A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (26 page)

As the English marched, their armor
glimmering like a second sun. Hundreds of banners waved in the wind over the
whole host, Valence's starling, the English Cross of St. George, the Plantagenet
leopard, and more--too many to count. James shook his head. No doubt the man
thought to ride them down, knowing how outnumbered the Scots were. They thought
to destroy Robert de Bruce and the six hundred men with him like a worm
squashed underfoot.

James let the gallop back the way that
they'd come, cutting across country on their light garrons. They passed through
bog and moor where the heavy English horse dare not go. Loudoun Hill came into
view, a hump that rose a thousand feet into the air. In the dark moors, James
led his men towards the road that ran past it, the road that Valence would be
forced to follow. On each side of the road, men labored digging ditches. On the
heather-covered slope of the hill spread cook fires and tents in ragged array. The
king's gold and red banner flew on the crest beside the blue saltire of
Scotland. James nudged his lathered horse's flanks to kick clods out of the
dirt as it scrambled and labored.

The king, clad in mail covered by a surcoat
of gold with the red lion on its breast, stood surrounded by his lieutenants.

"Your grace," James exclaimed as
he jumped from the saddle, "we found them."

"And?"

"No archers, my lord. Mostly medium
cavalry. Two thousand at least. Another five hundred heavy destriers. We have
today to prepare. That's all."

Bruce grunted. "He thinks to catch me
unawares by a fast march. Let him come."

Boyd pointed down to the bogs that bordered
the road a hundred feet out, not close enough to keep the English cavalry from
charging, as James well knew. "The first ditch is dug up to the edge of
the road and hidden by peat. They've just started on the second."

"That will slow them down. But not
stop them." James chewed his lip. "What if I take my men and we start
the third? A bowshot from the second. That would bring the trap right to the
edge of the bluff. If we run out of time, at least all three would be partially
dug. We'll dig the part that's closest to the road."

The king nodded. "Go ahead." Edward
Bruce looked down his nose as James signaled to Wat to pull his men from the
ranks of those laboring in the bright sun. Half dug on one side of the road and
half on the other. James grabbed a shove and thrust into the mucky ground. Sweat
ran down his face as he dug up the heavy stuff. It stuck to his legs and coated
his arms.

Further out, the moor was its own trap ready
built. It was only here, close to the road, that they had to make their own
trap for oncoming destruction.

Wat grunted when they had it a three feet
deep. James said to extend it to the side. "This is deep enough, my lord?"

"Deep enough to stop a charging war
horse." He gave a grim laugh. "And do its rider no good. The only
question is will we stop enough of them."

Sweat dripped down his bare arms streaking
dirt from digging. The heavy, wet muck was hard to dig and slow to move. It
couldn't be piled where the English would see it and that meant men carrying it
away. Peat had to be cut to cover the ditches to hide the trap. By night, the
second ditch was finished and the third halfway to the bog where it narrowed
close to the road.

* * *

A lark trilled overhead. James looked up at
it in the pale blue of the morning sky. He'd said he preferred to hear the lark
sing so here was his chance.

He had walked the field during the night,
checking for anything they'd missed. His sword and dirk were sharpened. In the
dark, he'd donned a surcoat with his blue chief and three white stars. As with
the king, let the English see whom they fought this day. If nothing else, he'd
be finely dressed to die. A sudden wind cracked his pennant. He'd honor Thomas
who'd given it to him and his father who'd fought beneath it before him.

The stack of fifteen-foot long pikes came
nearly as high as his waist. One of his man grabbed one and James gave an
encouraging thump on his shoulder as he trotted past to take his place. Already
the square of James's schiltron was half-formed, the men shoulder-to-shoulder.

"Wat," James called, "finish
here." His sergeant ran up and James picked up his horse's reins and led
the animal into the rapidly forming schiltron. He walked up behind one of the
men. Grasping the pike, James gave it a shake. "Plant your pike hard, men,"
he yelled. "When the horse hit, it must be braced." He chewed his
lip. They didn't have enough men to pack them in more than one line. His men
would have to close any gaps when one went down before the coming assault. It
took both hands to hold the pikes. Their only protection was the line of blades,
like a hedgehog's spines, thrust out ten feet in every direction in a bristling
hedge. Unbroken, no horse could pass. If it broke... James paced the rest of
the way around, leading his mount, speaking a low word now and then.

His banner snapped in the breeze, its pole
planted in the earth. With the last man to take his place and close the square,
Wat ran in and jerked the banner free to raise it aloft.

Wat waved it over his head. "A
Douglas! A Douglas!"

James swung into his saddle as his men
joined the shout. He wheeled his horse in a tight circle. On one side, Robbie
Boyd stood in the midst of a half-formed schiltron, his men forming a huge
square. On the other side, Gilbert de la Haye was talking to his men as they formed
another and braced their pikes into the dirt.

His men had never held a schiltron before although
he'd practiced it with them. Watching a fully armed knight gallop at you and
not break yourself--it was much to ask of a man. But close packed in a square
they could hold. Mayhap. Wallace and Moray had done it--once. His heart was
thudding and sweat dripped down his ribs. But his men must not see that he
feared.

King Robert's trumpets sounded and he
cantered down the hill. James smiled wryly to see the king on the black stallion
he had gifted him with from Douglas Castle. The big animal snorted as it took
the steep slope, skidding in the small rocks. The king stopped just up the rise
from them so all could see and hear him.

The king stood in his stirrups and shouted,
"My people." He waited until the murmur of voices ceased. "Today
we must send a message to all those who long to join us. They must see that we
can win. Make no mistake. If we fall today, so falls Scotland. The fate of our
nation hangs on our deeds. We must stand against the foe that would destroy us.
I need not ask you if you have the heart to die for Scotland. You've shown me
your hearts. You've fought beside me when our enemies harried us like deer. No
more. Today we stand."

The king hoisted his battleaxe above his
head. "Today we win or we die. For Scotland!"

"Scotland! Scotland!" the men
shouted.

A glint of light caught James's eye and he
stood in his stirrups. Drawing his sword, he pointed. Around the shoulder of
the hill, sunlight glared off mail and arms, a thousand--more, the English van.
The cross of St. George and Valence's starling banner caught the breeze and
whipped over their heads.

"My liege," he yelled.

"We know our enemy," the king
shouted. "Now we do our duty. For Scotland!"

Cheers went up. "Scotland! A Bruce! A
Bruce!"

Wat gestured to the pennant that he held
aloft, that James had unfolded during the night, flying from the pole in Wat's
hand. "You're sure you want me holding this and not a pike? Your bannerman
should be a lord."

"Another pike won't make any
difference, Wat. You'll be my bannerman this day. There's no other man I'd want
at my back."

James put on the pot helm that rested on
his saddle in front of him. Donning full armor instead of playing spy seemed
like a game after such a time. And wearing a helm made him sweat like a sow, but
if they were going to do this, the king said they'd do it aright. The king
regained the peak of the hill where there awaited a hundred horsemen, a full
half of all they had. On the slim strand of firm ground opposite waited the
rest with Sir Edward--all light cavalry with no chance to stand against ten
times their number in full armor on murderously heavy destriers.

A trumpet sounded one long call. The
English horse came to a canter and spread out from the road in both directions.
Shouts drifted to them, battle cries James couldn't make out. A long line
galloped towards them. He paced his horse around the inside of the square.

"Steady," he said. "Steady. Keep
solid now."

The ground shook. The beat of hooves was
like thunder.

"Hold," James said. Above his
men's heads, he watched an ocean wave of steel-clad knights and men-at-arms.

They hit the first ditch.

Horses crashed headfirst. Riders pitched
flailing, launched into the air to crash flat on the ground. Horses went over,
knights crushed beneath the weight. Others smashed into them. Screams of men
and horses rose under the thunder. A horn blew twice and again. The riders
hurtled forward, kicking as they jerked and sawed at reins. On the edge, some
went into the bog up to their hocks, rearing and fighting the sludge that
sucked them down.

Never taking his eyes from the growing
chaos, James paced his horse back and forth within the schiltron, heart
hammering. He shifted his sword in his hand and rolled his shoulders. How many
would reach them? The English cavalry rode over their downed men, using their
bodies as a bridge. More than half still stormed ahead. Screams.

Three blasts sounded and the riders jerked
to turn. They streamed towards the road. Hundreds now not thousands, they on-rushed.
The second pit was a hell of thrashing horses and struggling men. James watched
as one man flew or his horse's head to crash face first in the muck. A knight
rolled like a rag doll under trampling hooves.

"Here they come." He kept his
voice even, calm.

The third pit claimed some, but James had
no more time to look. All around them, men shouted and horses trumpeted. James
could see nothing beyond the line of horsemen that slammed into the pikes. Men
died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. The horses plunged,
reared and screamed. He spun his horse in a fast circle, ready for a gap in
their line.

A pike splintered as a horse impaled itself
on the point. The horse went down, snorting blood. The shattering pike speared
his man. A knight in a red surcoat burst through before the gap could close.

"A Douglas!" He swept his sword
and buried it deep in the knight's chest. He wrestled the blade free and the
corpse slid off the horse. It bounced.

The trumpet blew two long blasts, calling
to hold their position. "Steady," James yelled. "Close up!"

 
A man-at-arms jumped over a body and
thrust at him. James lashed out, knocking the blade aside. The man darted back
for another try.

James dodged. "Shoulder to shoulder,"
he shouted.

He heard a shout, "England!" Another
knight thundered at him from the other direction. Another gap. Wat shouted at
the men, cursing them to close ranks. James raked his spurs over his horse's
flanks and rode over the first man. The skull burst under his hooves. The other
swung a sword around his head. Their horses slammed together; James's light
animal went back on its haunches.

A battering ram blow hit his shoulder. It
exploded in pain. He flew face first into the ground, but he rolled and came up
on his knees. The horse reared over his head. Lurching, he jammed his sword upward
into the horse's belly. A flood of blood and guts spewed. The horse came down
like a boulder, he and the screaming rider trapped under it.

Wat grabbed his arm, pulling him free. James
stumbled to his feet, scraping gore off his helm with the back of his sword
hand. A thrust silenced the knight's screams. Excruciating pain shot through
his shoulder. He stumbled in a haze.

He turned looking for another opponent
through a mist--tried to grab his horse's reins but his arm wouldn't work. His
shoulder hammered in red agony.

He was on a knee propping himself up with
his sword, not sure how he got there. The battle had moved on. No one was outwith
the circle of bloodied men and pikes, except a deep bloody pile of men and
horses. A downed horse, pike through its chest, screamed as it struggled to
rise and screamed again when it fell. The rest were silent.

A long single trumpet sounded a charge from
high on the hill. Again, the roll of hoofbeats, not so loud this time. The king
and his horsemen flew past at a gallop, pursuing the English, the gold and red lion
banner whipping over Bruce's head. The remnants of the English charge shattered
like thin ice.

Competing horns blew, in the distance a
long and a short blast. Repeated. Then again. Blowing retiral.

Dizzy, James fumbled to sheath his sword. It
seemed strangely hard. He missed and tried again.

"My lord." Wat had him around his
waist, lifting him.

James groaned at the pain that stabbed from
his neck to his fingers when he tried to stand. Blood dripped from his hand to
the ground. Someone was yelling his name and kneeling beside him. He tried to
answer.