Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

Have you naught of cheer for me to tell them?”

James Douglas blinked.

“They are tired. The English are tired at least. Yesterday they rode over twenty miles. They have hurried.

Men and horses are exhausted, they do say-in this hot dry weather. They can have slept little last night-and you burned all Falkirk’s food and forage …”

“Aye-so be it. Order the trumpets to blow. I will address my folk.”

“Angus, Sire? The Lord of the Isles? He has not come …?”

“No.”

Edward Bruce had come up.

“Did you really expect him, Douglas? I did not! The Islesman has ever fought for his own hand. And when it suited him. Now, at the pinch, why should he come?”

“He is on his way. That we know, my lord …”

“On his way! But will he arrive? In time? I think not. If we win then yes, he was on his way! And if we lose, he remains unscathed. And returns to his Isles faster than he came! That, I swear, is the MacDonald.”

“And you, I swear, are wrong, my lord of Carrick!” Bruce exclaimed.

“And even were you right-say nothing of it now, I charge you. This day depends on faith. Faith in God, in me, and in each other. Let no word or look or act destroy that faith.”

When the trumpets had brought together a great part of the host, from its various positions, Bruce rode out alone on his grey pony, to westwards of them, so that his voice would carry from the slightly higher ground and on the westerly breeze.

“My friends,” he cried, arm raised, when quiet was gained.

“Today we put all to the test. Today Scotland stands or falls. And not only Scotland, but right, freedom and faith. If we fail today, these fall, with Scotland. Let none mistake. Today is fate hammered out on the anvil, hammered into shape.”

There was a deathly silence at these grave words.

He went on.

“But mark you, today we are the hammer, not the iron! And the land, our land, is the anvil. The iron is the arrogant invading English host, which once more desecrates our land. But this time, friends, is the last. This time, we shall hammer and bend and mould that great unwieldy host until it is fit-yes, and glad-only to be tossed into yonder pools and pows of the Carse, to cool its heat and hurt! This, God willing, we shall do. For it is a host as tired as it is great. Empty of belly, for it has its baggage train. At enmity within itself, out of envy and suspicion.

And ill-led by a King whom men despise, and a Constable who has never fought a battle.”

That aroused suitable spirited reaction, however exaggerated.

“We are otherwise. Few in numbers, yes-but united. We are rested, and if we fast, do so of our choice. Best of all, we know each other, have fought together over these long years. We are fighting men all. We know every inch of the ground. And Our all is at stake.

We win, or the.”

Men cheered now, if a little grimly.

“I say, my friends, we win or die. The issue is simple as that.

Therefore, I would have to command this day only those prepared to make the choice-to win, or die. Any who, losing would still live, I give fullest leave now to go. While there is yet time. I say this in good faith, and mocking none, deceiving none. Some may not be prepared to die, today, and for this cause. To all such, I say-go now. Any who have no heart in the business or qualms of spirit, it is best should leave us. Even should it be half our numbers. It is better for the rest…”

The King got no further. The snarling growl that rose from the packed ranks was angry, menacing, almost ferocious. If there was any movement, it was an edging forward.

Bruce was satisfied. He raised his hand again for quiet.

As he waited for it, and before he could speak, another sound than growling men reached all their ears. Thin, high, on the westerly breeze, came the wail of bagpipes at a distance.

Every head turned, to stare, the King’s included-and, being higher than the rest, Bruce was able to see, curving round the base of the great Rock, north-westwards, the glitter of arms in the sun, and the waving of many banners.

“Thank God!” he breathed.

“Thank God!” He raised his voice, to shout.

”The Isles, my friends-the Isles! They come! Theycome! Angus of the

Isles comes-in time. Constant was my faith in him-and justified!”

In the uproar that followed, Douglas it was who spurred out to the King’s side, to grab his arm and point in exactly the opposite direction. There, eastwards, sunlight glittered on more arms and banners, more, vastly more. Rounding the shoulder of the land behind the township of Auchterbannock, where the road, the ancient Roman Road of Antonine, drove its causewayed course above the marshlands of Forth, came the English van. Calling for trumpets, Bruce commanded the swift dispersal to positions.

There was now no more waiting and talk. Deputing Campbell to welcome Angus Og, and to attach his force meantime to the main rearward, the King himself took the 300 or so light cavalry allotted to the main body, Carrick and Annan dale moss troopers and rode with them at fullest speed south-westwards and into the cover of the scattered tree-dotted flanks of the Tor Wood. Hidden therein he swung eastwards, down through the twisting hollows of the broom-grown knowes, until they came out into the open level ground, the little grassy plain between the Bannock Burn and the mouth of The Entry to the New Park, with the road running through it. With the enemy not yet in sight from here, he and his men dismounted and seemed to take their ease in the sun. They were bait, royal bait, for the trap.

They had not long to wait. From here they could see the houses of the Milton of Bannock, where the road crossed the Bannock Burn; and here, presently, the English van began to appear, advancing cautiously, only two miles from Stirling and with some at least of the Scots army in view.

Bruce waited, himself hidden, fretting in the face of that daunting threat, until a considerable portion of the enemy cavalry was across the burn, and not only in full view but less than half a mile away. Then he ran out from cover towards his own scattered men, Irvine bearing a small version of the Lion Rampant banner behind him. Waving and shouting, as though in some panic, he got his 300 mounted, but slowly, awkwardly, and into some sort of order, seemingly just aware of the English approach. About one-third of the party he then sent streaming off, north-westwards into The Entry, along a line that would seem haphazard but was in fact carefully avoiding the hidden transverse trenches and lateral pits.

The others he kept milling around, as though uncertain or waiting for stragglers.

To some degree the stratagem worked-but only partially. The apparently panic-stricken and retreating Scots did entice the English, but only a small portion of the van. One or two squadrons of cavalry, numbering about 400 riders, detached themselves from the mass and came spurring forward at speed.

Bruce cursed. This was of no use to him; no use in springing his elaborate trap for a few hundred, and so reveal it for all the rest Swiftly he had to re-assess his position.

The lame-duck procedure would not serve now. But if they were instead to stand and fight, or seem to, the main van might be coaxed to come to the rescue of its spearhead. Unfortunately he had sent fully 100 of his men away in obvious flight already, which left him with only about half the numbers that were descending upon them. If he could get his detached hundred back… Bruce sent a single rider after them, and then waved his 200 into two squadrons, to advance towards the now charging enemy at a trot, leaving a gap in the centre. Two-to-one was rather better odds than the day would average, after all.

“That banner?” he jerked, to Irvine, as he rode out, a little in front of the rest, into the gap.