Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

That Steward. The Earl of Lennox. Crawford.. Lundin. All turned coat. Attacked the rear. Roused the people of Stirling. To slay and murder. It was a massacre … Appalled, Percy and his companions fired questions at the exhausted men, sought to piece together the picture, to learn the present position. Wallace had been besieging Dundee, fifty miles to the north-east, had he not? Surrey had between fifty and sixty thousand men …?

Not any longer! God alone knew how many still lived. Cressingham was dead. The Scots were said to have flayed him, and cut up the skin to send round the country. A hundred and more knights were slain—most without having opportunity to fight as knights should …

“And Surrey? And Fitz-Alan?”

Surrey was in full flight for Berwick. Fitz-Alan—none knew where he was. Everywhere men were fleeing, as best they could.

Wallace’s hordes pursuing, cutting down. And everywhere the common Scots folk were waylaying, slaughtering, from every wood and copse, devils behind every bush. Men and women both.

The whole plain of Forth was a shambles. And there was Edinburgh to get through. Before the Border and Berwick. That was why they had come this way, hoping to win through to the West.

Before news of the victory turned every hand against them. All over this accursed land the people would be rising.

Hurriedly, distractedly, the leaders of Percy’s force conferred.

Once their five thousand foot came up, they were a strong force.

If they had been but a day or two earlier, they might have saved all. Or, perhaps, been swept away with the rest! If sixty thousand could be so broken, would an extra eight thousand have made the difference? How many, in God’s name, had this Wallace managed to muster?

But their foot would take days to catch up with them. They were probably not at Selkirk yet. And had they days to spare? To wait? All Scotland would be rising around them, drunk with the smell of victory, thirsting for bloody vengeance. Wallace would have time to gather together his forces again. It would be sheerest folly to wait. Even Clifford conceded it.

What, then? Would three thousand cavalry, tight-knit and driving forward, turn the tables? While the Scots were yet disorganised?

Rallying what was left of Surrey’s host. Men eyed each other, and eyed the Bruces, and read doubt in each other’s eyes-and knew without saying it that there would be no such thing.

Retire, then? Back, whence they had come? Or to Berwick, to join Surrey? Or west, to Ayr, to hold the SouthWest, for which Percy was responsible as Sheriff and Governor?

There was some argument about this, complicated by the fact that their foot contingent would still be back amongst the Borderland hills. Eventually it was decided to rejoin the infantry, and then to head east through the hills for Berwick.

Robert Bruce took no part in this discussion, having ample to think about on his own, since the news changed all. Presently he had a few brief words with his brothers, who were hiding their excitement less than successfully. As he was doing so, his glance caught that of Elizabeth de Burgh, who, with Lady Percy, sat her horse a little way apart. It was an eloquent and significant glance.

During these past long days of riding, and nights spent in remote

English-held castles, Bruce and the girl had inevitably seen a lot of

each other. They had come to a sort of acceptance, a tolerance, of

each other’s attitude, which could not be called an understanding but

which at least enabled them to maintain civility. Awareness had been pronounced between them from the first, however unsympathetic in its outward reactions; now there was a mutual playing down of the friction which seemed to generate spontaneously.

When the hasty and disjointed conference around Percy and the two newcomers had reached a conclusion, and an about-turn was announced, Bruce raised his voice.

“My lord of Northumberland,” he said, stiffly formal.

“You and yours may make for Berwick. I, and mine, do not.”

There was a sudden silence from the leaders’ group.

“What do you mean?” Percy asked tensely, after a moment or two.

“I mean that I have not come so far into my own land, to turn back now.”

“We have decided otherwise. That King Edward’s cause will best be served by turning back to Berwick, for this time.”

“It may be so. But I go on. And my host with me.”

“Go where, sir? And for what purpose?”

“For good and sufficient purpose.”

“There speaks a forsworn traitor and rogue!” Clifford cried.

“Have I not always said as much? That he could not be trusted a lance’s length?”

“Sir Robert Clifford,” Bruce declared quietly, “for these words you shall answer, one day. At lance’s length! But … here and now, I think, is not the time.”

“No,” Percy agreed coldly.

“More is at stake now. More is required than such barren talk. My lord of Carrick-your men are mustered in King Edward’s name. You are here in his service.

And under my command. I’d mind you of it.”

“And may I mind you of something, my English friends? You are deep in this Scotland. Part of a beaten, broken army. With a long way to go before you may rest your heads secure. Moreover, half of these men behind you are my father’s. Scots. Who, think you, will they obey, in this? Do you wish to put it to the test?”

So it was out, at last, gloves off, the mask down. With a jerk of his head Bruce sent his two brothers spurring back to the main body, their errand clear, obvious.

Even Percy had no words now.

Clifford had.

“He came with this intention. To desert us. The treacherous turncoat I He planned it all. Back in Carlisle. I said we should leave him. Should bring his men, but not Bruce himself.

They are all the same, these Scots. I’d trust an adder before any of them! This is treason, by God! Bruce is traitor, for all to see!

“These are hard words, sir. Perhaps I spoke too soon? That this was not the time to break that lance!” Bruce raised a hand to point at Clifford.

“Perhaps Sir Robert had better answer for his words now. After all.

Honour demands it…”

“Honour! Your honour I In flagrant treason, you talk of honour?”

“Has it not entered your head, man, that what would be treason to the English is not treason to the Scots? That we cannot commit treason against a conqueror, a usurper? If the Scots commit treason, it must be against their own realm and king. Only an unthinking fool would say other. And that I name you, Sir Robert-an unthinking fool! Is that sufficient for your honour?

So-shall we form our respective hosts into lists, my lords? Make a tourney-ground? While Sir Robert and I fight it out, in l’ outrance. It will be my pleasure …”

“No, I say!” Percy intervened, in pale-faced anger.

“I forbid any such childish folly! This is war-not tourney-ground posturing.

Enough of this.”

“If you prefer war to jousting, my lord-let us have it. We are not unevenly matched. We shall have our own battle, here on this hillside, if you will? Scots against English. What could be fairer?

Put all to the test. Of war …”

“No, by the Mass! It shall not be.” Percy’s thin voice rose alarmingly.

“Think you I do not know what you are at? To keep us here. To delay our retiral. In hope that our presence is discovered.

That Wallace’s hordes come up with us …” His words were lost in the murmuring and muttering of his companions, the two knights from Stirling’s debacle loud amongst them. All eyes were turning northwards, as something of the fear of these communicated itself to the others.

“Very well,” Bruce said, and had to repeat it, loudly.

“Then here we part company, my lord.”

“You shall pay dearly for this-that I swear, Bruce!” Clifford shouted, in frustrated fury, and was the first to rein round and ride back towards the host.