The Price of Freedom (30 page)

Kathryn searched for and found Bruce's banner. With her heart in her throat, she watched the king's hedgehog-shaped group as it awaited his order to advance.

The morning passed slowly as the English horses, unable to charge, tried without success to break through the Scottish ranks. Trapped behind their own cavalry, very few of the English foot soldiers were able to come forward and engage the Scots. And those that did were even less effective than the calvary against the united Scots.

Kathryn retreated to the shade of a tree in the early afternoon heat. Surely Bryan, Adam, and their companions were growing hungry and weary in the warmth of the day. How much longer? Little progress seemed to be made, and Kathryn wondered if the outcome would end up a stalemate.

She walked back to camp to check on Isobel. Anna was mending under the shade of a tree while the child napped. Kathryn returned to Fergus and the battle and sat with her back propped against a tree. She must have been daydreaming because she came awake at Fergus's shout.

“What is it?” she asked, fearing the worst.

Fergus pointed. “Look, there.”

“Oh, no.” King Edward's Welsh archers were scrambling up the shallow banks of the Pelstream, a small stream that formed the northern edge of the marshy meadow where the English cavalry lay trapped. The longbow was the schiltron's greatest enemy, for the arrows could be shot high in the air to come down within the ranks. Kathryn's anxiety mounted—the highlanders had only their wickerwork targes to protect them from such an attack.

BRYAN SAT IMPATIENTLY on Cerin as the day progressed. The waiting was the hardest part of being a cavalry officer. Cavalry, especially heavy horses such as the English had, were effective in charging a stationary enemy and breaking his lines so the foot soldiers could gain access.

But only a handful of Scottish knights rode coursers such as Cerin, bigger than the native horses but not so heavy as the English mounts. Bruce simply did not have the funds to equip heavy cavalry. Bryan counted himself lucky to be so well-mounted. Because of their limited numbers and their lack of size and armor, the Scots must wait until such time as they could be sent against English infantry. Or the archers.

Thomas steadied his own horse and asked, “What are we waiting for?”

“The schiltrons are pushing Edward's cavalry back toward the stream. Sooner or later he must find a way to get his archers in place since it's his only hope to break our schiltrons and give his cavalry room to maneuver.”

“So we will ride against the archers.”

“Aye, I suspect that is what Bruce is saving us for. They will scatter if we attack with strength. But beware, those are Welshmen with longbows. They fire rapidly, and the arrows can penetrate leather and chain mail.”

“Then we shall have to ride faster than they can fire.” Thomas grinned and they both returned their attention to the battle. Their comrades in the schiltrons must be tiring—how much longer could they hold back Edward's mighty cavalry?

Bryan wrapped Kathryn's ribbon around his finger, remembering her tears as she tied it to his arm this morning. A fierce longing to see her face one last time welled up in him and he fought it. Love warred with duty, and right now duty must win. He and his comrades must win. He prayed that God might give them victory.

“There, my laird. To the north.”

Thomas's excited voice pulled Bryan out of his prayer, and he looked where Thomas pointed. Edward had somehow managed to free his archers from the chaos. They were forming on the hard ground on the northern bank of the stream. Bruce would allow most of them to leave the relative safety to be found behind their cavalry. Once his own cavalry charged it would be difficult for them to regroup and make a second strike. Bryan told his men to be vigilant and ride hard when the order came.

The disciplined Welshmen formed ranks and fired a volley of arrows. Many men among the schiltrons fell in death. Bruce signaled to Keith, who gave the order to charge. With a nod to Thomas, Bryan laid his spurs to Cerin's side and they were off. The bowmen managed to release another volley of arrows but were no match for five hundred hard-charging horses.

Bryan drove Cerin straight at a group loading their bows and the archers scattered for cover. Others who stood their ground were simply run down where they stood. Bryan's comrades had similar success and within minutes the Scottish cavalry ended England's most reliable threat to the Scottish troops.

Bryan whirled Cerin about to give chase to any bowmen still determined to fire their weapons. He made a second pass, scattering a small cluster of archers. Grinning with the joy of success, he looked about for Thomas. They would have a grand tale to tell around the campfire tonight.

But the fight wasn't over. A few archers remained and continued to shoot. Thomas's horse went down, an unfortunate victim of a Welsh arrow, sending Thomas crashing to the ground. Thomas stood up unharmed and Bryan raced to his squire and reaching down, dragged him up behind him on Cerin. Thankful for Cerin's size, Bryan put his heels to the horse's sides and they raced away, headed for the safety behind their schiltrons.

But before they were out of range of the Welshmen, Thomas grunted and went slack. Bryan desperately grasped his friend's surcoat while slowing Cerin. But in his attempt to hold on to the man, both of them fell from Cerin's back and into the mud.

BY LATE AFTERNOON the Scots had succeeded in pushing the mighty English horses to the edge of the water behind them. Foot soldiers scrambled down the steep bank and into the swift, deep water, trying not to be trampled by their own cavalry.

Edward of England cried out to his commanders, “We must attempt a charge or all is lost!”

Seeing his chance to return to his king's good graces, Rodney rallied the men under his command and turned toward the Scots. But the sight that greeted him stopped him—and every other Englishman—in his tracks.

Although the last crusade to the Holy Land had ended with the fall of the city of Acre in 1291, there were few men alive who hadn't heard stories of the bravery of the ferocious Templar Knights. Highly disciplined and well-trained, they never retreated in battle. Indeed, they wore a red cross on the front of their white surcoats— none on the back—so that if they weakened and turned back, their comrades would know and would kill them themselves.

Aye, no one who valued his life would take up arms against such men. And six of them, red crosses clearly visible, were charging toward Rodney and Edward of England. The king was so obviously their target that Edward's advisors screamed at him to leave the field.

Rodney would give Edward credit—he was no coward. His king refused to leave, knowing that his desertion of the field would cause his men to flee also. But brave or not, the king must not be captured and the Earl of Pembroke seized the reins of the king's horse and dragged him away. They fought their way through the Scots and headed for Stirling Castle. Rodney beat off several Scots intent on capturing the bridle or trappings of Edward's horse.

Edward's horse was speared, but the valiant animal kept on until they were clear of the fighting. When the horse finally faltered, Edward jumped clear of him and demanded Rodney's horse. All Rodney could say was, “Godspeed, Your Majesty,” and hand him the reins.

Rodney found himself walking back to . . . to what? Complete chaos. He still had his sword and he still had Edward's order to find and kill Mackintosh. He headed to where Bruce's flag flew above the melee.

SHOUTS OF “Press on, they fail,” reached Kathryn's ears from the Scottish ranks. “Fergus,” she shouted. “The English are breaking ranks!”

“Why are they fleeing the battlefield?” Fergus wondered aloud. “Edward himself is fleeing!”

Growing numbers of Scots and English alike were pointing to something behind and to Kathryn's left. She twisted to see what had their attention and nearly fell over her skirt.

Charging down the hill of the New Park were half a dozen mounted knights, each wearing a pure white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross.
Templars.
Templar Knights? Who would be so foolish as to impersonate Templar Knights? If caught, they'd be hanged as heretics, imposters or not. But that didn't stop the English from turning and running in fear as those knights raced their horses down the hill.

The English attack faltered as they began to mill about in confusion. Most of their leaders had fled to protect the king, and the common soldiers were left to fend for themselves.

Fergus cried out in excitement. “Edward is fleeing toward Stirling. He best not take shelter there, or we'll have him, since they are honor-bound to surrender the castle and anyone inside its gates. We've won, Kathryn!”

Kathryn grabbed his arm and pointed to the knights racing down the hill. “Do you see them?”

“Aye, my lady. And so did the English. Look at them run!” He began to dance a jig, but she feared he was overly optimistic.

Suddenly, the camp followers surrounding Kathryn shouted blood-curdling screams and started down the hill, waving pitchforks and whatever makeshift weapons came to hand.

Whether they did so at a signal from Bruce or just in expectation of victory, Kathryn didn't know. But she grabbed the broom someone shoved in her hands, and ran screaming down the hill with Fergus in hot pursuit.

SIXTEEN

K
ATHRYN, HER GOOD SENSE RETURNING momentarily, remembered her promise to Bryan, and stopped halfway down the hill while the others ran by her. The English, apparently interpreting the new barrage as reinforcements, began to flee the battlefield in earnest. Soon it would be over, and she would be reunited with Bryan.
Please, God, let him be all right. And the others too.

Fergus, as out of breath as she was, came to a halt at her side. Together they watched as the desperate English tried to cross the Bannock Burn. From her vantage point, Kathryn could see them become bogged down in the stream's muddy depths. Those in front were crushed by those crowding after them, and before long the bodies of dead and dying men and horses formed a bridge which desperate men stepped upon in their haste to flee.

Kathryn could watch no more. Although those men were enemies who would have gladly killed Bryan or any other Scot, it made her heart sore to see so much death and destruction.

She looked away to where the schiltrons were dispersing as the highlanders tasted victory and gave chase. Here and there lay her countrymen, dead or wounded, among many more of the defeated English. Some of the injured were helped toward the camp, either carried off or leaning on a friend and walking.

Not far from her were several skirmishes between unhorsed English cavalrymen and the Scottish infantry, but by and large the battle seemed over. She was safe here with Fergus.

Where was Bryan? What had happened to the Scots cavalry after their magnificent charge? What if he was among the wounded? She grabbed hold of Fergus's arm. “I must find Bryan.”

“Nay, my lady. We got carried away . . . we shouldn't be here. Come back to the camp and wait for him there.”

Ignoring Fergus, she ran down the rest of the hill, searching as she went for the king's banner. Seeing it still unfurled against the sky, her hopes soared. Fergus caught up to her but she pushed aside his hand and struggled toward the flag, sure that Bryan would have gone to Bruce's side now that the fight was nearly won. She would have to face her husband's anger when she found him, but she must know he was safe.

She became separated from Fergus in the crowd of meandering men. Blood stood in pools on the ground. She forced herself to disregard it, picking her way through the mud and past bloodied bodies beyond the need of her meager healing skills.

She stopped to help an injured Scot to his feet. He had a gaping wound on his arm, and Kathryn paused to bind it with material she carried in a pouch at her waist.

“You must go to the main camp and have that cleaned and properly cared for,” she admonished, glad there was someone she could aid.

“Aye, lady. God go with ye.”

The sights and sounds of the wounded assailed her, and for a moment she considered abandoning her search and going to the makeshift hospital to offer assistance. She would go there, but first she must find Bryan. He had to be over there, where the king's banner flew. The smell of death and blood beset her, but Kathryn pushed on toward the banner once more.

At last she reached the flag, only to find someone had stuck the pole in a hole in a rock, while the king had probably been taken to safety. Oh, saints in heaven, was Bryan with Bruce or here among the bodies strewn about in gruesome postures? She searched in every direction, but didn't find him. Perhaps he'd been wounded and taken to the hospital already.

Staggering from the weight of her skirt, the hem now soaked with mud and blood, Kathryn wiped the sweat from her eyes. A mounted man with the Mackintosh badge on his bonnet rode toward her. With relief, she recognized Fergus.

“Where did you find the horse?” she asked as he dismounted.

“I borrowed it from an Englishman who won't be needin' it.” He settled her into the saddle and led the horse toward camp. “There'll be the devil to pay if my laird finds ye down here,” he said gruffly.

“Have you seen him? Is he all right?”

“I have no idea where he is, Kathryn.”

She held tight to the pommel, taking a deep shuddering breath to calm herself. “We must search for him.”

“I will not. I value my life even if ye don't. I'm taking ye back to camp. Ye can wait for him there.”

“No, take me to the hospital. He may be wounded.”

Fergus seemed to consider her request for a moment as the horse picked its way among human and equine obstacles.

Everywhere, men lay perfectly still or moaned in agony. Horses thrashed in frantic attempts to escape their pain. She tried to shut it out, but just before she closed her eyes she happened to glance down.