Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Under cover of this fatal deluge, Edward’s pride, his heavy chivalry

had swept round the loch and crossed the burns, in two horns; the left

under Roger de Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, and Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of

Hereford; the right under Bishop Beck of Durham and no less man

thirty-six senior captains. These both drove uphill, and as the bowmen

ceased to shoot at a given signal, bore in in five great prongs of

perhaps a thousand each, ignoring the squares of spearmen and

concentrating all on the lines of cavalry ranked between the schiltroms. It was then that High Constable Buchan signalled in turn, and at it the Scots nobility broke and turned back. The command was to reform in one mass up the hill, to put in a powerful counter-attack downhill;

but this never materialised. The protective shelter of the wood was too great a temptation, and the Comyns’ example infectious.

The Scots chivalry rode off the field of Falkirk, to fight, perhaps, another day.

This had left Wallace and his foot in four isolated groups, round which Edward’s armoured horse eddied and circled unhindered.

Not all of the Scots nobility and gentry had bolted with the cavalry of course. Many had gone to join Wallace, on foot.

But these found themselves on the outside of the bristling walls of

spears, with the grim-vis aged angry spearmen in no mood to open and

break their tight ranks to let them in. Mostly they died there under

the trampling hooves of the English des triers

By the time that Bruce and his seven hundred arrived on the scene of carnage, all this was a thing of the past. There were only the two schiltroms now, the debris of the others making a trampled bloody chaos of the long slope. These two that were left had lost much of their shape and were tending to coalesce;

but they were still fighting, doggedly, their perimeter dead being swiftly and steadily replaced by men from within the squares, to die in their turn as the massed horsemen raged round and round, driving in -with lance and sword, battle-axe and heavy mace.

Many of Edward’s proud chivalry littered the slopes of Callendar Hill, also, the horses in particular skewered, hamstrung and disembowelled by those deadly spears. The heaps and piles of slain, of both sides, grew thicker and thicker towards the foot of the slope—for this was the way that the battle moved, not uphill towards the wood and escape. The English cavalry were exploiting the advantage of site that should have belonged to their Scots counterparts; downhill. They were thundering in charges time and again down the slope, to overwhelm the schiltroms by sheer weight and impetus, in a trampling, screaming avalanche of horseflesh and armoured humanity. Already the lowermost Scottish spearmen were up to their knees in the mire and water of the valley-floor. Perhaps Wallace was deliberately allowing this to happen, for in the soft ground the heavy cavalry would be unable to come in at them. But then, there was still the serried ranks of the waiting archers, not to mention the vast mass of the so-far uncommitted English foot.

For desperate moments Bruce sat his mount, eyeing that scene.

What could he do? Nothing that he might attempt could possibly turn the tide of battle now. To stand still was inglorious, useless.

To turn and flee like the others was unthinkable. His men were not armoured. He himself, like Nigel, was in travelling clothes, not full mail. Most of them bestrode Highland shelts. They were the lightest of light horse. Against some of the best heavy chivalry in all Christendom, battle-trained veterans—and outnumbered six or eight to one.

There was only the one condition in their favour, and one thing that they might attempt. The element of surprise would be theirs—for none of the English would look for a return of the Scots horse now. And Wallace himself might yet be saved. They could all see him, unmistakable, in the upper front rank of one of the schiltroms, towering over all, his great brand whirling and slicing. Fighting like a hero, yes—but not like a general.

Bruce made up his mind. He turned to his men of Mar, Garioch and Moray.

“My friends—you sec it! See it all. We can save Wallace. That is all. Drive down after me. In a wedge. A spearhead. No halting. No fighting. Straight through. If I fall, or my brother, keep on. Drive down through all. To Wallace.

Scotland depends on Wallace. Mount him, and as many as you may. Behind you. Then round and back for these woods. Do not wait. Our beasts are lighter, more swift, surefooted. Come. And shout slogans.” He whipped out his sword.

“On, then! A Bruce!

A Bruce!”

Scarcely enthusiastic as his North-countrymen could have been, they followed, without demur or hesitation.

The Bruce brothers side by side at the apex, they gradually worked themselves into a great arrowhead formation as they thundered down the brae side yelling. It was not perhaps the most exactly disciplined manoeuvre, but they made a dramatic, effective and fast-moving entry on the scene—and one it would be very hard to stop.

They had perhaps five hundred yards to cover, the last third strewn with bodies and slippery with mud and blood. The English cavalry down there were in milling, circling thousands, though with many standing back, looking on, unable to push their way in at the surrounded spearmen, ploutering in the deep mire, or just licking their wounds.

But many as there were, expecting nothing of this sort, they were not

marshalled to resist and break up such an attack, however many times their numbers.

Nor, at this stage of the battle, were they under any unified control.

Trumpets began to neigh within moments of the attack becoming apparent. But more than that was required to organise and present a coherent front; and the very diversity of trumpet calls bespoke too many commanders. There was no overall general of the chivalry, on the spot;

Edward himself had been kicked by a horse the previous night, while he slept on the ground like any soldier, and was sufficiently incapacitated to be directing this battle from a distance.

Time, here, was all-important. Bruce, at the front of the V, saw that they would, in fact, bore through to the battling Scots almost inevitably, and probably without great difficulty or casualties.

It was the turning and getting away again that would be a problem. But he also perceived another inevitability; they could hardly help but ride down the upper front ranks of the Scots themselves, for they dared not rein back and lose their impetus too soon. It made grim recognition.

But it was the littered debris of the fighting that demanded their major attention in this crazy, furious descent, as they drove down through the dead, the dying and the wounded, amongst screaming men and fallen, hoof-lashing horses. Their hill-ponies, the most surefooted mounts there were, nevertheless had not been trained to battle and blood, and savagely firm mastering was necessary to hold them on through the hell of it, to keep the wedge in shape and straight on course.

A hundred yards or so from the first of the beleaguered Scots, a hastily turned and jostling group of English cavalry barred the way. As he hurtled down on them, Bruce waved his sword round and round above his head, redoubling his shouting, the men behind doing the same, a fearsome sight. It was asking more of flesh and blood than it could take for stationary horsemen to stand there unflinching in the face of such furious downhill onslaught, however armoured. Well before the impact, the Englishmen were reining aside. Some bold spirits actually spurred on to meet the crash in movement at least; but most pushed to one side or the other, turning back, breaking away.

Bruce drove for the point of greatest confusion. Nigel was laughing almost hysterically just half a length on his left.