Insurrection (46 page)

‘Sir,’ said Humphrey, bowing at the honour.

Leaving the knight to gather the rest of the young bloods, Warenne hastened through the camp, calling his commanders to him. The captains of the cavalry and infantry moved into action, rounding up their troops. Squires and grooms went to horses, hoisting up saddles, their fingers working at buckles on girths and bridles. Most of the knights wore some armour in readiness of possible attack, but they now pulled on the more awkward pieces: mail or plate gauntlets, helms and shields. Infantry adjusted sword belts and hefted hammers and pikes, forming up in their companies. The siege engines still pounded the castle walls, but the thud of stones was soon drowned by shouts and the neighing of horses as the knights mounted up.

As they rode out of the camp, heading west towards the Scottish host on the distant hill, the defiant cries of the defenders faded behind them. Blue patches of sky appeared between the white banners of cloud that flew fast overheard. Sunlight lanced through the breaks, warming the faces of the knights and the infantry who marched behind. John de Warenne led the vanguard, his eyes on the distant army. The Scots had the high ground, but that did not trouble the grandson of the legendary William Marshal. His men rode with him in confident columns, pennons fluttering on lance shafts, helm crests waving. The foot soldiers brought up the rear, striding across the muddy ground that sloped steadily upwards.

The colours of the enemy’s flags grew clearer. Among them was the royal banner of Scotland, the red lion rampant on gold. The Scots shouted as the English came, their cries carrying on the wind to meet the advancing men. Contained in those faint sounds, Warenne guessed there would be cries for vengeance. He doubted there was a man left in Scotland who hadn’t learned of the slaughter at Berwick. Such thirst for revenge was good. It would make the Scots rash. In contrast his men remained silent, intent on closing the gap between themselves and the enemy, marshalling their strength for the fight.

As the English knights reached the top of the first incline, Warenne raised his hand to call a halt. His commanders moved in around him, while he surveyed the terrain. Ahead, the ground fell sharply into a valley, clustered with trees and bushes that grew thicker in the defile, partially concealing a glistening burn. Beyond the narrow stream, the trees thinned out again as the ground rose in a long, ridged slope, all the way up to the Scottish host on the crest. Giving orders to his commanders, who spread out to relay them to the men, Warenne led the English down the steep hillside. The knights leaned back in their saddles, allowing their destriers to find the best routes. Still, the fell voices of the Scots came to them from the distance. The infantry followed, using spear butts to aid them on the decline. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, a shadow sweeping in across the grass. Ahead, between the trees, the waters of the burn dulled from bronze to slate in the changing light.

The first knights reached the stream, Warenne among them. In places the banks were high and the men were forced to spread out to seek safe crossing. Their lines broke as they moved between the trees, some turning back to find better routes by which to urge their destriers across. Others rode carefully down shallower, sandy banks, into the cold running water. The mud on the stream-bed, churned by the hooves, turned the burn cloudy. Kicking hard at the sides of their horses, the men forced them up on to the other side, water dripping from the beasts’ legs. A few chargers skidded and panicked, but the knights controlled them with sharp commands. Behind, more cavalry came, following comrades across.

Warenne formed up with his men in the trees on the other side. He turned, barking orders as the knights continued to spread out along the banks. Behind them soldiers crowded in, waiting to cross. Suddenly, from the hill above, Warenne heard the shrill ringing of many horns. It was followed by the unmistakable thunder of hooves. Spurring his horse forward to get a better view, the Earl of Surrey saw the Scottish army riding pell-mell down the ridged hillside towards the burn. For a moment, he was struck dumb by the sight, stunned by the unexpectedness of the charge. Then he heard the roared words in between the horns.

‘
On them!
’

‘
On them! The cowards are fleeing!
’

In a second, Warenne took in his men fanned out along the valley floor, some moving back through the trees to search for a place to cross. He realised that what was a breaking of ranks to cross the burn must, to the Scots, have looked like his forces were in disarray. Then, he was yelling commands, ordering his men across by any means. The last knights charged their horses at the stream. Most vaulted up and over, but a few fell, toppling on the banks, horses screaming and twisting as they crashed back. Behind, the infantry splashed down the slick banks in their hundreds, holding their weapons high as they waded through the water and crawled up the other side. Snapping down his visor and snatching his lance from his squire, Warenne spurred his horse out of the trees, followed by his men.

The Scots, plunging headlong down the hillside in a disorderly mass, saw a line of knights emerging through the trees ahead forming up as they came, ranks closing, shields rising. What they had thought was a host of men fleeing in fear, was suddenly a well-disciplined wall of steel, thundering up the slope to meet them. Some of the Scots at the front of the haphazard assault, those who saw the knights first, tried to rein in their mounts, tried to slow, or turn. But they were committed now, propelled by the masses coming behind them, straight into the English heavy cavalry, their thirst for blood drying in their mouths. Those Scots who had seen battle before roared the others on, trying their best to tighten the ranks, but it was too late. The English knights battered straight through them.

Men, tossed from saddles with the violent impact, were hurled into the ground. Some were knocked senseless, others went down beneath the trampling hooves, pummelled into the mud. As the English punched through the Scottish host, turning the disorderly mass into unbridled panic, the infantry poured in behind. Like locusts, they swarmed over fallen men and horses, surrounding earls and knights who were disarmed and taken prisoner. Some nobles went down, fighting vainly, as the infantry closed over the top of them, disabling them with blows from hammers or sword pommels.

Warenne, his lance spent, swung out with his great sword, hacking at a Scottish knight. As the man reeled with the strike, Warenne turned his horse with a jerk of the reins, causing the beast to barrel into the side of the Scot’s charger, jolting the man from the saddle. He went down with a cry and a crunch of armour. As the Scot tried to push himself up, three English foot soldiers surrounded him. One swung a hammer into his stomach, causing him to double up, while the others beat and kicked him until he could be disarmed. Warenne pushed on, leading his soldiers deeper into the torn Scottish ranks, battling through to the foot soldiers behind, where the killing became indiscriminate. Warenne’s knights slashed down at the men scattering across the hillside before them, gashing scalps, severing limbs and heads from bodies. The armoured warhorses clouted men aside like they were saplings, or else reared to stamp down with their hooves, bursting skulls and snapping spines beneath their massive weight, as they had been trained to do. The ground was soon awash with gore, infantry groaning as they dragged themselves along, unable to escape the English foot soldiers, who finished them with brutal thrusts of their falchions.

All across the field, the Scots were trying to struggle free, the battle for them now a desperate bid for survival. Warenne glimpsed the royal banner of Scotland disappearing up the slope, followed by the standard of the Red Comyns. The hillside between was clogged with dead and dying foot soldiers, making it impossible to give chase. Hissing a curse through his visor, Warenne fought on.

In less than an hour, the battle was over. The grassy slopes were littered with dead men and horses. Some Scottish nobles had perished, but that was nothing compared to the foot soldiers, who had fallen in the hundreds. In places, the dead were so many that their blood trickled into pools that dribbled down the hillside into the waters of the burn, turning them red. The English infantry moved between the piles, finishing off the wounded.

Warenne surveyed the battleground from the saddle of his blood-splattered destrier, the stink of death thick in his mouth and nose. It disappointed him that the King of Scotland wasn’t among the defeated ranks of the Scottish nobles being rounded up by his knights, but nonetheless the battle was won. And won well. Many Scottish magnates, including a number of earls and barons, had been captured, most of whom had made up the leadership of the realm since Balliol’s surrender of authority. It was a grim day for Scotland. In one charge, the Earl of Surrey had destroyed a large part of the kingdom’s army and most of its leaders.

42

The midday sun blazed on the heads of the company. The verges to either side of the track droned with insects and the parched grass rustled in the hot wind that blew dust into the eyes of the travellers and carried on its currents the salt smell of the sea.

Robert, riding behind his father’s men, felt the sun burning the skin between his arming cap and the collar of his hauberk. With him rode his brother and the knights of Carrick. They had been travelling for hours and the horses were tiring, hanging their heads as they plodded along the track. Their tails switched constantly to ward off the flies that had thickened into clouds the nearer they came to the sea, a dazzling metal sheet in the distance.

Behind the knights, on rouncies and hobbies, rode squires, grooms and servants. Among them was Isobel’s maid, Katherine, riding the good-natured chestnut mare that once belonged to her mistress. Robert could have sold the animal, but the horse was one of the possessions Isobel had loved most and it was more practical, he had reasoned, to offer the mare up for the use of the maid who had become the prime guardian of his daughter. He had intended to find a more appropriate warden, a governess from a noble household, but there had been no time to think about such things since the death of his wife and the start of the war. Besides, Katherine had so far proven more than capable with the infant’s care. Behind her, on a sturdy grey pony, was a skinny girl of fifteen, his daughter’s wet nurse. Katherine had found Judith in Carlisle, shortly after Isobel died. The daughter of a knight of the city’s garrison, Judith had given birth several weeks earlier, but the infant had been stillborn. Nobody mentioned anything about a husband and it had seemed a relief to her father to have her taken into the Bruce household. She was a sullen creature, but she had the milk his baby needed and so Robert tolerated her presence.

Bringing up the rear were two wagons, drawn by carthorses and filled with supplies: food for the men and their horses, tents, armour and equipment, all of which were necessary for the journey. There were few places for the Bruce family to stay in Scotland now, few friends to offer beds for the night. They were returning home victorious. And hated.

The defeat of the Scottish army at Dunbar had signalled the ending of the brief war with England. Most of their leaders captured and half their army destroyed, the Scots’ resistance crumbled. Their alliance with King Philippe had proven of little use, none of the promised ships or soldiers from France coming to their aid. After Dunbar, Roxburgh, Dumbarton and Jedburgh castles had surrendered in rapid succession and Edinburgh fell after a week’s siege. Stirling, the key to the north, was found abandoned. In Perth, at the end of June, Edward received word from King John, who had fled north with the Comyns. Scotland’s king, with the agreement of his beleaguered Council of Twelve, had offered unconditional surrender.

It had been a mixed blessing for Robert, crossing the border back into Scotland at the end of the four-month war. King Edward had fulfilled his promise and restored the Bruce lands, taken by the Comyns on the eve of the conflict. On their return, the lord and the knights of Annandale and Carrick had been triumphant, but despite his relief at the restoration of his domains, Robert had found it hard to celebrate with his men as they entered Annandale. Crops lay ravaged, those not destroyed by the Scottish host left to wither in the fields with no hands to tend them. Towns and hamlets were quiet, many of the men and women of the region having fled when the Comyns’ host had come with fire and sword. Lochmaben, at least, was still standing, the host content with burning and raiding the lands around the town. It was, however, a forlorn sight, the castle ransacked for anything valuable, tapestries ripped down, unwieldy items of furniture left broken or soiled, stores emptied of grain and wine. A smell of urine pervaded the place, which was littered with refuse, animal bones, discarded sacks, empty barrels, as if many men had stayed here for a brief time, before moving on.

There had been little time to set about clearing it, however, for word had soon come from King Edward, summoning the Lord of Annandale and Robert to the north-eastern town of Montrose, and his presence.

‘Sir, should we rest a while?’

Robert looked up as one of the knights of Annandale addressed his father. He had been going to suggest the same thing himself. The midday heat was becoming unbearable and the horses were desperate for water. He was riding one of his palfreys, Hunter being led by Nes. Marjorie, swaddled in a cloth sling against Katherine’s chest, was beginning to whimper.

‘No, we’re almost there.’ The lord turned to the knight with a self-­satisfied expression. ‘I want to greet King Edward as soon as possible. I expect he has important tidings for me.’