NEAR
THE BANNOCK BURN, BELOW STIRLING CASTLE
SUNDAY,
23RD JUNE 1314 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Exhausted to the point of collapse, James Audley slept, with the stink of both marsh mud and his own sweat invading every breath. Tired horses snuffled fitfully and added their particular reed to the warm, hellish night, where mists rose from boggy ground and spectral will o’the wisps chased each other through reeds and coarse grass. This far north, the summer days were long, and there had been plenty of daylight for the warlike mass of men to make the crossing. In the sticky gloom, nervous horses kicked and plunged on the steep sides of the burn, churning the water to a seething froth of mud, which sprayed over bright surcoats and polished armour. Endlessly, men and beasts poured across, intent on making the flatter ground below the forested plateau where Bruce’s men skulked.
The baggage could not cross, despite attempts to bridge the stream with what little timber could be scavenged locally – the only food and clean water available was that which men could carry themselves. A few pavilions had been erected, notably the King’s, but most of the men-at-arms dozed where they had fallen, pushed beyond endurance and depressed by the day’s events. With sleep can the nightmares. James ran through a bleak landscape of washout colours, pursued by a nameless enemy on a pallid horse. Then the scene changed to an evil marsh full of noisome pools, where slime dripped from long-dead trees and shadows filled every hollow with dread. A corpse rose, shrouded in weed, from the bottom of a pond, it’s rotted teeth split in a malicious grin.
“Good morning, Judassssssss . . . .” it hissed; and when he turned to hack at it with his sword, James saw the fair and lovely face of his Margaret smiling serenely at him. Too late to check it, his steel slashed through the head, and squirming maggots boiled out . . . .
Abruptly, he was awake, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. The sweat of terror cooled rapidly on his face and he shivered, trying to remember where he was and what had happened. He looked around and saw the dark shapes of horses and huddled soldiers, asleep on damp ground. A few sparks of fire showed but there was little dry wood for cooking or comfort. The summer night was hot and hushed, as though Nature herself waited expectantly for the dawn. Small noises came to him; the coughs and low murmurs of men in troubled sleep; the groans of the wounded; the ceaseless shuffling of horses picking at the poor grass, their hooves squelching in water.
Above the stars glittered, impossibly bright, while the moon hung like a pearly button sewn on the cloth of night. The sky was not really black, but deepest blue, lightened by vagrant sunlight streaming over the edge of the world; it faded to purple where the reddish rays bled across the horizon. Outlined against this glow was the harsh profile of Stirling Castle, and the sight of it brought James’ mind back to some sort of order.
He pulled himself upright and gathered his cloak about him; even in the clammy heat, there was comfort in the feel of the rough brown wool, despite the hardening mud clinging to the fibres. James felt close to the other men in the darkness, particularly Thomas Ufford, breathing noisily beside him in fitful sleep. Most were doing the same as James, thinking, hoping, praying; upwards of twenty thousand men gathered to end Robert Bruce’s treachery and taunting. It was a huge force that spread across the flat ground between the Forth and New Park, but they were drained by a twenty-mile forced march the day before and disheartened by their losses that day.
The first ill omen had been the death of Hereford’s nephew, Henry de Bohun. This eager, but untried young knight had encountered Robert Bruce in the morning as the Scottish King and his lieutenants were spying out forward positions. The scene was burned into James’ brain, for the day had seemed to promise such fair results for Edward II’s vengeful army.
Riding with the van, James Audley and Thomas Ufford were at the rear of the party scouting the Roman road from Falkirk to Sterling; Hereford and his headstrong nephew led them. As soon as the Scots rode into view from the forest track, it was obvious that Bruce himself was their leader. He was a man of immense size, over six feet tall, and to confirm his identity, a gold circlet sat on his head above the plain leather cap he wore. Instead of a warhorse, he was mounted on a small grey palfrey – a nimble animal, well suited to the hit and run warfare for which Bruce was famous.
Young de Bohun, in full armour, on a fiery Spanish charger, bellowed out an instant challenge to the Scottish king, whose face still registered surprise at the appearance of an English cavalry troop. It was a fateful moment; many a campaign, many a war, many a crown had been decided on a single mortal combat. Henry’s head swam with visions of Arthurian glory; he could already hear the minstrels singing of his fame – surely it would echo down the centuries!
Bruce looked hesitatingly at his companions, who gestured silently for him to withdraw. He wore no armour and carried just his battle-axe for protection. For most of his life, he had avoided a head-on clash with the English, preferring diplomacy, duplicity or guerrilla tactics to pitched battles. But now he dared not refuse the challenge; such loss of face would be the end of hope for his vastly outnumbered troops.
Instead, he smiled, and bowed to the eager de Bohun, accepting his offer of combat. His shrewd eyes noted the seat of his foe in the saddle, the tilt of his lance, the hand unsteady on the rein as he lowered his weapon for the charge. Here was a young fool who had only jousted with blunted spears, said his instinct. The English knight’s hefty war-horse lumbered into a charge, its feet sending great clods of earth into the air, and a shower of dust. Hereford looked on proudly as his nephew thundered down the road towards the huge Scot sitting astride the ridiculously small mare.
“St. George!” shouted de Bohun, and he swung the point of his lance to mark Bruce’s exposed chest. The Scot’s reply was lost in the welter of hooves and the cries of alarm that rose from his men; but on the slowly moving grey, he saw the weight of the lance unbalance his enemy in the saddle and its lethal point dipped harmlessly away from him.
As Sir Henry passed, swaying helplessly, Bruce stood almost casually in his stirrups and swung his axe. The Scottish King’s monumental strength and the speed of de Bohun’s own charge drove the axe-head through the knight’s helmet in a shower of sparks. The slash of metal rang over wood and field; its handle shattered, the blade drove down into de Bohun’s chest, and Bruce let the axe go. It was over in seconds – the armoured form of Sir Henry hit the ground in a cloud of dust and his destrier galloped on towards the castle of Stirling.
Bruce turned towards the English, displaying a smile of grim satisfaction. Blood had sprayed on his face, lending it a hellish crimson cast. His heart-stopping gamble had paid off, and the flower of English chivalry lay in a mutilated heap at his feet. The King brazenly saluted his foes, amidst hearty cheers from his followers. Still outnumbered by the dazed English, Bruce then had the sense to withdraw, his party melting into the trees before any pursuit could be organised. The fame of Bruce’s deed would cheer his camp that night, more so than if he had raised then thousand extra spears against the hated invader.
Ufford and some of the younger hotheads begged the grief-stricken earl to let them follow Bruce; but stunned as he was, Hereford knew that to give chase would compound the folly. Ambush would certainly lurk in those dark avenues of trees and none of them would ride out alive. Tomorrow would be time enough for retribution.
Sadly, the knights lifted their fallen brother. Those unschooled in killing were horrified at the injuries caused by a single axe-stroke. The romance of war seemed a long way off as they carried him gently, borne on his shield, back to the waiting Edward.
Meanwhile, the Scots savagely set on Robert Clifford and Henry Beaumont, probing at the foot of Bruce’s escarpment with nearly six hundred horses. Bruce’s own troops, and those of his brother Edward, attacked with such ferocity that the better-armed, heavily equipped English were forced to flee. As the vixen protects her cubs against much bigger predators, the Scots snarled and spat defiance at the complacent cavalry. The young Duke of Gloucester was unhorsed and narrowly escaped capture; only his pride was injured but that loss of self-esteem was to prove fatal the next day.
With these setbacks bruising their confidence, the English army settled to an uncomfortable night. On the eve of battle, men’s thoughts turned naturally to home, families and unshriven sins. All of a sudden, this was no pleasure trip; the result was no longer a foregone conclusion. Death hovered over the multitude with a heavy hand and little pity; his would be the victory, tomorrow.
James Audley had been reunion with Tom Ufford at Berwick, a fortnight before, when the host massed there for the push north. Ufford rode from Warkworth with just a token force of de Clavering’s troops, fir the Baron was still playing the game very much to his own rules.
“I’ll still have to live in these parts when that clown Edward has gone home to his pretty boys,” he explained to Tom on the eve of his departure. Nevertheless, royal favour was still important and de Clavering had no wish to appear openly disloyal to the King, despite local ‘arrangements’ with Bruce over the last few years.
It was just possible that Edward would defeat Bruce and have him cut up in the revolting way his father had invented for traitors. In that case, the Baron’s financial troubles would be considerably eased. So, Tom was dispatched with a few liveried men-at-arms to show the de Clavering colours. For his part, Tom was glad to have a man’s job to do once more, free of his father-in-law and away from Eve’s growing domination. Not that he had seen much of her lately! Since the fiasco at Newcastle his wife had become a close confidante of Queen Isabella, attending her at the birth of the royal heir. He had sensed the hardening of Eve’s spirit and saw, or imagined, contempt in her glances towards him. Since she had learned to read and write her interference in business was almost intolerable. He was certain she knew about the Audley revenues, but she never mentioned it directly. Her innuendoes and sly probing were enough to unnerve him, for he knew the arrangement was illegal. If she appealed to the King, the courts would find in her favour and disgrace her father. What game was she playing by keeping silent?
After a few months, however, Ufford had come to almost welcome her efficient management, as it left Tom free to pursue his own activities. She went on long visits to her holdings in Staffordshire, staying with her first husband’s younger brother, now Baron Nicholas. Under her guidance, the revenues increased and Ufford was content to let her get on with it. After all, if Eve was away in the Queen’s household or attending to the manors, John de Clavering could hardly nag him about the lack of a baronial heir. To get a child required the co-operation and presence of both partners, a state of affairs not often achieved. Tom sensed that something had passed between Eve and her father, which left them cool and distant to each other, but Ufford could not find out what it was.
Thomas Ufford was convinced that THIS time, the English army would smash Bruce forever. He was overwhelmed at the sign, sound and smells of so many men and beasts thronging the narrow streets of Berwick, or camped in the fields around. They reminded him of the Biblical locusts, whose plagues had been described by returning Crusaders, stripping whole areas of food and drink in their ravening progress across the country. As always, it was the poor and common folk who suffered, no matter what the colours of the soldiers. Their food was stolen, the women abused, and their huts fired if they dared to protest.
James Audley came north with the King; since that grim day in 1312 when Gaveston was killed, James had been constantly at court. Lancaster’s influence had got him a place as a King’s squire, for it seemed that the weak, bereft King would deny his cousin Lancaster nothing after his show of strength at Blacklow Hill. It suited Lancaster’s twisted sense of humour to have Gaveston’s unknown killer so close to Edward. There were those who muttered that Edward was biding his time to wreak vengeance on the earl, but with the birth of his son in November that year, the spirit of the King and the country lifted.
Peace negotiations between Lancaster and the King replaced the atmosphere of tension, which had prevailed; tournaments and other excuses for mustering armed men. By Christmas a ‘final peace’ was worked out, with the unruly lords required to make a public apology for Gaveston’s hasty execution without trial. This they did, finally, in October 1313 and James remembered the scene in Westminster Hall when the greatest and proudest in the land humbly bowed to the pouting sovereign. Ominously, by Edward’s side, stood the boyish, impossibly handsome Hugh Despenser, clutching a list of pardons to be issued. Many eyebrows were raised when the King and Hugh left the Hall arm in arm, talking animatedly, sharing secrets, and laughing at some private joke.
James wondered if his name would have featured on the list of pardons if Edward had known it was his blade that had struck off his ‘brother’s’ head. The King had made extensive enquiries to discover the actual identity of Piers’ killer, but they had come to nothing. He had to content himself with blaming the ‘Welshman’s’ master, Lancaster, who now made obeisance to him. A knighthood for James followed his period as a King’s squire. The King was cool towards James, recalling some unpleasantness when Piers had suggested the boy had propositioned him; also, the hated Lancaster ostentatiously sponsored him.
Still, he was good at his duties, brave in the tournament, with the kind of courage that spoke of a lack of care whether he lived or died. There was a curious flat edge to his voice, no lustre in his eye. Edward looked at Audley sometimes and saw a walking dead man, as though the flesh went about its business with no guiding spirit. Something about James chilled the King’s blood, just the way he moved, or spoke, or carried out his tasks. Inexplicably, Edward linked this to Gaveston and wondered if Audley was grieving even as he was. If this was so, perhaps in time Audley might prove a useful ally when Edward’s vengeance plans came to fruit.
James bore his grief as well as he could, although like Lancaster, the King was wildly incorrect about the object of his mourning. James had discovered too late that revenge, although sweet, was no substitute for the loving companionship of a wife and children. His good looks and brooding moods attracted many of the flighty court women, but James paid them no attention at all, fuelling the King’s suspicion that there might have been something between James and Gaveston. After all, loud protests and offended pride might just have been a cover for real feelings.
The Queen rarely came to court and James only once caught a glimpse of the girl he had taken to the door of Audley church. He scarcely recognised Eve de Clavering, now Tom Ufford’s wife, as the litter was borne past him. Eve was deep in conversation with Isabella, their whole attention on the discussion. Eve had matured into a beautiful woman, much admired at court, with dark hair and an impressive figure. Her rich headdress complemented the perfect oval of her face and the fur-trimmed clothes she wore reflected her place of favour with the Queen. James’ heart twisted in his body at the sight of her haughty passage.
Could this be the child he had taken skating, who had laughed and danced with him at the wedding? And then he felt guilty, unfaithful to the memory of Margaret, at the thoughts that surfaced in his mind. Most of all he realised with a shock he had forgotten hid dead wife for a few brief seconds, something he had sworn never to do. Perhaps time did heal, as all the well-meaning folk had tried so hard to tell him.
The Queen, tragic, neglected, passed over for Edward’s male favourites, scarcely looked more impressive than Eve. She stared from the litter through baleful eyes, hating the whole world and everyone in it. When the two women spoke, it was with an air of conspiracy; James watched for the few seconds they were in his view and the impression he formed was of two wild things plotting their next kill.
When James literally ran into Tom Ufford in the crowded streets of Berwick, the pair embraced warmly and stumbled, still laughing at their good fortune, into the nearest tavern to celebrate. Two jugs of wine later, Tom wiped his mouth sloppily on a sleeve and turned to James, his merry face serious for once.
“I was sorry to hear about Margaret . . . the baby . . .” he stammered, “I prayed for them, for you, old friend.”
James looked into the face of his boyhood comrade and felt the stirrings of emotions long dormant. The empty space inside of him was beginning to fill again.
“Thank you, Tom. It was a long time before I could weep. It took another’s death before...” Embarrassed, he faltered, wary of saying too much, but the burden of guilt had lain on him for two years and he itched to tell his secret. The noise and stench of the tavern washed over him in waves, the press of bodies and the high, hooting laughter. Wenches dashed back and forth, filling cups from great pitchers, avoiding the groping hands of the carousers. Here at least, war was good for business.
The moment of confession was past. I almost told him, James realised. Quickly changing the subject, he asked, “How is Eve?”
Thomas shrugged carelessly, but his eyes were averted, his manner studiously aloof. “Who knows? You being at court probably saw more of Eve than I did. Since Lancaster took Newcastle, she’s either been with the Queen or at Audley.”
“I saw her once at court, Tom, but she didn’t notice me. And I haven’t been home.”
“In two years?”
“No – I prefer the soldiers’ life – and there’s little enough to do. Father is still waiting to see if he gets a lordship.”
“What of your brother, Hugh?”
James shook his head in exasperation and swallowed a large mouthful of drink. The liquor was starting to loosen his tongue. “Hugh’s a mystery to me. I don’t know him anymore. He reviles the King in public and fawns over him in private. He has no scruples. All that matters to him is favour – if the King wasn’t besotted with Despenser…”
Ufford was taken aback by James’ bitterness, unaware of the pain caused by Hugh’s similarity to Gaveston.
“Poor old Piers,” said Tom, swilling more wine, “he wasn’t cold in his grave before Ned was up Despenser’s arse. How’s that for faithless?”
James slammed his cup on the table, showering the cheap Gascon wine over the drinkers. A momentary hush cut into the tavern noise and heads turned to see the disturbance; then the row built again, leaving James white and trembling, with Tom startled, wondering what he had said wrong.
In spite of the bad start, James’ mood lifted the next day when the army turned their horses north and marched towards the beleaguered fortress of Stirling. James and Tom rode together, spending their hours reminiscing about childhood places and pranks, planning tactics and stratagems, and practising their swordplay and lance charges against each other in camp.
James’ skin smarted uncomfortably under exposure to
the hot sun and trickled inside his quilted gambeson.
Tom trotted wearily beside him. Argent’s
great head hung low with fatigue. Neither man had spoken for over an hour, when Ufford suddenly
blurted out,
“I do love Eve, James. I always have, from the first time I saw her, when we were boys. I never dreamed she would be my wife, one day. I hated Thomas Audley for his good luck – some luck! He broke his damn neck……”
James turned, shocked by this revelation. In his mind, Eve’s second marriage had been based on good business, like her first. Laugh-a-minute Tom Ufford, a slave to love? Quietly, and more serious than James had ever heard him, Tom said,
“If anything happens to me, will you tell her, James? How I really feel? Somehow, I never got round to it. She always had time for you – you were like her brother.”
James winced, remembering the pain he had unwittingly caused Eve when he told her that very thing himself; but so much water had flowed under all their bridges since that day. He forced himself to reply.
“Don’t talk like that, Tom. We’re going to hammer these Scots into the ground, like the old King intended. Nothing will happen, except you will cover yourself in glory. Your father will be proud, Eve will be proud, even the Baron will be happy!”
Tom laughed at that, more like his old self.
“Still,” he said, “I’d feel better if you’d promise.”
“Agreed,” smiled James, “I’ll deliver your message, if need be.”
They clasped hands warmly across the space between the horses.
A trumpet call returned James Audley to the present and stirred his companion. James realised he had been dozing through his memories; still huddled in his cloak, he sat rubbing sleep from his eyes while he took in the fact that it was now fully light. The short night was over.
Above the flat ground, streaming out of Torwood, came Bruce’s schiltroms. In the early light, spears flashed and bristled; the leaders could be picked out on horseback, urging on their troops. Bruce himself led on the right flank of the advancing spearmen.
“Tom! Wake up! Look at this,” shouted James, gruffly. He could scarcely believe his eyes; was this another dream? Surely the Scots were no more than five or six thousand, challenging three times their number in open combat? Ufford stretched his long limbs and the muscles creaked with slumber and fatigue. He shielded his eyes and gazed in disbelief at the approaching enemy. Shouts were ringing round the makeshift camp; knights were scrambling about buckling up armour and casting round for lances and gear.
“To horse! The Scots are on us!” Squires dashed breathlessly to their masters’ aid, hefting huge armoured figures into saddles. Horses stamped, pawed the ground and cried with excitement and fear.
“Are they mad?” asked Ufford, fastening on his sword-belt with nervous fingers. His squire led Argent to him, checking straps as he went. Everywhere was confusion and noise, sleepy men roused from their rest by imminent danger.
The squire handed Ufford his reins and said, “We’ve heard Seton deserted in the night. He’s told Bruce we’re in poor condition and ripe for attack!”
“Then God curse him for a traitor!” barked Ufford. James shook his head in wonder. Looking at the ill-prepared rabble around him, he could see Seton’s point. Bruce had taken him at his word and was pushing boldly for victory. Triumphs the day before had strengthened his arm, and he could smell the English sense of defeat and despair; he knew they were ill provisioned and badly rested.
Ufford and Audley clambered into their saddles and rallied their squires and troops to their pennons. The Scots had halted now, some distance from the trees, which had given them cover. The two knights and their men picked their way through thronging cavalry and milling infantry towards the King’s pavilion. As they went, James kept watch for his brother, Hugh, reputed to be with the King’s household. In the huge confusion of men and animals, flags and lances, there was no sign of his familiar Audley colours.
The English watched the Scots forming up into battle positions, great bristling hedgehogs of pikes, and a formidable opponent to the traditional cavalry charge.
“Where are the archers?” James pondered aloud, “A thousand good bowmen pouring arrows down on those spears would scatter them in minutes!”
Tom Ufford peered in vain for confirmation that the archers were being deployed.
“They were still at the rear last night, almost the last to cross. I suppose they’re still behind us.”
“But we need them now!” spat James. No worthwhile commander would be considering a head-on charge against that tightly packed mass of spears and shields. The day before, Clifford’s retreating cavalry had encountered traps dug into the ground, filled with savage stakes, disguised by a covering of grass and brush. The Scots were masters of guerrilla war.
What if Bruce’s game was to tempt the English into a charge across that open ground and they had already sown it with such traps? The slaughter would be monumental!
A baby-faced man in unadorned armour was arguing hotly with the King as Audley and Ufford came within earshot. It was young Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, the King’s nephew; he was acting as spokesman for a group of nobles.
“We have honoured the terms made by Bruce’s brother,” Gloucester reminded his royal uncle, “Stirling Castle is less than three leagues away, so it is relieved. We do not need to accept his offer of battle. Leave it a day, my lord, and let the men gather their strength.”
Edward’s handsome face contorted angrily. He, too, was a big man, and he had his share of the Plantaganet temper – but it showed in him as waspish and cruel, rather than his father’s explosive rages.
“Wait a day? Wait a day? Is that your advice?” he sneered, poisonously. Some of the older veterans looked uneasily at the well-disciplined ranks of spearmen arrayed against them and saw the logic in Gloucester’s words.
“Are you a coward, nephew?” snapped the King, his face almost purple with fury. “Or do you conspire with Bruce like our cousin, Lancaster? Perhaps it would suit you to withdraw and leave us to charge those barbarians alone?” The King’s voice was rising to a frantic shrill.
Deathly silence fell on the assembled lords. They were terrible accusations Edward laid against his nephew – cowardice and treachery. Still smarting from his near capture the day before, de Clare regarded the King through slitted eyes. His boyish voice cracked with emotion.
“On my mother’s life, I am neither faint heart
nor traitor! Deeds will speak for me! By
your leave, my lord…”Gloucester wheeled his horse away from the hastily
convened war council and galloped to the front of his own massing cavalry.
Half the men were still climbing into their gear or struggling to arm
themselves.
“By God,” muttered Ufford, “young Gloucester’s going to attack! He hasn’t even put on his colours; if he’s fetched off his horse, they’ll butcher him like a pig!” James nodded miserably in agreement.
A royal earl such as Gloucester would command a hefty ransom if captured in battle; but in his plain gear he could be taken for a lowly squire, scarcely more than a youth.
From around his neck, Tom Ufford unwound a thin band of green silk; with trembling fingers, he tied it to the shaft of his lance. His eyes never left the valiant figure of Gloucester, rallying his men.
“What’s that?” asked James, gently. Tom smiled, a faraway look, which belonged to another time and place.
“Eve’s scarf,” he replied, stroking the material as if it were alive and could respond to his touch. “I took it from her room the day I left Warkworth. Of course, she wasn’t there; she’s been away for weeks. But I guessed she wouldn’t mind. This is for her, James. I’m going with Gloucester.”
“God damn Ned, he doesn’t deserve such men!” mumbled James.
Tom’s devotion to his lady had touched him deeply; his stomach was afire with churning emotions. Since Margaret had died, his life had been empty. He had truly not cared about life or death. Now the earth beneath him and the sky above, the feel of horseflesh between his thighs, and the scents of grass and water all seemed too good to leave behind. But he knew he must go with Thomas, whatever the day might bring. Ned’s vile words had ignited a flame that would not easily be extinguished and he felt the swirl of events pulling him down into darkness.
He shuddered, despite the clammy heat inside his armour, at this vision of his down mortality and he could not help think of what Gaveston must have suffered in his last seconds of life.
“God forgive me all my sins,” he prayed; it was not a conscious act of religion – it was an instinctive address to all the fierce life spirits he felt around him.
Ufford drew himself up to his full height in the saddle, and dropped his visor. He dipped his decorated lance briefly toward the King, in salute, as though this were a holiday joust. His shield, with the wavy-paly lines of Ufford and his younger son’s crescent, flashed brilliantly in the light of a sun that climbed remorselessly over the killing ground. Argent broke into a canter, heading for the slowly moving mass of Gloucester’s cavalry, a few hundred yards away. When Ufford heard hooves beside him, he turned his cumbersome helmet and saw through his slotted visor the bright red and yellow fretty surcoats of Audley. James’ helmet was open, his sword held aloft; he was chanting loudly in Latin, a warrior’s incantation: “Benedictus Dominus meus, qui docet manos meos ad proelim, et digitos meos ad bellum.”
Ufford grinned inside his iron helm, and called out in French, “Blessed be the Lord, who trains my hands for battle and instructs my fingers in warfare!”
James laughed aloud. Ufford remembered his lessons well and the two had a few seconds to think of Hugh the Elder, drumming the martial codes into them. The cool green of Staffordshire fields was a long way from this fateful place.
By the time they caught up with Gloucester’s men, the fiery young earl, bareheaded, was spurring his horse into a gallop at the point of a wedge aimed at Edward Bruce’s battle. James and Thomas latched onto the charge and were swallowed in a boiling cloud of noise and confusion. Inexorably, the mighty body of horseflesh, arms and steel gathered momentum. Those who stumbled or faltered went down to death under the hooves of their fellows. The charge was undisciplined, unstoppable; a golem unleaded, to kill or be killed.
Lances bobbed and danced in the cauldron of thundering noise, but mercifully the damp ground, dotted with pools and clumps of coarse grass, threw up no choking dust. The enemy remained horribly visible.
James forced himself to concentrate on the feel of the animal beneath him, charging at breakneck speed; to be unhorsed would be instant oblivion. Men’s harsh war cries, filtered somehow through the maelstrom of pounding hooves. Terror and elation engulfed Audley, adrenaline sang the most ancient song of battle in his blood and he realised he was screaming at the very top of his lungs. His arm throbbed with the effort of holding his heavy blade above his head.
“St. George! Audley! On……on!”
Dimly glimpsed over the plumes and helms of the charge, Bruce’s schiltrom held its ground, never wavering. What faith they placed in those eighteen-foot pikes, tipped with lethal iron! Grim faces showed as white dots between stacked shields. Where those men thinking of families and homes they might never see again? In what seemed like seconds, the open ground was covered and with a shock to move the earth from its course, the front of the armoured wave broke against the spears. All the demons of Hell howled in James’ ears as horses were pierced to the heart and crashed down on the foremost ranks of the Scots. Those bearing the brunt dropped their spears and shields, their arms shattered, to be buried under the collapsing bodies of dead English and their mounts.
But the line held. Superbly disciplines, the next rank rose up to replace the dead, menacing the almost halted cavalry with their probing shafts. Ahead of James, the tragic Earl of Gloucester perished as he would have wished, a hero’s death, but on a bloody and unnecessary field. At the first clash, he went down, his lance impaling a burly Scot clean through his shield, but the shock of impact tore Gilbert de Clare from his saddle. His small body was flipped upwards, then vanished in the melee of hooves and limbs, and he was seen no more.
It seemed as though a red mist rose at the line of battle; human and equine blood sprayed the combatants, dyeing each side with the same gory colour. Swords and maces hacked about, as the lances were abandoned, useless in close quarter.
James’ horse was locked between two others who had lost their riders in the initial shock. He was grimly aware of hooves mashing flesh and iron beneath him. By a miracle he stayed in the saddle and was intent on getting in at least one blow at the Scots before he, too, succumbed. He shoved his animal forward, jabbing it with his spurs, too numbed by the carnage around him to register the cruelty of the act. Blood streamed down the charger’s sides, mingling with that of the casualties.
The press of the horses eased a little and a gap opened to bring James in range of the pikes. He swung with all his remaining might and succeeded in splitting one of the great spears, but the shock travelled up his arm and his weapon clattered uselessly to the ground. He had not had time to fix the guard chain in place. Now he only had his jewelled dagger to defend himself and in this hell, it would be like spitting at lightning!
The resolve of the Scottish schiltroms was marvellous. Where James had opened the rank, another Scot moved from the rear to close it up; the clansman who clutched at the ruined pike rushed out of line at James, wielding the stub like a sword. It glanced off James’ padded leg-guard without much apparent effect and James stuck his dagger into his enemy’s face as he stumbled past. The Scot screamed pitifully and pitched into the pile of corpses growing at the battle’s edge, the knife buried in his eye socket. Riderless horses were scattering in all directions, mowing down unhorsed English and luckless Scots. In fascinated horror, James saw Thomas Ufford, still mounted, lance down, break through the press and charge the line. Tom’s lance went home, but a huge Scottish spear slip up under his shield, knocking it off his broken arm and gave a clanging blow to his helmet. Ufford’s neck twisted at an unnatural angle and what happened next, James had seen several times in tournament jousting.
The strong battle stirrups could hold a dead or unconscious rider upright in the saddle; it was even sung about in the glorious Chanson de Roland. Argent spun around, turning from the wall of cruel spears and galloped away down the left flank of Bruce’s schiltrom, with Thomas Ufford flopping hideously on his back. Unarmed, James could offer little more to the fight and it seemed that Gloucester’s charge was broken anyway, savaged upon the iron will and thrusting pikes of the Scots. Dazed, James pulled his horse’s head about and set off after his friend. The English cavalry were floundering, breaking off the engagement to left and right, streaming away in confusion and shame. The pressure from behind James eased, and he was able to guide his mount over ground slick with blood, strewn with bodies and broken armour. Shields, banners, shattered lances and swords set traps for his horse’s legs as he strove to keep Argent in sight. He tore the useless helmet from his head and threw it away so he could see more clearly.
Dull pain nagged in his left leg where the Scot’s makeshift club had struck and a curious numbness make his sword arm dangle impotently; but he clutched the reins tightly in his left hand, gritted his teeth against the growing nausea and ploughed on after Tom.
Wave upon wave of English cavalry broke upon the Scots, but the defenders gave no ground. Infantry rushed in behind the horsemen to give support but they were thwarted by dozens of riderless beasts running amok in a frenzy of panic.
Too late, Edward called up the archers and they loosed flights of arrows that darkened the skyline fleeting clouds before the wind. To the King’s dismay and the utter route of his men, the shafts fell mostly on the backs of his own cavalry and footmen behind them.
Now Bruce’s small cavalry force finally had a useful job to do – they fell fiercely on the unprotected English bowmen, riding them down and scattering them. The Scottish King scented victory, like a dog after a bitch on heat. He gleefully committed his reserves, crying, “On them! On them! They fail!”
The camp followers and rabble, the ‘small folk’ of the Scottish army, heard this commotion and poured out of the hills where they had been concealed, eager for booty and easy pickings. Most of the hard-pressed English took them to be Scottish reinforcements and it was too much. They began to fall back.
The day was lost at that point, despite the overwhelming numerical superiority of the English. Panic reigned; thousands perished. They were hacked by steel, run through with pikes, trampled by crazed horses. Many fell fully armoured, into shallow pools or keep sucking mud – they suffocated. Whole divisions floundered into the Forth, pushed to the very edge of the waters by vengeful Scots. There they sank and vanished in huge numbers, commoners and nobles alike, for Death had no favourites.
Argent had stopped, completely winded. His head hung to the ground, an ugly spear wound gaped on his right flank. Tom slumped in a grotesque caricature of the fine figure he had always posed in the saddle. It was quiet here, the marshy ground giving way to wooded uplands, a couple of miles from the fighting. They seemed to be alone. Their flight had not been noticed or followed. Somewhere a kirk bell tolled languorously for the dead of both sides.
James’ horse was exhausted, but nevertheless, he urged it on until they stood beside the big white destrier. The noise of war came rattling over the distance between them and the Bannock burn, the hoots and whoops of victorious Scots, the shrieks of mortally wounded horses and the screams of dying men.
“Tom, Tom!” called James, his voice a husky whisper. Now he could see crimson stains welling from the base of Ufford’s helmet, down the front and back plates of his comrades’ armour. James found that when he tried to dismount, his left leg would not support his weight, nor would his right arm obey his commands.
He crashed heavily to the turf, hot flashes of agony dancing from his leg to head, making his vision swim. With great effort, he pulled himself up on Argent’s dangling reins, using his good arm, and looked up at Tom.
Never in his life had he felt so tired.
“Can you get down, old friend?” he mumbled, but he knew the question was vain before he finished asking. Poor Tom was beyond help; James unbuckled the straps of Argent’s saddle, releasing the stirrups and Tom slid down against James’ shoulder. Gasping beneath the weight, Audley strained to lower his friend’s body to the soft earth.
He pulled away the helmet and looked in horror at the crumpled ruin of Thomas Ufford’s face. The spear had penetrated beneath his jaw and almost wrenched it off. His tongue was bloody pulp, spilling out of his mouth between twisted purple lips and from the way Tom’s head lolled, he knew his neck was broken, too. If there had been anything in James’ stomach, it would have risen at the sign, but like most of the army, he had received no rations for the past 2 days. A thin stream of bile dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he backed away from the corpse. Nearby, two carrion crows, black as sin, hopped and flapped in anticipation of the feast.
A small detachment of Scottish cavalry, seeking the fugitive Edward, came across Audley and Ufford late in the afternoon. The Earl of Pembroke had led the reluctant Ned from the field to the fortress of Stirling, but they were refused entry. As its custodian pointed out, the day was lost and he must surrender Stirling to Bruce. In despair, Edward and a small bodyguard, hotly pursued by Douglas, managed to escape to Dunbar, where they took ship to Berwick.
It was a close call. All the baggage, with its immense treasure and even the Great Seal, fell into Scottish hands. Many noble prisoners were taken, but the King had evaded capture by a hairsbreadth.
The Scottish knight in charge of his troop dismounted and walked across to James Audley, who sat with his back to Argent. The horse lay on its side, breathing harshly, spirit & lungs broken by the headlong dash carrying such a grim burden. Flies buzzed sickeningly over his wounds.
James had no idea how long he had sat there, drowsy with fatigue, pain and grief. His own charger stood grazing some way off, unconcerned by the tragedy.
“Can you stand, sir?” asked the knight. James shook his head, and to his surprise, a sprinkling of tears wet his cheeks. Not unkindly, the Scot snorted and produced a small flask. He held it out to James, who took it gratefully. He poured the lukewarm liquid over his parched lips and let it sear his throat. A little life crept back into him.
“Who are you? I don’t know your colours..,” said the Scot. In fact, James’ surcoat was plastered with blood and grim, far beyond any recognition.
“I am James Audley, cousin to Baron Nicholas of Staffordshire. My friend was Thomas, son of Baron Ufford.” Before he sat down to rest, James had covered the body with his muddy cloak to spare himself the sight of such cruel death and to deter the scavengers. Two Scottish knights lifted James unsteadily, taking the weight off his injured leg, as they would for a brother or compatriot. Audley was astonished at their compassion for an enemy. But these were Anglo-Norman borderers, whose loyalties swayed with the wind. They were well schooled in chivalry and warfare. They spoke better French than Scots and knew the value of noble ransoms. Some were well acquainted with Ufford and his father-in-law.
“Were you in Gloucester’s charge?” asked their leader. “It was a brave and terrible thing to do. They say Edward mocked his nephew into such rash action.”
“Aye, it’s true,” sighed James, “and Tom here couldn’t let him go alone. It was an insult to all English knighthood. Likewise, I wasn’t about to let Tom go without me. So here we are, God help us!”
“We’ll get that leg attended to, Sir James. It seems to be broken. For now you must consider yourself the prisoner of Sir Keith Grey.”
“Very well. I thank you for your kindness, Sir Keith. I hope you will see to Thomas. I don’t want him left to the beasts.”
“Nor will we, Sir James. It’s a Christian burial such a valiant knight will get from Keith Grey.”
“And his horse? Spare the animal his suffering. I had no knife to perform the kindness.”
Seconds later, after a brief struggle and a tired little squeal, Argent was at rest beside his master.
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