Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

A red-faced knight in rich armour was suddenly before them, eyes round, mouth open. Bruce, flinging himself aside in his saddle to avoid the wild swinging blow of a gleaming battle-axe, all but cannoned into his brother. Jerking his beast’s head back, as he swept by the knight, he felt their legs scrape together. His own sword slashed back-handedly right across the knight’s surprised face in red horror. Then he was past.

There was another man directly in front—but he had his back to them, bolting out of the way, as well he might. But he was not nearly quick enough. His blade straight before him, stiff-armed, like a lance, Bruce drove the point in right below the back of the fellow’s helmet. The victim pitched forward over his mount’s neck, dragging the struck sword right out of its owner’s hand.

The man’s careering mount carried him away to the side, falling.

There were two more in front—but these were decidedly getting out of the way. Swordless, Bruce was shaking a clenched fist at them, when he realised that he was in fact through the press.

There were still mounted men between him and the Scots spears, but these were not drawn up, not standing, not going to challenge that mass of yelling riders.

And now, this other problem. How to draw up, not only himself but the close-packed ranks behind him, so as not to crash too terribly into the waiting ranks of spearmen? Those spears in themselves! Would men, seeing themselves about to be ridden down, not be apt almost involuntarily to seek to save themselves?

By using their spears? On the riders-down? He would.

Dragging desperately at his beast’s head with his right hand he raised his left, to make urgent circling signals, half-right, praying that the men behind would in their frenzy perceive what he meant and the need for it. Savagely he dragged and jerked at his horse, and stumbling, its legs sprawling at the suddenness of the change of direction, the brute did manage to swing right.

Bruce heard a crash immediately behind him as somebody went down, unable to take the turn. He hoped it was not Nigel.

Still he bore right, so that now he was plunging along the wavering edge of spears, their blood-red tips before his eyes.

Some were raised, to allow him passage, but others remained thrust out still, menacing. There were screams at his back now, where some of his Northerners had been unable to bring their beasts round in time and had crashed into their fellow-countrymen.

Bruce did not glance round.

His eyes were on Wallace. He stood just behind the kneeling front row

of spearmen, a little way along to the south, leaning now on his great

sword, head bowed. He had lost his helmet and appeared to be wounded,

blood running down his face and into his red bushy beard-though with so much blood splashed everywhere, it need not be his own. Stooping, he nevertheless stood above the press of those around him like a forest tree amongst bushes.

Bruce was seeking to draw up now, with the pressure behind slackened by the turn. He waved and shouted to Wallace.

“Quickly!” he cried.

“Come. A chance. To win free. To me, man.”

The giant raised his head to stare, but made no other move. He did not answer. He looked dizzy.

“Hurry, I say! Do not stand there,” Bruce yelled.

“We cannot wait, or all is lost. They will rally. Come.”

Wallace shook his head, and gave a single dismissive wave of a huge bloodstained hand.

“Fool!” Bruce was close to him now, shouting and gesticulating over the heads of kneeling men, horse sidling nervously.

“Do you not see? You must break out. While you may. Or you are a dead man.”

“You … you would have me leave these? Abandon my folk?

Away with you, Bruce.” That was thickly, unevenly cried out.

The man was obviously far from clearheaded.

“You can do no good here now. Come away. And fight again …”

“No! Run from my friends? Never!”

Others were pleading with him now, arguing, pointing—Scrymgeour his standard-bearer, Blair the priest, Boyd. Bruce saw behind them the drawn and anxious face of James the Steward.

And Crawford. All the nobles had not deserted the Guardian.

Desperately Bruce remonstrated, his voice breaking as he heard the battle joining behind him, the English recovering from their surprise and beginning to hurl themselves against the light Scots horse.

“Wallace!” he yelled.

“You are the Guardian. Of Scotland.

All Scotland. Not just these. If you fall now, Scotland falls. Mind who you are-the Guardian …”

Nigel was shouting now, at his side.

“These others can break.

Into the marsh, and away. Where horse cannot follow. Many will escape. If you stay, all will die.”

“Aye! Aye!” All around men saw the sense of that, and cried it.

Hands were pushing and pulling Wallace forward, towards the Bruces.

The 700, or what was left of them, now formed a chaotic barrier between the Bruces and the enemy, those towards the rear turned to face outwards and taking the brunt of a so-far disorganised English attack. Others were mounting fellow-Scots behind them.

“Get the Steward,” Bruce ordered his brother. He waved to others.

“Crawford. Lennox. Scrymgeour. I take Wallace…”

A Mar-man pushed up with a riderless horse.

“Here—for Wallace.”

“Aye …”

Eager, desperate hands were propelling the reluctant giant forward, all but lifting him on to the head-tossing, wild-eyed gar ron He seemed to be no longer actually resisting.

Hardly waiting for the big man to be astride, Bruce grabbed the other’s reins. A swift glance round had shown him that the only possible route of escape was southwards, up the Westquarter Burn. There were English there, yes—but not in the numbers that were behind them, massing everywhere.

“Come!” he commanded.

“After me. A wedge again. Keep close.” He dug in his spurs.

It was a ragged and much smaller wedge that began to form again behind him, to pound away southwards, along the front of spears. Many of his men had fallen, not a few chose their own route of escape, the rear ranks were too closely engaged to break away with the others. But perhaps two hundred could and did obey his call, and made up a formidable enough phalanx for any but an organised English squadron of cavalry to seek to halt.

They were burdened now, of course, with two men to most horses. They had no longer the advantage of a downward slope.

And they were in softer, boggier ground. But this last militated more against the heavier enemy horse than themselves. It was no headlong gallop, but at best a canter. But a determined canter, before which the scattered enemy swerved away, even if thereafter they closed in on the flanks and rear. Indeed, from all sides the English gave chase rather than sought to intercept, but even double-burdened, the nimble hill-ponies were swifter, lighter, than chargers.

Wallace, swaying about alarmingly in the saddle, his long legs

positively trailing the ground, was pounding along between Bruce and

Nigel, who now had the Steward clinging behind him, heavily-armoured and a great weight. Bruce heard trumpets braying a new and distinctive call, from across the valley. He guessed what that meant, and his heart sank.

The arrows began to come at them in a matter of moments thereafter. They were nearing extreme range, and a moving target—but the bowmen needed only to loose off into the brown mass.

Havoc quickly followed. Nigel’s horse was one of the first to fall, pierced through the neck, and throwing both riders. They were all but ridden down immediately. Bruce, reining round violently to the right, more uphill, to increase the range and change of direction of flight, yelled for his brother and the Steward to be picked up-but did not himself slacken pace or leave grip of Wallace’s reins. Somehow the pack behind him swung after him, their formation much broken. And still the arrows hissed down on them, amid the screams of men and horses.