The Price of Freedom (28 page)

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.