to the protection of Edward Bruce's schiltron to await the ?rst attack.

The English chivalry converged in three long lines. Those of n.o.blest birth had claimed the places to the fore: Gloucester, Clifford, and highborn Scottish va.s.sals of Edward like John Comyn, the lord of Badenoch. Lances gleaming and harness jangling, they commenced their advance at a measured pace, ?aunting their wealth and power as though they were at a tournament.

They made a daunting sight, for these mailed warriors had been schooled from birth to do only one thing, and do it with supreme ef?ciency: to smash through the ranks of mere footmen and trample them beneath an unstoppable tidal wave of hooves and steel, grinding their broken bones into the mud. This they knew, as surely as they believed in G.o.d and their Saviour.

A blare of trumpets prompted the cavalry to a trot, and the cadence of hoofbeats quickened to a rumbling tattoo. Battle cries rang out, and lances swung downward in glittering arcs as, in a ?nal surge, the destriers broke from a trot to a canter, sweeping across the ?at like a rush of boulders spilling off a mountainside.

A sense of G.o.dlike power swelled the hearts of the knights. Clad in their heavy steel armor and mounted upon their huge, ferocious warhorses, they felt gigantic and invincible, regarding the ragged spearmen who stood in their path as no more of an obstacle than a weather-beaten hedge on the edge of a ?eld.

Edward Bruce's schiltron drew together and stood their ground, shoulder to shoulder, in bristling, tight-packed array. Scattered throughout the ranks were the armored n.o.bility of Scotland who, in de?ance of the pride of chivalry, had chosen to meet their counterparts on foot. Bracing the line with their own devoted men-at-arms, they stood side by side with peasants and herders to face off the fearsome charge.

The English knights closed at the gallop, bellowing and roaring as they braced their lances for the impact.

Their great destriers laid back their ears and bared their teeth as their riders spurred them closer, the ground shaking with the rumble of hooves.

Then the enemy struck home.

Chapter Forty-four.

June 24, 1314 THE SCHILTRON SHUDDERED AT THE IMPACT, LIKE A SHIELD ringing under the crash of a mace. The destriers plunged and screamed and lashed out with steel-shod hooves; the knights rammed their lances at the enemy. Skulls were cracked and footmen stabbed, but the Scots thrust their spears cruelly into the bellies of the horses, gutting them and bringing them crashing to the ground. Equine screams rent the air along with the mortal groans of dying men. Those fallen knights who were not pinned under their mounts struggled to their feet and drew their swords.

Skirmishers lunged out from the Scots' line, wielding long-hafted Lochaber axes. With sweeps of their heavy blades, they carved through shields and chain mail, cleaving ribs and lopping limbs. Knights trapped on the ground or injured were stabbed or clubbed to death. Those who could still stand had to ?ght for their lives against spear and axe.

Gloucester drove hard against the forest of spears. He had lost his lance and was laying about him with his sword when he realized he had been cut off from his household knights. His wounded horse buckled beneath him, pitching him forward into a sea of enemy soldiers-without the surcoat that would have marked him for capture and ransom rather than death. The Scots engulfed him, and he disappeared under a rain of killing blows.

Sir Robert Clifford called on his men to avenge the fallen earl, and threw himself at the schiltron in a fury of martial courage. Other knights joined the attack, but the Scots refused to give ground. Clifford shoved his lance straight through the unprotected breast of the nearest spearman, but it gave him only scant respite before he, too, was engulfed and dragged down to his doom.

Randolph's schiltron closed ranks with Edward Bruce's, and Douglas moved up to support him. Thus closely aligned, the three schiltrons formed a continuous wall of sharpened steel. Only the king's division held back, waiting to reinforce any of the schiltrons that began to give way.

The other English squadrons re-formed into battle array. One after another they rushed full tilt into the fray. The huge ma.s.s of armored chivalry, nearly three thousand strong, a.s.sailed the Scots' line like a colossal mailed ?st pounding at a stout wooden door.

When their spearpoints snapped or shafts cracked, the men of the schiltrons drew swords and axes to continue the ?ght. Troops from the rear pressed forward into the front ranks to replace the dead and wounded. The turf grew slick with the blood of slain knights and the entrails of disemboweled horses.

The hands of the Scottish spearmen were dyed with the gore that poured down the length of their spears.

Brutality as much as courage was the order of the day. Highborn n.o.bles entangled in the line were torn from their mounts to be butchered by vengeful peasants. Knives and axes hacked them apart, then the spears rose up again to confront the next wave of knights.

With the failure of the ?rst a.s.sault, the English chivalry began to lose their momentum. Every time the tide of hors.e.m.e.n withdrew, the Scots pressed forward, seizing more ground and leaving the knights less and less room to gather the impetus for a charge.

The English infantry formed an improvised line with their backs to the Bannockburn. Many were still eager to join the fray and seize the chance of booty. Others hung back, reluctant to test their mettle against the Scots when they could clearly hear the crazed din of battle and the screams of the dying. But whichever way their feelings ran, there was no way for them to enter the ?ght unless and until the knights withdrew.

But for the English chivalry, withdrawal was unthinkable. It would amount to an admission of defeat and-even worse-would leave them open to accusations of cowardice. They prized their honor too highly to allow it to be tainted, so they wheeled their horses about, ordered themselves as best they could, and attacked again.

By now, the English dead presented a grisly barrier of their own. The knights rode roughshod over the corpses, trampling the dead into the earth, blind to everything but their hated foes. Umfraville could see that the knights needed a.s.sistance, and galloped back to confront the English infantry, galled that they should be standing uselessly to the rear.

"Bowmen!" he yelled. "Bowmen to the fore!"

Given the chance to deploy properly, he knew that the English would have worn the enemy down with missile ?re before committing the cavalry. But perhaps it was not too late to give the Scots a taste of the dreaded English longbow.

Most of the archers were stuck at the rear, however, without s.p.a.ce to push their way through; and the scattered ranks who could be brought into line were unable to see the Scots over the heads of their own cavalry. They held their arrows nocked to the bowstring, peering through the dust clouds and the surging ma.s.s of horses in search of targets.

"Fire!" Umfraville bawled at them. "You came here to ?ght, so ?re, d.a.m.n you!"

The bowmen obeyed, but with less effect than Umfraville would have liked. Some of the bowmen aimed high and launched their arrows in a lofty arc over the heads of the chivalry. Others knew that such shots would drop on the Scots without suf?cient force to do any injury, and tried to shoot straight through the gaps in their own line, hoping to exploit the penetrating power of the longbow, which could snap chain mail and kill an armored man as easily as if he were naked.

Here and there a shaft struck home and felled an unlucky spearman. But just as often, in the murk and confusion of battle, it was an English knight or his mount that fell victim to the deadly missiles. Some of the n.o.bles wheeled about and rode into the midst of the bowmen, cursing them for ill-begotten curs.

Flushed with rage, they bellowed at them to desist or be killed on the spot as traitors.

Meanwhile, from their place in Bruce's own brigade, Arnault and Torquil watched the king's battle plan unfold. Elation mounted among the men of the rear guard as the schiltrons up front continued to press slowly, steadily forward.

"This will be a far cry from what King Edward expected," Torquil noted with satisfaction.

"Aye, but our enemies are far from beaten," Arnault replied. "The English still have an infantry of ten thousand in reserve. And we've yet to see the Knights of the Black Swan make their move."

"It's coming," Breville muttered ominously. "I can feel it in the air."

Torquil merely rumbled low in his throat, for all of them had spotted individual members of the Decuria taking part in the ?ghting, and knew they would not accept defeat gladly.

Gray eyes glinting like Lochaber steel, Robert Bruce drew his companions' attention to the eastern front of the ?ghting.

"Look you, there between the battle line and the bog! There's enough open s.p.a.ce for the English to overrun our ?ank, if they've got the presence of mind to seize their chance. I think it's time to commit this division as well: one last throw of the dice."

At his command, his standard-bearer inclined the royal banner in that direction. With Father Ninian bearing the Brecbennach before him, Bruce led his troops forward. A roar of welcome went up from Douglas's men, as the royal schiltron moved up into position at their side.

At the sight of Bruce's standard, a squadron of English knights launched a fresh attack, knowing that if they could reach the rebel king, they might break the whole Scottish army. The men of the schiltron presented their weapons in defense of their lord, grimly determined in the face of the charge. There came again the ruinous clangor of weaponry against armor as the squadron hurled itself into the wall of spears, but once again, the cavalry broke apart like a wave smashing onto an immovable rock.

The English pulled back and attempted to rally.

"Forward!" Bruce yelled above the tumult of battle. "Take the ?ght to them!"

The men of his schiltron advanced to meet the next English charge. The morning sun witnessed a prolonged and bitter struggle as mounted knights probed and circled while the Scottish infantry grimly held their formation.

Men on both sides were drenched in sweat, muscles aching under the weight of their weapons. Their eyes blurred with the strain of their exertions, and their ears rang with the din of combat. Yet still they remained locked in combat, trampling heedlessly over the dead to grapple afresh with the living foe.

Observing a momentary lull in the ?ghting, Rodolphe sought out Bartholeme, dipping his helmeted head close.

"These English are in danger of throwing the battle away," he said. "We must act soon, or not at all."

"Would you have me unleash the puissance of the ring on mere foot soldiers," Bartholeme countered, "and have nothing in reserve when we come face-to-face with the Templars? No, we will win the day as warriors, if we can!"

Beating men aside with the ?at of his sword, and with Rodolphe close behind, he forced his charger through the packed English infantry to where companies of archers waited at the rear, impotently ?ngering their bows.

"You men!" he called, singling out the English captains. "Follow me, if you would strike a blow for England and your king!"

The battered squadrons of English cavalry had pulled together to try yet another a.s.sault on the center of the Scots' formation, hoping to break the schiltrons, which had opened several c.h.i.n.ks in the English ranks. Urged on by Bartholeme, a number of archers surged forward before the gaps could close again, skirting the English right ?ank to take possession of a shallow rise that provided them a clear ?eld of ?re.

Again, clouds of English arrows blackened the sky. A score of men on the Scots' left ?ank fell wounded or dying, with goose-feathered barbs protruding from their ?esh. Seeing the devastation, Arnault bit back an oath and pressed close to the king's side.

"Look you there," he said, pointing. "The enemy have brought some of their bowmen to bear."

Even as he spoke, the bowmen loosed a second deadly volley. Instinctively Arnault ?ung up his shield to protect Bruce-and in doing so, opened himself to another shaft that grazed the edge of the shield and embedded beneath his own left collarbone.

The shock of his recoil ripped the barb loose, blood streaming down his shield arm, and the shield sank as he curled forward over his pony's neck, gasping from the pain. But a strong hand seized his sword arm and kept him from falling-Bruce's hand.

"Steady, I've got you!" the king said.

Torquil, too, was crowding his pony close to seize the reins of Arnault's mount.

"Hang on!" he ordered. "I'll bear you to the rear."

"No!" Arnault jerked his reins from Torquil and tried to straighten. "Stay with the king. I'll go by myself."

"You can't-"

"Stay here!" Arnault insisted. "Keep ?ghting."

Bruce resolved the issue by seizing upon two of his nearest retainers.

"Escort Brother Arnault from the ?eld," he ordered curtly. "Find someone competent to tend to his injury.

I can't afford to lose this man."

Reluctantly, Torquil surrendered Arnault into their charge, ducking with a grimace as more arrows hissed and thudded about them.

"I want those English archers put out of action," Bruce said to him, gesturing with his axe. "Go slip Keith from his leash. Tell him to set the hounds on the rabbits."

Arrows continued to pepper the schiltron at his back as Torquil turned and galloped back through the trees to where Sir Robert Keith and his ?ve hundred hors.e.m.e.n were mustered.

"The king's orders!" he announced, and pointed toward the formation of archers. "Remove that thorn from his side!"

The Scottish cavalry had been cha?ng for the chance to join the battle. At Keith's command, they bolted forward like starving men falling upon a banquet. Torquil whipped his own mount around to join the charge. Baying like bloodhounds, the mounted Scots erupted from cover and streamed in a wave toward the enemy archers.

Coa.r.s.ely bred and undersized by English cavalry standards, their wiry Scottish ponies nimbly covered the broken ground. Seeing them come on, the archer captains frantically ordered their men to redirect and redouble their ?re.

The English longbows loosed their shafts with a sound like the wind booming through a cave. A dozen riders fell at the ?rst volley, but the Scots opened ranks to present more scattered targets, for all knew that they must close the distance swiftly, or be killed trying.

Keith urged his men to even greater speed. Shafts continued to rain down on them, claiming men and horses at every round, but the Scottish charge never slackened, and seconds later they were within striking range of the enemy.

The archers had not been able to fortify their position by planting stakes in the ground. With no knights or spearmen to defend them, they had nothing to stand between them and the murderous spears and blades of the Scottish riders. A scattered few stood their ground and ?red off a last desperate volley, but most knew they were staring certain death in the face. Flinging down their heavy bows and quivers, they turned and made a panic-stricken bolt for safety.

Some dashed back toward their own ranks. Others ?oundered across the boggy ground toward the bend of the River Forth, their unprotected backs presenting easy targets to the pursuing hors.e.m.e.n.