Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Bruce’s host had just left Dunblane, between Perth and Stirling, in the early morning of 23rd of July, when Wallace’s next courier came up with grim tidings. The Guardian’s army could not reach Stirling in time—that was clear. The huge majority of his force was infantry, the common people; and Edward’s cavalry, in their vast numbers, were pressing them hard. He would try to hold them somewhere in the Falkirk vicinity, a dozen miles south of Stirling. And though cavalry was what Wallace most required, he had been only doubtful in his welcome to an unlooked for reinforcement which had just arrived, even though led by the High Constable of Scotland. The Earl of Buchan had put in an appearance with some hundreds of Comyn horse; he had evidently heard the news, up in the Laigh of Moray, and leaving behind his great array of foot, had raced south with his horsemen, by the coast route, while Bruce had been so much more slowly marching his combined host through the mountains. Buchan was allegedly hastening to Wallace’s rescue; but the latter was uneasy and urged Bruce to do likewise, to leave his foot behind and ride with all haste for Falkirk.

It was about twenty miles from Dunblane, by Stirling Bridge, to Falkirk. Bruce did not delay. He had nearly 700 horse, mounted hill men on short-legged Highland shelts, in the main.

Leaving Alan Moray to bring on the thousands of foot, he and Nigel spurred ahead with this company, unhampered.

At Stirling Bridge they found Wallace’s advance party preparing to hold it, if need be. They urged on the northerners anxiously. The English were in greater numbers than anything known before, they said; the plain of Lothian was black with them. Wallace was standing at Callendar Wood, just east of Falkirk—but it was no site to compare with this Stirling. These men were clearly in a state of alarm.

It was afternoon before they rode out from the dark glades of the great Tor Wood above Falkirk, to look down over the swiftly dropping land eastwards towards Lothian, with the grey town nestling below, at the west end of the wooded spine of Callendar Hill. At the other end of that long spine, no doubt, was the battle.

But none of the newcomers tested their eyes or wits seeking for signs of it there. They did not have to. For below them, on the wide spread of green brae sides between the town and this Tor Wood, was sufficient to take their attention. Scattered all over it were parties of horsemen, in small groups and large, all riding fast and all riding westwards, away from the battle area. Of foot there was no sign—save for the stream of refugees beginning to leave Falkirk, with their pathetic baggage, making uphill, like the cavalry, for the deep recesses of the Tor Wood.

There could be little doubt what it all meant.

Grimly Bruce jutted his jaw.

“We are too late, I fear,” he said to his brother.

“Too late. Cavalry was Wallace’s need-and there is his cavalry!

Fleeing …!”

They hurried on downhill. The first batch of horsemen they came up with, about a dozen, wore the colours of Lennox. Bruce halted them, demanding news.

“All is by wi’,” their leader called, scarcely reining in, obviously reluctant to stop.

“They were ower many. Armoured knights. A sea of them. And arrows. Like hailstanes! It’s all by wiThe battle? All lost? What of Wallace?”

“God kens! He was withe foot.”

“And they?”

The man shrugged. None of his colleagues, anxious to be elsewhere, amplified. Already they were urging their spume-flecked horses onwards.

”Stay, you!” Bruce cried authoritatively. He pointed.

“I see no blood. No single wound amongst you. What sort of battle was this?”

Scowls greeted that, and angry words. Men pointed backwards, in protest, outrage. But they were edging onwards.

“You are Lennox’s men, are you not? Where is your lord?”

Some shook their heads. Some pointed on, up the hill, some back.

Clearly none knew.

Unhappily the Bruces rode on, the seven hundred doubtful behind them.

The next group they encountered wore the blue-and-gold of Stewart, led by a knight in armour.

“You are Stewarts,” Bruce challenged him.

“Who are you?

And where is the Steward?”

“We are of Menteith. I am Sir John Stewart of Cardross. I know not

where the Steward is. Or my lord of Menteith. All the lords have gone

…”

“Gone where, man? Is all over? The battle?”

“God knows! There may be fighting still. The foot. Wallace’s rabble. In their schiltroms of spears. Since they cannot flee. But all else is finished.”

“You … you deserted Wallace and the foot?”

“Deserted! Who are you to talk of deserting? You were not there.

They hurled all their strength at us. Between the schiltroms.

Their cavalry and bowmen both. Thousands on thousands of them. The Constable’s array broke first. In the centre. Then they were in amongst us. Behind us. We had no choice …”

“The Constable, you say? The Comyns—they gave way first?

But there were no great number of them …?”

“The Constable took command of the centre cavalry. As was his right.

The English threw all their strength at him …”

“Aye. Enough …” Without waiting to hear more, Bruce waved on his company.

The long but fairly low and gentle hog’s-back of open woodland that was Callendar Hill sank at its east end to the valley of the Westquarter Burn. Where a tributary stream joined this below the south-east face of the hill was an area of marshland surrounding a small reedy loch. On the open slopes above this, Wallace had drawn up his army to make its stand. It was a reasonably good defensive position, the best that the Falkirk vicinity had to offer probably; but it was all on a comparatively small scale, and the water barrier only a minor one. The loch marsh itself would not take cavalry, but the burn that flowed either end of it could be splashed through. As an impediment a vast army, therefore, it was inadequate. And worst of all, the relatively short distances involved meant that the long-range English and Welsh archers could remain drawn up on the east side of the loch and still pour their arrows into the Scots ranks beyond.

Bruce and his people, their formation somewhat broken up by negotiating the woodland and the streams of fleeing wounded, reached the last of the trees. They saw the land across the valley as literally black with men and horses and all the paraphernalia of war, stretching almost as far as eye could see, a dire sight.

Though this enormous concourse was not in fact engaged, too great to be marshalled and brought to bear on Wallace’s chosen ground. Only the cavalry and the archers were involved, as yet—to the Scots’ downfall.

For, of course, it was in these two arms that Wallace was weak.

His great mass of spearmen and sworders, however nimble and tough, were of little avail against these. The Guardian had drawn up his host in four great schiltroms, square phalanxes of spearmen, densely packed, facing out in all directions, bristling hedgehogs of pikes and lances and halberds, on which an enemy would throw himself with but little effect. Between these he had set his comparatively few bowmen, backed by the cavalry of the lords.

And thus awaited the onslaught.

But unhappily all was within range of the massed thousands of Edward’s long-bowmen, who with a methodical, disciplined expertise poured in a continuous stream, a flood-, of their deadly yard-long shafts. Against these the Scots were helpless, their own few archers hopelessly outranged, and indeed the first to fall, as primary targets of the enemy. Thereafter the hissing murderous hail had been raised to fall mainly upon the cavalry behind. Here the execution was less lethal, because of breastplates, helmets, chain mail and toughened leather; but even so there was much havoc, especially amongst the horses.