"The armies are close, that much I know," he said, glancing back at his men waiting by the horses. "Can you ride?"

Torquil took a deep breath. The freshness of the morning air was helping to clear his head. The greatest injury he had suffered was not of the body, and already the warmth of the sun and a measure of human kindness were combining to restore his strength.

"I am well enough," he said, "but my horse has fled, frightened off by my. attacker."

"You have yet to tell me who that was," Bruce said, "but time is fleeting and precious. I doubt neither your courage nor the rightness of your mission."

He shouted an order to one of the serjeants in his following. The man joined them a moment later, leading a handsome chestnut stallion. Bruce took the reins and presented them to Torquil.

"No horse will bear you on your way more quickly than my own," he said. "His name is Talorcan, and he is the fastest steed in Annandale."

Torquil had to fight to find his tongue. "Your generosity does credit to the house of Bruce," he said. "How shall I return him to you?"

"Give no thought to that," Bruce told him. "Think only of Wallace. I have no wish to see him fall to a traitor's hand, even if he does uphold Balliol's kingship."

Torquil ran a hand along the stallion's sleek neck before climbing stiffly onto the saddle, given a leg up by Bruce.

"I haven't even thanked you properly for stopping to help me," he said as he gathered up the reins.

"You have not thanked me at all, Templar," Bruce replied, with one of his quicksilver smiles. "Just remember that one day I may need your help."

"If that day comes, then you shall have it, I promise you!" Torquil a.s.sured him.

"Then, take this as well," Bruce said, pulling his sheathed sword from its hangers and extending its hilt to Torquil. "A knight should have a sword, and I notice that you have lost yours."

"I cannot-" Torquil began. But Bruce pressed it into his hand.

"I will not be using it today," he said. "And I think you will, indeed, have need of it-and later, if you come to serve me."

Not speaking, Torquil slipped the sword into his own belt and gave Bruce a nod. As the earl gave his horse a farewell slap on the flank to send him on his way, Torquil could not help but wonder if there was more in this meeting than mere chance.

For the present, however, he knew he must set such speculations aside. Before him a battle was waiting to begin, and if he arrived too late, all Scotland might well pay the price for his failure.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

THE COMING DAWN BROUGHT NO SIGN OF TORQUIL. AS SOON as it was light enough, Arnault rode out beyond the Scottish encampment to question the forward sentries. Here he encountered a small Scottish skirmish force retreating in haste from their night foray toward the English lines. Last reported a full fifteen miles away, poised to pull back to Edinburgh, the English army appeared to have moved back half that distance during the night, and were now marching straight toward Falkirk.

Short of learning for certain that Torquil was dead, Arnault could think of no worse news. After questioning the skirmishers for further details, he kept one back and sent the others out again before galloping back to camp to relay the news to Wallace. He had already decided to refrain from mentioning Torquil's disappearance. Lacking information to the contrary, Wallace would simply a.s.sume that the younger knight was off on a.s.signment elsewhere-an illusion best not dispelled, for the Guardian needed no further anxieties to burden his thoughts just now, when there was so much else at stake.

"You are sure this is the army itself, and not a scouting party?" Wallace asked, when he had heard the scout's report-a question prompted not by wishful thinking, Arnault knew, but by a steadfast determination not to make a hasty judgment based on ill-founded information.

The scout nodded. "The numbers alone confirm it's the main English host," he told the Guardian, "and moreover, they're arrayed for battle."

Wallace's fellow commanders gathered around him, their expressions grim as they confronted the new perils presented by the news.

"Odd, that they should change course so precipitously," the Earl of Atholl said. "Is it mere chance that brings Edward this way, or has some traitor exchanged news of our whereabouts for a sackful of English gold?"

"Blind mischance or treacherous design, it makes no difference now," Wallace said firmly, determined to cut short such speculation. "The die has been cast, and we must make the best we can of the situation."

James the Stewart shook his head, deeply troubled. "If we retreat now, they might well catch us from behind and make mincemeat of us."

"He's right, Wallace," the Earl of Menteith agreed. "There's nothing for it, but to draw up our battle line and let them do their worst."

"They'll do more than their worst if we meet them here," Wallace said, his calculating gaze already roving the surrounding landscape. "Apart from a few low hills, this is almost flat ground. There's little but scrub and a few trees to impede a cavalry charge. No, we'll face them, all right-but not on terms that suit Edward."

From one of his aides he took a map, which he unrolled and studied carefully.

"Here-and along here, just a short march back the way we came," he said, letting several others hold it open so he could trace dispositions with one callused finger. "No, Edward won't care for that at all-and hopefully, he won't notice that until it's too late." His finger thumped on a marshy ground lying before the spot where he meant to make his stand.

"Pa.s.s the word to the troops that we'll march at once and make ready for battle when we get there." He looked up at the cavalry commanders, the earls and James the Stewart and the younger John Comyn among them. "Use the cavalry as a rear guard for now, and keep an eye out for the English until we reach our chosen ground. I'll send further orders when we arrive."

The Scottish host wheeled about in its tracks like a great beast being tugged by a leash-some six thousand foot, supported by a few hundred Ettrick Forest bowmen. The cavalry contingent tallied no more than six hundred hors.e.m.e.n. They made a brave sight with their spears and banners, and many of them gave a hearty cheer as they marched past in view of the Guardian.

But though their willingness to fight was undeniable, Arnault could not help noting, as he kept himself ready in Wallace's vicinity, that they were outnumbered by Edward's army almost two to one-and the English superiority in cavalry and bowmen was likely to prove the gravest threat.

Wallace was equally well aware of this. Nevertheless, he sat his horse with an air of unshakable confidence, returning the salutes of his men as he directed them toward their new positions. Even in the face of such odds, his indomitable courage and personal charisma enabled him to lift the spirits of those around him, imparting a strength of spirit that just might make it possible for the Scots to carry the day, making up in courage what they lacked in numbers.

Arnault made his own a.s.sessment of the strategic possibilities as the army formed up on Wallace's chosen ground. Veteran of many a battle, it occurred to him that the Guardian might well have had this site in mind all along, in case some ill turn of fate should upset his plans for a surprise a.s.sault on the English rear.

The Scots were deployed on the southeast slope of Slamman Hill, with Callendar Wood at their backs to offer a ready sanctuary in case of the need for retreat. In front of them stretched a treacherous marsh formed by the junction of two streams-which would make it impossible for the English to make a direct a.s.sault without wading through the deep, muddy water.

Behind this marsh Wallace arrayed his footmen in four ma.s.sive schiltrons: circular formations several ranks deep, each consisting of over a thousand men standing shoulder to shoulder. Rank upon rank of long spears protruded in all directions like the spines of a hedgehog, in a formation designed to leave no open flank or weak spot exposed to a cavalry a.s.sault-and the Guardian had personally supervised the training of these men, ensuring that they learned to bring down a mounted knight in the most efficient way possible, by spearing his horse. Encircling the schiltrons were palisades of wooden stakes that had been fixed into the ground and bound together with lengths of rope to give further protection. Any knight who could make his horse charge home against this double barrier of sharpened wood and cold steel would be impaled without making a dent on the defenders.

Groups of archers under command of the Stewart's brother, Sir John, were arrayed between the schiltrons, with the Scots cavalry kept to the rear as a reserve-a threat to any bowmen advancing from the English ranks, who could be easily routed by a well-timed charge. If the English knights were rash enough to hurl themselves ruinously against the spears of the schiltrons, Wallace hoped that the Scottish horse would be able to take advantage of their disorder to launch a counterattack and drive them from the field.

What he had sacrificed in terms of mobility, the Guardian had gained in the strength of his defense. He had made his army into a fortress and was daring Edward to a.s.sault it.

Arnault was one of several in Wallace's train as he rode before the schiltrons, making certain that all was in readiness. Near the edge of the woods, his inspection complete, the Guardian drew apart from his advisors and reined his horse beside Arnault's, where they had a wide view of the surrounding terrain.

"The land itself has always been our ally," Wallace said quietly. "If our earlier plans were undone by treachery, the loyalty of those present here may yet redeem it."

"I notice you name no names," Arnault said.

"Nor will I," Wallace replied. "In recent years, the allegiances of the Scottish lords have shifted like the movements of the tide. Whether they follow me gladly or grudgingly is of no consequence. What matters is that today they stand and fight for Scotland."

Arnault glanced back to where John Comyn was arraying his Comyn hors.e.m.e.n among the other cavalry, and wondered whether to voice his suspicions. He had no direct evidence that the Comyns were, in any way, connected with the English change of plans-or with Torquil's disappearance-and the prelude to a battle was a bad time to stir up dissension based on false accusations. Moreover, Comyn's men looked like they were preparing to do their duty by the Guardian.

"Sometimes a people's worst enemies are themselves," Arnault said, somewhat ambiguously. "But these, I think, will stand fast." He indicated the spiked ranks of the schiltrons.

"I have no doubt of their courage," the Guardian agreed. "I only hope I may prove worthy of it."

Arnault felt certain that no man could prove more worthy than Wallace; but before he could give voice to that sentiment, a hoa.r.s.e outcry went up from many points along the Scottish line. To the southeast, the sun was glinting off armor and spearpoints, and flags and banners were rising into view. The English vanguard had arrived: a ma.s.s of steel-clad knights, jostling forward in densely packed squadrons. Behind them marched the ma.s.sed infantry, interspersed with columns of archers and crossbowmen, moving into battle formation as they advanced.

It was a daunting sight: one that caused many a man in the Scottish ranks to murmur a quiet prayer, Arnault among them. A chill of foreboding shivered up his spine-and more than ever, he felt the lack of Torquil's solid presence at his shoulder. But all he could do was commend his brother-knight to the mercy of G.o.d, together with all the Scottish host.

A breeze swept up the hill, carrying the sounds from the enemy ranks: the m.u.f.fled rumble of horses'

hooves, the jangle of harness, the sullen mutter of voices. Nothing daunted, Wallace spurred his horse forward, riding at a canter along the Scottish lines. Brandishing his sword, he stood high in the stirrups where all could see him, and addressed his men in a ringing voice.

"Men of Scotland, I have brought you to the ring!" he shouted. "Now let us see if you can dance!"

His challenge was answered with a cheer that could be clearly heard far to the south, where King Edward sat astride his great warhorse in the midst of his army. Despite a cracked rib, sustained during the night as he slept beside his horse at Linlithgow, the aging Lion of England had pressed forward at dawn.

Now, having heard Ma.s.s with the Bishop of Durham, who would command the right wing, Edward of England stared coldly up at the hillside with its great circles of bristling spears. Then he turned to the Master of the Templars, who had ridden up beside him.

"Your intelligence was correct, Templar. Wallace was trying to sneak up from behind and cuff my ear.

He will pay for that impudence, now that we have him in our grasp."

Brian de Jay nodded in some satisfaction. "Aye, Sire. He has positioned his army badly, leaving himself no room to maneuver. He is depending upon that ill-clothed rabble with their pig stickers to keep him safe."

And if Comyn kept the remainder of his bargain, that ill-clothed rabble would be left defenseless, for the meager Scots cavalry-who included some of Scotland's most influential earls-would turn and flee without striking a blow. Jay had made no mention of that bargain, of course; and of the intelligence regarding the Scots position, he had given the king to understand that he and the Master of Scotland had come upon a skulking Scottish scout by happy chance, whereupon they had forced the prisoner to reveal the Scots position; the prisoner, alas, had died. It also remained to be seen whether Wallace could be taken.

The English host drew up before the somewhat innocuous stretch of marshy ground that lay between them and the Scottish schiltrons, squarely facing the enemy. The knights of the vanguard, under Roger BiG.o.d and Henry de Lacy, Earls of Norfolk and Lincoln respectively, took up position on the left, while Bishop Bek's Durham chivalry formed the army's right wing. Between were ranged the spearmen in their thousands, mostly Welsh, supported by bowmen armed with longbows and crossbows. With numbers so greatly in their favor, spirits were running high among cavalry and footmen alike, equally eager to test their strength against the foe.

The knights on both flanks were already edging forward when the Earls of Norfolk and Lincoln rode up from the vanguard to inform the king that they would soon be closing with the enemy, both men's faces flushed with antic.i.p.ation. Roger BiG.o.d grinned broadly as he gestured toward the Scots.

"They've obliged us, Sire, by forming targets so large that they will be hard, indeed, to miss. A single shot should strike the gold, I think."

"Have you learned nothing from our clashes with the rebellious Welsh?" Edward answered coldly. "Even an untrained peasant can face up to your hors.e.m.e.n if he can hold a spear straight."

"Only if he has the nerve to stand his ground," de Lacy replied. "I swear to you, Sire, that we will rout them at the first charge and pay them back for our dead at Stirling Bridge."

"The Scots aren't going anywhere," Edward said, unmoved by his subordinate's fervor. "And our men have scarcely eaten in the past day. There's time to put food in their bellies before sending them to the fight."

"Sire, it's Scots blood they hunger for-not food!" BiG.o.d declared. "They can no more be reined in now than a pack of hounds that have sighted the fox."

"It can only hearten the Scots to see us waver," de Lacy agreed.

Edward snorted-and winced at the pain of his cracked rib-but clearly, lack of sleep and food had not dulled the fighting edge of his men. On the contrary, it had lent an almost feverish intensity to their belligerence.

"Go, then," he said. "Clear the way for the bowmen, and then we'll make short work of those Scottish schiltrons."

The two knights wheeled about and galloped back to join their men. Their voices echoed back up the lines as they shouted orders and began the advance.

"And you, Templar," Edward said to Brian de Jay, "can I trust in your bragging, as much as I can in your scouting?"

"Sire, I have promised to take Wallace for you," Jay replied, "and so I shall. I shall bring him in a cage, if need be."

"There's no need to go as far as that," Edward said dryly. "His head is all I need."

Jay inclined his head in a perfunctory bow and rode off to rendezvous with his fellow Templars, who were gathered some distance away to the rear of the main body of cavalry. Between himself and John de Sautre, they had brought twenty knights and serjeants, including the younger de Sautre. Many were less than happy to be part of an invading army waging war on fellow Christians-and a few were even Scots-but they were bound to the Master of England by vows of obedience, so none raised voice against him.

"We'll stay well back with the reserve, for now," Jay said to John de Sautre. "It isn't our job to hurl ourselves against a wall of peasants' spears. We'll bide our time, and strike when we can do the most good."

"A prudent strategy," said Robert de Sautre, ever the sycophant. "Wait until they are at their weakest, then use our fighting prowess to deliver the killing stroke."

John de Sautre was squinting ahead at the bristling schiltrons at the foot of the hill, and the sheen of watery meadow that lay before them. "There will be killing enough, if our knights continue their direct advance," he warned, "but it will not be the Scots who will die."

"What do you mean?" Robert asked, his dark eyes widening owlishly in his round face. "Do you seriously think our knights incapable of overcoming the Scots, when only a ribbon of water stands between them?"

" 'Tis more than a ribbon of water, I'll wager," John replied, pointing at the place where the two streams met. "If the horses become bogged down in that, our knights will be easy prey to the Scots."

"You are very likely correct, Brother John," Jay agreed. "All the more reason for us to hold back, and see if prudence or blood l.u.s.t rules the day."

When the vanguard that was the English left wing came in clear sight of the marsh, the English earls were not so eager for the fray that they failed to discern the danger. Directing their column to veer sharply to the left, they skirted the edges of the boggy ground and continued toward the schiltrons. The English knights of the right wing, under Bishop Bek, also swerved wide to avoid the marsh, jostling and b.u.mping each other in their eagerness to be the first to engage the enemy. Bek saw them falling into disorder and tried to have his bannerets call them back to reform before charging, but his words of caution fell on deaf ears.

Ralph Ba.s.set, Lord of Drayton, rounded on the cleric and snapped, "Go back and say Ma.s.s, Bishop, and leave us to the business of fighting!"

The two wings then headed for the outer schiltrons. Stationed to the rear of the two central ones, Wallace watched the English cavalry advance with a mixture of apprehension and satisfaction.

"So much for the marsh," he muttered to Arnault.

"Aye, they'd have made fine targets for John Stewart's archers, if they'd been reckless enough to come wading through there," Arnault replied, with a tinge of regret.

"Still," Wallace said, "they've yet to learn they can't come at us in a solid line. By forcing the wings to go around, we've broken them up so that they'll be coming at us piecemeal. If they wear themselves out charging against the schiltrons, then we'll have a chance to push them backward into the water."

Arnault gazed down at the two huge columns of knights and could not help thinking that the plan was fine as long as his men could stand up to the initial attack-which was drawing nearer by the moment. The Scottish spearmen were bracing the b.u.t.ts of their weapons against the ground in readiness for the coming a.s.sault, and some of the archers were already making trial shots at the enemy, though to little effect.

Having pa.s.sed through the s.p.a.ce between the edge of the wood and the marsh, Roger BiG.o.d and Henry de Lacy were leading the left wing to the attack. The line spread out and the knights pressed their speed to a gallop, battle cries now lifting above the thunder of pounding hooves. The thunder grew louder, shaking the ground underfoot as the distance closed.

The men of the schiltrons braced themselves for the impact, tightening their grip on the hafts of their weapons with hands grown clammy with the waiting. The knights in their heavy armor, their horses protected with steel plate and leather, bore down on the footmen with their lances at the ready.

The line of cavalry broke against the first schiltron like a wave dashing against a rock, to the sound of screams rather than the ocean roar. Some of the horses shied back before the bristling hedge of spearpoints, but others gashed their legs on the stakes or impaled themselves on the spear points of the Scottish front rank, who bent low to bypa.s.s the beasts' armor. The next rank of Scottish spearmen leaned forward over the shoulders of their companions, thrusting and jabbing at the riders. Some were run through and others were unhorsed, toppling to the ground to be either trampled or crushed by their companions.

On the other wing, the main body of Bishop Bek's knights likewise launched themselves headlong against the schiltrons, but they, too, broke against the wall of spears without budging the stubborn Scots.

Bellowing orders through the din, the warrior bishop succeeded in diverting a cohort of knights less hotheaded than those in the vanguard, and directed these against the more vulnerable ranks of the Scottish archers who were strung out between the spear formations.

The men of Ettrick stood their ground and launched flights of arrows against the oncoming ma.s.s of knights, but they were too few in number, and their weapons lacked the lethal penetration of the English longbows. Bek's knights charged in, skewering unarmored bowmen with their lances and crushing them beneath the hooves of their steeds. The screams mounted as the archers began to give way.

"Why don't our cavalry attack?" Wallace demanded, tight-lipped, as he and Arnault craned for a better view. "Stewart's bowmen are being slaughtered! Without mounted support, they cannot stand!"

"I'll go," Arnault said.

Wheeling his horse, he made for the low knoll behind which the Scottish horse troops stood waiting. But when he topped the rise, he drew up aghast, for the majority of the Scottish knights had already turned their backs on the fighting and were rapidly dispersing from the battleground.

His arresting shout drew no response. Most of the hors.e.m.e.n were already beyond earshot. Among the banners far at the front, he could see that of the Comyns-gules, with three golden wheat sheaves-and suddenly, the likely reason for the younger Comyn's suspicious behavior the night before became all too clear: all part of a cunning betrayal, designed to leave Wallace at King Edward's mercy-and no wonder that Torquil, having apprehended it, had not been permitted to return to tell of it!

Now, betrayed as the prophecy had warned, the Guardian was fully committed to a battle probably beyond anyone's ability to salvage, and the loyal Scottish foot-the good, honest men of the community of the realm of Scotland- must stand alone against England's mounted might.

The sound of pounding hooves announced the arrival of Wallace himself, coming to investigate the delay.