Conquer the Night (45 page)

He was awash in the battle, besieged from every side.

And then …

And then as he turned, he realized he had no more opponents.

He was surrounded by bodies in the blood red marsh—men facedown in the water and muck, unmoving.

Men … backs to the ground, eyes open, staring at heaven. Eternally.

From across the bridge, he could hear the rout.

“We've beaten them; we've beaten them!” someone shouted.

“After them!” another man cried.

And so the English were pursued across the river, and toward Stirling.

Arryn, starting after them, heard a commotion among the Scottish. He hurried toward the roar of activity, pushing through men, making his way over corpses.

Andrew de Moray was down. Injured, he lay among the dead. “Break way; give him room, lads!” Arryn cried.

Moray's steward and others of his men were coming to him now. “Get him from the field, carefully, carefully!” On one knee, Arryn studied the fallen commander, who, as much as or more so than William Wallace, had given his name, his heart, and his never failing, tenacious energy to the freedom of his country. The heir to Bothwell, wealthy, his father held by the English since Dunbar, he had risked everything a man might hold dear.

He gripped Arryn's hand. “We've done it, man; by God, we've done it!”

“Save your strength.”

“After the bastards, after them, Arryn. Wallace … Wallace is still standing.”

“Fought like a son of a bitch at the head of his men, and aye, he's still standing.”

Andrew de Moray winced; in armor, blood, and mire, it was difficult to assess the extent of his wounds. “By God, we've done it! Noble birth does not a commander make; William has proved it! And the people of a country are a greater army than the best-trained cavalry and mercenaries without heart. We've done it …”

“We've a litter for him,” one of his men said.

“After them, Graham, after them!” de Moray commanded.

“Aye, we'll pursue them to hell and beyond!” Arryn swore.

Andrew de Moray was carried away. Arryn shouted for his horse. Mounting, he shook slightly.

They had done it.

The English might have held.

They had not.

They scattered now, and ran, and the Scots were in heavy pursuit.

Darrow's troops had never crossed the bridge.

He had watched, swearing, disbelieving, as the English cavalry that had crossed the bridge had floundered, been slashed to ribbons—and died.

The number of dead in so short a time seemed staggering. Cressingham—who had been the main man to ignore the sensible warnings of Sir Richard de Lundy that they not cross the bridge and had insisted that they attack—was dead.

They had seen him go down.

And God knew, though rich men and knights might be held as hostages, Cressingham would not be held. The quicker his death came, the more merciful it would be.

It had been horrible to watch; no matter who the men had been, such a slaughter was terrible to see. Though Kinsey had almost forgotten her, running his horse back and forth for a better view, Kyra had had little choice but to watch. She closed her eyes and turned away, but with each new cry and sound, she found herself looking again, afraid that the tide might have turned.

It was impossible….

But the Scottish army of rabble and rebels had beaten back a far superior British force. Not just beaten them …

Slaughtered them.

And the horsemen were coming now, ignoring the fact that the bridge that was shattered was falling in. The Scottish horsemen seemed not to note that their horses swam the cold water, plunging, floundering through it.

John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, was shouting commands; a horn blared, sounding the retreat. The horn was not needed. The English troops were in reckless disarray, fleeing as if pursued by demons. From their position, far to the rear, they could see the Scots catch up with the English. They were dragged down, beaten, put to the sword, even as they tried to flee, crawl away … scream, beg, cry out for their lives.

“Lord Darrow!” called one of his men.

Despite the retreat, Kinsey hadn't moved.

He refused to believe the defeat.

“Kinsey!” Richard said sharply.

“Aye, retreat!” Kinsey roared.

Retreat …

Her chance for escape. To run to the Scots.

To plow into the marshes and fields of dead, and pray that Arryn wasn't among them!

“You!” Kinsey suddenly roared, drawing his horse to hers. His eyes were widely dilated, glittering with a fever that bordered on madness. “You witch!” he cried, as if the rout of the English might have been her doing.

He reached out for her. She gasped out a cry, trying to spur her mare. She was boxed in by his men.

He was more than an able horseman. He reached for her, dragging her from her mare to his horse. His fingers tore into her hair and he dragged her head back, whispering into her ear. “You think you will gloat, my lady? Dance on the bodies of English dead? Nay, I think not!”

He spurred his destrier. Her added weight seemed nothing to the great war-horse.

Among the thousands of other English, they fled.

In the aftermath of the battle, Stirling Bridge was all but destroyed, but destroyed or no, the Scots used what was left of it to pursue the English. The enemy retreated. They broke; they fled, different leaders in different directions. They raced for the borders.

For England.

Screams and shouts of triumph went up. There was bedlam at first, even among the victors.

With Andrew de Moray severely injured, Wallace took full command. There were some who urged him to forget all else and lead an immediate, full-scale assault on the fleeing English, and he did order a contingent of men to follow them, and harry them all the way. They could not really hope to follow the king's army with real success; the Scots, though exuberant, were exhausted.

There were hostages to be taken from among the injured, and rich and titled men were welcomed—so many Scots had relatives who were prisoners in England, and the hostages could be exchanged.

Then there was the matter that their own dead and dying lay all over the field.

The sooner they could separate the quick from the dead, the more chance they had of saving their own.

Thane MacFadden had been injured; how severely, Arryn wasn't certain, but his men arranged a litter, and already here were women and physicians on the field, helping with the wounded—and helping relieve the dead Englishmen of whatever riches they might have on their bodies.

Sometimes, the scavengers spit on the bodies of the Englishmen, but there was little mutilation.

In most instances.

Arryn was on the field, kneeling with Jay, Ragnor, and Father Corrigan, when Roger Comyn summoned him; they had found the body of Hayden MacTiegue among the fallen. Arryn had lost other men, and he felt sorrow for them all, but Hayden had come from Hawk's Cairn with him and traveled with him a very long way. He was a good friend, a good, steady soldier, and his loss seemed exceptionally sad. Considering the number of English dead littering the ground, they had been blessed. Scottish losses were light in comparison.

But the Scots had lost so many before….

It was while kneeling by Hayden that he heard the shouts of triumph and a great commotion. He turned and saw that it was coming from the place on the field where the hated English commander Cressingham had fallen. Arryn rose, watching. He felt the others rise by him.

Cressingham's body was hoisted up and carried from its place on the field to be hung from a tree. Men shouted, gloated, sang, danced like fools as the deed was done.

Then, with a chilling frenzy, the warriors began to skin their hated enemy.

“Dear God!” Father Corrigan said. “We will become those we abhor!” He crossed himself and turned from the sight.

Arryn stood still a long time, looking over the field.

So very many dead. Cressingham skinned. Knights going onward, the castle to be taken, the English to pursue to the border and beyond. Yet for the moment, it seemed a strange victory. For as far as he could see, there were dead. At least this time, the fallen were not all his friends.

Yet he felt a disturbing sense of unease, even in triumph.

Father Corrigan, having finished blessing Hayden's body, came to him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing—well, except that the English will come back. Edward will return from France and fly into a Plantagenet rage. And so the English will come back—this time with the English king leading the army.”

“Aye,” Corrigan said, and he was smiling. “But for now …”

“Aye?”

“For now, Scotland is ours. Rejoice in that freedom, Arryn. Scotland is ours!”

He closed his eyes. Freedom!

And yet …

“Can you feel it; can you taste it?”

He opened his eyes and looked at Corrigan.

“Father, at the moment, I smell blood.”

Corrigan frowned. Arryn laughed suddenly, for the first time, really feeling the triumph. He embraced the priest, pounding him on the back.

“Freedom! By God, you're right; we've done it! We've won!”

Aye, they had won. They were
free
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Morning dawned again.

The smell of blood remained. Awakening in a camp not far from the battlefield, Arryn wondered if he would ever cease to think that he smelled blood every time he breathed.

He could hear birds chirping, and for a moment a waft of fresh, cool air moved over him, and for that moment the smell of blood was gone. There was still so much to be done. The castle of Stirling itself had to be taken; the army had to be reshaped and reformed.

There were riders everywhere now, moving information with the swiftest speed possible. Barons who had sworn for Edward were now heralding the success of the two brave young commanders Wallace and de Moray.

The latter remained severely wounded. Mortally wounded, many feared.

Wallace was ready to push on.

The English, in their haste to escape, had even deserted every position they had held, and the Scottish commanders assumed they'd be heading for Berwick, that city they had so fully occupied after having so completely slaughtered the inhabitants. If not, the first great English stronghold over the border was York. The enemy had really been pushed back—all the way to the border.

John, having slept near him, rose.

“Do ye smell that, Arryn?”

“The blood and death?”

“Nay, sir! We've wakened to an independent Scotland! It's freedom we're smelling, freedom, and victory—”

“Not to mention our lives!” Jay added.

“Aye, our lives,” Arryn said.

“You're not as pleased this morning, Arryn, as you should be.”

“Nay, I'm pleased. Still frightened, maybe, to really grasp the truth of our independence—my God! We won, won that battle! But …”

“You did not see Kinsey Darrow's body among the fallen,” Jay suggested.

“There were many dead,” Patrick said. “None of us could know all the dead.”

Father Corrigan came among them. “Darrow was not among the dead. I saw him at one point; saw his men, his banners, his colors. He never crossed the bridge. He flew with the other wretched cowards. He remains among the living.”

Ragnor, who had apparently been up some time, came riding hard over to them. “Arryn!”

“Aye?”

“Wallace would see you. When you can.”

Arryn nodded. “I'm to the stream for some fresh water. Then I'll be with him.”

“Aye!”

Arryn left the camp to head for water.

Not the river.

The river was still swollen with fallen soldiers and horses. There was a brook, a distance farther, but it was untainted by the death and destruction of man.

He stripped to the skin, unwilling to wear the remnants of battle any longer, and bathed thoroughly, despite the chill in the water. It was good; it was bracing. He dressed, winding his tartan around his body again in the crisp, cold morning air, and started back.

He returned by way of the battlefield, and standing high, was startled to see a young woman standing in the midst of it.

For a minute his heart raced.

Harry and the others had already heard, and had come. Victory was spreading across the country so quickly; they knew, they had come.

But who was the young woman with glowing golden hair who stood at the center of the field of dead, just staring?

Kyra?

They had taken away so many wounded last night. With Father Corrigan reading mass services, they had started to bury their dead. But so many corpses remained. Scavengers, of the human variety, had come.

Now animal scavengers came as well—buzzards, waves of them, flying, soaring….

Descending.

The woman just stood there, in the center of so many dead, staring.

“Kyra?” he said softly, hurrying down toward her. “Ky—”

She turned when he was still some distance away. It was not Kyra, but Katherine. “Lass! When did you come? What are you doing here, lass? 'Tis not a good place—”

“Oh, Arryn!”

Tears in her eyes, she came running to him, throwing herself into his arms, shaking.

“Lass, lass, it's an awful sight, but sweet Jesu, lady, you've seen worse! And we've triumphed this time, Katherine—”

“No, Arryn, no, oh, God! You've not seen Thomas yet, then?”

He frowned, looking at her huge, tear-filled eyes. He set his hands on her shoulders, holding her a short distance from himself. “Katherine, what is it?”

She was as pale as a sheet.

“He came for her.”

“What?” His heart shuddered in his chest.

“He came for her, Lady Kyra. Kinsey Darrow came for her. Oh, my God, Arryn, it was awful. They came out of the woods, as stealthy as foxes. Most of the people there … fled. And the Englishmen might have pursued them … but they didn't care. Harry tried to fight; he was knocked down, and Ioin, too, of course, and after they left we found that Harry was alive, and Ioin, too, but just barely, and he's old, and … my great-aunt Mauve came down from the village, and she says that Ioin will probably die without awakening but …”