Insurrection Read online

  The colours of the enemy’s flags grew clearer. Among them was the royal banner of Scotland, the red lion rampant on gold. The Scots shouted as the English came, their cries carrying on the wind to meet the advancing men. Contained in those faint sounds, Warenne guessed there would be cries for vengeance. He doubted there was a man left in Scotland who hadn’t learned of the slaughter at Berwick. Such thirst for revenge was good. It would make the Scots rash. In contrast his men remained silent, intent on closing the gap between themselves and the enemy, marshalling their strength for the fight.

  As the English knights reached the top of the first incline, Warenne raised his hand to call a halt. His commanders moved in around him, while he surveyed the terrain. Ahead, the ground fell sharply into a valley, clustered with trees and bushes that grew thicker in the defile, partially concealing a glistening burn. Beyond the narrow stream, the trees thinned out again as the ground rose in a long, ridged slope, all the way up to the Scottish host on the crest. Giving orders to his commanders, who spread out to relay them to the men, Warenne led the English down the steep hillside. The knights leaned back in their saddles, allowing their destriers to find the best routes. Still, the fell voices of the Scots came to them from the distance. The infantry followed, using spear butts to aid them on the decline. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, a shadow sweeping in across the grass. Ahead, between the trees, the waters of the burn dulled from bronze to slate in the changing light.

  The first knights reached the stream, Warenne among them. In places the banks were high and the men were forced to spread out to seek safe crossing. Their lines broke as they moved between the trees, some turning back to find better routes by which to urge their destriers across. Others rode carefully down shallower, sandy banks, into the cold running water. The mud on the stream-bed, churned by the hooves, turned the burn cloudy. Kicking hard at the sides of their horses, the men forced them up on to the other side, water dripping from the beasts’ legs. A few chargers skidded and panicked, but the knights controlled them with sharp commands. Behind, more cavalry came, following comrades across.

  Warenne formed up with his men in the trees on the other side. He turned, barking orders as the knights continued to spread out along the banks. Behind them soldiers crowded in, waiting to cross. Suddenly, from the hill above, Warenne heard the shrill ringing of many horns. It was followed by the unmistakable thunder of hooves. Spurring his horse forward to get a better view, the Earl of Surrey saw the Scottish army riding pell-mell down the ridged hillside towards the burn. For a moment, he was struck dumb by the sight, stunned by the unexpectedness of the charge. Then he heard the roared words in between the horns.

  ‘On them!’

  ‘On them! The cowards are fleeing!’

  In a second, Warenne took in his men fanned out along the valley floor, some moving back through the trees to search for a place to cross. He realised that what was a breaking of ranks to cross the burn must, to the Scots, have looked like his forces were in disarray. Then, he was yelling commands, ordering his men across by any means. The last knights charged their horses at the stream. Most vaulted up and over, but a few fell, toppling on the banks, horses screaming and twisting as they crashed back. Behind, the infantry splashed down the slick banks in their hundreds, holding their weapons high as they waded through the water and crawled up the other side. Snapping down his visor and snatching his lance from his squire, Warenne spurred his horse out of the trees, followed by his men.

  The Scots, plunging headlong down the hillside in a disorderly mass, saw a line of knights emerging through the trees ahead forming up as they came, ranks closing, shields rising. What they had thought was a host of men fleeing in fear, was suddenly a well-disciplined wall of steel, thundering up the slope to meet them. Some of the Scots at the front of the haphazard assault, those who saw the knights first, tried to rein in their mounts, tried to slow, or turn. But they were committed now, propelled by the masses coming behind them, straight into the English heavy cavalry, their thirst for blood drying in their mouths. Those Scots who had seen battle before roared the others on, trying their best to tighten the ranks, but it was too late. The English knights battered straight through them.

  Men, tossed from saddles with the violent impact, were hurled into the ground. Some were knocked senseless, others went down beneath the trampling hooves, pummelled into the mud. As the English punched through the Scottish host, turning the disorderly mass into unbridled panic, the infantry poured in behind. Like locusts, they swarmed over fallen men and horses, surrounding earls and knights who were disarmed and taken prisoner. Some nobles went down, fighting vainly, as the infantry closed over the top of them, disabling them with blows from hammers or sword pommels.

  Warenne, his lance spent, swung out with his great sword, hacking at a Scottish knight. As the man reeled with the strike, Warenne turned his horse with a jerk of the reins, causing the beast to barrel into the side of the Scot’s charger, jolting the man from the saddle. He went down with a cry and a crunch of armour. As the Scot tried to push himself up, three English foot soldiers surrounded him. One swung a hammer into his stomach, causing him to double up, while the others beat and kicked him until he could be disarmed. Warenne pushed on, leading his soldiers deeper into the torn Scottish ranks, battling through to the foot soldiers behind, where the killing became indiscriminate. Warenne’s knights slashed down at the men scattering across the hillside before them, gashing scalps, severing limbs and heads from bodies. The armoured warhorses clouted men aside like they were saplings, or else reared to stamp down with their hooves, bursting skulls and snapping spines beneath their massive weight, as they had been trained to do. The ground was soon awash with gore, infantry groaning as they dragged themselves along, unable to escape the English foot soldiers, who finished them with brutal thrusts of their falchions.

  All across the field, the Scots were trying to struggle free, the battle for them now a desperate bid for survival. Warenne glimpsed the royal banner of Scotland disappearing up the slope, followed by the standard of the Red Comyns. The hillside between was clogged with dead and dying foot soldiers, making it impossible to give chase. Hissing a curse through his visor, Warenne fought on.

  In less than an hour, the battle was over. The grassy slopes were littered with dead men and horses. Some Scottish nobles had perished, but that was nothing compared to the foot soldiers, who had fallen in the hundreds. In places, the dead were so many that their blood trickled into pools that dribbled down the hillside into the waters of the burn, turning them red. The English infantry moved between the piles, finishing off the wounded.

  Warenne surveyed the battleground from the saddle of his blood-splattered destrier, the stink of death thick in his mouth and nose. It disappointed him that the King of Scotland wasn’t among the defeated ranks of the Scottish nobles being rounded up by his knights, but nonetheless the battle was won. And won well. Many Scottish magnates, including a number of earls and barons, had been captured, most of whom had made up the leadership of the realm since Balliol’s surrender of authority. It was a grim day for Scotland. In one charge, the Earl of Surrey had destroyed a large part of the kingdom’s army and most of its leaders.

  42

  The midday sun blazed on the heads of the company. The verges to either side of the track droned with insects and the parched grass rustled in the hot wind that blew dust into the eyes of the travellers and carried on its currents the salt smell of the sea.

  Robert, riding behind his father’s men, felt the sun burning the skin between his arming cap and the collar of his hauberk. With him rode his brother and the knights of Carrick. They had been travelling for hours and the horses were tiring, hanging their heads as they plodded along the track. Their tails switched constantly to ward off the flies that had thickened into clouds the nearer they came to the sea, a dazzling metal sheet in the distance.

  Behind the knights, on rouncies and hobbies, rode squires, grooms and servants. Among th
em was Isobel’s maid, Katherine, riding the good-natured chestnut mare that once belonged to her mistress. Robert could have sold the animal, but the horse was one of the possessions Isobel had loved most and it was more practical, he had reasoned, to offer the mare up for the use of the maid who had become the prime guardian of his daughter. He had intended to find a more appropriate warden, a governess from a noble household, but there had been no time to think about such things since the death of his wife and the start of the war. Besides, Katherine had so far proven more than capable with the infant’s care. Behind her, on a sturdy grey pony, was a skinny girl of fifteen, his daughter’s wet nurse. Katherine had found Judith in Carlisle, shortly after Isobel died. The daughter of a knight of the city’s garrison, Judith had given birth several weeks earlier, but the infant had been stillborn. Nobody mentioned anything about a husband and it had seemed a relief to her father to have her taken into the Bruce household. She was a sullen creature, but she had the milk his baby needed and so Robert tolerated her presence.

  Bringing up the rear were two wagons, drawn by carthorses and filled with supplies: food for the men and their horses, tents, armour and equipment, all of which were necessary for the journey. There were few places for the Bruce family to stay in Scotland now, few friends to offer beds for the night. They were returning home victorious. And hated.

  The defeat of the Scottish army at Dunbar had signalled the ending of the brief war with England. Most of their leaders captured and half their army destroyed, the Scots’ resistance crumbled. Their alliance with King Philippe had proven of little use, none of the promised ships or soldiers from France coming to their aid. After Dunbar, Roxburgh, Dumbarton and Jedburgh castles had surrendered in rapid succession and Edinburgh fell after a week’s siege. Stirling, the key to the north, was found abandoned. In Perth, at the end of June, Edward received word from King John, who had fled north with the Comyns. Scotland’s king, with the agreement of his beleaguered Council of Twelve, had offered unconditional surrender.

  It had been a mixed blessing for Robert, crossing the border back into Scotland at the end of the four-month war. King Edward had fulfilled his promise and restored the Bruce lands, taken by the Comyns on the eve of the conflict. On their return, the lord and the knights of Annandale and Carrick had been triumphant, but despite his relief at the restoration of his domains, Robert had found it hard to celebrate with his men as they entered Annandale. Crops lay ravaged, those not destroyed by the Scottish host left to wither in the fields with no hands to tend them. Towns and hamlets were quiet, many of the men and women of the region having fled when the Comyns’ host had come with fire and sword. Lochmaben, at least, was still standing, the host content with burning and raiding the lands around the town. It was, however, a forlorn sight, the castle ransacked for anything valuable, tapestries ripped down, unwieldy items of furniture left broken or soiled, stores emptied of grain and wine. A smell of urine pervaded the place, which was littered with refuse, animal bones, discarded sacks, empty barrels, as if many men had stayed here for a brief time, before moving on.

  There had been little time to set about clearing it, however, for word had soon come from King Edward, summoning the Lord of Annandale and Robert to the north-eastern town of Montrose, and his presence.

  ‘Sir, should we rest a while?’

  Robert looked up as one of the knights of Annandale addressed his father. He had been going to suggest the same thing himself. The midday heat was becoming unbearable and the horses were desperate for water. He was riding one of his palfreys, Hunter being led by Nes. Marjorie, swaddled in a cloth sling against Katherine’s chest, was beginning to whimper.

  ‘No, we’re almost there.’ The lord turned to the knight with a self-satisfied expression. ‘I want to greet King Edward as soon as possible. I expect he has important tidings for me.’

  Robert’s gaze lingered on his father, whose yellow surcoat, adorned with a red banded cross, was garish in the sunlight, his mail hauberk polished to a glittery gleam. Despite the heat, he wore a mantle of fine Flemish cloth over his surcoat and mail, lined in red silk. He was sweating profusely, lines of perspiration dribbling down his face. Above him, the standard of Annandale was hoisted high. He had made his banner-bearer carry it through every town and village they had passed, from Lochmaben to the north-east coast, as if on some royal progress. Robert wore the arms of Carrick on his surcoat, but bore no standard, his banner curled around its shaft on the back of one of the wagons. As his father spoke these words, he sensed his brother trying to catch his eye, but knowing what Edward was trying to communicate with that look, he remained gazing straight ahead.

  As they continued, advancing through midday into early afternoon, a large lagoon opened before them. Between this lagoon and the North Sea was the town of Montrose, rising from a strip of sand, the buildings overlooked by a squat castle. Beyond the castle walls, where scrubby fields edged into grey dunes, many tents had been erected in a colourful sea of canvas. In the midst of the tents was a large wooden platform, which looked like a stage.

  In Montrose, the streets were packed with English knights and soldiers. Riding through the crowds, most of the men Robert heard speaking were English, their accents suggesting a multitude of localities from which they had travelled to converge on this Scottish port. A few spoke Irish, which gave him faint recollections of Antrim. Others spoke Welsh, provoking more recent memories. A fight erupted outside a ramshackle inn as the company passed, one soldier punching another, before being set upon. Some men moved to stop the brawl, more cheered it on. There was a sense of indolence among the soldiery who thronged these streets, gorging themselves on food and ale, yelling for songs from minstrels and fools. These weren’t men exhausted by a hard campaign, celebrating a victory well won. They were revellers at a feast day. It was a very different scene from the one Robert had witnessed after the campaign in Wales. How had this happened so quickly? How had Scotland fallen so easily? It was shocking to think of it.

  Winding their way through the streets they came at last to the castle, where a scarlet banner emblazoned with three golden lions flew from the tower. The gates were closed and four guards, dressed in the king’s colours, stood outside, leaning on pikes. One came forward, crossing the bridge that spanned a ditch, as the Lord of Annandale approached.

  ‘Good day,’ he called, his eyes on the banner raised above the company. ‘What is your business?’

  As Robert’s father gestured, one of his knights rode forward.

  ‘Sir Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, has arrived. He wishes to speak with King Edward.’

  ‘The lord king is in council,’ answered the guard.

  Robert noticed his father’s face twitch with irritation.

  The Bruce urged his white mare towards the guard. ‘King Edward summoned me here to meet with him on an urgent matter. I am sure he will see me.’

  ‘My orders were to allow entry only to those whose names I was given. Yours, sir, was not among them. I suggest you make camp with the other men the king has summoned here. No doubt he will send for you when he is ready.’ With that, the guard headed back across the bridge.

  As the lord wheeled his mare roughly around, Robert took in his humiliation with a stab of gratification. The Bruce blustered off the rebuke and led the way towards the encampment of tents, a grimace splitting his flushed face.

  There wasn’t much room left in the fields beyond the castle walls, the tents stretching all the way to the sand dunes, and they were forced to spread out on a patch of ground close to the stinking mud-banks of the lagoon, where the air was full of the shrieks of birds. As the knights dismounted, the servants set about removing tents and equipment from the wagons. Several headed off in search of water for the horses, while others dug pits for fires and latrines. Robert went to the back of one wagon as two servants carried off a large wooden cage. Inside was his hound, Uathach. On his return to Scotland the summer before, he had rekindled his affection for the young bitch, the p
up of his grandfather’s favourite. She reminded him of the old man and his old life. ‘Fetch me her leash,’ he told one of the servants.

  The servant rifled through a hunting bag, while the other opened the cage. Uathach uncurled and moved, snake-like, through the cage door. She was tall, almost up to his hip, lean-limbed and smoke-coloured like her mother. She came straight to Robert, her tongue out, panting. He took the leash from the servant and fixed it to her collar. Unlike his father’s dogs, that had silk leashes, Uathach’s gear was of soft brown leather. His grandfather had always been scornful of men who adorned their hounds with pretty tethers, saying such frippery was for fools with more money than wit. Binding the leash around his hand to keep the bitch close, Robert moved off through the rows of tents, leaving the servants to unpack and Katherine to place his wailing daughter in Judith’s outstretched hands for a feed. He hadn’t gone far when Edward came jogging up behind him.

  ‘Where are you going, brother?’

  ‘Uathach needs to relieve herself. As do I.’ Without waiting for a response, Robert carried on. He didn’t want another argument.

  ‘You’re not going to speak to him, are you? You’re going to keep on avoiding him until it is too late and the choice is taken from you.’

  Robert halted. Turning, he met his brother’s challenging stare. ‘Why can’t you leave it be?’

  Edward shook his head, incredulous. ‘Leave it be?’ He strode up to Robert. ‘It is the future of our kingdom we are speaking about! You have a chance to make right the wrongs of these past months. Why, in God’s name, will you not seize it?’