The camp had begun to stir. James cantered with Robert de Keith and their half-dozen men past cook fires where oak bannocks steamed over cookfires, for today was the Eve of the Feast of Saint John. They'd break their fast with bread and with water. Archers sat around a small fire bent over their fletching. Men rubbed the sleep from their eyes and stumbled to the latrine pits to piss, grumbling.
Sweat dripped down James's face as he flung himself off his lathered horse. Even early in the day, the summer heat was like being boiled in a pot. “Gelleys, see to the men,” he said and tossed the scout his reins. He strode for the door of the King's pavilion, the Keith panting behind him. He shoved his way through the door, not waiting for ceremony. “Sire.”
Robert de Bruce stopped his pacing and raised his eyebrows.
James swallowed. “Today.” He licked his chapped, peeling lips. “The reports were true... except not as dire as they should have been.”
Robert de Keith cleared his throat. “Ten divisions. Each with more men than we could count. Two thousand each division was the best I could guess. We spotted the High Constable's banner. Aymer de Valence... Henry de Beaumont... Robert de Clifford... Ralph de Monthermer...”
“I saw Comyn of Badenoch's banner and other of the traitors,” James spit out.
“Never mind them,” the King said, impatiently. “Who leads the van?”
“Hereford and Gloucester.”
“Gloucester?” He leaned a hand on the table. “You're sure, James?”
James blinked. He wouldn't say it if he weren't sure, and so the King should well know.
The King broke his stare. “To give command of the van to a lad, even with the high constable to guide him... He is only newly knighted. Edward must be crazed. So Pembroke is not in the van then.”
“Some of our scouts picked up rumors that there were arguments. The Edward is furious with Aymer de Valence and refused him the van. They're all still at odds, and the King still angry over Piers de Gaveston's murder. It's said that they've come near to blows over who is to lead. But the King made young Hereford constable of the entire army, it's said.”
“How many chivalry?”
“More of those than we could count as well.” James narrowed his eyes as he considered. “They cover the hills like a flood. Four thousand?” He raised a questioning eyebrow at the Keith.
The Keith grunted. “Mayhap. So many that it doesn't matter that we couldn't count them. Pembroke leads those. Never have I seen so many knights. On barded destriers all. Miles of them. The shine of the armor could blind you.”
The King's eyes gleamed as he sat down and leaned back. He smiled a little. “And they force the march, you say?”
“My spies are still watching. Some have slipped into their train. If the English make camp, they're to bring word with all speed. But whilst we watched...” James puzzled over the King's good cheer. “Yes, they were forcing their march. They rested during the few hours of dark. We watched them march past Falkirk. They'll reach the Bannockburn before noontide.”
The King jumped to his feet. He strode to the doorway. “William! Have the trumpets blow assembly for the Privy Council.”
James crossed his arms and examined his feet as the King paced. The pavilion was silent except for a rustle as the Keith shifted his feet in the rushes that cushioned the ground. Sir Edward's voice boomed, “What is ado?” as he stomped inside.
The King continued his pacing back and forth across the wide enclosure. “Wait for the others.”
Were the English three times their numbers? Four? They had at least one hundred times the Scottish heavy chivalry. And none of the Scots rode the barded destriers that the English had by the thousand. Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Boyd muttered a greeting, and Maol of Lennox followed on his heels. Panting, Bernard de Linton stood aside for Bishop Lamberton and Bishop David de Moray. James caught the others eyeing him as they waited. They must know that he and the Keith had brought news. Rumors had run wild for days. The King made another progress back and forth across the pavilion. Angus Og strode in, his mail clanking, polished to a brilliant shine though his arms were bare except for gold armbands.
The King turned and faced them, his face grim. “It's the moment of decision, my friends. We have no more time. We retire now. This moment. Or we stand and fight.”
There was a deathly silence in the pavilion.
The King paused as his eyes, hot and blazing, raked over them. “Make no mistake. If we fight and lose, we will die. And not just in battle. They'll hang any they take. But if we win... If we win, we win all. I'll call no man a coward who says to retire. The decision is yours. Do we run? Again? Or do we stand and fight?”
“I will not run!” Edward de Bruce said. His sun-browned face reddened. “Enough of that. We must stand.”
James almost smiled. When had Sir Edward ever said else?
“Stand! We must,” Thomas Randolph put in over the competing mutter of voices, the cleric nodding and speaking at the same time, Maol of Lennox saying something softly under his breath.
“There are many of them, but...” the Keith was saying a worried tone.
“Fight!” Angus said loudly.
“It's time,” Boyd said. “We stand.”
James caught Sir Edward's glance and nodded. For once, they agreed. “I don't fear to die. Whatever more we suffer than already we have, our country shall be free.”
The King slowly nodded. “If we do lose, someone must be prepared to lead whatever retreat is...”
“Your Grace!” William de Irvine burst through the doorway. “There is someone here... He's come from the English, he says.”
“What the...” The King's mouth made a thin line. He gave a curt nod. “Bring him in.”
“Sir?” Irvine said over his shoulder.
A man shouldered his way past young Irvine, wearing a pale blue cloak and mail clinking as he walked. He was spare, with streaks of gray in his brown hair and beard. He strode to the King and dropped to one knee. “Your Grace.”
The King tilted back his head as he stared, set-faced, at the man. “Alexander Seaton. It is many a year since you have graced your homeland.”
"Sire." The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Will you hear me?"
When the King slowly nodded, Seaton went on. “I rode from the English—rode hard ahead because, Sir King, if you mean to win Scotland, now is the time. Never have you seen so much dissension. They have a boy who knows nothing of war commanding the van. The rest are at each other's throats. The men are weary. Beginning to despair of their leaders.”
The Bruce raised an eyebrow. “And you, Sir Alexander, would now stand with us?”
Seaton glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes looked a bit wild, James thought, as he looked at the men glaring at him. But he looked back up at the King. “If you'll have me.”
A little smile quirked the King's mouth. “In time to save your lands from being forfeit.” But he held out his hands to take the knight's oath.
The man muttered the words, and the King waved him impatiently away, obviously no patience today for ceremony. “Angus, a quarter of your men are not in the schiltrons, so I want them to guard the small folks. See that all the camp followers and all the supplies are moved onto that wooded hill. The tents and pavilions must come down. Set guards and see that they only attack at the sound of your horn.”
Angus grunted assent and left with an almost-bow, stubborn, willful islander that he was.
The King blandly watched the man leave, lifted his war axe from in front of his armor and said, “Thomas. See that your men are in place, guarding our flank. The rest of you with me. We'll inspect the field.” He walked into the bright sunshine that gleamed on his simple coronet, shouting for his horse.
Philp galloped between the tents. A squire shouted as he dodged out of the way. Philp shouted, “My lord, they're crossing the Bannockburn!”
“Wat,” James called, turning in a circle as he searched for a sign of his sergeant amidst the running, shouting chaos and spotted him shoving his way through men scattering in every direction. “Form up the men. They're to stand ready!”
The King grabbed his reins out of Irvine's hands. “It will take them the rest of the day to cross. We have time to look over the field one last time.”
Walter pelted up leading two horses, his tunic only half fastened and his hair wild.
Sweat dripped into James's beard, and he gave a wry laugh, swinging into the saddle as Walter mounted. “Fighting when it's freezing or melting. I'll never decide which is worse.”
Robbie Boyd snorted. “Freezing. Last winter, I was sure I'd freeze off something more precious than toes. My lady wife would be right annoyed.”
Thomas Randolph shook his head. He never joined in the banter, but he wasn't so very bad. At least, he knew how to fight.
Bishop Lamberton made the sign of the cross over them. “We'll celebrate mass in the morning. In the meantime, the blessings of God go with you. I'll see that the clerics go with Sir Angus and are out of the way.”
The trumpets began their call to battle, wild, clamorous. Sergeants shouted to form their squares, men ran yelling curses and crude jokes, pikes clattered, barrels were thrown into wagons, fires sizzled under buckets of water.
“Earl Thomas,” Bishop Moray said blandly, “I've given my men who follow you into battle my blessings already.”
Irvine twisted his hands in alarm, almost reaching for the King but not willing to lay hands on him. “Your Grace, of a certainty, you should don your armor.”
“Not yet,” the King said. “They'll take hours to move into position, but we must be ready.” He wheeled his horse in a tight circle. “With me, my lords. Lord Marischal, summon your cavalry to ride with us.” He wheeled his light gray palfrey in a tight circle and trotted off.
Robert de Keith stood, cupped his hand around his mouth, and shouted, “Trumpets.” To horse, to horse, the trumpets called in a blaring clarion.
James gave Irvine a sympathetic look but managed not to roll his eyes behind the King's back.
“Watch him,” Irvine said.
James snorted, put his spurs to his horse's flank, and rode to catch up. He had spent half his life trying to shield Robert de Bruce's back. This was not a day he would stop.
James's standard unfurled above a square of pikemen. Behind them, a double line of archers formed. Beyond, near Saint Ninian's road Thomas Randolph's banner rose above men massed in a hedgehog of spears.
Knights buckled on their sword belts as they ran to horses held by their squires. Mounts snorted and hoof falls drummed as they rode to catch up with the King as he rode eastwards.
The King slowed his trot for the others to catch up with him as they rounded the shoulder of land above the Forth. Below them, the sun glittered on a river of steel, wave upon wave of it as the English army crossed the sluggish little water of the Bannockburn. “We need a closer look. We'll go to the New Park, and I'll have a last look at those pits.” The Bruce wheeled his horse and plunged down into a hollow, crushing through dried, brittle broom and gorse. The day smelled of horse sweat and dust as they rode, and behind them strung out three hundred of Keith's men on their coursers. On the edge of the open plain, James pulled up beside the Bruce.
James leaned forward over his horse's neck. The plain's splotches of purple-red heather and sun-browned gorse were divided by the brown streak of empty road. A trumpet sounded in the distance, a long, peace-shattering sound. Past the bend a mile away, the first of the English army surged into view. Hundreds of horses, cavalry heavy with the weight of their armor, horses barded in chain and draped with bright cloths, massed together into a riot of colors under a hundred banners. The flood of steel spread and spread, under a leopard banner as large as a sail. Beside it flapped the banner of Saint George and dozens more. Hundreds. Armor like waves in a spreading sea.
“Hold here,” the King called to Robert de Keith. “I don't want to chance the men getting near the pits. We have hours whilst the main of their force arrives.” He paced his horse slowly into the plain, bending over the horse's withers and watching the ground.
James rubbed his nose and glanced at Robbie Boyd, who shrugged. If the King said to hold, they would hold. James rubbed the back of his neck as the King walked his horse along a line next to the broom-covered pits.
Below in the distance, a fragment of the river of steel broke away. A dozen knights surged onto the plain, trotting towards them. The silvered steel of their mail flashed and silken plums streamed from their war helms. As a trumpet blared, James stood in his stirrups and called to the King, “Sire!”
“What device is that?” Boyd said. He nudged his horse a few steps forward, hands twitching anxiously around his reins. The King was almost halfway between them and the galloping English riders. “Bohun?”
“Hell!” James drew his sword, heart hammering. “The High Constable? It can't be.” There was no way he could reach the King first. He kicked his spurs into this horse's flank and bent over its withers as it surged into an arm-jolting gallop.
The King had turned his horse and was riding casually at an angle towards the oncoming riders. The knight in the lead, bearing a blue shield scattered with lions shouted, “The Bruce! Himself! He's mine!” His blue and white tabard flapped in the wind. The point of his lance glittered, pointed straight at the King. “Back! Back!” He crouched low over his lance and hurtled towards Robert the Bruce.
The other English drew up, horses skittering.
Dear Jesu God, the King didn't even carry a shield. James brought the flat of his sword down on his horse's flank, desperate.
The Bruce continued at his slow trot, turned his course slightly to face the man thundering towards him. He balanced his war axe in his hand. James could hear nothing over the thunder of his heart and his own horse's hooves. Too far. It was too far.
Bohun reached him. The King shifted the second before impact, jerked his reins, and kicked his mount. It danced to the side. Reared. The lance plunged past the King's face. He stood in his stirrups. Raised his axe high and slammed it down on Bohun's helm.
Bohun's horse carried him past as he slid sideways from the saddle. He sprawled in the dirt, a foot caught in his stirrup, the horse snorting and dancing.
There were ululating shouts behind James. “A Bruce! A Bruce!”
The rush of relief made James sway in the saddle. He pulled up from his headlong gallop. Keith's men galloped past him and surged around the King and the body that lay leaking a thread of blood onto the ground. James took a deep breath as a sudden flush of hot fury went through him. They'd nearly lost the King and with him, they would have lost the battle and the country.
His hands were shaking with rage as he slowed to a walk. James knew his voice shook, but he couldn't help that, as he said, “You might have died.”
Boyd's face was white as whey. “Sire...” He shook his head, obviously speechless. Maol of Lennox's mouth hung open.
The King held up the shattered shaft of his axe. “I broke it.” He smiled a little and shrugged. “Keith, call your men back here.” He swung from the saddle and squatted next to the body. The top of the helm was crushed but the tabard was clean as though the man might rise in a moment. “Sir Henry de Bohun, I think.” The King stood and mounted. “Nephew of the High Constable.”
Keith shouted for his men to retire as they strung out towards the fleeing knights.
James glared at the King. “What I'd expect from Sir Edward,” he said through gritted teeth.
The King threw back his head and laughed. To James, the laugh had a feverish sound. He blew out a puff of breath as his anger faded. The King lived.
“He saw nothing of the pits.” The King turned his horse's head and trotted back the way they had come. “The branches and sod that cover them are drying in this heat, but they needn't last long.”
From a distance upon the hillock, James heard a roar of cheers like breakers on the shore: the Scots yelling, “Scotland! Scotland!” A torrent of men rushed towards them around the shoulder of land.
“Get your men back in place,” the King snapped. But his mouth twitched in a near smile as he said it. “Keith, on the hill with your men and watch for archers trying to flank us.”
James shouted for Wat and Gelleys as they rode onto the hillock overlooking the camp. “What is the ado here? Move the men into place.” As he spoke, he raised an eyebrow at Thomas Randolph nearing at a trot.
“Sire!” Randolph called. “There are shouts all over camp. You were in single combat?”
“Holy Rude, Thomas. You'd think it was the first time.”
“You...” Randolph blinked at the King and looked speechless. “Sire, it's not fitting.”
James watched grimly as below the vast main force of the English King rolled into sight, with no sign of the end of them. The mass of men and horses crowded beside the water of the Burn in an ever-swelling tangle. Surely there was no room for such a force. The space just would not hold them.
Inexorably they spread onto the carse, a boundless tide spreading over the bogs and tide pools. Even from here, James could see the horses foundering and struggling, hock deep in muck. Thousand upon thousand of glittering knights, England's chivalry, flooded into the waterlogged plain. James glanced at the King. “They're stopping? In the carse?”
Then he caught a motion beyond Randolph. Something nearer, through the trees. A flash of light and color. He walked his horse a little past Randolph, frowning. A banner? He turned back to them.
“Your Grace.” James pointed. “Look. On the road at Saint Ninian's.”
“What?” The King jerked around.
Through a space in the trees a mile away, James could see the leading edge of a mounted troop of knights and men-at-arms, a huge yellow banner fluttering over their heads. They passed the tower of Saint Ninian's Kirk. “Clifford,” James said. “I'd know that banner in the bowels of hell itself.” Like a mailed arm, an English host thrust along the low road. “Five hundred?”
“More,” the Bruce said.
James worried his lip. “What... Where are they going? Do they intend to attack? So few even on the flank?”
“Either they will claim they have relieved the castle... or wait until battle to take us in the flank. Perhaps both. My lord of Moray,” the King barked, “how many men are you letting flank us? A rose has fallen from your garland of renown. Go save it. I gave you Saint Ninian's Kirk to hold.”
His face flushed red, Randolph turned his horse and whipped it to a gallop for his men, out of sight within the woods.
The line of English might was strung out in a triple line along the road. They stopped. A trumpet blew, and the hair on the back of James's neck prickled at the sound. “They've spotted Randolph's schiltron.”
The hedgehog of a thousand bristling pikes crept into view. Fifty yards from the English, blocking the road, they stopped and braced their pikes, shoulder to shoulder, one line of pikes over the shoulder of the outer who knelt. Someone unfurled Moray's banner, and it waved in the above them.
“They'll be ridden down,” Maol of Lennox muttered. “They haven't a chance. Not foot against cavalry.”
“We have no choice but to see,” the King said as trumpets blared.
“That's too many,” James said. “They can't hold against so many.” Each destrier was a thousand pounds of moving death. It couldn't be done. “Let me go to their aid.”
“No. We can't take the chance of a surprise attack on our front. Remember Methven.”
A trumpet blew again and like a rushing tide, the line of armored horsemen surged forward. It met the square of sharp steel, swirled around it, surrounded it. Dust rose in a cloud. James strained to see through the dusty fog. Horses reared. The cavalry was a seething mass. Sounds drifted up, faint with distance.
“Sire! Please!” James said. “If I go, they'll have to split their men.”
The King's hands were in fists, white fingered, as he clutched hard at his reins. “All right. Go!”
James wheeled his horse and slapped its flank. “Wat! To their aid!” He galloped ahead of his men, halfway down the slope. As he went the sounds of battle turned into a cacophony of screaming horses. Shouts. Grunts. Clanking mail. Moans. James pulled up and raised his arm high over his head. “Hold!” he shouted. “Hold!”
Now he saw what he couldn't from a distance through the dust of battle, horses down, dead and dying piled around the schiltron. Bodies of men were caught in the tangle. The ground was a trampled, bloody bog. But the schiltron held with Moray's banner waving above it.
A man-at-arms backed his horse up and threw his sword in a furious arc into the mass of pikes. It flew past the helmeted heads, and James gave a snort of laughter.
Wat trotted up beside him. “Should we...”
“Hold. The glory is theirs. We'll not steal it.”
Furiously riding at the steely thistle, a knight's blue draped destrier reared and shied away, refusing to impale itself, screaming terror.
A trumpet gave three long blasts. Commands were shouted. The cavalry scattered back to the road to reform into a ragged double line. The bristling schiltron, pikes red in the sunshine, froze into place. There were groans and cries. A pikeman raised his weapon and brought the point down in a vicious strike.
“Scotland! A Moray! A Moray!” James shouted grinning. Behind him echoed thousands of cries and cheers. James leaned close to Wat to be heard over the chaos, “Give them a moment to cheer and then move the men back into place.” He slid from the saddle and walked toward Randolph's schiltron. Randolph shoved his way through the line of men as they dropped to their knees. Pikes clattered to the ground. They scooped off helms and dropped them. Sweat dripped down their faces. An armored man crawled out from under a pile of the dead. Randolph paused to roll the man onto his back with a foot and spoke to a pikeman.
“Bravely done,” James said. He couldn't stop grinning as he squelched through the bloody muck. “Bravely done, my lord earl.” He offered Randolph his hand. Perhaps one day, they might even be friends if they both lived through the battle. The fighting today was barely a foretaste of what was to come.
Randolph grasped his hand for a moment. “I thought that you would join the fight.”
“No. The glory was yours. You earned it.” He looked at the billowing dust from the cavalry as they retired. “And tomorrow, there'll be enough to share.”