Macbeth the King (52 page)

"Fools!" he shouted. "What do you here—idle?" He saw Pentecost's massive figure in gleaming steel and great plumed helmet, behind the tight ranks. "Aside! Let me through—through, I
say!" Waving back his followers, he plunged on into and through the Norman ring.

He found Sir Osbert actually supporting Neil Nathrach in his saddle, under the Moray banner, his brother bloody and grey-featured but still controlling the battle insofar as he could.

"Neil, man—enough!" he cried. "You are sore hurt. Off with you. Get back. Back with you, I say. Colin mac Conquhare will command here. You!" He swung on the Thane of Belhelvie. "Take my brother back. See him safely disposed." He turned back to Pentecost. "Sir Osbert—what folly is this? Did I bring you to Scotland to stand sentry?"

"Sire—I but obey orders. My lord Thane of Cawdor commanded here. I told him this was not our role. But he insisted. Your brother . .

"Aye—enough! Enough! Take your Normans, now, and do what you can. What you are here for. Two companies. Cut up this English array. Cut. Split. Divide. Harry. Go, man -go!"

So a new stage in the battle was commenced, with the cavalry tactics, in which MacBeth put so much faith, given a chance to operate in wedges or columns, boring into selected parts of the enemy mass, and endeavouring to cut through them and detach them from the main body; and when this was achieved, to turn on them and ride them down piecemeal, crushing them with the weight of horseflesh. This was the warfare of mobility, something little known north of Normandy, and it put the enemy at major disadvantage.

Nevertheless, the horsemen suffered casualties, a continuous steady drain, even the Normans, mounts as well as riders. Spears accounted for some, hamstrung garrons for more. The Norman horses, being themselves part-covered by armour, fared better; but agile men could dart in, slip below their bellies for a moment and rip these open with a single upward slash of a dirk. Many knights fell thus.

But the English advance was held. Had the enemy not been constantly reinforced across the Kinmonth ford from Siward's main host, they might even have been driven back.

MacBeth debated off and on within himself as he led sally after sally, with two garrons killed under him, whether in fact he ought to be doing this, acting the captain again rather than the general? Whether he should not rather be standing back, supervising all, considering the whole field. He recognised that he might be failing in some major strategy by being too closely involved in the immediate tactics. Always at the back of his mind was the position of Brodie and Farquhar, facing Siward back there. Clearly the Dane and his full force had not transferred here to Kinmonth, so the Rhynd ford must still be threatened. If only he knew what was going on...

He had decided that he must resign this spearheading role to another and go back to Rhynd after this present sally, when he perceived a sort of eddy in the battle scene opening before them, a less dense corridor, at the far end of which flapped the banner of Deira itself, carried high. That must be Siward's son. It was too good an opportunity to miss, a chance to bring down the enemy leadership here. Shouting his changed commands, the King wheeled his weary formation round once more, and plunged into the fray in the new direction.

The so-called Earl of Deira saw them coming, endeavoured to interpose more of his people between—which could have been wise leadership rather than any cowardice. But MacBeth, in this savage mood, was not to be baulked. On through all intervening press of smiting, cringing and trampled bodies he drove, ably supported right and left and pushed onwards by the impetus at his back. The last screen of men flung themselves aside before him, as well they might, and there was the slender, yellow-haired young man, in fine silver scale-armoured tunic, richly accoutred, mouth open, blue eyes wide, battle-axe raised. Even as the royal sword crashed down, its wielder knew a pain at his heart and the refrain in his mind saying so young, so young. Then on over the red ruin of Siward's heir he was swept. The rider on his right hand grasped at the reeling Deira banner, to carry it off in their onward rush.

The wedge beat its way round in a wide scything arc, to smash through to open ground again.

There, momentarily drained of emotion, the King was seeking to still a strange trembling of his limbs, when a single rider came pounding up, shouting his news. Siward was across. He had broken through. The English were streaming up the neck of land to Wester Rhynd. Brodie was down. The Prince Farquhar was trying to hold them, but it was hopeless
...

Desperately MacBeth pulled himself together, flogging his battered wits. It was too much, all too much. He was tired beyond belief. Farquhar. Brodie fallen. What to do—in God's name, what to do?

He sent urgent messages to the two Norman units, now notably smaller, to Martacus and Luctacus, ordering them to leave all and hurry eastwards after him. And to Colin, telling him of this latest threat. He must switch part of his present force eastwards. Then he pointed his sword wordlessly in the same direction, to his own battered group, now less than fifty strong, and urged his sweat-soaked beast into renewed action.

He was too late to seek to hold the neck of the peninsula at Wester Rhynd, as he had hoped. Already the enemy had overrun that. But the farmery buildings occupied a position some 300 yards in from the actual root of the isthmus, before it opened out into the carseland; and here the remainder of the defenders' force were still making a stand, to prevent the English from flooding out into the wide levels. But clearly they were not going to withstand the pressure for much longer.

Pounding up, MacBeth was relieved at least to see Farquhar still apparently unhurt, and trying to rally and direct his weary people, a sorry shadow of the original thousand. The King's arrival, with shortly afterwards Martacus and a few score more mounted men, put some new heart into the wavering remnant admittedly; but nothing was more evident than that they could not hold Siward here, in any barrier of flesh and blood. Besides, this was not the best way to use his mounted men—on this MacBeth's reeling mind was clear at least. The fact that he had cavalry, however few and tired, and Siward had none, was the Scots' only remaining advantage.

So he began to organise a phased withdrawal, groups to fall back alternately whilst others protected them, never more than one-third moving at a time. This was the intention, at least, although inevitably in the clash of battle it was only partially successful. Then, with the arrival of the Normans and some more garron-mounted men under Luctacus, the King withdrew Farquhar from the defensive command to his own side, and put Formartine, one of the Mar thanes, in charge of the foot, ordering all mounted groups to detach themselves and ride back some way, clear.

It looked like desertion of the foot, of course—and not a few undoubtedly saw it as such, and sullenly yielded ground in consequence. But with only minimum delay thereafter, the impact of the cavalry tactics was amply demonstrated to all, the King himself, with Farquhar, leading his spearhead first into the enemy west flank. Soon five horsed wedges were assailing and seeking to cut up Siward's crowded host as it emerged into the open plain, and the Scots took heart again, at the enemy's preoccupation with his flanks.

So commenced another and most desperate phase of that interminable and complicated battle, which had now continued for what seemed untold hours, with noon well past. None would claim that the cavalry charges were as effective as they ought to have been, any more than the infantry defence, with men and beasts exhausted and numbers ever dwindling. But the enemy were tired also, their casualties heavy and their hopes continually dashed. Fairly quickly the cornlands of Rhynd and Kinmonth became one vast bloodstained chaos of struggling, stumbling, wounded and dying men, with no recognisable fronts, no coherent centres, no sure victories or defeats. In and through, to and fro, round and about in it all rode the horsed wedges, growing more ragged, smaller and smaller, slower and slower, less and less efficient. Presently there were only the three of them, and these at much reduced strength, many of the men continuing to ride wounded, the King himself dazed, with an arm limp, and Farquhar with a speared thigh. One of the Norman groups had disappeared entirely, Sir Osbert Pentecost with it, although Sir Hugh Despard still led the other gallantly.

The Battle of the Earn was, in fact, in process of grinding to a halt in sheer prostration.

Then, extraordinarily, in mid-afternoon a new factor came to affect that ghastly and terrible situation, and to have an impact utterly unexpected by all concerned. It was the arrival on the scene, from the south, of the fleeing Scots force from Stirling, under Lachlan of Buchan, or part thereof. Overwhelmed, at last, at the Forth crossing, they had taken to the hills as the best way of eluding the pursuing English host, and streaming through the Ochil valleys, emerged down Glen Farg on to the Earn plain near Aberargie. There was not one thousand of them, and they were strung out and largely demoralised. But that was not evident from a distance, and Lachlan had kept his leadership group tight under his Buchan banners. Siward and his people, seeing it, misconstrued, imagined it to be Scots reinforcements in major strength, and lost all heart for further fight. No doubt the deaths of Siward's son, and many others of the English leadership, contributed. At any rate, the English decided that enough was enough, and a retiral movement was started. It was an orderly withdrawal, of course, and no panic retreat, with the Scots in little state to exploit it. Siward fell back on the Rhynd ford and the remnants of his son's force did the same at Kinmonth.

MacBeth and his people harried the crossings, but only in token fashion, so desperately weakened and weary were they. They did not pursue across the water. For them also, enough was enough—especially as they saw that Siward was not pausing and regrouping on the south shore, but pushing on eastwards towards his ships on the Tay.

Now would be the time for Glamis to make some cross-Tay gesture.

When Lachlan mac Caerill came up, he was surprised indeed to find himself greeted almost as hero and saviour for, brash man as he was, he had seen himself as a failure. The Forth battle, he reported, had been desperate, hopeless, with the English using boats to cross below bridge and causeway, and some damnable traitor, probably of MacDuff's faction, revealing to them the hidden Fords of Frew crossing further up. He just had not sufficient men to fight on three fronts, or even two, and so they had been outflanked. He had lost some hundreds of men, and would have lost all had he not retired when he did. But at least he had personally slain the enemy leader, another Siward, a sister's son. The enemy had not dared follow him through the narrow Ochils valleys in force. But they were coming northwards by the normal main route, by Allan and Ruthven Waters to the Earn. They should be here before darkness.

"How many?" the King demanded.

"Four thousand, at least."

MacBeth groaned.

But dazed and in pain as he was, he had to do better than that. He sent messengers to Glamis, in the Carse, ordering him to detach at least half of his force and send them here, across the Elcho fords of Tay, and swiftly. Siward was unlikely, at this stage, to mount any cross-estuary assault. Then he set about marshalling his battered, scattered forces, tending to the wounded and collecting and laying out the dead. Rest was not yet.

The tally of casualties proved to be dire indeed. All in all something in the region of 2500 were dead, Malpender, Mormaor of Strathearn and the heirs of Lennox and Angus amongst them; also 3rodie, Oykell and half-a-dozen other thanes. Also Pentecost and fully half the Normans. Adding the 500 or so Lachlan said that he had lost—although some of these might still survive—Scotland had lost nearly 3000 men slain, the greatest slaughter on Scottish soil for a century at least. And the number of wounded was legion, almost more injured than there were unscathed. It was scant consolation that they counted 1500 English dead left behind on the field, including Siward's only son and nephew. Malcolm Canmore was not there, nor was Duncan MacDuff. None could give news of these.

In the midst of this grim tidying, watchers pointed out black smoke columns rising in the late afternoon air to eastwards, approximately where Siward's ships were assembled. Look-outs sent to higher ground reported presently that it was some of the English ships on fire. So Glamis had not been idle. And shortly afterwards, the same look-outs sent the blessed word—Siward's army was embarking, some of his vessels already moving off eastwards for the open sea. It was too far to see details, but Glamis's force appeared to be assailing the embarkation from small boats.

The King sent Martacus, unwounded, back to set the Moray fleet in motion, where it was blocking the Tay at Kinfauns, to further harass the English shipping, however denuded they were of crews.

Farquhar had lost a lot of blood from his thigh wound, and the King was seeing to him being sent off behind Luctacus to Cairn Beth, when a rider arrived from the south, from Mal-pender's hall-house of Auchterarder. The enemy army from the Forth had almost reached there, and then halted and was now turned back. They were in full retreat.

Clearly Siward had sent them orders to retire, confirmation that his own departure was in process.

The Battle of the Earn was over, then, and the King of Scots left holding the field. But at what a cost! In terms of losses, he told himself, it was a defeat not any sort of victory.

All but dropping on his feet, he dragged himself up on to a blood-spattered garron, to ride for Cairn Beth and Gruoch's. comfort.

the passage of
time proved that hard-fought struggle by the Earn to have been more defeat than victory for the Scots. For although Siward's armies retired, they only went as far as the Lothian shore of Forth and the Scottish Sea. The Dane himself, slightly wounded evidently, put his fleet into the firth, dropped Malcolm Canmore mac Duncan and MacDuff of Fife at Stirling, to command the retiring army of his dead nephew and to hold Lothian and the South with a force of about 5000, and then sailed for his headquarters at Bamburgh in Northumberland. So now the vital Forth crossing was held
against
the Scots. And to all intents MacBeth had lost Lothian, the Merse and Teviotdale, with much of Strathclyde seriously endangered and Galloway isolated. It was a grievous price to pay for survival.