Insurrection: Renegade [02] (36 page)

Ignoring the others, some of whom were smirking at Menteith’s derision, Wallace fixed him with his gaze. ‘You seem to have forgotten our reason for being here is to draw the king’s fire – to split his forces so our countrymen in the north have a better chance. We should beware of taking unnecessary risks, when we expect to be challenged by the enemy.’

Menteith’s freckled face coloured under the intensity of Wallace’s stare. He looked away first, glancing at his new ally for support.

John Comyn came to his aid. ‘Indeed, the longer we waste time with debate, the sooner the enemy will arrive.’ He met Wallace’s blue eyes. ‘My men and I will take the settlement. I thought I saw a few grain stores to the north, back the way we came. Take your company and burn them.’ Comyn headed to his horse. He looked back before mounting, a smile creasing his face. ‘Feel free to keep anything you find.’

Wallace stood in silence as the rest of the nobles moved to their horses and swung up into their saddles, faces flushed with wine and anticipation. Pulling on helms, shortening their reins, they walked their horses out of the copse. Menteith rode his charger directly at Wallace, who sidestepped neatly. The Disinherited followed in their wake, laughing and joking as they hefted weapons and flaming torches, for all the world as if they were embarking on a feast-day hunt, rather than the rape and sack of a sleeping community.

Under Comyn and his plunder-hungry comrades the men of Galloway had grown careless, used to easy victories assaulting undefended villages. Many bore trophies taken from their victims: an ivory-handled dagger, a silver brooch pin, a silk purse, a soiled veil. Some, he had noticed, had taken to wearing locks of female hair around their necks on thongs. As one, a bull of a man, with a black beard, stalked past, Wallace counted at least six different coloured hanks of hair knotted together to hang down the front of his aketon.

He couldn’t berate them for these tokens; he who had worn a necklace of human teeth in the early days of the rebellion and who’d had a belt fashioned from the skin of the hated English treasurer, Hugh de Cressingham. Still, he found them distasteful now. Maybe the courts of Paris and Rome had tempered him, or maybe it was just the abandon with which these men wreaked havoc that troubled him. Wallace had no compunction about killing English on the field of battle. But the homes split open by axe blades, the women and girls dragged out into the streets for the pleasure of the infantry, farmers pissing themselves as they were lined up and beheaded, boys screaming like animals as they burned to death in a barn: these things lingered in his mind. His own forces had been driven to similar excesses when he had led them here after Stirling, but he hanged the worst offenders. Blood-lust made a man careless. An ill-disciplined army was a useless one.

‘Bastard sons of bitches all,’ murmured Gray at his side, as Comyn and the others disappeared through the trees. ‘And Menteith? I wouldn’t give that mincing whoreson the sweat of my arse crack if he was dying of thirst.’ When Wallace didn’t speak, Gray glanced at him. ‘Burning grain? You should have rammed his order up his—’

‘He’s guardian of Scotland, Gray. The men of the realm have given him that authority. We must respect that. The last thing Scotland needs is more division among its defenders. Come,’ Wallace said, moving off through the trees to where they had left their own horses. ‘Gather the rest of our men. We’ll play our part. For now.’

Chapter 30

Near Carlisle, England, 1303 AD

They could see the flames a mile away. Strangely silent, the tongues of fire curled into the sky revealing the outlines of houses and barns. The thatch on many of the buildings was ablaze, smoke rolling thickly. Figures – some riding, more running – were illuminated in the streets. Although the fire itself could not be heard at this distance, the faint screams were unmistakable.

As Robert looked across the dark fields towards the burning town, a memory awoke in him. Anglesey, eight years earlier. He was riding through filthy, snow-mottled streets, men scattering before him. Llanfaes had been bloody, the English breaking through the town’s palisade in moments, but its inhabitants had at least been defended, if ineffectively, by Madog ap Llywelyn’s forces. What was happening in this settlement tonight was butchery.

They had seen similar scenes as they’d ridden into England, but only the aftermath; smoking ruins of buildings under ashen skies, corpses strewn across the streets, flies already swarming, survivors dead-eyed with shock. It was by this trail of devastation that they had followed the rebels down through Annandale and across the border, always a day or more behind the Scots, until that evening when monks from an abbey they passed said they had seen a large band of marauders moving south along the River Eden. The English company, made up of three hundred horse and two thousand foot, headed by Aymer de Valence and Robert Clifford, had pushed on through the night in pursuit.

Above the harsh breaths of foot soldiers struggling up the hill to join the knights on the ridge, the sound of hoof-beats rose. Two figures emerged from the darkness and hauled their horses to a halt before Valence.

‘Scots have overrun the place, sir,’ panted one.

‘Have they formed a perimeter?’ Aymer questioned. ‘Any defence?’

The rider’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. ‘No, sir. The churls have left themselves wide open. The river cuts off their path to the south. If we ride now, we can block their escape.’

Robert, staring down at the blazing town, wondered just who was in those streets. No more faceless castles, manned by unknown garrisons; there might be men he knew, comrades even, down there.

Valence drew his sword and nodded to Robert Clifford, mounted beside him. ‘You and your men take the town. I’ll secure the periphery and keep the whoresons penned in. Remember, brother, the king wants as many ringleaders brought to him alive as possible. He wishes to deal with John Comyn personally.’ The knight’s tone roughened as he spoke his brother-in-law’s name.

Robert watched as Valence swept the company with his stare, his face shadowed by the raised visor of his helm, his eyes like pools of pitch beneath the rim.

The knight fixed on him. ‘You will join him, Bruce.’ Leaving Clifford to summon his men, Valence pricked his destrier closer to Robert. ‘If you hesitate to confront, kill or capture any one of your countrymen I will know of it.’ He leaned in, hefting his broadsword. ‘I’m going to ram my steel into the gut of every Scot I find down there.’ The wire in his mouth gleamed as he bared his teeth, before wheeling away with a shout. ‘We ride!’

‘What did the bastard say?’

Robert turned to see his brother looking at him. Edward, whom he’d set in charge of the knights of Annandale, wore their father’s arms, his yellow surcoat divided by the red saltire. He had taken off his helm and his face glistened with sweat in the moonlight. ‘Just follow my lead,’ Robert told him.

As Clifford and his men set off at a canter down the hillside, Robert snapped down his visor. He couldn’t think about who he might meet in those streets. If he faltered, the sacrifice he had made in submitting to Edward would be in vain. He had to seize this moment, no matter the cost. Had to prove he was one of these men. Kicking at Hunter’s sides he followed Clifford, his brother and Nes to either side of him. Around them rode knights and squires of Annandale and Carrick, summoned to arms by Robert. The men of Annandale had seen the devastation wrought in their lands by the rebels under John Comyn, whole towns ravaged by sack and slaughter. They now showed no compunction about confronting fellow Scots. They were out for blood.

The flames grew in the slits of Robert’s visor and smoke tainted the air as he and his men plunged through a harvested field. Clods of soil were kicked up, stones skittering off helms and shields. Spurring their horses over a bank, they joined a track that led into the settlement. Canter became gallop as they approached the town, their blades and the bosses on shields burnished by the glow of the fires. In their wake came Valence and his knights. Behind, the foot soldiers hastened to form a barrier on the outskirts.

Clifford didn’t slow as he neared the first houses, the roaring flames masking the hoof-beats. In the street, two men were bent over a chest. There was a body on the ground close by. A third man was watching his comrades open the chest. He had a cask in his hands, which he upended and guzzled from, wine dribbling down his tunic. On lowering the vessel, he looked straight at the knights cantering towards him. His mouth widened, the cask slipping from his hands. Staggering back, he turned to run, a shout tearing from his lips.

The Scot only made it a short distance before Clifford caught him. As he swung his sword down, the blade hacked through the running man’s neck, beheading him. His body continued for a couple of seconds, before he crumpled in the dust. His two comrades were cut down where they stood, one taking a slash of a sword that split his face, the other stabbed through the throat. Clifford and his knights swept on into the burning streets.

Robert led his men through the buffeting heat. Above the thudding hooves, he caught jubilant cries and anguished shrieks. The streets were strewn with debris. Through his visor he glimpsed dozens of corpses among the wreckage. Here, a half-naked woman, split from groin to throat, there another whose face had been staved in. A man burst from the door of a burning house and lumbered into the street, skin and hair flaming. One of Clifford’s knights rode him down and, with a chop of his sword, ended his screams.

Beyond, the thoroughfare was filled with Scots, mostly infantry. Here, looting continued, as did rape, judging by the tortured screams coming from the few buildings not yet on fire. Shouts filled the air as the Scots saw the English coming, but half of them were too drunk on pillaged ale to form any adequate defence. Few wore mail and many of those with helms and shields had discarded them, the better to drink and pillage. Clifford’s knights rode right through them.

As swords swung in, blood splattered the walls of houses and strangled howls were lost in the clamour of hooves. Many Scots turned and ran, but a few defended themselves, roaring and wild-eyed as they leapt at the riders, or hacked axe blades into the legs of horses. Now, the first English went down, knights hurled from tumbling mounts, or grappled and pulled to the ground. The crack of blades meeting shields echoed in the confined streets. One of Clifford’s men lost control of his horse as its neck was split open by a Scot’s falchion. The destrier careened into the side of a burning house, causing the roof to collapse inwards with a burst of sparks that showered the men in the street.

The charge of the knights was quickly brought to a stop, choked by the press. Scots were running away down side streets, shouting the alarm. Among them, Robert caught sight of tunics emblazoned with the white lion of Galloway. The symbol of John Balliol fired his blood. With a shout, he led his men off between the buildings. A huge man with a black beard lurched out of a doorway in front of him. He had a dirk in one fist and something long and wispy trailed from the other. Robert just had time to see it was a hank of blond hair, before he brought his sword down in a cut of wrath that cleaved through the man’s leather aketon and into his shoulder. Wrenching the blade free, he cantered on, the forty-two inches of Damascene steel christened in the first blood of the battle.

Heart pumping furiously, he drove Hunter on into a market square where the Scottish force was concentrated. Among the foot soldiers were knights, sprinting for their horses as Robert’s men rode into their midst. Fleeing Scots were falling prey to their own devastation, stumbling over strewn furniture and sacks to be trampled by the brutal charge of iron-shod hooves that could burst a man’s skull or snap his spine. Some darted to the houses for cover, but were faced with fires they had set. Smoke choked the air.

Outside the church, from which the invaders were carrying coffers and candlesticks, Robert saw a knot of red surcoats. Glimpsing the Comyn arms illuminated by the flames, he kicked Hunter towards the looters. Somewhere, a horn began to call. One man, foot already in his stirrup, turned at the sound. Robert, plunging towards the group, caught sight of his face. His heart gave a fierce leap. It was John Comyn. Robert spurred Hunter harder. By capturing the rebel leader he could prove his loyalty to Edward and rid Scotland of his greatest obstacle to the throne in one move. Comyn had mounted, but his back was to Robert. In the chaos he hadn’t seen him.

Robert’s concentration was so intently fixed on his enemy that he only saw the rider rushing up on his left at the last moment. With barely a second to spare, he dropped the reins and raised his shield to block the sword that came crashing at him. The impact was brutal, the concussion jolting all the way up to his shoulder, weakening the nerves in his hand and arm. The momentum of his charge carried him some distance past his attacker, before he could veer Hunter round with a jab of his knee to counter. As they came together again, swords arcing above the heads of their horses, Robert realised he knew him. The man, whose white surcoat bore the arms of the Red Comyns, wore a conical helm with a nasal guard, the ventail of which hung loose, exposing his mouth and jaw. It was Dungal MacDouall; the man whose father had been killed by his in the Bruces’ attack on Buittle Castle.

As Robert cut in at him, the captain smacked the blade away with a cuff of his shield, then rammed his sword towards Hunter’s head. Robert reacted quickly, jabbing his spur into the horse’s flanks, causing the destrier to rear up. He was rocked back against the cantle as Hunter’s hooves pummelled the air, one of them catching MacDouall’s palfrey on the side of the head. The palfrey stumbled, crashing into Hunter’s side, causing the destrier, still up on his hind legs, to lose his balance. The palfrey, stunned by the kick, went with him as he toppled.