They could hear the Scots army even before they saw it, the sounds of men chanting and singing, the blare of trumpets and hammer of drums, the wailing of pipes drifting out over the moor. Passing Neville’s Cross with the cathedral on the far side of the river, Merrivale realised it was less than a month since he had last ridden this way. It felt like an entire age of humanity had gone by.
Ahead lay another moor, open grassland clumped with heather and gorse, swept by a cold north wind. The first companies of the vanguard were already deploying into line of battle, men-at-arms under the blue lion banner of Percy and the white saltire of Lord Neville dismounting and forming long lines brilliant with metal and colour. Wedges of green and russet-clad archers formed up on each flank; the same formation as at Crécy but with fewer men, far fewer.
The archbishop’s division pulled into line alongside the vanguard, the men-at-arms sending their horses back to the rear. Merrivale dismounted too, handing over his horse to Warin and sending him to join Mauro with the baggage train. There was no sign of Mary or Tiphaine, which was good; he could trust Mora of Islay to protect them. The archbishop, sweating under the unaccustomed weight of his armour, was directing his men into position; fairly competently, Merrivale thought, although his experienced Yorkshire knights knew their business and needed little in the way of orders. The third division under Rokeby’s command had halted further back by the pilgrim cross; they were the army’s reserve. The Disinherited took up their position in the centre of the line, making a tight formation around the white lion of de Lisle. Merrivale thought of the boy they had buried at Chipchase, and wondered if that pain would ever fade.
Up ahead the Scottish scouts were falling back towards the clamorous main body. Like the English the Scots had dismounted, all except for one company behind the main line under the banner of the Earl of Menteith. Unlike the English men-at-arms who were standing in lines, the Scots had formed up into tight wedges known as schiltrons, with the most heavily armoured men at the front. The royal standard, the red lion rampant on yellow, fluttered on the right of the Scottish line, facing the archbishop’s men. He could see the king too, up front where his men could see him; David Bruce lacked many things, the herald thought, but courage was not one of them. Other familiar devices could be seen around him, the red saltire of Brus, the gold and blue of Béthune, the lion of Bruce of Carrick, the red heart of Douglas. The herald’s eyes narrowed a little. The inner circle, the trusted conspirators were all gathered near the king.
Over on the left were the red diamonds of Moray, his highland men chanting and slamming their swords against their shields. Further back, on a little rise in the ground, Merrivale saw the colours of Dunbar. He wondered what was going through the minds of Agnes and her husband. We tried to prevent this moment, and we failed, he thought. Now, everything is in the hands of God.
Zouche was looking at the enemy lines too. His face was pale beneath the visor of his bascinet. ‘Trust in your captains, your Grace,’ Merrivale said quietly. ‘They are men of great experience. They will not let you down.’
The archbishop gestured towards the enemy. ‘Their captains are experienced too. And they have numbers.’
‘But the ground is not in their favour,’ Sir Robert de Lisle said. ‘Whoever chose this battlefield chose unwisely. There is no room for manoeuvre. Their only choice is a frontal attack.’
It was true, Merrivale saw. To the east the ground fell away steeply towards the Wear, with Durham’s towers rising on the far side; the bells of the cathedral were tolling nones. To the west was a slightly less steep incline down to another river, the Browney. The spine of high moorland between them was further narrowed by deep valleys of tributary streams running down to the rivers, and sandstone quarries above the banks of the Browney presented sheer cliffs. There was absolutely no chance of a flank attack, by either side.
Zouche hesitated for a moment. ‘What do you advise we do, Sir Robert?’
‘Stand and wait,’ said de Lisle.
‘Wait? For how long?’
‘For as long as it takes,’ the old man said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. ‘Time is one thing we have plenty of.’
They waited. Across the moor the Scots waited too, drums still hammering, pipes wailing. Merrivale saw the familiar gold and red colours of Lyon Herald making his way towards the English lines, and he called to the archbishop. ‘The enemy wish to parley, your Grace.’
‘We must observe the conventions,’ Zouche said. ‘Go and speak to them, Sir Herald.’
‘What terms may I offer?’
Zouche glanced at de Lisle. ‘Tell them to lay down their arms,’ the old man said. ‘If they do, we will allow them to return unmolested to Scotland.’
The men around them murmured a little. They knew there was no chance the Scots would agree, and they were glad. They don’t care about the numbers against them, Merrivale thought. Some have already lost their homes in Northumberland and the west, and now they want blood.
He walked forward, seeing at once what de Lisle meant. The ground was rough and undulating, and the thorny spines of gorse and tangled roots of heather presented obstacles to both sides. The enemy had the wind at their backs, which would assist their archers, but they had very few of these left now; too many had been killed or wounded at Liddel Strength. Lyon Herald had stopped halfway between the two armies, and he waited for Merrivale to reach him.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, looking up at the skies. ‘Is it going to rain again?’
‘This moorland will turn into a bog if it does,’ Merrivale said. ‘The soil here is even worse than Dartmoor. What do you have for me, Archie?’
‘You can probably guess. Lay down your arms, withdraw south of the Tees, swear an oath not to take up arms against Scotland for a year.’
Merrivale looked surprised. ‘A year? That’s asking a lot. All we demand is that you return to Scotland.’
‘I thought our proposal was more imaginative. I take it the answer is no?’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Likewise,’ said Lyon Herald. ‘What are your lot planning to do, Sim?’
‘Stand fast, and hold their position until you attack.’
‘Unsurprisingly, our side are doing the same. Aye, it’s a staring contest,’ said Graham. He looked around. ‘I don’t like this field. The ground is too rough and too narrow. I thought Brus was supposed to know his business.’
‘He’s a better plotter than he is a soldier, I reckon. Still, you have the numbers.’
Graham shook his head. ‘Ground is more important than numbers, Sim. You know that. I’d say it’s an even contest.’ He looked up at the sky again. ‘We’d better get back.’
‘Good luck, Archie.’
‘You too, lad.’
Back at the archbishop’s post in the second line, Merrivale made his report. ‘They’re waiting for us to make the first move, your Grace.’
De Lisle leaned on his sword. ‘Hold your position, your Grace. Make them come to us. Let them make the first mistake.’
Across the moor, the pipes and drums had fallen silent. The cathedral bells had stopped too. Silence fell over the battlefield.
Armoured like the men around her, Agnes of Dunbar moved up to stand beside her husband at the head of the rearguard. ‘Will the king hold his nerve?’ she asked.
Dunbar looked at her. ‘You know as well as I do that it isn’t the king we need to worry about,’ he said. ‘It is the men around him.’ He paused. ‘When he appointed me commander of a division, I thought he had begun to trust me. Instead here I am, stuck far behind the line of battle.’
‘He does trust you,’ Agnes said. ‘As commander of the reserves, you will know when to intervene, and how.’
Dunbar shook his head. ‘I received an order this morning, from Brus. Once battle is joined, we are not to advance without a direct order from the king himself.’
The Master of Kinross turned his head. ‘Brus gave this order? In the king’s name?’
‘Yes. Brus thinks he can win the battle himself, and we are to have no share in the glory.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ said Kinross.
Dunbar said nothing more. Silence fell once again. Both sides waited, the wind whipping at the bright standards and banners. In the trees down by the Browney the crows cawed, waiting for their feast.
With dreamlike slowness, the passion play of battle began to unfold.
The first move came from the English side. Three hundred archers detached themselves from Lord Percy’s division, moving cautiously forward towards the wedges of Scottish spearmen. Zouche stiffened. ‘What are they doing? The orders were to hold fast.’
‘Trust Lord Percy, your Grace,’ said de Lisle. ‘He is trying to tempt them to attack.’
At two hundred and fifty yards the archers raised their bows and began to shoot. Even at a distance the men around the archbishop could hear the clatter of arrowheads striking metal. The Scottish schiltrons huddled together, men raising their shields to ward off the arrows. The archers were shooting at long range and into a stiff wind, meaning that by the time the arrows arrived at their target they had lost much of their penetrative force; but even so, a Scot fell, then another, and another. More men staggered back wounded, and the schiltrons began to lose their tight formation.
From the Scottish lines a trumpet sounded and Menteith’s company of horsemen began to move, sweeping forward and spurring to a gallop. The archers turned to face them and for a moment Merrivale was reminded of Crécy, armoured men-at-arms charging, the archers standing their ground and shooting fifteen arrows a minute in hypnotic, repetitive motions, nock-draw-release, nock-draw-release, nock-draw-release, over and over as horses and men crashed to the ground. Shattered, most of the Scots turned and fell back out of arrow range. Menteith charged on alone; a hailstorm of arrows converged on him, but he seemed impregnable. A murmur ran through the watching English ranks as the lone horseman bore down on the archers, lance levelled, and just when it seemed that nothing could touch him, his horse was shot and fell, throwing the earl to the ground. Some of the archers ran forward and seized him, dragging him back to their lines.
Harsh and raw, its notes cracking in the wind, a trumpet sounded. Another answered, and another, and the pipes began to wail their war songs, and with a clash of metal that rose to the clouds the Scottish army stirred into motion.
Moray led his men from the front, as he always did. The schiltron behind him was like the blade of a spear, and he and the heavily armoured men-at-arms around him were its steel tip. Arrows hissed around them as they tramped forward, clattering off armour, thudding into upraised shields; Moray’s own shield was hit three times in less than a minute and another arrow hit his bascinet and ricochetted away, leaving a dent the size of an egg behind it. A fifth found a gap in his plate armour and punched through the mail beneath; the wound was not deep, but he felt the blood began to flow. But Moray never wavered, and the men behind him did not waver either; each time a man fell, another ran forward to take his place.
The English line drew closer. Strathearn’s schiltron was close beside his own, the men of Fife on his other flank. This is our moment, Moray exulted; this is the day we pay the English back for the last fifty years. He thought of the rewards that had been promised him, the lands and titles and power that would come to him in the aftermath of victory; he imagined, as he had imagined many times before, presiding over the execution of his sister, the bitch who had abandoned him to his death… He heard a sudden scream of pain and looked over to see Strathearn staggering; an arrow had smashed through his visor and hit him in one eye. Two men were alongside him, shielding him as more arrows rattled off their armour, but Strathearn raised his head and motioned with one hand; forward.
The English lines were just ahead, gorse bushes a dense obstacle in front of them. Moray hacked at these with his sword, feeling another arrow bite into his leg, but the pain merely spurred him on. ‘Come on!’ he shouted to his men, and the schiltron burst through the last of the gorse and slammed into the English line.
Harry Percy was waiting for them. As the Scottish schiltrons began to move he left his post beside his father and ran to the forward line. The men around him cheered when they saw the blue lion, men of the Northumbrian dales and the high hills of the Cheviots, fighting for their kin and their homes. Anger surged in Harry’s mind as he watched the Scots coming; anger at his father for having considered treason, anger at himself for having listened to the old man in the first place. He knew the herald still distrusted him too, and that angered him still further.
Mary was right, he thought, watching the red diamonds of Moray come closer and closer, the scream of the pipes shredding the air; we should have done our duty. Well, we’re doing it now.
The Scots were coming on fast now, the gleaming wedges of the schiltrons tearing through gaps in the gorse bushes, and after them poured Moray’s highlanders, swords and axes aloft. They smashed like a battering ram into the wall of English men-at-arms. Under their impact, the wall buckled. ‘Stand fast!’ Percy shouted, and he ran down the line, warding off blows with his shield and dragging his own men back into the line again.
Arrows, dark furies hissing in the air, clawed and tore at the Scots. Percy found Moray in the middle of the fighting, swinging his sword around him, armour and surcoat stained with blood, shield riddled with arrows, and ran straight at him. They clashed swords, again and again, and sharp rapid blows drew blood on Percy’s leg and neck, but he had hit Moray again too, and the Scottish earl stumbled. Slowly, step by step, Harry Percy drove Moray back and his men retreated with him.
As Moray’s men fell back, fresh schiltrons from the king’s division came crashing into the attack. Niall Bruce of Carrick led one of these, holding his sword aloft to guide his men. The English archers saw him and a cloud of arrows converged on him; shot twice, he stumbled but came up again, roaring like a bull, and led his men straight at the solid shield wall of the Disinherited.
Raging, Carrick threw himself at the enemy. The Disinherited had promised to serve Scotland, and had broken their promise; therefore, they must die. He hacked down two men, breaching the shield wall, and drove forward, his men crowding behind him and stabbing at the English with their long spears. Sword blades hammered at his shield; he stabbed back, feeling the point of his weapon burst through mail and leather and slash deep into flesh and bone. His battered lion shield was splattered with blood.
More and more Scots came piling in. Douglas was there too, moving towards the heart of the fighting; Sutherland was not far away. The air reverberated to the clash of metal, punctuated by the screams of wounded men. Carrick spotted the cinquefoil of Umfraville and slashed through the press until they were face to face. He raised his shield, and Umfraville’s sword split the shield vertically and banged off the Scot’s vambrace. But Umfraville stumbled on rough ground, and a back-handed blow from Carrick knocked his bascinet off and threw him onto his back. Carrick stood over the dazed man, sword raised for the kill.
Another sword smashed into his shoulder, ringing off his pauldron. He turned to face his assailant, a man in gleaming armour with white hair flowing out from beneath his bascinet. ‘Sir Robert de Lisle,’ he snarled. ‘It will be a pleasure to kill you, old man.’
De Lisle said nothing. For a moment they faced each other, red lion and white; then de Lisle circled, clashing his blade against Carrick’s, and stabbed low, sword point gliding beneath the bottom of Carrick’s breastplate and punching through the mail links beneath.
Disbelieving, Carrick felt the blood start to flow. How could this old man hit him so hard? Roaring again, he attacked with a flurry of cutting and slashing strokes, but de Lisle’s shield and blade blocked every blow; and when Carrick halted, gasping for breath, de Lisle advanced, stabbing and cutting through weak spots in his armour time and time again. Staggering, faint now with loss of blood, the Scot reeled back. God damn it, he thought, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Rollond had promised that they would roll straight over the English, grind them into dust. He wondered if Douglas was right, if Rollond really couldn’t be trusted, and then another blow hit Carrick on the head and the world around him went black.
Carrick was down, but the enemy were still pouring forward, the schiltrons of Douglas and Sutherland hacking their way through the English line and ignoring the hail of arrows around them. David Bruce’s men were coming forward too, ready to administer the final blow. Off to the left, the archbishop’s standard was almost entirely surrounded. De Lisle leaned on his sword, gasping for breath and feeling a sharp pain spreading through his chest. Rokeby, he thought, now is the time to commit the reserves. Do not wait for orders, old friend. Throw your men in, now.
He raised his sword again. A Scot came at him with upraised axe; de Lisle ran him through, pulled his sword clear of the body and pressed on towards the red heart of Douglas, shouting at his men to follow. Wake was alongside him. ‘We can’t hold on much longer, Robert.’
‘We’ll hold until the end,’ said de Lisle. The pain in his chest was stronger now, and speaking was a great effort. ‘Our honour demands nothing less.’
Behind the visor of his battered bascinet, Wake grinned at him. ‘I knew you would say that. Let me lead the way.’
De Lisle opened his mouth to object, but this time no words would come. The pain was spreading, swelling, roaring in his ears. He looked up suddenly and saw that the clouds had parted, and in a patch of pale sunlight he saw suddenly the faces of his family; Eleanor his beloved wife, Robert his son who had been killed at Annan, Richard who had died on pilgrimage far away and dearest of all, Peter, the sweet, eager boy who had wanted so much to be a herald. All of them were smiling at him, and suddenly the pain in his body was gone, and the sounds of combat disappeared too, replaced with music like an eruption of joy. Light as a cloud, he rose through the air to join his family, and the knowledge came in a flash of light; we will be together now, for all eternity.
Standing on the base of the pilgrim’s cross, Rokeby surveyed the scene. ‘Percy’s men and the Disinherited are still holding firm, but the archbishop’s men are almost done.’
John Coupland grunted. ‘Time we saved their arses, then.’
‘My thoughts precisely.’ Rokeby jumped down and turned to the captains of the rearguard, Coupland and his nephew Tom among them. ‘Archers on the flanks, men-at-arms up the middle, hobelars behind them. Run fast, hit hard and do not stop for anything. After that, you know what to do.’
He slammed down the visor of his bascinet. Young Tom grinned at him. ‘I can imagine old Charlemagne giving just such a speech, before leading his army against the Saracens.’
‘If we survive this, you can set it to music,’ Rokeby said. ‘Trumpeter! Sound the advance!’
They ran, the men-at-arms and hobelars raising swords and lances, the archers on the wings nocking arrows. Ahead Rokeby could see Zouche standing with a heavy mace in his hand, and Merrivale beside him holding a wooden staff – damned heralds, he thought with a flash of irritation, why should they get to avoid the fighting, but he knew Merrivale had already survived more brushes with death than most men – and beyond them a wedge of Douglas of Liddesdale’s men cutting its way through the English line. Already one gap had opened up and the Scots were breaking through. Following his own instructions Rokeby ran straight into them, knocking two men off their feet, punching a third with his shield, slashing at a fourth, and then Coupland and Tom were alongside him forcibly heaving the Scots back. Through the bars of his visor Rokeby saw Douglas coming at him with upraised sword and he ducked under the blow; before the Scot could strike another, Tom Rokeby had smashed the sword out of his hand and knocked Douglas down. ‘Do you yield?’ the young man asked.
Rokeby didn’t hear his response because the rest of the rearguard slammed home around him, hitting the struggling, shouting, screaming mass of men with a shock that could be felt in the air. Cohesion began to vanish and formations broke up; men fought blindly, hacking and slashing at other men around them until they crashed down among the gorse bushes, and the clatter of weapons on armour and the deadly hiss of arrows went on and on, and on. There was little movement; men occupied their own yard of ground where they stood, fought and died. But the English had no more reserves left now, and a few hundred yards away stood the third Scottish division, wedges of men-at-arms and the feared spearmen from Galloway and the few remaining archers, gathered under the white lion banner of Dunbar.
Gradually, the pace of the fighting fell away. Men-at-arms and hobelars on both sides began to stumble, exhausted. Many of the English archers were out of arrows and had thrown themselves into the hand-to-hand fighting, which they were not used to or trained for, and they too were staggering with weariness. Little scattered combats broke out between men barely able to lift their weapons, and died down again.
Merrivale ran forward, pushing his way between groups of men. ‘My lords, withdraw your men!’ he commanded. ‘Make a truce while you treat your wounded! Put twenty yards between your lines, now!’ He began shoving bewildered Englishmen away from their enemies; Lyon Herald arrived on the scene a moment later and began pushing the Scots away as well. Slowly, raggedly, the men of both sides began to rejoin their formations, bringing their wounded with them. The smell of blood was harsh and hot in the air.
Sir Robert de Lisle lay on his back. They had taken off his bascinet and his white hair stirred a little in the wind, his sightless eyes staring up at the sky. Gilbert d’Umfraville knelt beside him. ‘What happened?’ Merrivale asked.
‘He is unwounded,’ Umfraville said, and the hard border man had tears in his eyes. ‘His gallant old heart has given out. It is a miracle that it sustained him for so long.’
‘A miracle that saved us,’ said Wake, wiping his eyes. ‘God sent him for a purpose, to recall us to our duty. Now God has taken him for his own.’
Merrivale gazed down at the old man’s face, peaceful at last in death. It happened, sometimes; in the heat of battle, burdened with armour, a man’s heart would fail. He had seen it before, but that did not make this loss any less painful.
Come! How long will your mind be chained to the earth? Do you not see into what regions you have come? The herald thought of The Dream of Scipio, and wondered if it was still lying on the table in the hall at Chipchase. It would lie there for a long time now, until the king’s escheators came to take the estate into their hands and, no doubt, sell off the contents of the estate to help fill the Treasury’s coffers. There would be no monument in Chipchase chapel to mark Peter’s grave.
He looked around at the others. ‘God has taken him,’ he repeated. ‘But if Sir Robert were still here, he would remind you that the work is not over. Honour his memory, gentlemen.’
Wake nodded. ‘You may be sure that we will,’ he said.
Water bearers were coming forward on both sides. An Englishman struggled to rise to his feet and one of the Scots stepped out of the line and helped him up, patting him on the back as he hobbled away. Guy of Béthune leaned on his sword, sucking in air. He and Brus were so far unwounded, but the same could not be said of many others. Moray was down on his knees with his eyes closed, his armour stained with blood; Strathearn’s face was a gory mess, one eye gone. Niall Bruce of Carrick lay on the grass, eyes closed and breathing shallowly while blood poured from his wounds; he would be dead within a few minutes. The king’s own schiltron had disintegrated under a hail of arrows before it could reach the English line; David himself had an arrow embedded in his body and another in his head, punched through the visor of his bascinet. Douglas had disappeared, God knew where.
The king spoke, his voice taut with pain. ‘Send for Dunbar and the reserves. We need them.’
‘No!’ Brus said violently. ‘We are on the verge of victory, sire. We can win this battle without Dunbar’s help.’
Guy of Béthune stared at him. ‘On the verge of victory? For Christ’s sake, man, look around you!’
‘Damn you, Béthune, are you questioning me? If Dunbar advances now, he will claim all the credit and the glory. Let him stay where is.’
‘You have taken leave of your senses. I’ll send a messenger.’
Brus drew his sword. ‘If you do, I’ll kill him myself. This is my victory, Béthune. No one will take it away from me, not you, not anyone.’
He nodded towards the English lines. The herald, the hated Merrivale, was conferring with his Scottish opposite number. He imagined briefly the fate he would finally mete out to Merrivale once the battle was over, but tore his mind away. There was other, more important business to do first.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘We are about to resume.’
Merrivale met Archie Graham in the bloody space between the armies. ‘You’ve taken one hell of a hammering,’ Lyon Herald said quietly. ‘There’s no need for more bloodshed. Any chance you could persuade your side to withdraw?’
‘And leave Durham to its fate?’ Merrivale shook his head. ‘The commanders will never agree. Your fellows are pretty beaten up as well, you know.’
‘We’ve taken losses,’ Lyon Herald acknowledged. ‘But I’m afraid it’s a foregone conclusion, Sim.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Merrivale. ‘All right, Archie. One way or another, let’s get this over with.’
They walked to one side of the battlefield, turning to stand on top of a hill looking down to the Wear. The sound of chanting drifted up from the river; the monks had come down to the bridge and were praying for an English victory. I don’t suppose it can hurt, Merrivale thought. He wondered what would happen in the priory now that Hugh de Tracey was dead, and realised that if England lost this battle, it would not matter; within days, there would no longer be a priory.
He turned towards the two armies. He saw the banners waving in the wind, the lions rampant and roaring, the red of Scotland, the blue of the Percys, the white of de Lisle which his men had raised once more. ‘My lords!’ he shouted. ‘Are your men refreshed?’
‘They are,’ said Lord Percy, and the Marischal of Scotland nodded.
‘Then you may resume,’ said the herald.
Like the fighting lions on their banners, the two armies launched themselves at each other. Men shouted and stabbed with sword or spear or knife, or when weapons broke, grappling with one another and falling down to wrestle on the bloody grass. Arrows still flew, but fewer now, and once again the archers ran in among the fighting men, groups of three or four surrounding Scottish men-at-arms and dragging them down to kill them. That was how Strathearn finally died, stabbed over and over by English daggers as he lay helpless on the grass.
The Disinherited still stood in the middle of the English line, and in blind fury the Scots threw in their battered schiltrons in hopes of breaking them. Moray’s men led the first wave, shouting their war cries while the pipes screamed and moaned. Umfraville was still groggy from his head wound, and into his place stepped Lord Wake. His armour dented, his shield split, his sword crusted with blood, he turned to his men. ‘Honour Sir Robert’s memory!’ he commanded. ‘Do not yield an inch of ground!’ They hammered their sword hilts against their shields and crouched, intent on the oncoming Scots.
Wake remembered his dead friends, Selby and de Lisle, and Clennell who he had counted a friend too, until he betrayed them. He gripped his sword hard, watching the Scottish spearheads race across the moor, and waited for the moment of impact.
It came, harder and more violent than he had been expecting. For a moment it was all he could do to stay on his feet, leaning into his broken shield and pushing hard, his own men packed tight and straining behind him while the Scottish spears stabbed at them. An axe blade hammered against his helm and his ears rang for a moment, but then the weight of men behind him began to slowly drive the Scots back. He freed his sword arm in the press and slashed at the axeman, knocking the weapon out of his hands. More Scots fell and then the first wave gave way, leaving a heap of bodies on the ground. Some of the English started to pursue and Wake snarled at them, telling them to stand their ground. His ears were still ringing and his limbs ached. My God, how much longer can we keep doing this? Already the Scots were reforming, and out on the moor Moray himself was coming forward, leading a second wave of schiltrons.
Dizzy with loss of blood, Moray stumbled forward past the bodies of men fallen in earlier attacks, his men pressing close behind him. He barely heard the sound of the pipes or the shouts of men on both sides. All he could think about was getting to the English line, cutting a way through it and breaking the enemy. He knew he was growing weak, but the enemy were weak too. One more blow would smash them.
They reached the enemy line. Summoning the last of his strength he raised his sword, cutting down the first two men who barred his way, but more stepped in to replace them. His own men piled in behind him, pressing forward, trying to drive the Disinherited back or knock them off their feet. They failed. The enemy were like a rock, and his own men like the sea breaking against it. Already some of the highlanders were falling back, unable to find a way through the shieldwall in front of them. Moray shouted at them, ordering them to stand fast, but the trickle of men retreating became a flood.
He turned. A man-at-arms with a broken shield and bloody surcoat with red and gold bars barred his way; Wake, who had been one of the commanders at Dupplin Moor where his brother had died. Moray hated Wake as he hated all the English, as he hated his sister who had abandoned him to captivity and death among them. He raised his sword and swung it blindly at Wake’s head, and Wake dodged the sweeping blade and hit him a two-handed blow that shattered his right arm. His sword fell to the ground. Bloody and weak he stood swaying, confronting the Englishman.
‘Yield,’ said Wake.
‘Fuck you,’ said Moray, and he bent to reach left-handed for his sword. He never saw the blow that killed him, only felt the shock as the sword blade hit his neck. In one last brief flash of fury he cursed his sister and wished for her death, and then fell heavily to the ground.
‘Moray’s men are breaking,’ Guy of Béthune said. His voice was full of disbelief. ‘Blood of Christ, they’re breaking! They’re running away!’
It had happened in the blink of an eye; one moment the Scots were raging forward, the next their formations had collapsed. Men fled across the moor, some throwing away weapons and armour so they could run more quickly. Already the English were breaking ranks, starting the pursuit. ‘Where is Moray?’ Brus demanded.
‘Dead, I think. Strathearn too. Douglas has been taken. They’re finished, Brus. The whole division is running.’
The king’s division wavered. Most of the men were still holding fast, but out on the flanks a few were turning to join the fugitives. Brus began to run towards the king, shoving tired, wounded men out of his way. Béthune caught up with him after a few paces. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to kill that bastard. Then I’m going to proclaim myself king. I’ll rally the men and we’ll fight back. Are you with me?’
Béthune caught the other man by the shoulder and spun him around violently. ‘Are you mad? This battle is lost! Do you not hear me? All your plans are in ruins, Brus. Everything you have worked for has come undone.’
‘To hell with you.’ Brus’s face was dark with rage. ‘Will you betray me too? Must I win this battle by myself?’
Béthune hesitated. He is on the edge of insanity, he thought. Why did we ever trust him?
‘Look out!’ someone shouted. ‘Ware the left!’ The English were advancing fast now, Percy’s division pouring through the gap where Moray’s men had stood. Harry Percy led them, running out in front with the blue lion banner following him, wrapping around the flank of the king’s division and threatening to surround it. The Marischal waved his sword, trying to rally men for a counter-attack, but a shower of English arrows cut him down. For a moment the blue lion of Percy confronted the red lion of Scotland; and then the king’s division broke too, and the whole of the moor was covered with fleeing men, with the English running in among them and cutting them down.
Béthune seized Brus’s arm. ‘Come on. We must get out of here, or we’re dead. Find the horses.’
Panicked men flooded around them, jostling them. ‘It’s all that goddamned herald’s fault. I should have killed him. I will kill him.’
‘Don’t just stand here talking about it!’ Béthune shouted. Rokeby’s banner was coming towards them, Wake and Neville too, hacking their way through the tide of fugitives. ‘Here come the English, you fool! Run!’
Far to the rear, Dunbar’s division watched the rest of the army disintegrate. Agnes turned in the saddle and touched her husband’s arm. ‘Turn the men away, my lord,’ she said.
The earl looked at her. ‘Turn them away,’ she said. ‘The rest of the army is wrecked, and the battle is lost. Once again, our country stands on the brink. It will need us, and our men, if it is to survive at all.’
‘Her ladyship is right, my lord,’ said the Master of Kinross. ‘The English have the upper hand. Even if we attack now, we will not prevail. We will sacrifice ourselves to no end.’
Dunbar nodded. There were tears in his eyes as he turned to his captains. ‘We will withdraw to Ebchester,’ he said. ‘We will rally the survivors there.’ He took one last look at the fleeing mass of men. ‘May God help Scotland,’ he said quietly.