Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (40 page)
Edward’s schiltron held.
“Signal Randolph forward,” I said to Angus Og.
With a fiery smile, Angus gave the word. Randolph’s division drew up on Edward’s left, pressuring the exposed flank of the English cavalry, some of whom broke off to ward off the new threat. More of the same. English knights jabbing at Scots through a forest of pricking spears. Riders thrown, trampled, their throats cut, blades thrust into the small places where their mail gapped. And riderless horses, seeking escape, crashing into other mounted knights trying to press forward and attack. Many of those horses, wounded and fraught with hysteria, raced directly at the lines of Englishmen waiting further back on the carse.
“Now Douglas,” I said to Angus.
When James’ division went forward, the army of Scotland covered a straight line from the Bannock Burn to the Pelstream, so that the English for now had no way to attack but to their restricted front. King Edward’s archers were penned behind. There was only forward for them and in front of them a wall of Scottish spears so thick that it looked like a forest of blood-soaked trees. On the hot breeze, the stench of death – blood and excrement – fouled the air.
They held. For hours they held. And I could do nothing yet but watch and wait for them to do their work as the dead and dismembered piled up in that long, writhing line. Far, far into the distance, Englishmen dropped from the banks and crossed the Pelstream, but whether they were in retreat or making way to Stirling to claim it or...
They were drawing up on James’ left flank and still on the opposite bank they staggered out in a measured line. I saw the bows, faint slashes of brown against a field of dull yellow shot with tufts of green where the ground was marshy. Then the streaks cutting through the blue of the sky. And Scotsmen dropping. Pools of red flowing from their pierced bodies.
“Keith. Now!” I shouted at Angus.
While more of James’ soldiers were cut down, Keith took to the expanse with his horsemen. The battle cries of Keith’s men broke the rhythm of the English archers and was followed by a moment of indecision. Some of the archers turned to face Keith’s cavalry, while the rest continued to rain their shafts at James’ division. But fast, Keith was upon them and they scattered like field mice back downstream, clambering to wade the Pelstream and find refuge amongst the helpless ranks of English infantry that had yet to be engaged.
The stink of blood floated on the hot air. The cries of the dying drifted heavenward. Sword struck spear haft. Axe clanged on shield. And Scotland held. And pushed forward, compressing England’s force back, until it began to cave in on itself. Englishmen toppled from the steep lip of the Bannock Burn into its waters and as they struggled to gain their feet, more fell. Horses plunged from the banks in a flurry of legs and ear-renting screams, crushing the bodies that broke their fall.
Angus sat on his horse before me. He crammed his helmet down over his head. It had no visor, only a slit in the shape of a cross, so that I could see nothing of his face, but for his bloodshot eyes staring hotly at me, the reddened tip of his nose and that ragged moustache flapping as he spoke.
“Now, my lord?”
“Aye,” I answered. “Go now, Angus. They’re failing and the weight of the scale rests in your hands. Faith.” I nudged my pony forward and extended a loose fist toward him. He reached out and clasped it. I shook my fist once, then pulled it back. “Our Lord be with you.”
Angus paused and beamed with the exultation of joining in the battle. “It would seem, my lord king, that He is on Scotland’s side after all.”
I nodded. “So it would seem. So it would seem. But take nothing for granted, least of all God’s favor. He can take it from you in a heartbeat. The day is not yet done.”
“Done for King Edward,” Angus yelled over his shoulder as he raced away, filled with joy and battle-lust. “Someone should let him know, don’t you think?”
A body of heavy English cavalry nudged and shoved its way toward the Pelstream, where they began to cross on a bridge of drowned and broken bodies. For a moment I thought I saw among them the flash of King Edward’s colors. But my eyes must have been tricked, for when I looked again the standard was gone and the horsemen were over the stream and headed for Stirling.
Among all the miracles of that one day, the greatest was when the small folk gushed over the crown of Gillies Hill, waving their hand-painted banners and flourishing crude spears and shouting loud enough to lift the roof off the sky. Seeing hundreds more coming to kill them, the infantry of England began to flee in every direction they could. They piled over the mangled and the drowning and the dead in the Bannock Burn and Pelstream. Some fell in the marshy places, where they were run down by Scots or run over by their own. The vestiges of a once large and mighty army lay in scattered ruins. Its leaders had abandoned it – fled, to save their own lives so they might go back to England and live off the fat of their lands.
The brave sons of Scotland had won their battle. Not because they were more – no, they were outnumbered four-fold. Not because they were better armed or paid. They won because, in order to live, they had to.
In exchange for the English nobles that had been taken captive today, I would not ask for ransom. Instead, I would bring my wife and daughter home.
Eight years, it has been. Soon, I will hold Elizabeth in my arms again, gaze upon my daughter’s face. And I pray they can find it in their hearts to forgive me for the suffering I have caused them.
As I ride to join in the fight, I cannot see, for I weep. I weep for the dead and dying. Weep for God’s grace that I have lived to see this day. Weep for freedom – which I have never truly known until now
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Epilogue
Edward II – Stirling, 1314
D’Argentan rides knee to knee beside me, so close that our mounts bump frequently. But as we fly over a waist-high ridge, the last of the hobelars bearing down on us, he glances behind us and grins morbidly at me.
“I take my stand here, sire.”
With those words, he peels away, cutting behind me. Immediately, I hear the crash of metal and a heavy thud. Grunts and more clanging. I dare not look back. All I can do is ride on. On toward Stirling. Away from Bannockburn and the army of Scotland. Nothing left around me but the remnants of what, only a day before, was the greatest force ever to set foot on Britain’s soil.
God spare me. I am not ready to meet my sire, not yet. I would rather plummet to hell and take my eternity there with my flesh forever burning. Could he have foreseen this? Known it would come to this end? Is that why he spurned me so?
At last we reach the cobbled road that leads up the rock upon which Stirling sits. Already, my English soldiers are collecting at the foot of the crag in refuge. Most look as though they had fled without ever striking a blow. Deplorable cowards. Houses crowd the view, so that I can see nothing of the way from which we have come. We halt our lathered horses at the gatehouse. Swinging down from his saddle, Pembroke elbows his way through the front group of my guard and bangs on the gate with the butt end of his sword.
“Open!” he cries. “Open, Mowbray. In the name of your king, Edward of England!”
No answer comes. Soldiers peek at us from the ramparts and disappear. Pembroke pounds again and again. His face, already red from the heat and extreme effort, begins to purple in vexation.
“Damnable hell, man. Let us in!”
Mowbray’s head pops through one of the crenels of the southeast gate tower.
“I regret to inform you, my lords,” Mowbray says with a nervous grin, “that it would be most unwise, for all considered, to permit you entrance.”
I tremble violently. Pembroke steps away from the gate until he comes to stand beside me, so that he can see Mowbray directly.
“If I could kill him from here,” I utter, “I would. Have we an archer?”
“Allow me.” Hugh Despenser removes his helmet, wipes the sweat from his brow and cocks his head back. In a loud, strained voice, he calls, “Sir Mowbray, by your own words, the castle is relieved. The king is here. He commands you to give him entrance to Stirling Castle. Open the gate – or cast your name among the king’s enemies.”
Mowbray snorts in ridicule. “Ah, no. I would dare not say you have relieved it after that routing. I saw everything from up here. Quite a plain view, I have. An ugly one, if you’re an Englishman. I would say the King of England has many enemies this day that will outlive him. You’ve nothing left to defend this place. If I let you in here I promise you Robert the Bruce, having already torn your army to shreds, will surround the place and starve us all to sickness and make a fine prisoner of your lord. Take it as a sign of concern for your welfare that I’ve turned you away. You would not be safe here, unfortunately.”
With that, he withdraws.
I leap from my horse and claw at the gate until my nails are bloody and I am white with rage. I yell curses, accuse Mowbray’s mother of lying with the devil, vow to put his head on a pike on London Bridge after gouging out his eyes...
Somehow, during my madness, Hugh wrenches me from there, puts me on my horse and leads me away as I scream on. Pembroke takes his leave at the edge of town, saying he intends to gather his men and lead them away. I think it a vain act and am certain I will never set eyes on him again.
I take no food. Have no thought of hunger. Drink only when they push a flask of water to my lips. Sleep not at all. I only ride. On and on. South through the tangled depths of New Park. East by Torwood. Past Falkirk. Linlithgow. Edinburgh. Names of places I would rather never have known. All the while Scots trail behind in our clouds of dust. Pushing us further, faster. They dare not engage us, because we are yet five times their number. Bruce has failed in his ultimate genius, sending only so few. A foible worth a king’s true ransom.
Day becomes night becomes day again. East. Ever east. Haunted. Hunted. Chased down like hares by a pack of hounds. I cannot look back. They are always there.
A horse begins to pull up lame among my personal guard. All the other men look at the unfortunate knight with only fleeting pity. His horse falters. Refuses to go on. No one cares to save him. His ill luck, not ours. The knight is left there, alone. His one sword against three score Scots as they run him down.
I hear the cry I fear most: “A Douglas!”
I do not look back.
At Dunbar, I fall from my horse, leave it lame and dying, and run on foot... stumbling through the castle gate. Around me, familiar faces begin to gather. But many are missing.
When the gate draws shut behind us, my knights packed in the bailey like livestock in the market pens, Dunbar’s handful of archers pelt the Scots with arrows. The thieves take our horses. Most will be of no use to them, ruined as they are. In a distant fog, I watch from the parapets as the Scots ride into a setting sun, leading four horses apiece. Someone speaks to me. Asks me something. I do not answer.
Still, I can hear the echo in my head of the banging tenor of the Highlanders’ drums. The primeval battle cries. The crash of weapons. The grunt as a sword is plunged into a belly. The sucking sound as it is pulled out. The slurping of boots through rising pools of blood. The wails as horses trod over the wounded and crush their bones. The guttural pleas for mercy.
Slipping a hand beneath my mail coif, I feel the links of the gilt chain around my neck. The lion pendant is still there, guarding my heart.
About the Author
N. Gemini Sasson holds a M.S. in Biology from Wright State University where she ran cross country on athletic scholarship. She has worked as an aquatic toxicologist, an environmental engineer, a teacher and a cross country coach. A longtime breeder of Australian Shepherds, her articles on bobtail genetics have been translated into seven languages. She lives in rural Ohio with her husband, two nearly grown children and an ever-changing number of sheep and dogs.
Long after writing about Robert the Bruce and Queen Isabella, Sasson learned she is a descendant of both.
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Books by N. Gemini Sasson:
The Crown in the Heather
(The Bruce Trilogy: Book I)
Worth Dying For
(The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)
The Honor Due a King
(The Bruce Trilogy: Book III)
Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer
The King Must Die
(The sequel to Isabeau)
Uneasy Lies the Crown, A Novel of Owain Glyndwr
EXCERPT FROM THE HONOR DUE A KING
(The Bruce Trilogy: Book III)
Prologue:
James Douglas – Spain, 1330
I believe, as sure as I have bled for such belief, that crowns were made for men like Robert the Bruce.
Two years gone since he died. Two years I have wandered aimless as a leper from one day to the following. So much I have aged in that short, hollow span.
When the storm clouds gather now, my right forearm aches where Neville’s axe grazed my bone. Each morn, when I lift my head from my pillow and stretch my fingers toward the sunlight of yet another day, I feel a brittle stiffness in my hands – too many years clenching the hilt of my sword; a pinching at the base of my spine – bent from a hundred falls; and every cramped muscle, resisting wakefulness, longing to rest yet one more blissful hour.