When the Guardian saw what was happening, the color drained from his face.

"What benighted, craven cowardice is this?" he demanded in a constricted voice.

Thinking desperately for some way to salvage something-anything-for the Scots, it occurred to Arnault that perhaps not all those with Comyn were active agents of the betrayal.

"It may yet be possible to rally them," he said. "I'll do what I can."

"Go!" Wallace agreed, with a backward glance at the English cavalry crushing his bowmen. "And may G.o.d give you His aid."

Without another word Arnault put spurs to his horse and set off at a gallop after the fleeing hors.e.m.e.n and the treacherous John Comyn. Returning to his men, Wallace dismounted and made a place for himself inside one of the center schiltrons and from there watched the terrible carnage being inflicted on his Scottish bowmen. Those not stretched dead already on the b.l.o.o.d.y ground were forced to flee for their lives. The Stewart's brother bravely tried to rally his men until he, too, was cut down by the English knights.

Only a handful of the Scots n.o.bility had remained to fight on foot after the desertion of the Scottish horse, and were now sorely pressed as the English cavalry began shifting their attention back to the schiltrons.

Macduff of Fife was ensconced amid the spearmen of his land inside their schiltron, and was exhorting their continued resistance as the English resumed their harrying. Wallace, too, shouted encouragement to his men, but each fresh a.s.sault reduced their ranks. With the Scots cavalry fled, and their archers driven from the field, the plight of the men holding the schiltrons grew gradually desperate.

The English knights swarmed closer, randomly attacking wherever there was the prospect of an opening.

By now the fences of stakes surrounding the schiltrons had been trampled or smashed aside, and gaps began to appear in the Scottish defenses. More knights than spearmen had perished in the initial exchange, before eliminating the Scottish bowmen, but the blood of the English n.o.bles was now on fire, and it had become a matter of honor to prove that a few bands of unwashed peasants could not stand against them. Yet time after time, the Scots held their ground and threw back their enemies in b.l.o.o.d.y confusion.

It was time for Edward to shift his tactics. Cursing his headstrong n.o.bles for their costly bravado, he sent messengers ordering them to desist, lest their l.u.s.t for blood and glory hand Wallace a victory by attrition.

Even as his command was being reluctantly obeyed, he sent his archers marching over the streams and up the slope. What the reckless ferocity of his knights could not accomplish, the deadly accuracy of his bowmen surely could.

Sweating inside their armor and cursing the stubbornness of their foes, the knights withdrew to east and west, re-forming their scattered companies and giving their panting warhorses a respite from the battle.

All along the lower slopes of Slamman Hill, the English archers began forming up in multiple ranks.

Brian de Jay, sensing that the decisive moment was approaching, led his band of Templars up onto the hill to join the rest of the English chivalry. Though eyed disdainfully by some of the English commanders, for holding back so conspicuously from the initial attacks, Jay declined to take affront, confident that he soon would be in a position to justify his actions.

Very shortly, a lone horseman came galloping toward the Templars, directing Jay's attention toward one of the central schiltrons. Amid those lesser men, even at this distance, the commanding figure of William Wallace radiated stubborn defiance in the face of hopeless odds.

"Now it truly begins," Jay said to the brothers de Sautre, when his informant had gone. "Our bowmen will soon flush this rebel out of his lair-and then he shall be ours for the taking."

Edward's Welsh archers took to the fore, seconded by a force of Genoese mercenaries armed with crossbows. They could not have asked for a more ideal target than the four great circles of closely packed soldiers, without skirmishers or horse to protect them. Orders were pa.s.sed up and down the line, crossbows were loaded, arrows were plucked from quivers and longbows drawn by strong Welsh arms. At a bellowed command, the bowmen unleashed their attack.

The flight of arrows was dense enough to darken the sky and cause any but the stoutest heart to falter.

Arching high in the air, they fell in a deadly hail upon the packed ranks of the Scots, slaying and maiming men in each of the schiltrons. Seeing gaps appear in the Scottish ranks, the English officers renewed the command to fire, and another volley of missiles soared skyward, plunging among the Scottish spearmen with devastating effect. Wallace was in as much danger as his men, and those closest to him lifted their shields to protect him as the barbs rained down on all sides.

"They haven't the courage to close with us," Wallace shouted. "They can't throw sticks at us forever-and then we'll see them off!"

In spite of their desperate situation, the Guardian's show of confidence was not entirely feigned, for he well knew the arrogance of the English chivalry. It was that very trait that had proved their undoing at Stirling, and he clung to the hope that Edward would not be able to restrain their impetuousness, that they would charge prematurely, while the schiltrons were still intact. If he could inflict another b.l.o.o.d.y defeat on the proud English knights, the Welsh, who comprised the bulk of Edward's infantry, might yet desert him.

But with each fresh flight of arrows, more spearmen fell. The blood-soaked ground was thick with bodies, and the hopes of the Scots began to yield to grim fatalism. However much the English knights might chafe at the bit, eager to avenge their fallen comrades and kinsmen, Edward had made his wishes brutally clear. No member of the English feudal host was to venture forward again until the king's own royal trumpeter sounded the charge.

Brian de Jay was as impatient as any for the final a.s.sault to begin, and he watched with satisfaction as the Scottish ranks grew more and more depleted. After a time, it was difficult to tell how many still lived and how many were corpses with no more s.p.a.ce to fall. Yet still the packed formations held their ground. As often as the English raised their bows to loose another flight of arrows, the Scots continued to stand firm, drawing strength from their common defiance as they braced themselves for death, determined to keep faith with those who had gone before them.

Warhorses snorted and stamped and knights impatiently brandished their lances until, at last, Edward gave the long awaited signal. In response to the trumpet call, the bowmen retired and the unleashed English chivalry resumed their attack from both wings. The surviving Scots tried to close ranks to meet the charge, but were impeded by their own dead, who littered the ground at their feet.

The wall of armored hors.e.m.e.n smashed into the depleted schiltrons at full gallop, with lances couched, and at last the weary and wounded Scottish infantry gave way before the furious momentum of their enemies. Ranks of spearmen were vengefully impaled and hurled to the turf, there to be ground into b.l.o.o.d.y pulp under iron-shod hooves. When one side of the schiltron collapsed, those left standing with their backs unprotected could only seek to flee before they were ridden down or killed where they stood.

In some cases panic took hold, causing men to fling their c.u.mbersome weapons aside and run for their lives. Others maintained a semblance of order, retreating gradually uphill with their spears still extended to fend off their pursuers until they reached the treeline. All across the field, however, the schiltrons were breaking and the Scots army was being swept from the field. Brian de Jay saw Wallace's schiltron shatter and the Guardian himself fall back before the furious onslaught of the English knights.

"Now, brothers of the Temple!" he cried, turning toward his men. "As Christ is your savior, visit G.o.d's own vengeance upon these traitors!"

He adjusted his helmet and lowered his lance, then led the warrior monks forward to the attack. With their white surcoats and banners flying wild in the breeze, they charged across the field in a mighty wedge, for all the world like the point of a gigantic spear aimed squarely at the one man who was Scotland's hope for freedom.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

ARNAULT HAD NOT DRIVEN A HORSE SO HARD SINCE HIS days in Palestine, eluding Saracen patrols and enemy archers to deliver intelligence to the Grand Master at Acre. His present mission, if in service of a different Temple, was no less urgent: to halt the fleeing Scottish n.o.bles and lead them back to the field before it was too late for Wallace and for Scotland.

By the time he caught up with the first of them, their initial hasty flight had been moderated to an orderly retreat. In the absence of English pursuit, they gave no appearance of fear or confusion-which reinforced Arnault's suspicion that it was no impulse of panic that had driven them off, but a prearranged plan to save themselves and leave the Guardian to his fate. How many had conspired to incite this act of cowardice, and how many had simply followed where others had led, he could not tell. Doubtless some, seeing the great ma.s.s of their companions fleeing the battle, had simply felt they had little choice other than to go along.

Those to the rear paid Arnault little mind as he rode along their flank, perhaps under the a.s.sumption that he was one of their own number who was simply tardier than the rest. A few taut faces registered flickers of recognition-and wary apprehension from a few, knowing him as a scout in the service of the abandoned Wallace-but wearing no man's livery, he aroused no particular attention as he galloped up the line looking for the most influential of them-and there were many, earls and barons among them. But he continued until he caught up with the front of the column, where Comyn and his men rode, then reined his horse sharply around to confront them.

"Hold, Comyn of Badenoch!" he cried. "And likewise, you others who call yourselves men of Scotland!

What, in G.o.d's name, are you doing? Have your insides turned to water, that you scatter like children when the battle is scarce begun?"

The lead riders slowed, with a ripple effect that went back all along the line. Comyn, addressed by name, reluctantly brought his mount to a halt and gave Arnault an affronted glower without deigning to rise to the challenge, but his Comyn kinsman, the Earl of Buchan, brashly moved his horse a few steps closer to Arnault's.

"It may be scarce begun," Buchan retorted, "but this battle is already sorely lost."

"Aye, Wallace has led us wrong," the Earl of Atholl agreed, riding closer. "Why should we be the victims of his folly?"

Arnault raked them over with a steely glance, watching others of the leaders edge closer, moderating his words.

"It was not so long ago that you were grumbling against him for running from Edward," he reminded them. "And now that he makes a stand, you have turned tail and fled!"

"Wallace told us Edward was in retreat," John Comyn retorted hotly, "and that we had surprise on our side. Little truth there was in that vainglorious strategy! All the time, Edward was marching straight for us, and the Guardian was leading us into the jaws of a trap."

Angry murmurs and shouts of agreement rose from the ranks of the hors.e.m.e.n. Comyn began to edge forward, seeking to bypa.s.s Arnault, but found his way blocked by his challenger's horse.

"The coward finds reasons for his cowardice," Arnault called out in a voice pitched so that all could hear, "and the farther he runs, the more excuses he finds. But that does not make them true, nor does it lessen his dishonor."

Others of rank were coming up from the rear to investigate-Menteith, Strathearn, even the Stewart-and these ranged themselves in loose, uneasy groupings around the two men. By the faces, Arnault sensed that many of them could feel their hearts agreeing with his words.

"n.o.bles of Scotland," he went on, "G.o.d has not given you authority over your fellow men for your own aggrandizement. It is your bounden duty to defend this land on behalf of all who lack the wealth or power to do so themselves-for the women who bear your children, for the men who tend your cattle and harvest your crops, who stand to fight beside you-and die beside you, if need be. If you turn your backs on such a trust, then what other purpose is there to your lives that is worthy of a knight's honor and bravery?"

A few of those who met his gaze flushed and looked away.

"Fine words," Comyn bl.u.s.tered, "from one who has shown no such bravery himself. Many of us here fought at Dunbar and at Stirling and at battles after, but what of this braggart who bears no ensign?"

He turned directly on Arnault, his voice filled with arrogant disdain. "What t.i.tle or rank do you hold, that ent.i.tles you to address us in such a fashion? You are no Scot, by your accent-and yet you presume to harangue us about our duty to our nation. Can it be that you are serving the purpose of some other power, who would gladly see us destroyed to suit their own designs?"

Arnault had not intended to reveal himself, lest he endanger his greater mission-especially with Torquil lost, and with Brian de Jay riding in Edward's train. But the danger to Wallace-and to Scotland-was dire, and he knew that only drastic measures could help them now.

"It is true that I am no Scot by birth," he said boldly. "I am Breton. But know that I am also a Knight of the Temple of Jerusalem, Frre Arnault de Saint Clair, sent here to protect the rights of your lawful king and the freedom of your nation-and the life of Wallace."

An uneasy muttering rippled among them, and Comyn seemed clearly taken aback-much more so than Arnault would have expected. A knight sitting his horse near Atholl proved less rattled-or perhaps more thick-skinned-and called out scornfully, "When did the Templars ever care for anything other than their own wealth?"

"Aye," another mumbled. "And if you were sent to fight for Scotland, why does your Master fight for Edward?"

"Take yourself off to your prayers and your accounts," another said with feeling, to a sullen mutter of agreement. "We did not invite you to meddle in our business."

Refusing to be baited, Arnault addressed them with head held high.

"You need not heed my words," he said. "Your own conscience calls you back to the field of battle-and to your duty-as surely as any trumpet summoning men to war."

Comyn seemed to have overcome his initial discomfiture, and shouldered his horse hard against Arnault's, belligerent and arrogant.

"How dares a Templar call us to battle?" he demanded. "You have not answered why your brother-knights, led by their English Master, fight on Edward's side. Have they sent you here to lure us back, and thus ensure the slaughter of Scotland's chivalry? We are, none of us, so foolhardy as to throw our lives away, when we may yet win the day upon another field!"

Comyn's suggestion of treachery on the part of the Master of England made Arnault suddenly wonder whether it could have been Brian de Jay whom Comyn had gone to meet the night before-Jay, who, if Torquil had been apprehended spying on such a meeting, would have had no compunctions about killing a man he could later claim he had thought was an apostate from the Order. There was no time to speculate upon the details of any bargain struck by Jay and Comyn, but the very possibility of such an alliance made it doubly important that this betrayal should not succeed.

"I will not speak against a brother of my Order," Arnault said evenly, "and I cannot speak for his reasons in choosing to raise sword against fellow Christians. I can tell you that I answer to a higher superior than the Master of England- and that I am commanded to fight and die for a country that is not my own, but is favored of G.o.d. If I must ride back alone, I shall do so; but I will not leave Scotland's Guardian to stand without at least one more sword at his side."

"Two more swords at least," said a voice Arnault recognized, as James the Stewart kneed his horse forward from the ranks with half a dozen mounted men-at-arms at his back. "When these fled the field around me," he went on, gesturing toward Comyn and his men, "I a.s.sumed that our cause must be lost, and could see no reason to remain behind. I see now that I was wrong, and there is much yet to fight for, whatever the outcome of this battle may be. I do not speak for my men in this, but I and any who choose to follow are yours, for Wallace."

A muscle ticked in Comyn's tight-clenched jaw, and he jerked his horse around with a muttered oath, reining it hard so that it plunged and fought the bit as he glared at Stewart.

"And if you return now to find Edward victorious, and Wallace already dead, what then?" He gave a contemptuous snort. "Will you sue for terms, or give yourself up as a prisoner to be ransomed? I'll not entrust myself to Edward's mercy, while the road northward lies open!"

With that, he set spurs to his horse and galloped off, followed by his own men and most of the rest of the knights. Only a few peeled off to join Arnault and Stewart. When the others had gone, the pair were left with scarcely a score of men to lead back to the beleaguered army.

"We are few enough in number," James Stewart observed, following Arnault's a.s.sessing glance at their little band, "but having turned tail once, we'll not do so again, I promise you."

"G.o.d grant we may be enough," Arnault replied, "and pray we are not too late."

And clapping spurs to his steed, Arnault led them back the way they all had come, suddenly aware that, without consciously thinking it through, he had reached a fateful decision. For all that, hitherto, he had avoided shedding a drop of Christian blood, he could no longer avoid taking active part in the battle. The fate of the Temple was bound too closely to that of Scotland; and Scotland was bound too closely to Wallace for Arnault to hold back in any way. If fight he must, to keep the Guardian safe to fulfil his destiny, then he would have to trust in G.o.d to guide his sword.

With Arnault and Stewart at their head, the knights galloped back toward the sounds of battle, skirting the edge of the wood as they rounded the summit of Slamman Hill. The sight that awaited them brought them up sharply, for the field of battle had become a field of slaughter. The broken remnants of the great schiltrons were retreating as best they could, harried savagely by bands of English knights while the English foot advanced in their wake, cutting down stragglers and finishing off the wounded.

The dead were everywhere, amid b.l.o.o.d.y evidence of horrible wounds taken by arrows, lances, and swords. Drunk with blood l.u.s.t, the English n.o.bles careered to and fro amid the fleeing Scots, cutting down men who were struggling to join the remaining spear formations or scrambling desperately uphill toward the trees. Many of the surviving Scots were even driven downhill, to fall to the swords and arrows of the English footmen or drown in the muddy waters of the marsh.

"G.o.d, have mercy!" James Stewart murmured in a strangled tone, for somewhere amid this carnage was his brother, John, who had commanded the bowmen of Ettrick Forest- whether alive or dead, he did not know.

Mutters of consternation came from his men, as well. Honor had brought them back; but now, faced with the near suicidal prospect of actually reentering a battle so obviously gone wrong, they looked doubtfully at the man who had led them here.

But Arnault was standing in his stirrups, looking desperately for some sign of Wallace amid the pockets of furious fighting still in progress on the field before them-until suddenly a voice to his right warned, "Horseman, coming this way!"

Turning sharply, Arnault caught just a glimpse of a lone rider weaving toward them through the trees. A few of his men were already fingering the hilts of their swords, but something about the coppery glint of hair and beard, the set of the shoulders- "Those are Bruce bardings on the horse," Stewart said with some surprise, "but the rider, I do not recognize."

"I do!" Arnault declared, relief flooding through him as that rider drew close enough to confirm, beyond all doubt, that Torquil Lennox was not lost after all.

He stood in his stirrups and raised an arm in hail, and Torquil bore down on them with surer focus, bringing his horse to a sliding, snorting halt.

"Thank G.o.d I've found you!" he exclaimed, his relief turning to horror as his gaze caught the carnage beyond. "Dear G.o.d, I am too late!" From his shock and dismay, he clearly had only just returned from wherever he had been, and knew nothing of the day's battle besides the dreadful slaughter he saw before him.

"And who is this?" Stewart demanded suspiciously.

"A brother in this venture," Arnault replied. "A Templar, like myself, and a countryman of yours. I had thought him lost."

"I nearly was," Torquil affirmed breathlessly. His handsome features seemed unnaturally pale, and he bore an air of fatigue that bespoke exertions far exceeding the rigors of a strenuous ride. "Last night, I discovered Scottish traitors selling information to the Master of the English Temple," he declared, omitting the names that Arnault knew already, and the means by which he had discovered this. "Jay means to personally hunt down Wallace and kill him."

As all Arnault's worst fears locked into place-and he knew there was more to the story than Torquil dared tell- he again swept his gaze across the b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield, searching frantically for Wallace.

"Where is he?" Stewart muttered beside him, as all of them strained to penetrate the confusion of battle, looking for that one tall, gallant form.

"Tell me I've not come too late!" Torquil implored.

"Look there!" one of the knights cried.

Following the line of his pointing finger, Arnault and Torquil turned to see not Wallace but the gleaming wedge of a Templar detachment carving a path across the b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield, coursing toward the woods like a pack of snow-white wolves on the scent.

"Now we must wager all, that they head for Wallace-as must we!" Arnault declared. "We cannot save this battle, my friends, but we must and shall save the Guardian! Ride with me, or abandon all thoughts of Scotland's future freedom!"

So saying, he drew his sword and sent his horse charging forward-not only to save Wallace, but to stop Brian de Jay from committing an act of infamy that would taint the name of the Templar Order for generations yet unknown. Torquil rode with him, and James Stewart and his knights formed a flying column behind them, determined to rescue Wallace and salvage both their honor and Scotland's hope from this day's betrayal.

They lost sight of the Templar column as their own course took them up a wooded ridge and into the trees. The rescue party broke ranks and galloped on, ducking and dodging branches as they rode up and over the spine of the hill. The trees were thinner on the down side of the slope, affording a glimpse of the Templar party breaking toward the open ground beyond.

There, ragged bands of Scots foot soldiers were retreating across the flat, beyond a boggy stretch of ground perhaps chosen by the men of their small rear guard in hopes that this would slow pursuit of their fellows. And in the midst of the band holding that rear guard, conspicuous by his height, was the indomitable form of Wallace.

Pounding down the hill, Arnault and his Scottish rescue party drove their tiring mounts on toward the Templar party, who were now starting to close in on Wallace and his small, desperate band of infantry.

With the men of Jay's following so focused, the rescue party was among them before they realized.

Arnault came up on the flank of one of the younger knights and dealt him a heavy blow to the wrist with the flat of his blade. With a cry, the youngster dropped his lance and reeled back, glaring affrontedly past his nose guard; but by the time he had recovered himself enough to draw his sword, Arnault was already out of reach, moving on in search of a new target.

The attack became a melee as rider closed with rider-too close for lances now-and with the Scottish footmen now joining in with their rescuers, the Templar force found their prospects suddenly less certain.

Torquil seized a serjeant's horse by the shank of the bit and gave it a twist, causing the animal to rear back and overbalance. Its rider fell heavily at the feet of a Scottish spearman, who immediately upended his weapon and rammed the point home through a c.h.i.n.k in his armor.

The man's dying scream rang in Torquil's ears-a fellow Templar, killed because of him-but he wheeled his horse aside as a knight-brother bore down on him with a lance, a sweeping downstroke of Bruce's goodly sword deflecting and shattering the lance shaft, sending his opponent reeling in the saddle. Before the other could renew the a.s.sault with a fresh weapon, Torquil spotted the portly and unmistakable figure of Robert de Sautre and set off in pursuit, leaving James Stewart to take up the other challenge in his place.

Arnault, for his part, was fighting his way purposefully toward Wallace, who had planted himself on an island of firm ground with two of his spearmen. Together, they were just managing to hold off a mounted adversary.

Arnault spurred forward, intent on adding the weight of his own sword to the Guardian's defense, but before he could close with the other knight, his exhausted horse slipped in the mud and went down, half pinning one of his legs under the saddle.

Saved from crushing injury by the softness of the mud, and desperately holding on to his sword, Arnault struggled free of the stirrups and dragged himself to his feet as his mount clumsily heaved itself up and fled away limping. As he looked around to see how Wallace was faring, he found his way blocked by a white-clad form, unhorsed like himself, sword upraised to strike. He could attach no name to the face beneath the helm, but he knew the man from Balantrodoch, and the man knew him.

"Saint Clair!" he gasped, and swung at Arnault.