KATHRYN AND ANNA made bandages from cloth Bryan had sent from Homelea while Fergus went to the main camp for news. When he returned in late afternoon, Kathryn bade him escort her to the creek for water. He was full of excitement about the things he’d learned and listening to him, Kathryn became enthralled. She set her bucket of water down beside the tent and said, “You must take me to where I can observe the battle preparations for myself.” When he didn’t answer, she pleaded, “Please?”
“Don’t know why ye need to know anything more about it. Mind yer healing and leave the fighting to the men,” he grumbled.
“Aye. And that I intend to do. But what harm can it be to see where the battle will take place? And perhaps I can recommend a good location for the hospital.”
He muttered something that sounded like “confounded female” before saying, “Ye’re not going to work in the hospital. Ye’re to remain here—Sir Bryan’s orders—so that if need be, I can spirit ye north to the Mackintosh stronghold at Moy.”
She touched his sleeve. “Soon I will watch loved ones fight. I need to know what is happening, so that if an opportunity to affect the outcome presents itself, I can help.”
“Ye’ll not be doing any fighting if I want to keep my hide. Bryan will skin me for sure—”
“Tell me what you know,” she wheedled.
He huffed his breath then stared her in the eye. “They say the English supply train stretches twenty miles long,” he told her.
“Twenty miles? How is that possible?”
“I heard there were one hundred and ten wagons drawn by oxen and another one hundred or so pulled by teams of horses.”
Kathryn bowed her head. Only an invincible army would need such a huge quantity of supplies. Her excitement quickly shifted to dread. “When will the fighting begin?”
“Tomorrow, I suspect.”
Tomorrow Bryan, Thomas, and Adam would face this foe. Maybe if Fergus could tell her more about how Bruce planned to fight it would ease her mind. “Did you hear of the battle plans? Can you show me the layout of the field?”
“Aye,” he said with a sigh. “Come along.” They walked to the top of the hill and as they did, Fergus explained, “About three thousand of our men arrived late and will be held in reserve, since they’ve not been trained. They will remain with ye and the other camp followers here, behind Gillies Hill.”
She smiled at Fergus’s reminder yet again of Bryan’s order. She and Anna would pack in anticipation of a hasty departure as Bryan had ordered. They had even devised a sling for Isobel so that Fergus could carry her on horseback. But she had no intention of sitting in front of her tent waiting for news. She would carry a pouch of medical supplies and help her wounded countrymen as soon as it was safe.
When they reached the top of the rise, Fergus pointed south to where Bruce had placed his troops along the hillside of the New Park. The Scots straddled the ancient Roman road that ran from Edinburgh north to Stirling Castle. That mighty fortress stood on a large cliff to the north of the carseland where the battle would most likely take place.
He pointed toward Stirling. “You see the road there where it dips to the north?”
She nodded.
“Just past the dip is a deep gully and bog. No access there, especially for heavy cavalry. Robert will place his men to the left of the road in that grassy meadow. The meadow on the right ends in a steep bank which drops down into marshland.”
“So Edward cannot go around and advance from that direction, either.” Kathryn smiled.
“Ye always were quick at yer learnin’,” he said approvingly. “And the forest behind us prevents an advance from the west.”
“So, the English must proceed up the road and take position to attack from the east.”
“Aye, and if they venture too far on either side of the road, they’ll find the pits we’ve dug and filled with impaling sticks.”
Kathryn shuddered at the image, glad the English hadn’t had time to prepare such a welcome for Bryan and Cerin. “I know nothing of strategy, but it would seem Bruce has prepared well, don’t you think?”
“Aye, now all we need is a wee bit of luck.”
From their vantage on the hill, Kathryn could see the approach of what appeared to be a few hundred of the vaunted English cavalry as they emerged from the Torwood. Each knight was clad in chain mail covered with a surcoat. The huge horses advanced, their manes and tails and colorful trappings flapping in the breeze. Most of the riders carried a twelve-foot lance and a battle axe. Each knight was surrounded by a squire and several mounted men at arms.
Kathryn imagined a charge by these formidable horsemen could make the bravest man reverse direction and run. How could men afoot possibly withstand such a force?
The horses crossed the meadow that sloped down to the Bannock Burn, whose swift flowing water rippled in the sunlight. Sunlight gleamed off armor. Kathryn knew the shining, heavy metalwork would provide a much better safeguard than Bryan’s chain mail and leather hauberk. And many of the other Scots wore less protection than that. Most had shields made of wickerwork, a leather or metal helmet, heavy quilted gambesons on their upper body, and not much else.
The advancing English contracted into a narrow column as they approached the ford of the stream where Kathryn and her group had crossed just yesterday. The first knight to cross the stream was clad in full metal armor and mounted on a powerful horse. His companions remained some distance behind him, slowly navigating the streambed.
A lone rider emerged from the woods on the Scottish side of the stream apparently intent on inspecting the Scottish troops, who were half-hidden in the woodland. With an intake of breath, Kathryn noted the circlet of gold on his helmet and knew it had to be King Robert—alone and unprotected—riding a small, gray palfrey. In his right hand he held a battle-axe, his only other protection the chain mail and hauberk under his surcoat.
The English knight must have recognized Bruce, for he couched his lance and spurred his horse toward the king. Bruce looked up and sat his horse, making no movement whatsoever.
“Run, my laird,” Kathryn shouted, to no avail. “Why doesn’t he run for the safety of the trees?” But Fergus seemed to be struck speechless by the sight.
Turn the horse around, my laird, quickly. If the other man, better mounted and armed, continued the attack, Bruce would surely be injured or killed and the Scots’ cause would be finished before it began.
As she bit a fingernail to the quick, Fergus recovered and answered her question. “He can’t back down from a fight. He’s won nearly a hundred tournaments—can’t very well turn and run in front of men willing to give their lives for him and his cause.”
Apparently Bruce had every intention of engaging the knight despite the odds, for he cantered toward the heavily armored Englishman.
Kathryn held her breath, wanting to avert her gaze, yet captivated by the spectacle before her. She watched in horror as Bruce on his small palfrey cantered straight for the thundering war-horse and certain death.
Then, at the last moment, Bruce swerved his nimble horse to one side and stood in his stirrups, chopping down with such force that the head of his axe remained impaled in the knight’s helm. The man toppled from his horse and lay unmoving on the ground. Bruce spun his horse about and rode toward his own men, still holding the severed handle. Stunned, Kathryn sank to the ground.
The Scottish forces emerged from the trees, cheering their leader.
The English cavalry now charged the Scottish position, and some of their horses fell squealing into the hidden pits, creating a great deal of confusion. Another wild cry erupted from the Scots as they climbed over their fieldworks and rushed at the now disorganized English cavalry.
Kathryn recognized the Earl of Gloucester—Bruce’s cousin— by the crest on his surcoat. She saw his horse stumble, hurling the earl to the ground. His squires rescued him and put him on another horse before they all fled the field.
Bruce waved off his men, sending them back to their lines within the woods and effectively ending the skirmish. The English retreated and Kathryn, shaken by what she’d seen, returned with Fergus to their camp. There they recounted what they’d seen to Anna.
Apparently the first round of this battle went to the outnumbered Scots. The English would no doubt be angry at Bruce’s killing of one of their best knights in such a fashion and would want to avenge their honor. Tomorrow Bryan, his squire Thomas, and Adam would face those same Englishmen, and the thought made Kathryn weep.
BRYAN—ALONG WITH BRUCE’S BROTHER EDWARD, Bruce’s nephew Thomas Randolph, and the other division commanders— had watched in horror as their king spurred his pony toward the armored English knight. Now Bruce rode toward them, still clutching the severed axe handle and looking at it as if he didn’t believe he’d ruined a perfectly good weapon.
They crowded around Robert, railing at him for taking such an unnecessary chance. Bruce shifted away from them and surveying the land, pointed to the east.
“Look there.”
A body of English cavalry under Sir Robert Clifford had appeared to the north and east, leaving the cover of the stream bank that had hidden them until now. They were headed toward Randolph’s division of five hundred spearmen who guarded the road leading to Stirling. If the English got past Randolph’s men, they would take away Bruce’s ability to retreat and force him into a fight he wasn’t sure he wanted to engage in.
Adam was one of the men under Randolph’s command. When Randolph spurred his horse and raced to join his men, Bryan raced after him. The division needed its commander if it was to be successful. Bryan and Randolph reached the Scots just as Adam saw the approaching cavalry come into view and began to marshal his comrades into a schiltron, a square made up of rows of men, all holding spears and facing outward.
While Adam took up his spear and joined the ranks, Bryan and Randolph rode their horses into the middle of the square before it closed ranks. With their backs to one another they could relay information back and forth. Randolph gave the order for the square to advance. They positioned themselves at the point where the road narrowed and where the English cavalry would have to pass to reach the castle behind the Scots.
Men on foot had no hope against heavy cavalry unless they massed together for strength and protection. The schiltron was the only way to have any chance of success.
The English halted, evidently wanting the schiltron to move closer toward them so the horses could maneuver around it. Bryan cried out to Randolph, and he gave the order to halt. Then one of the English knights charged into the Scots’ formation and others followed. Horses, speared by the spikes, fell and hurtled their riders to the ground. The schiltron held and the English losses were for nothing.
The English, unaware that Randolph’s spearmen guarded the road, had attacked without being accompanied by archers, the schiltron’s greatest enemy. Only arrows shot into the air and then falling into the ranks of spearmen could break down a well-disciplined schiltron, and today, luck was on the side of the Scots. The cavalry was reduced to circling the Scots, heaving their axes and swords and maces in frustration. Every now and then one of the spearmen would lunge from formation and stab a horse so it fell to the ground, leaving its heavily armored rider at the mercy of his enemy.
The sun grew hotter, the dust heavy, but neither side had an advantage. Bryan grew weary, wearier still when he realized this encounter was just the beginning.
Finally the English began to waver and Bryan called to Randolph, “There, an opening.” In a stroke of luck or brilliance, Randolph ordered his men forward, driving the schiltron into the opening and splitting the enemy in half. Some of the horsemen fled north to Stirling, others south to the main road. The schiltron had held and thus defeated a more numerous enemy.
Bryan and his comrades watched the English flee, then sat on the ground and took off their helmets. Weary and soaked in sweat, Bryan fanned himself with his helmet. When they’d rested, they marched to Bruce’s headquarters where they were heartily congratulated.
Bruce clapped Randolph on the back. “That was a job well done, nephew.” He turned to the rest of them and repeated his words of praise. Then he said, “The English cavalry will not take kindly to being defeated by men on foot. They will likely seek to avenge this defeat. You were brave and showed your true mettle today. If you feel you’ve done enough and wish to retire to your homes, that decision is in your hands.”
But to a man they replied, “Send us into battle again, good king, and we shall not fail you.”
The king replied, “Then make ready for battle at first light. And God be with you.”
SOFT, GOLDEN TRESSES cascaded in curtains all around Bryan, obliterating the men seated around the campfire. . . . With a shake, Bryan brought his wayward thoughts of Kathryn under control in order to give his full attention to his king.
As the common soldiers left to find their supper and their beds, Bruce called together his chief commanders on the hill overlooking the battleground. Thomas Randolph was considered a brilliant tactician and natural leader. James Douglas, though quiet and gentle by nature, had earned the sobriquet of Black Douglas for his fearless raids into England. Edward Bruce, the king’s brother, was an impetuous but brave leader. Those three and Robert himself would command the schiltrons.
Although Bryan had fought with Randolph today, tomorrow he would be with Robert Keith. Sir Robert, keeper of the king’s stables, would command Bruce’s five hundred light cavalry, with Bryan as his second in command. Keith was a special friend to Bryan because he’d helped him train Cerin. And while he’d been more than willing to assist Randolph today, Bryan would be glad to return to his regular duties with the cavalry.
They awaited Robert’s orders, as they’d done so many times in the past. Bryan knew that Robert considered these men as sons. And tomorrow, as their chosen king, he would ask them to lead their men into a battle Bryan feared could not be won. The devil take Edward of England and his greedy nobles!
Bryan took himself to task. No good would come of thoughts such as these, and he banished his pessimism as Bruce addressed his commanders.
“’Twas a good day to be Scottish, eh lads?”
“Aye, my laird.”
Randolph said, “We showed our intent today. But you scared us witless with your joust against de Bohun.”
“Aye, well, I couldn’t back down in front of the men now, could I?”
“’Twould have added a few years to my life if you had,” Bryan said, a grin softening the gruffness of his voice.
Sardonic smiles and a few guffaws greeted Bryan’s statement while Robert basked in their praise.
Then Douglas voiced his opinion. “Between our sovereign’s bravery and Randolph’s defeat of Sir Clifford, we have shown our willingness to fight this day.”
“Aye, but I fear the English cavalry will rally in their dismay at being defeated by our foot soldiers.” Bruce gazed about at the circle of men surrounding him. “Perhaps we’ve made our point and should retreat. I would protect this army and retire to the countryside to harass the English as we’ve done in the past.”
The king’s words startled Bryan, and the others as well, from the cast of their faces. “Sir, if you ever hoped to unite all of Scotland, now is the time. Order us into battle at first light, and we shall not fail you. We shall persevere until Scotland is free.”
The voices of his comrades seconded Bryan’s declaration. Bryan could tell Bruce was moved by their bravery and determination. Bryan knew it might indeed be wiser to take this outnumbered army and retreat, scorching the earth behind them. Starvation could defeat an army just as easily as weapons. By so doing, Bruce could spare Scotland the annihilation of her young men. And those seated here before him would live to marry and sire more of their kind.
Bruce looked out into the darkness. The jingle of harness and the muffled sounds of men’s voices drifted to them on the quiet summer night air. “While our men rest, the English are still bedding down for the night. By the time they have taken battle positions, the dawn will be near.”
“They won’t be able to unbit their horses either,” Keith remarked.
“Aye, man and beast will start the day tired. But more importantly, my scouts have told me the English cavalry are bedding down on the carse, a practical decision. However, that meadow is intersected by streams and is boggy in spots. They’ll have little room to maneuver. Since they intend to charge with the cavalry and then send in their infantry on foot, their foot soldiers are behind the horses, between them and the creek.”
Bryan was the first to realize the implication. The Bannock Burn and the smaller stream to the north were tidal waters, emptying into the nearby Firth of Forth. “When the tide rises, they will not be able to retreat through the bog that surrounds them.”
“Exactly,” Bruce said.
“Why would they take up such a position?”
“Because they expect us to remain where we are, to allow them to bring the battle to us. But our schiltrons are not static.”
Edward Bruce said, “Then let us move them into better position.”
“Patience, brother. Let the English settle first, commit themselves to the carseland.” He drew a crude map in the dirt. “Just before dawn, Edward, take your schiltron to the southernmost position. You will engage first and draw the vanguard to you.”
Edward nodded.
“Thomas, you’ll be left of Edward, and Douglas, you’ll be left of him. I shall hold my men in reserve and bring them forward when needed should one of your squares falter. Keith, you and our cavalry must stand by and await my order for your charge.”
“It could work, sire,” Bryan said quietly. “King Edward and his commanders will expect us to stay close to the woods and our path for retreat.”
“Well, that is the accepted course for a small force that is so greatly outnumbered.” Bruce smiled. “But since when have I ever followed the accepted course? Now we shall see if Ceallach’s training of the men will save the day, for never before have foot soldiers taken the offensive against heavy cavalry.”
“Where is Ceallach?” Douglas asked.
“I’ve sent him to perform a special task. ’Tis best if you know as little as possible about what I’ve asked him to do.”
Bryan was as curious as the rest, but all sat in respectful silence waiting for Bruce to continue.
The silence broke as a guard shouted, “Halt. Who goes there?”
Bryan’s companions jumped to their feet at the sentry’s cry, forming a protective circle around the king. One by one they sheathed their weapons as the sentry escorted Sir Alexander Seton into the periphery of the fire’s glow.
Robert offered a wary welcome to this kinsman who, by a twist of fate, served in the English army. “What brings you here this night, Alex?”
“I come in friendship, my lord, as did my brother, God rest his soul.”
“I have need of friends, young Alex. Especially of your caliber and that of your brother. Come join us.”
The men returned to their places. Bryan saw tension and distrust on several faces, but Christian Seton had fought and died for the Scots’ cause. For that reason Bryan would listen to what Alex had to say.
“What brings you to our camp?” Bruce asked.
“Your Majesty, the English have lost heart and are discouraged after today’s skirmishes. ’Twas quite a blow to see a champion of the lists such as de Bohun defeated by a man on a pony, my lord.” Alex grinned, and Bryan watched as the men relaxed a bit and leaned forward.
Bruce chuckled. “My comrades were just chastising me for putting myself in such danger.”
“Aye, a dangerous but inspired move. The news of your victory and the defeat of Sir Clifford by a parcel of footmen is not sitting well with the rank and file, either.”
“Good.”
Bryan felt uneasy about young Seton’s presence. “What assurance do you offer that you have our interests in mind in bringing such information?”
Alex Seton contemplated the group of warriors. “I pledge my life on pain of being hanged if what I say is not true.” He paused. “If you fight tomorrow you will surely win.”
Bryan pressed him further. “Why do you come to us, Alex. Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.” He sounded angry, but softened his tone when he continued. “I came on my own. I find I cannot take up arms against my fellow Scots. I thought I could,” his voice became a whisper, “but I can’t.”
Bryan backed off, satisfied with Alex’s explanation. He could forgive the younger man for being tempted by Edward’s promises of wealth far easier than he could have forgiven him for actually fighting against Scotland.
Apparently Bruce felt the same way, since he said, “Then you will remain in my camp as hostage until you can be ransomed.”
“I am a willing prisoner, Your Majesty. I will remain in Scotland regardless of the outcome.”
“So be it.”
As the guard led Alex away to the temporary stockade, Bruce turned to his lieutenants. “What say you? Do we accept this day’s victories and live to fight another day, or engage the enemy again tomorrow in hopes of a more resounding victory?”
Without hesitation and nearly in unison they answered, “We fight, my laird.”
Bryan detected pride and anguish at war on Robert’s face. Eight years of struggle had finally come to this—a small, determined army held the fate of Scotland in its hands. The grassy carse surrounding the Bannock Burn would be stained with blood by this time tomorrow.
“Then God go with you,” Bruce prayed.
RODNEY CARLETON, still within the king’s immediate retinue but relegated to the fringes, had listened as Edward discussed where to camp for the night. Or what little remained of it.
“The Scots’ schiltrons will not come out into the open ground, Your Majesty. They will need to keep their backs protected by the woods. We should take position there, on the carseland, so the cavalry can charge across it and attack.”
Edward nodded at the speaker, the Earl of Hereford. “Aye, and place our foot soldiers behind the horses to follow them into the fray once we’ve broken through the Scottish ranks.”
“Just so, my lord.”
“See to it.”
It had sounded simple enough, Rodney thought as he swore once again when his boot stuck in a bog. The meadow had large patches of hard clay intermixed with soggy patches of bog. They’d had to go into the nearby village and take down doors and beams to cover the boggy areas so that all the horses could find a place to stand.
Now, long after midnight, Rodney and his companions finally found a solid spot on the hard clay of the carse. Here Edward established his command post and they would find what rest they could.
Rodney fastened a bag of grain to his horse’s halter even as his own stomach growled. He would save the bread and cheese in his pocket for morning light. When the beast had finished, Rodney removed the feedbag and bridled the horse. They would stand ready for the remainder of the night.
As he leaned against his patient horse and closed his eyes, Rodney wondered where he would find Mackintosh tomorrow. The man rode a better horse than most Scots and Rodney concluded he would be in what passed for the Scottish cavalry unit. By this time tomorrow Black Bryan would be dead, Rodney would return to Edward’s favor, and the Countess of Homelea would be a widow and his soon-to-be bride.