Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

The Lord of the Isles, therefore, had his 300 come in dramatically, vigorously chanting their wild Hebridean slogans, shouting for Clan Donald, and identifying themselves with great success, while trumpets and horns blew varying versions of the Scots advance.

Certainly it sounded an infinitely greater influx than any mere 300. Moreover, and perhaps most telling of all, the newcomers sounded fresh, enthusiastic and vehemently aggressive.

Almost everywhere the enemy foot wavered a little.

When the majority of the Highlanders, left with Bruce, heard their fellows’ stirring arrival, they raised their own similar yells and slogans, in welcome. This could not but affect the rest of the Scots around them. Everywhere the shouts and challenge arose, with an inevitable if temporary increase in the tempo of the fighting.

It was too much for a foe already weary and lacking confidence.

There was no wholesale giving up or retreat; but from that moment the second assault on the wood was lost. The drift back southwards began.

Nothing spreads faster than the aura of defeat. Soon it became almost a rout. Angus Og’s fire-eaters were, in fact, balked of their fine fighting.

The Scots leadership, at least, had no regrets. Panting, thankful, they watched the tide ebb. It was not always that they blessed Angus of the Isles.

Whether it was the ignominious return of his second attack, a cavalry engagement which seemed to be developing on his left flank-where Keith the Marischal was at last making his gesture -or merely the accumulated disappointments of a long day, Richard de Burgh suddenly seemed to have had enough. He was not so young as once, of course-now in his mid-sixties- and no doubt the stalemate was even more apparent to him than to his son-in-law. At any rate, to the surprise of the Scots, trumpets began to sound purposefully across the clearing-and these were clearly not for any further advance or attack. There was a marshalling of a screen of light cavalry behind which the main body could retire in good order. Riders went spurring off, right and left, no doubt to order the break-off of hostilities on the flanks. Without haste, with discipline and dignity, the Earl of Ulster turned and left the field in a south-easterly direction. He was no panic-monger, just a realist.

From the woodland the Scots jeered-but none sought more actively to speed the enemy retiral.

Heavily Bruce leaned against a tree.

“Praises be to God!” he said.

“But … what was that? A victory? Or a defeat? Or … a great

folly? A waste?”

“A victory, surely, Sire,” Colin Campbell averred elatedly.

“Since we retain possession of the field.”

The King looked around him.

“The field! Such trophy, lad, for such battle-if you may call it

that. Which ought not to have been fought.”

“Your Grace is weary, dispirited,” Fraser declared.

“It is a great victory, by any counting. An English knight we have captured, one Cosby, says that the Earl had 40,000 men.”

“Dear God40,000? I’ll not believe it! Half that, perhaps…”

“There were great numbers in the trees to the east. Foot. That you never saw,” Angus Og put in.

“Mostly these Irish kerns. None too eager to fight for the English, I think.” “Aye My good-sire no doubt had his problems. And his own doubts. His super session must injure him. Divided interests. I could conceive that he loves me even better than he does Edward of Carnarvon! Or this Bishop!”

There Was much to do, with the wounded and the dead of both sides to

attend to. Even though the Scots had got off comparatively lightly,

considering what might have been their fate, they were not less than

severely mauled. And the enemy wounded was legion. The aftermath of

battle was, in its way, as taxing, and a deal more distressing, than

the fighting. However fierce a warrior, Bruce himself was ever

affected by suffering. Not a few, even of his close colleagues,

considered him soft, unsuitably weak, in this.

It was some time, therefore, before he moved back to the road, and then on to the open space where de Burgh had waited for them, and when there was sufficient firm ground to set up camp for the night-for the early winter dusk was beginning to fall. It was hardly likely that there would be another attack, in the circumstances, but scouts and pickets were sent out all around.

It was one of these who presently returned to announce the approach of His Grace of Ireland’s host, from further south.

Edward rode up in style and flourish, as always. And in some haughty reproach.

“I hear that you have had some fighting, brother!” he called.

“A victory, of sorts. Over de Burgh. Need you have kept it to yourself? Might you not have deigned to share the honour with me? It is my territory. I have thought that we were to share more equally, henceforth?”

Bruce drew a hand slowly over set features.

“You conceive me at fault, Edward?” he asked, as his Scots lieutenants growled in their throats.

“Would not any man of honour? You must always retain any glory for yourself. We were beleaguering Ratoath Castle, de Burgh’s house. Believing him within.”

His brother turned away while he mastered his tongue.

“I fear that there was little of glory to share in this,” he said

stiffly.

“Or honour. It was an unnecessary battle. We were in fact ambushed.

And yet, we had 3,000 men as advance guard! To protect us from ambush!”

The other drew up in his saddle. “

“Fore God-you are not seeking to lay blame on me? For your fault!”

“Fault, man! If there is fault in this, where lies it? In the main host, which rode into a trap? Or in its forward guard, which rode blithely through that trap, unknowing, with no flanking scouts-since such must have discovered a great army there. Some say as many as 40,000, lying close in wait.”

Edward stared.

“Forty thousand …!” he said.

“Myself, I do not believe it was so many. A prisoner says it. But even half as many-what difference?”

“They … they must have moved in after we passed.”

“To be sure. But since they were largely foot, and we followed you within the hour, they cannot have been far off. I think, brother, that I am entitled to better advance guarding than that!”

“I sent you word, did I not? That the peasant said de Burgh was here, at Ratoath. Not at Drogheda.”

“With a small number of men, only! No thanks to you that I did not believe that tale.”

“If he lied, am I to blame? At least, I informed you…”

“Aye.” Wearily Robert shrugged. His head was aching, had been since cessation of battle had given him time to recognise it-no doubt the effect of the arrow on his helm.

“You informed me. Of that. But… let us have done, Edward. It is past…”

“You still were at fault in not sending me word. Informing me.

Of this battle. That I might have my part…”

“Christ God!” Bruce burst out.

“Are you crazed, man? What think you it was? A tourney? Young Campbell I did send, before the assault began. But he was himself ambushed. Well you know the advance’s duty to spy for and protect its rear. In this also you failed…”

With a muffled oath, but no other leave-taking, the King of All Ireland wheeled his charger round and plunged off, waving his colleagues after him, to their great confusion.

That night the two hosts camped a good mile apart. The royal brothers were wider apart than that.

Chapter Thirteen

The battle of Ratoath may have been one which should never have been fought, but it proved to be a highly significant turning point, materially affecting more than merely those taking part. Although that was not immediately apparent.

It changed the course of the Scots’ campaign in Ireland. Bruce’s force