Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“Will he charge us?” Moray demanded.

“His chivalry?”

“Would you?”

The other bit his lip.

“I… I do not know.”

“Nor, I think, can he know. He cannot know how many bowmen we have. It is no lengthy charge-but in face of strong and direct shooting he must lose many. When he reaches here-what? In this scrub forest, heavy chivalry is useless. Horses hamstrung, and out of every bush our people leaping up to pull his knights out of the saddle. No-I think de Burgh will not charge with his chivalry yet. His foot, yes.”

Angus Og came stumbling up, cursing the clutching brambles.

“A diversion? To turn their flank?” he suggested.

“From the east. I could take my Islesmen …?”

“To be sure, friend. Good! To harry them, make them fear for their rear. But… I cannot afford you many. Their foot will rush us here, any moment. We are too few already. Three hundred, no more…”

Some English arrows were coming back at them now. And some of the Scots were running short of shafts. This could not continue.

“Where is the Lord Edward!” Hay cried, hotly.

None answered him.

“Keith is back with the horse,” Bruce said.

“Send back to him, Gibbie. Tell him I need a cavalry feint to the

right. Along the road.

The cliff levels off. To use that. Swing round their left flank. He has not many men, with the horses. But a few score would do. Not to sacrifice them. Only a gesture. To pin down their cavalry there…”

“I think their foot are preparing to rush us, Sire,” Moray interrupted, “Aye.

Pray they don’t send in too many for us, at once! Sir Colin-gather

men with horns, trumpets. Send them over into the woodland to the

left. To scatter. And blow. Sound as though we have a host

marshalling there. Continue to blow. It may trouble de Burgh …”

The expected charge of the enemy foot erupted-and the Scots bowmen had but few arrows left for them. It made a terrifying sight, with thousands coming. Bruce drew back his line deeper into the wood, to allow the scrub and trees to fight for them, break up the impetus. In a way it paralleled their own first charge from the road-save that they had been charging archers, specialists with a high assessment of their own skins. These would meet a less careful reception.

In yelling fury the enemy foot hit the tangled woodland, pike men sworders and dirk-wielding Irish kerns-and the last were the most effective. Utter chaos resulted, in seconds, and continued, a crashing, slashing, cursing, stumbling frenzy, wherein all sense of lines and fronts disappeared and men fought perforce as individuals and little groups-when they could fight at all. Pikes were proved useless, indeed a handicap, and abandoned, long swords being only a little better. Battle-axes, maces, dirks and knives were the weapons that counted-and here the Scots were better equipped and versed.

For once Bruce could partially forget his allotted role of the calm, detached general who stood back and directed. The man was, in fact, a fighter of fierce and terrible effectiveness, especially with his favourite weapon the battle-axe. Seldom indeed in these last years had he had opportunity to indulge this savage prowess.

Now he could and did. Tireless, shrewd, wickedly skilful, he wielded

the dripping, slippery axe, and left a trail of felled men behind

Time had little relevance in these circumstances, and how long it was before a slackening in the fury of the struggle indicated to the King that this particular stage of the battle was ending, there was no knowing. His personal awareness had been of consistent victory, but as to how his cause had gone, he had only a vague impression. Now he perceived that not only was he, and other Scots, still in sight of the southern edge of the wood, but that they were in fact edging still nearer to it. Which could only mean that the enemy, in general, was retiring.

Presently it became obvious to all, and the retiral turned into headlong retreat, as men turned and ran from those damnable thickets for the open ground and freedom from probing, thrusting steel. The Scots retained possession of the wood.

Breathlessly Bruce took stock, wiping blood-stained hands on torn surcoat. Horn and trumpet-calls were still sounding from the east. Peering out of the trees, he could see that there was considerable stir on the right wing of the enemy host across the clearing.

Angus Og’s diversion, plus all the horn-blowing, was evidently preoccupying them there. The Marischal’s projected thrust on the other flank could hardly have developed yet; but something had kept the main body of the mounted men inactive and in their place.

“How now, Sire?” Alexander Fraser asked, mopping blood from his jaw.

“These are dealt with. But how do we deal with the mounted host?”

“We do not. We leave them to try to deal with us. Are you hurt,

Sandy?”

“A thrown dirk. A graze only.” He shrugged.

“It is stalemate, then? They cannot risk to charge their heavy

chivalry into this wood. And we cannot attack them.”

“Scarce that, yet. They have still many foot. They will try again.”

“If only the others would come back. In their rear. The Lord

Edward…”

“Forget the Lord Edward’s host-as I have done!” That was harsh.

In the breathing-space they regrouped, assessed casualties. On the whole they had got off lightly, so far. The fallen enemy lay thick around them, and not all were dead, by any means-but this was scarcely the time to tend them. Men grumbled, but more at the clutching brambles and thorns than at their hurts.

It could be seen that some proportion of the English cavalry was dismounting. And there was more marshalling of foot.

“Another assault. This time stiffened by armed knights and cavalry on foot. Slower, but harder to bring down,” the King said.

“Archers forward, Sire?” Fraser asked.

“Few arrows left.”

“No. Hold them back. Then, move into position behind the attack. A few shafts at de Burgh, then. To keep him from moving in his mounted host in support. More value in that.”

Trumpets blaring, men yelling, the second assault began, though inevitably it came much more slowly. With no arrows aimed at them, many men must have been grimly relieved. But the leaders seemed wary, too.

This time, save for the hundred or so archers, who remained hidden,

Bruce withdrew his men before the long enemy line. The deeper into the

wood’s entanglements, the more broken those ranks must become. But he

detached groups under Sir Robert Boyd and Sir Hugh Ross, right and

left, to seek to work round behind, both to upset the advance and to support the bowmen.

This battle, as it developed, held a less feverish note. Men were tiring, as well as wary. Towards the end of a hard-fought day, men who have managed to preserve their lives thus far tend to have a growing interest in prolonging them further. This applies to both sides.

Moreover, the heavily armoured dismounted chivalry added a new dimension. There could be nothing feverish about their fighting, nor their movement amongst the undergrowth. But they were very hard to lay low. This, indeed, became a ding dong struggle, dour, hard-hitting, but lacking the fervour of heretofore.

Bruce, well aware of it, recognised its dangers for the side with the smaller numbers. He racked his tired wits and splitting head, even as he fought, for some livener, some new factor-and could think of nothing. That insidious word stalemate had got into his mind. Damn Sandy Fraser for pronouncing it! But the situation did indeed seem to have become almost static, unsusceptible to successful manoeuvre.

Who would have prevailed in the end it would have been hard to forecast. But, no thanks to Bruce, or any Scots plan, a new factor did arise. Angus Og and his Islesmen got tired of making gestures and shadow-fighting, isolated on the main enemy’s east flank-as fiery Gaels would-and came back to their comrades for some real fighting. They picked up most of the horn blowers in the process, who likewise had become disillusioned. But entry into a wildly confused battle in dense woodland is a dangerous operation, with friend and foe inextricably mixed and not always easily identifiable.