Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

With a certain amount of difficulty, and even some grumbling, along die line, the cavalry host there and then converted itself into an infantry host, passing die horses back. Bruce had die men close up into a much tighter and broader formation, as broad a front as die terrain would allow. Also, he insisted that all shields be carried, and on die left arms, not left with die horses-never a popular move with cavalrymen.

And so they moved on southwards, slowly now. And silently, with die command passed down for die maximum of quiet.

It made a strange progress through die early February afternoon, thousands of armed men all but tiptoeing, unspeaking, watchful, aware. Bruce had their relatively few archers up near the front. Never for a moment did any of them cease to scan the woodland ahead and to the left.

The King gave his instructions as they walked.

“Thomas-our first warning may well be a hail of arrows. They will seek to pick off our leaders first. But if they have any wits, they will let us get well into their trap. Go you part way down the column. If we are attacked from the woodland, have all behind you, save for the horse guard, swing off the track. Down into the wood. A wide sweep, to take the archers in flank. And swiftly. Or we may not survive! You have it?”

“Aye, Sire. But you?”

“We will play the poltroons! We will throw ourselves down. As poor marks for arrows as may be. Covered by our shields. To give you and your men time to get in amongst them. Then we shall up and charge to your aid.” He glanced upwards, half-right.

“Pray for us that there are no rocks loose, up there!”

The bank above them was steep but mainly of earth and rough grass, with scrub clinging. Higher, perhaps 200 feet above, the slope eased back out of sight, and the lessened gradient permitted taller trees to grow.

“At least it is no place for archers,” Moray commented.

“They could not shoot down at that angle, without exposing

themselves.

And it is too steep for men to charge down.”

“Aye-as for men to charge up! So long as it remains so. It pens us in, cramps us-but it does not threaten us greatly. Off with you, then, Thomas-and God go with you. If a bend of the track comes between us, three short blasts from my trumpeter means that we are attacked. One long blast, and you hasten directly forward to me. Gibbie -pass the word back. AH men to fall flat if the arrows come, and so lie.”

They had gone perhaps another half-mile when Colin Campbell spoke suddenly, low-voiced.

“I saw something, Sire. Movement. In the trees …”

“Where, man? Where?”

“Yonder. Near that white tree. The dead tree. Right of it.” He

pointed to an area about 250 yards away.

“Do not point, man. That could bring the arrows. Do you see aught?”

No movement showed.

“It could be a deer. A boar. I have seen droppings,” Angus Og said.

”Shall I go search?” Campbell demanded. “No That will serve nothing.Send a man back to Moray. Tell him of this. The place. For the rest, move on.”

Now the sensation of tiptoeing, of walking on hot stones, was intensified. It would have been a clod-like dolt indeed who could have stalked on unconcerned. Stout warriors found themselves stooping a little, hunching their shoulders, seeking to shrink their persons behind shields and armour.

No attack developed.

Then, round a substantial bend in the road, there was a major change in the scenery. Temporarily the scattered woodland rolled back, to reveal a wide clearing, perhaps a quarter-mile across.

Ahead was more forest, but the high bank on the right began gradually to break down and level off.

Bruce drew a long breath.

“If I planned an assault, this is where I would choose,” he said.

“Before this bank ceases to wall us in.

With a killing ground, open for archers. Yet cover all round for my forces. It…”

“Sire-see! A flash. A flash of light,” the keen-eyed Campbell

cried.

“Ahead. Half-left…”

“I saw it,” Hay confirmed. “ “Sun on steel, for a wager!”

“Look-another! Farther over …”

“So be it.” Bruce was all decision now, raising his battle-axe in his right hand and slamming it downwards twice.

“Down!” he commanded.

“Down!” And all along the line the cry was taken up, as men fell flat on their faces, shields jerking up to cover them. It was though a giant sickle mowed them down.

“Trumpeter-three blasts!” the King panted, as he himself went low.

Somewhat off-note and gaspingly, the trumpet neighed its warning from the mud of the track.

Results were immediate and quite fantastic. As though echoes had gone crazy, other trumpets and horns began to shout and yelp and ululate all around at some distance, in a shrill cacophony.

There were urgent cries. And, within seconds, the first arrows began to hiss and twang and fall, raggedly admittedly, but in ever increasing numbers and accuracy.

It is safe to say that never before had Bruce’s veterans had a like experience. To lie flat on the ground and allow oneself to be shot at, without any answering gesture, was beyond all belief frustrating, humiliating, as well as alarming. Yet none there failed to realise how much better off they were lying down than standing up.

From 400 yards or so lying men make a very poor target, largely invisible as individuals. When there were thousands, as here, the arrows could scarcely fail to find them, but it had to be by dropping shots, not directly aimed. And it is quite the most difficult feat in archery to so direct an arrow, and by your bow-string pull so control its flight, that at a given exact distance it will change its upward course and curve down in a parabola so as to land at a steep angle on even a wide target. This is the science of ballistics, and although the English and Welsh bowmen were apt to be the best in the world, few could be expert at this. Moreover, by its very nature, anything such could only be contrived by effecting a slackening of velocity at the given point; which meant that unless the angle of fire was very high indeed, the fall of the shaft, by the time it reached its target, had lost more of its impetus.

As a consequence, though a great many arrows were shot, comparatively few landed amongst the recumbent Scots at an angle to do any damage; and of these most were of insufficient velocity to penetrate leather, much less armour and chain-mail. There were some deadly hits, some screaming-but for a major archery attack casualties were negligible.

Nevertheless it was not pleasant to lie there, pinned down, helpless. The waiting seemed endless. Not to be hitting back was the worst of it; but there was nothing that men could do in a prone position. The arrows continued to fall. They were tending to come in volleys now.

It was the volleying becoming ragged again, with the change in tenor and scale of the shouting from their hidden assailants, that gave the prostrate host some indication that at last this stage of their ordeal might be ending. The anger, threat and jeering in the chorus of hate was being affected by new notes that spoke of surprise, urgency, even alarm. Moray’s people were beginning to concern the enemy’s right flank.

It was possible thereafter for the Scots to trace the advance of their friends, unseen as they were. The archery became ever more erratic, and died away at the north. But presently the advance slowed, if not ceased altogether. It was obvious that fierce fighting was taking place in the swampy woodland. Bruce counted every second.

The arrows had not stopped their dropping shower altogether, but it was on a vastly lessened scale.

“Will,” the King cried.

“Now! Cover us.” Sir William Irvine, Bruce’s former armour-bearer, had been put in command of the six-score or so Scots bowmen.