The Complete Kingdom Trilogy (127 page)

No one spoke, though John went tight around the lips and reddened even more than he had in the heat, because he knew what his lord had done and why – and was shamed at the relief he felt for it. Thweng returned to looking sourly at the wood. A lance was probably more liability than asset in there, he thought.

He waited, watching with his plain, battered old barrel-helm tucked under his shield arm while the feverish knights had plumes fixed, demanded tippets and banners, both of which hung limply in the breathless air. The younger ones, who had never been in such an event before, called out greetings in high, nervous voices, pretending nonchalance and a boldness they did not entirely feel.

Thweng saw Hereford scowl at his nephew as Henry de Bohun fought the mouth of his huge bay, foam-sweated round the neck already and baiting on the spot with huge hooves. De Bohun, encumbered with shield and lance, had his helm clamped under his lance arm and was trying to see over the ornament of it. The helm was a great domed full-face affair, draped in a fold of blue and gold mantle, surrounded by a coloured blue and gold twist of cloth like a Saracen's turban, surmounted by a padded heraldic lion in gold cloth spouting three great plumes of heron feathers in blue and yellow.

He was as proud of this new-fangled confection as he was of his ruinously expensive horse, which he called Durandal after Roland's sword – but, at this moment, he would cheerfully have rendered it into several hundredweight of offal.

‘Tight rein that mount, boy,' his uncle called out, irritated and hot, trying to argue with Gloucester while mounting his own equally annoyed warhorse, which fretted under the leather barding round its head.

‘Look to your
conrois,
my lords – and mount those damned Welsh,' bawled the Earl of Gloucester; the Earl of Hereford, hands full of rein and mouth full of his own egret plumes as he fought with helm and horse, fumed helplessly at this de Clare imposition of command.

Addaf caught Thweng's eye and nodded briefly; once he would have knuckled his forehead, but he was too old to care these days unless it was a lord who mattered. Besides, he remembered the Yorkshire knight as a man unimpressed by such things; he had met him years before – by God, during his first campaign, in fact, against the Wallace.

Thweng's was not a face you could forget, with eyebrows so bushy that they looked stuck on with fish glue for some mummer's performance. Two deep, vertical furrows, like the gills of a porpoise, ploughed from the wings of his nostrils to the bearded angles of his wide mouth and the upper lip hung, ape-long, over the lower, which made his drooping moustache seem more baleful.

Thweng did not recognize Addaf, which made the archer smile wryly. He had been a husky, hump-shouldered youth, dark and sullen, in those days, and was now a grizzled, iron-grey veteran – but, from his cool gaze and quiet nod, it was clear the Yorkshire lord knew the worth of the archers. Clear, too, from his frown that he wished they were on foot, flitting through the trees rather than riding.

Addaf would have fervently agreed if they had spoken on it; he led the Van down from the blazing brass of sunlight into the immediate cooling balm of the Torwald shade, such a relief that men gasped aloud. Addaf filtered his mounted men out as far as he could, like a fan on either side of the narrow trackway, threading their mounts through the trees; he felt the place close on him.

Bigod, thought Thweng, here is as good a spot for an ambush as any Vegetius could come up with. Others thought so, too, for the sighs and cries about being in the shade faded and died. Tight-packed in twos and threes, they rode knee to knee in a deep, dark green gloom with only a creak and jingle that was suddenly too loud.

Five hundred at least, Thweng thought moodily, strung out like wet washing; he felt, in the dappled closeness, as if he was under water.

They burst out of the Torwald like a shout of relief, into a blaze of sun and a new barrier ahead – yet another scar of woodland, though this was the New Park, a mere imp of the Great Satan that was Torwald. Beyond that, no more than six English miles away, lay Stirling Castle.

Hereford, his voice muffled and booming inside his splendid helm, bawled out orders which Gloucester, his own helmet tucked under one arm, took delight in repeating so that they would be understood; his red face was beaming with pleasure and heat.

‘Sir Henry', he yelled to de Bohun, ‘is to command the foot forward while the horse gathers itself. Scour the enemy ahead, sirrah, with all despatch.'

Addaf looked sourly at the great confection that was Henry de Bohun, brilliant in his bright blue surcote and jupon and horse trappings, all studded with little gold lions. He was, with that great lion-topped helmet clapped on his head, identical to his uncle save for the red slash through his shield. A bowl of frumenty, Addaf thought scornfully, and about as much use to me and mine, look you – but it was the way of things that an English lord oversaw what the Welsh did, even if he was a
cont gwirion
on four legs.

Addaf signalled with a wave of his sword and the Welsh dismounted at last, the horse-holders calming their charges while the rest padded forward like hunting hounds, bows smarted and arrows nocked. They filtered into the trees while de Bohun followed and his squire, Dickon, trailed at his back on his own palfrey, encumbered with spare lance and a host of other weapons his sire might need.

Thweng watched them go while the rest of the Van horse came up and reordered, the bright face of the lord of Badenoch like a child's slapped arse as he arrived at Sir Marmaduke's elbow.

‘The rebels will not stand, it seems,' he said in polite French and wrinkled his snub nose. ‘A pity. I owe the Bruce a mighty blow.'

Bruce is owed one, true enough, Thweng thought to himself, but you are not the one to give it, little lord. He wondered, though, if the Bruce he had seen was the same one he had known in younger, tourney days. Did he still deserve the title of second-best knight in Christendom?

Addaf dashed sweat from his eyebrows and blew it off the end of his moustache. There were men ahead; he had seen them filtering away ahead of them, keeping out of decent bowshot. Beyond, he heard shouts and a familiar rattle of spears, a sound he remembered well.

‘Ware – spearmen,' he bawled out in Welsh, and then repeated it in English, so Henry de Bohun knew of it, though whether that lord understood or heard was a mystery, since he was a faceless metal creature who gave no signs.

Arrows flicked and rattled suddenly, so that the Welsh went into a half-crouch, searching for targets and returning fire. An arrow spanged off Henry's helmet, the ring of it jerking him so that the warhorse's head came up and it blew out heavily in protest.

The Welsh, Henry de Bohun saw, were going to ground, which was sensible when you had no protection and were not bound by the chivalry of knighthood. He curled a sweating lip at them and urged his horse forward.

Addaf saw the splendid lord, the padded gold lion and plumes on his helmet nodding, the trailing blue and red tippets fluttering prettily and thought, well, there's the last we will see of that
uffar gwirion
and good riddance to another English. He saw the muttering-anxious squire kick his own horse up past the Welsh and revised his thoughts to include him, too; a shaft hit a branch near him, clattered off into the trees and he forgot the pair entire, bawling at his men to stop shaming him and kill the Scotch bowmen.

Already, though, he saw the Scots archers slink away, knew their task was done; behind them, no doubt formed and ready, would be a host of close-ranked men bristling with spears and, vaguely through the trees, he saw a helmeted horseman.

A spearwall, archers and knights – there was no way through this without a hard fight which needed foot and spears rather than just his nearly-hundred of archers and a lot of heavy horse. He handed command to Coch Deyo and shouldered back through the wood and into the sunlight, squinting at the great horde of wilting, patient horsemen. He padded across like a stiff wolf to Hereford and Gloucester, careful to report what he had seen to both of them at once.

They took it well enough and the young one, the de Clare, was hot for going on but the older Earl of Hereford was more clever, Addaf saw, seeing at once that he might win with his five hundred heavy horse, but would ruin them doing it. Clever, too, the Welshman saw, not to admit that was why he hesitated; instead, he ordered the walrus-faced lord called Thweng to ride forward with his
mesnie
and see how many men opposed them.

And, as Addaf turned to lope back to his men, anxious about what Coch Deyo had done with them in his absence, the Earl of Hereford suddenly barked out:

‘Where is my nephew?'

Henry de Bohun was in an oven with the sweat stinging his eyes, the lance rattling and banging off low branches, so that he had to lean it back on one shoulder. The proud trailing tippets of his helmet seemed to hook on every branch and threatened to tear the whole cumbersome affair from his head.

Which might be a relief, he thought to himself – until the first arrow strikes my nose. Through the blurry slit of his helmet, he saw a rider, a vague figure and no more. Behind, he saw – like a deer moving and revealing itself in the dapple of sunlit wood – a great mass of men and spears. He paused, considering, looked right and left and saw no one at all.

Which is at least a mercy, he thought, blowing frantically upward to try and dislodge the sweat coursing down his face and over his lips, for I would not know Scotch from Welsh in here.

It was idiocy to go on – stupidity to be this close to start with – so he started to turn the head of Durandal, who did not like putting his back to an enemy and resisted, baiting on the spot. Cursing, de Bohun savaged his mouth a little to get his attention – and then froze.

The rider had moved, was shouting and waving a little axe. He was on a palfrey and wore a splendid jupon of gold, blazoned with a red lion, a bloody replica of the gold ones Henry himself wore. On the man's head, clapped atop the open-faced bascinet, was a little domed cap in red leather surrounded by a circlet of spiked gold.

A crown.

The King himself and without a coterie of knights, only spearmen and only one or two in maille and plate to show that they might have been
nobiles
– but afoot. Not another horseman in sight.

The blood shushed in Henry's ears, thundering deafeningly inside the cave of his steel helm and he almost cried out. Then he fumbled the lance round, battering it through the clutch of branches until he could couch it, kicked Durandal so that he squealed and rode out at as fast a trot as he could manage, cursing the tangle of his tippets.

‘Ogre!' he yelled, for it was only chivalrous to announce his presence and not ambush like an outlaw. ‘Face me in single combat. I am Henry de Bohun, knight. It will be glorious …'

Bruce was anxious and fretting; he was sure that the English Van had balked at turning to their left and were pushing straight ahead, which was to the good.

Yet Jamie and his riders, now dismounting to fight on foot, had reported that the Van and the Main were coming up together and the third Battle was further to the right of the English, coming up by another road which would bring it out along the Way, to St Ninian's and the castle itself.

That is fine, he consoled himself while the sweat coursed off him. That is where I want them all, round to my left, in the Carse to the north and east – though I wish I knew where this third Battle was now and if Randolph has them under watch. He glanced at the sky and the great relentless ball, slowly, slowly, swinging down to the horizon.

Too late for the English to force matters this day, if we hold firm here – and find out where this other Battle is. Clifford, he said to himself. It will be Clifford. Or Beaumont. Hereford is here in front of me and Gloucester with him; that is an unnatural mating, Bruce thought, which may work to my advantage. Yet he is not short of good commanders, is the Plantagenet …

Too many ifs and buts and peering at heraldry, trying to work out who and where and with what. A battle lasts as long as the first steps of a plan, Bruce thought; after that, you may just as well try herding cats.

Bruce shouted at the rearguard, about half of his own Battle, chivvying them into a barrier against the English Van when – if – it debouched from the trees, while the archers flitted back and forward like midgies to buy them time. Behind, the rest of the Scots army reordered itself at right angles, marching along under the great hump of Coxet Hill.

Dangerous, dangerous, Bruce thought to himself, to move in front of an advancing enemy – yet they are not in a position to do me harm and all I need do here is discourage them, make it clear there is no easy passage into the New Park. Buy time for the end of this day and then, having taken the measure of them, decide what to do on the morrow …

Which would be run, he decided. I do not have the men or the arms to risk anything else.

The shouting brought his head up and he stared, amazed, at the vision which presented itself. He knew the gold lions on blue at once; for one heart-stopping moment he thought it was the Earl of Hereford himself, but then saw the red diagonal slash on the shield. A sprig from the tree, he thought and frowned, because the man was yelling, incoherent under the muffle of great helm.

‘The King. Protect His Grace …'

Gilbert de la Haye, commander of the bodyguard and frantic for his king, stumped forward on his thick legs like an armoured toddler, screamed his fear loudly. The mass of foot surged forward as the blue and gold knight spurred on and Bruce, for the first time, felt a spasm of alarm, for he knew the knight would reach him first; the sight of the lance, big as an axle and wickedly pointed, made his belly clench and all his skin try to harden with gooseflesh.

The point was almost at him; he heard his own men yelling in desperation, as if they could throw shouts to deflect the horror of the English knight's descent on their king – and then he nudged the palfrey sideways, more by instinct than conscious thought and watched, almost dispassionately, as the blue and gold figure hurtled harmlessly past him in a snorting thunder, a flap of embroidered trapper.