Chapter 4

Bannockburn

The English vanguard, under the dual command of the Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, followed the Carse Road, which wound into a hunting ground reserved for Scottish kings. Richard rode immediately behind the two constables, who were even now wrangling over how they should proceed. A scouting party of Scots had recently been spotted, and both Gloucester and Hereford had agreed to engage them—though they could not agree on anything further. Taking a deep breath, Richard licked his cracked lips. He tried to ignore the constables' bickering, his incessant thirst, and his uncomfortably heavy armor. St. George be thanked that the June afternoon was at least mild. If the day had been hot, hell would be cooler.

Row after well-ordered row of knights, astride high-stepping Flemish chargers, continued forward, silent save for the creaking of saddle leather and the occasional ring of steel striking steel.

"The Scots have picked their ground well," Richard commented to Phillip, who rode beside him.

Surveying the terrain, Phillip nodded. "If we do not seize the Carse, our main army will never be able to pass through."

Richard's gaze swept past the River Forth and slow-running Burn of Bannock, across the flat Carse to the heavily forested Gillies and Coxert hills. Phillip was right. Edward's main army, which yet struggled miles behind, would be hemmed in on both sides.

"Strike hard and early," Richard said half to himself. His father the old king's credo. But the knights had already marched twenty miles and the Scots, besides being rested, had enjoyed days in which to map out strategy and position. An unchivalrous way to fight—but effective.

When they reached the Carse, Gilbert of Gloucester signaled a halt. A strong corps of Scots was positioned at the far end of the open field. As Richard viewed the enemies' ragged line, stunted Highland horses, and mismatched armor, he noted one knight positioned in the center of the formation. It was not the man's armor—little better than average—that he observed, nor the helm, but what was fastened above the helm. A golden crown.

Richard pointed to the knight. "Robert the Bruce!"

The knight's identity blazed through the English ranks. Stiffening in his saddle, Richard attempted to gain a better glimpse of the military genius who'd so plagued two kings.

Ahead, a young knight named Henry de Bohun yelped like a goaded dog at a bear baiting. "What luck! Bruce himself, and with no more than a handful of vermin to guard him."

Richard did not share de Bohun's enthusiasm. "I think they would not leave their king so ill guarded," he said to Phillip.

"I agree." Phillip flipped down his visor. "I smell treachery."

As Gloucester and Hereford argued over the possible meaning of the Scottish king's appearance and how to exploit this apparent opportunity, Henry de Bohun broke rank and rode toward the enemy line.

"Christ's wounds!" Phillip swore. "Henry will be split upon Bruce's claymore ere the hour's out."

Across the yellow field patched with the emerald of swampy mosses and dotted with gnarled trees, Henry de Bohun galloped. With his multicolored jupon, painted lance positioned at rest, and burnished armor, de Bohun looked the very epitome of knighthood. But, as de Bohun challenged Robert the Bruce to single combat, Richard very much feared future minstrels memorializing this campaign—as they would—would be referring to Henry in the past tense.

Accepting de Bohun's challenge, the Scottish king cantered forward astride his shaggy grey pony. From his saddle bow, he removed his battle-ax.

Not a man stirred along either line. Richard held his breath, his eyes on the brilliant de Bohun. The young knight raised his lance and charged. The spear tip bore toward Bruce's chest, though he did not flinch. When de Bohun appeared in easy grasp of victory, Bruce jerked an armored knee into his grey's ribs. The mount sidestepped just as de Bohun thundered past. Rising in his stirrups, Bruce crashed his ax down on de Bohun's head. The blade sliced through helm, past the skull beneath, cleaving de Bohun's head in two. Blood and bone exploded into the air. The dead knight fell backward, over his destrier's rump.

The English army looked on in stunned silence. Then, as in one voice, they erupted. Battle cries shattered the stillness. Lance, sword, and battle-ax swung to battle ready, and of one accord, the cavalry galloped toward the Scots. Richard and Phillip rode side by side.

The first line engaged the enemy. They fell back. The English pursued. Swinging his broadsword, Richard had little time to notice anything save the warriors in front of him. But one thing he knew. Though the Scots fought, they gave ground too easily.

Are we heading into a trap?

Suddenly, the English line gave way as the earth collapsed beneath the knights' destriers. Animals and riders plunged into cleverly hidden trenches that had been lined with pointed poles.

"Pits!" someone screamed.

The Scots had indeed picked their spot well, and with plenty of time to dig their traps. Richard jerked Excalibur to the right, away from the pits, even as a forward knight plunged into a hole and was brutally impaled. Excalibur careened toward a second destrier, struggling to veer away from this latest danger. Behind, an English knight slammed into them. Excalibur stumbled. Richard was nearly unhorsed and flung into the abyss. Excalibur righted himself. The line seemed to slacken and the stallion broke free. Richard glimpsed Phillip ahead, swinging his mace over his head. To Richard's left, a claymore flashed. Reacting instinctively, he swung his blade, lopping off a man's head. One for Henry de Bohun.

The Earl of Gloucester's herald suddenly called retreat. Richard was more relieved than surprised. The troop began their withdrawal. The English would meet their enemy on the field of Bannock again on the morrow. God grant that this time they would be better prepared.

* * *

The morning of June 24, 1314, dawned clear and cool. In the morning shade, some squires dressed their lords in battle armor while others tended to nervous destriers; groups of archers, cradling their six foot longbows, silently awaited orders. Richard made a full private confession, readying his soul for the possibility of death.

Who will God listen to this day?

Richard stared at his half-brother's broad back, which was covered with a magnificent jeweled tabard. The English outnumbered the Scots three to one, and possessed far superior weapons, not to mention baggage support trains that stretched twenty miles to the rear.

How can we fail?

A large circle of barons knelt before a priest who administered the final blessing. Richard recognized Bartholomew Badlesmere, a veteran of the dead king's Welsh campaigns, silent Hugh Despenser, and the dark Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, who'd brought with him a troop of Irishmen. All of England's barons were here at the burn of Bannock. All save Thomas Lancaster, who remained safely hidden away in his castle at Pontefract.

Following the benediction, King Edward inspected his troops, his manner as nervously buoyant as that of his high-stepping white charger. Sensing easy victory, he laughed and joked and belittled the enemy. "We'll rout them in an hour!" he boasted.

"Be wary of their schiltron," Roger Mortimer warned, referring to the circular phalanx with pikes to the fore and ready reserves in the center so favored by the Scots.

Mortimer was a Marcher Lord from the border counties and known to be a deadly fighter. '"Tis a wicked formation. And if they possess only a handful of cavalry they will use their pikemen."

Edward waved a negligent hand, dismissing with his gesture the martial prowess of an entire nation. "A legion of pikemen is no match for one knight. Besides, I have planned it all. We cannot fail."

Because of the narrow area in which the English had to maneuver, Edward had divided his troops into three lines, or battles. One battle would follow another. Gilbert of Gloucester had been picked to lead the first wave.

His Grace motioned to a waiting herald. "My Lord Gloucester is ready. Send forth the summons."

The sun was low, the air still edged with night's chill, when the Earl of Gloucester and his cavalry galloped across the Carse. Behind them line after line of foot soldiers marched up the rough Carse toward the Scots who were positioned in several circular schiltrons.

"A St. George! God wills it!" cried the English knights as they thundered forward, toward the waiting pikes with their pointed metal heads. Suddenly, portions of ground collapsed, plunging knights and chargers into more hidden pits.

Not a second time, Richard thought, watching from the sidelines.

"God's teeth," swore Phillip. "Did we learn nothing?"

Other English soldiers met caltrops—four-cornered spikes concealed in the grass which pierced the vulnerable center of stallions' hooves. Racing on, the main battle slammed against the Scottish line, which held. Gloucester fell back, reformed, charged again.

Waiting, Richard felt as if worms gnawed his stomach. Today was his first real battle, and fear warred with eagerness. Beside him, King Edward shifted impatiently in his saddle. His gauntleted right hand bounced on the pommel in nervous rhythm; his blue eyes swept the chaotic field, willing Gloucester to break through the line.

"Our archers!" His Grace turned to Richard. "They will provide Gloucester with the victory." He motioned to a herald. "Send the order round. My archers are to cross the Pelstream burn and hit Bruce's flank."

After the bowmen moved to obey, Edward signaled his second battle forward. Most of the lords, including Phillip and Richard, were part of this wave. The battle moved out, with Edward keeping well to the back.

A king must be well protected, Richard thought. His position makes sense.

But their father had always ridden in the lead. Edward I had never asked his troops to do or risk what he would not. Richard himself rode to the fore, though his every instinct cried for the far safer position an entire line could provide. He glanced over his shoulder at Phillip. At least Lord Rendell, who was a veteran of many battles, would be near and would look to his safety more effectively than Richard's squires.

As the second battle moved slowly forward, rivulets of nervous sweat coursed down Richard's chest, back and arms. His inner gambeson stuck unpleasantly to his underclothes. Gloucester's troops still had not penetrated the Scottish schiltrons and, if the second English line continued they would meet, not Scots, but Edward's own foot soldiers. Richard's throat felt dry from fear as well as billowing dust. He licked cracked lips and tasted blood.

Gloucester's cavalry struggled forward. Suddenly the line surged. The English had penetrated the schiltrons! A cheer rose from the second wave and accelerated when His Grace gave the order to engage.

Phillip caught Richard's attention, pointing down field where the third line was moving forward.

"They've already been ordered up," he shouted above the din. "We'll be caught between the third battle and Gloucester's men."

A chill hand squeezed Richard's heart. Already he could see the faces of the foot soldiers leading the third wave. If the forward battles did not successfully push into the Scottish ranks, all of them risked being trapped like rabbits in a snare. Richard's gaze met Phillip's. Phillip shook his head as if to say, "What can be done?"

He was right.

If death awaited them on the field of Bannock, they had no choice but to ride forth and embrace it.

* * *

Scots surrounded Richard, clinging like leeches to a wound. On all sides, screaming, wielding claymore and battle-ax. The earl swung his sword with relentless precision, acting and reacting on an instinctive level instilled by years of training. Encased in a steel tomb, his helm providing limited peripheral vision, Richard's battlefield extended directly in front, a few feet to either side. He was totally blind to the back. Thank God for Phillip.

The line struggled forward. England's cavalry were as much in danger of killing one another as their enemy. Ahead, Richard glimpsed Gloucester, suddenly down, an ax through his cuirass. Gloucester's maddened destrier trampled him beneath, then was itself felled by a stray arrow.

Shouting off to the flank, where Edward had ordered his archers. "On them! On them!" the Scots yelled, attacking the bowmen from behind. A rain of arrows dropped English foot soldiers like meadow grass before a windstorm. English arrows dropping English troops. Shafts thudded into Richard's padded surcoat. Men began to panic, searching for a place to hide. But where? Hills encased them on either side, as did the burn of Bannock, now filling with the morning tide. Scots ahead, English behind. Trapped in the middle, Richard could not have run, even if he would. He glimpsed Edward on the line's edge, more spectator than participant.

The shower of arrows ceased.

Knights shouted, "Bruce has routed our archers! We are done for."

Scots emerged from all directions, materializing from the ground, multiplying a hundredfold. Robert the Bruce, who'd been holding back his reserves, now threw them into action. With Gloucester dead and England's ranks badly depleted, the line slowly, inexorably gave ground. A swell of corpses hampered their retreat. Horses stumbled over slopes slippery with blood; foot soldiers slid on guts and dismembered limbs. Bodies floated in the pulling tide of the river, Bannock; wounded soldiers floundered and drowned. The Scots pushed relentlessly, a silver river swelling and breaking over English ranks.

The second battle fell into the third. The entire line wavered. Richard felt it even before he saw it, and even more, sensed the change in himself. From a measure of confidence, to rising panic that threatened to paralyze him. He wanted to throw down his sword, turn, and flee all the way back to London. Bannockburn was lost, and Richard knew they were lost with it.

Glimpsing Edward's jeweled tabard, he tried to edge Excalibur toward his brother. The line was buckling. Bruce and his men pressed harder. Richard saw Phillip behind him, surcoat studded with arrows. Richard pointed with his sword toward Edward. Nodding, Phillip spurred his horse. Forcing a path toward the King, Richard moved against the tide of retreating Englishmen. Edward, surrounded by his earls, was well protected.

An arrow pierced Richard's thigh. He jerked the shaft upward, his brain exploding in agony. Shaking his head he forced his mind beyond the pain, his eyes to the mild June sky, to silent Gillies Hill which was silent no longer. The hillside teemed with Scottish reinforcements, scrambling from the forest toward the English flank, toward the king himself. With this latest screaming Scottish wave, Edward's entire army collapsed like a rotten drawbridge.

Jerking his reins, Richard wheeled Excalibur to a halt. Phillip had also halted, eyes on the Scottish reinforcements. Richard pointed. The Scots, those who had turned Bannockburn into a complete debacle, were not worthy knights, but camp followers. Fletchers, cooks, wagoners—men and women waving broken pike handles, broomsticks, and crutches topped with petticoats, clouts, and tattered cloaks.

"Sweet Christ! I do not believe it."

Phillip's and Richard's eyes locked. Then, as of one mind, they closed the gap between themselves and the king. Edward's earls were already leading him from the field. Hugh Despenser held his charger's reins.

"Father would not have left," Edward said to no one in particular. He sounded more bemused than angry.

Furious with his brother's incompetence, the entire folly, himself, Richard shouted, "But you are not Father. Now get yourself to Stirling Castle before you are captured and of no good to anyone."

Richard read hurt in his brother's expression, but he was too angry to care. Shame burned in him like poison. England would never live down this tragedy, and Edward was responsible. He was Edward's half-brother... if only he'd fought harder... if he'd not been afraid...

Richard turned to view Bannock's field—the trampled English banners, men struggling and drowning in the burn, the sea of bodies. He slammed his gauntleted hand against his pommel.

Bannockburn!

The name would be spit like a curse at him and Edward. It would haunt their children's children. He knew it. Richard felt like crying. Instead he spurred his horse and, with Phillip at his side, followed his sovereign from the field.