Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Douglas, at the apex of the wedge, rose in his stirrups.

“God, Saint Andrew and Saint Bride be with us, now, my friends.” He raised the chained casket high.

“And the Bruce!” With a snap he shut his helm’s visor.

“Come!”

Out of seeming chaos the great arrowhead developed and took shape. Heedfully Douglas gave it time, restraining his own and the other leaders’ impatience to attain swiftly the necessary momentum.

Fortunately they had that half-mile- and as fortunately, the Moors did not ride to meet them, content to wait in solid phalanx for the impact of this suicidal charge of 500 against 5,000.

Halfway, peering behind him in the saddle, and cursing the helmet which so restricted his view, Douglas was approximately satisfied. He dug in his spurs, and gestured to his personal trumpeter.

Jerkily but unmistakable, the Full Charge call rang out.

They had just the time and space to achieve the outright gallop.

Thundering on the dry, sun-baked ground, they bore down on the waiting palisade of mounted spearmen and curved-sword warriors, some of the fiercest cavalry in the world, and crashed headlong into them like a battering-ram. But crashed at only one point in the long front, a point where only two or three dark fighters would not have been human had they not wilted somewhat, reined aside, drawn back.

With a resounding crash, the screaming of men and horses, and a lance-tip glancing harmlessly off shield and armoured shoulder, Douglas was through the first and second lines, thrust and driven on by the hurtling weight behind. Ignoring the waving swords of the enemy, attempting no swordery of his own, he swung the chained heart round and round in windmill fashion, right and left, and beat and beat with his other clenched fist at his mount’s flank, through the splendid heraldic trappings, to keep up the impetus.

Impetus, momentum, thrust-that was all, that was everything.

“A Bruce! A Bruce!” he shouted, as he rode, and all behind him cried the same.

Their tight-packed formation in the bottleneck of the valley was both the Mohammedans’ weakness and strength. They presented an almost solid barrier to the Scots drive, however much individuals in the way sought to draw clear-but could not. On the other hand, they were so close ranked, drawn up to oppose the conventional cavalry attack on a wide front, line behind line, that they had no room for manoeuvre, to bring their weapons to bear; and, of course, because of the narrow-fronted penetration by the wedge, not one in a score of the enemy could be in contact with their swift-moving assailants.

So long as it remained swift-moving. There was the difficulty, the danger. Strive as Douglas and the Scots leaders would, their speed fell, the press too thick. And as their pace slackened, so increased their vulnerability. Sundry blows of lance and scimitar set Douglas reeling in his saddle-yet he scarcely noticed them. All his attention was concentrated on the way ahead, forcing the wedge through.

And there was a way ahead, space, a thinning of the tight-packed host. That was ever more apparent. If they could win through to it… Their fine gallop reduced now to a mere lumbering, stumbling trot, Douglas broke through into the open, Fraser and Ross close at his flanks, still the head of the arrow, however misshapen it was behind. But now the impetus was gone. And immediately in front, not seventy yards off, was not another rear guard line but a single large group of white-robed Saracen notables, emirs, imams, the enemy high command, under a great Crescent banner. Beyond was practically empty plain.

The dark chiefs did not hesitate. With a mighty shout they spurred forward to the assault.

Douglas knew a strange, fierce exultation. This, then, was the end. The way was open for escape-but not for Douglas. With the enemy leaders before him, not for Douglas to waver or dodge or bolt He stood in his stirrups, dizzy from the blows he had received, and drew his great sword at last. But with his left hand. His right still swung the chained heart. Higher he raised it, and plunged forward, at a canter now, to meet the foe.

“Lead on, brave heart!” he cried.

“As ever-was your wont. Douglas follows! Or else dies! A Douglas! A

Douglas!” And with all his strength, he hurled the glistening silver

casket and its chain before him into the midst of the Saracens, just

before they closed

CO “WW

He went down, horse beneath him, under a hail of lance and sword thrusts. The arrowhead was disintegrated. But the mass of the Scots were through. In their hundreds they swept out of the great melee, and down upon the Moslem leadership. In the chaos of those final moments, with their own people milling and streaming past, Ross, Fraser and Sir William Keith of Galston reined round and back, smiting, to where Douglas lay. Keith, an enormous man, leapt down, while his companions, now joined by others, circled and caracoled and slashed protectively. Keith grasped the slighter and limp body in the black armour, and with a mighty effort hoisted it right on to the front of his own saddle.

Beneath the body lay the gleaming casket-heart. Grabbing this also, he clambered up behind the Douglas.

“A Bruce! A Bruce!” they all cried, as they spurred after the others, out into the open plain.

The good Sir James left his last battlefield, following in his liege lord’s road.