Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

They had almost two miles to cover, and did so in a wild, strung out gallop, more like an enormous deer-hunt than a disciplined cavalry advance, Bruce caring nothing. Never had the shaggy, sure-footed garrons of the Scottish hills better demonstrated their qualities.

Just before they reached the knoll where the Stewart had lain hidden and watching, with his 200, another messenger met them.

The Lord Walter had ridden on, up the Scawton road, he reported.

To take it and hold it, at all costs. Not many of the enemy had appeared to remain … Without so much as drawing rein, Bruce swung his mount round, eastwards, into the gap.

For those enthusiasts demanding more militant action than mere hard riding, there was disappointment in that shallow groove through the escarpment and the moorland behind-no pass by Scots standards. Obviously, by the horse-droppings, the still burning fires, and abandoned material such as cooking-pots and horse blankets, quite a large force had been guarding it, and presumably settling down for the night, hot anticipating any large-scale assault so late in the October day. Their withdrawal had been sudden, and any numbers left must have been small, for only one or two bodies of men and horses lay scattered along the roadway, indicative of a running fight, a mere chase on the part of Walter Stewart’s 200.

There was nothing here for the King’s force to do, save ride after, at speed.

As they went, however, Brace’s glance was apt to be as much preoccupied with the rising ground to his left, as to the front. His host’s emergence from hiding, in force, could not fail to have been observed; and Richmond, or whoever was now in command on the escarpment, must surely recognize the extreme danger to his left flank. He was almost certain to send the former gap-stoppers hastening back, and with reinforcements. It was a race, then.

The little water shed between Swale and Rye was only three miles wide,

with the hamlet of Scawton at the far end. Over it the King’s force

streamed, no impediment developing from the left flank. Where the land

began to drop, from tussocky moorland to the gentler levels of the

Rye, less wide a vale than Mowbray but very fair, Walter Stewart waited. Wordless he pointed northwards.

Behind the escarpment, the Hambleton Hills sank much less dramatically, in rolling green waves of down land to the riverside.

Stretched along these, over a wide front, a large cavalry host was in process of advancing southwards, at right angles to the valley, its ranks less than a mile off. Bruce looked from it, eastwards, across the levels, to where, about three miles further, the mellow stone buildings of the great Abbey of Rievaulx stood out clear amongst copses, orchards and gardens. A sigh escaped him.

“I must attend to these others, Walter,” he called, reining up only partially.

“I had hoped …” He shrugged.

“I fear that Edward will be warned. He is fleet of foot! Go you, and try to take him. Take another 200, 300, of swift riders. Enough to grip him, if he is not gone. You understand? To Rievaulx. If he is gone, do not pursue too far. In darkness, you could run into trouble. Myself, I have work to do here!”

“Aye, Sire-I will bring King Edward, if it may be done.”

The King waved his son-in-law off, and turned to his brothers-in-law and Hay.

“Three divisions,” he barked.

“Quickly. Each to make arrowhead. And all three in another arrowhead.

Sandy-the right. Hugh, the left. Gibbie, with myself in the centre.

You wanted fighting! Quickly, I say. No marshalling. Work into

formation as we advance. We will teach these Southrons how we fight

in

It was all, necessarily, a very hurried and rough-and-ready division and forming up. But these men were, in the main, hardened veterans, and their captains amongst the most experienced cavalry commanders alive. Moreover, they all knew the Bruce’s methods, and had complete confidence in his leadership. In only a brief minute or two, out of seemingly hopeless, streaming confusion, two distinct divisions appeared in the still turning Scots host, divisions which grew wider. It would be foolish to assert that the three resultant groupings approximated to any recognisable shape or order, or even were roughly equal in numbers; 15,000 mounted men cannot be so readily marshalled. But at least the advance uphill, northwards, began in triple formation, the centre foremost, and gradually its composite arrowheads began to form.

That they had time to do so was the measure of their foe’s uncertainty and indecision. They should, of course, have been swept down upon at once, the English using their advantage of height and impetus, though probably not numbers. But this did not happen. It might be that there was in fact no overall and accepted commander up there, if Richmond and his chief captain were over in the corrie dealing with Douglas and Moray. These people would be mainly the formation which had been recalled from the Scawton gap, and then hastily turned back again, with, probably, the rear guard left up on the escarpment-a hurriedly patched-up company. Moreover, they were strung out in a wide line abreast, covering a lot of the down land country, a sensible formation enough for an assault on an enemy threading a long pass through hills; but unmanageable as to unified command, and hopeless for dealing with a tight-wedged charge aimed at one point.

And it was such that Bruce was mounting. An uphill charge is almost a contradiction in terms; but the slopes at this side of the hill were comparatively gentle, and the Scots’ garrons bred to the hills.

Gradually, from a fast trot, the King, at the very apex of the central arrowhead, lashed his own mount into a heavy canter-and none behind him were prepared to allow their middle-aged and allegedly sick monarch to outdo them. Gilbert Hay and young Scrymgeour, now standard-bearer, with the great Lion Rampant banner of Scotland held high, vied with each other to be closest to the King, so near that their knees rubbed his at each side.

“A Bruce! A Bruce!” the famous, dreaded slogan rose from thousands of panting throats, as men savaged their beasts forward and up.

It was hardly to be wondered at that the English line lost its

momentum, indeed faltered, and those who found themselves in the

unenviable position of facing directly the spearhead of the charge took

thought as to how to be elsewhere. Efforts were being made to

concentrate, to draw in the spreading horns of the long line; but

obviously this could not be done in time.

In the event, Bruce was not even involved in a clash, did not so much as swing his battle-axe. The enemy flung themselves aside right and left, to avoid the dire impact-and the Scots point was through. The ever-broadening wedge behind thereafter inevitably created its own effect. Sliced in two, the English front was rolled up on each side, without any real fighting developing, out manoeuvred rather than defeated.

Fraser and Ross did not require their liege lord’s urgent

trumpet-signals to tell them their duty. As with one accord they

wheeled their respective commands around, outwards, east and west, to

double back on the confused halves of the enemy front which was thus

abruptly no front. Now they would have their bellyfuls of fighting

but it would be a great number of close-range, hand-to-hand tulzies

rather than any practical battle. Bruce had seen to that The King

himself, with his 5,000 rode directly on, content to leave that matter

to his lieutenants. Before him now was approximately a mile of

slightly rising ground lifting to the escarpment, and thereon only

scattered groups of infantry, spearmen, archers and a few horsemen and wounded men come up from the battle in the corrie-nothing that even a genius of a commander could whip up into a coherent and effective force in a few minutes. The spearmen could form themselves into one or two hedgehogs, schiltroms, and the archers could do some damage before they were overwhelmed; but they could by no means halt or break the charging mass of light cavalry.