Insurrection: Renegade [02] (37 page)

Luck jolted Robert from the saddle, throwing him sideways out of the way of Hunter’s massive weight. He rolled as he struck the floor, his gambeson absorbing most of the impact, mail crunching on the hard-packed ground. Somehow, he managed to keep hold of both sword and shield, but his helm had been knocked out of place, meaning the slits no longer lined up with his eyes. Robert pushed up the visor to see MacDouall struggling to his feet a few yards away. The captain’s shield strap had broken in the fall and the shield was hanging off his arm. Between them, the horses untangled their limbs and thrashed upright. All around, the clash of battle continued. Robert’s brother and knights were engaged in fierce fighting with men in the colours of Badenoch and Buchan. More horns were sounding, both near and distant.

Tossing the shield aside and grasping his broadsword two-handed, MacDouall strode in through the smoke. Recognition sparked in his eyes as he saw Robert’s face. He came in fast, bringing his sword swinging down. Robert, still on his knees, hefted his shield to block. The blade bit into the wood, scoring a deep gash through Carrick’s red chevron. Robert stooped under the strike, then heaved upwards, forcing MacDouall to reel away. Once on his feet, Robert moved quickly. Their swords cracked together, splinters of metal flying from the blades in sparks. Robert had lost sight of Comyn, all his attention now focused on the captain, who clearly intended to kill rather than capture him. As the two of them hammered and thrust at one another, men streamed past.

The English knights under Clifford had overrun the town. Though greatly outnumbered by the Scottish infantry, they far outmatched the disarrayed and drunken soldiers. Many Scots not yet caught up in the fray ran down the streets bearing whatever loot they could carry as the horns continued to sound. Those running south would be faced with the river, those heading north would find themselves in Valence’s killing ground.

The timbers in the house beside Robert collapsed inwards with a groan, a wave of heat gusting out of the doorway and windows. He ducked out of harm’s way as smoke and sparks billowed towards him. MacDouall wasn’t so fortunate. A clump of blazing thatch fell from the roof on top of him, causing him to lurch away. While his defences were open, Robert barrelled into him with his shield. The captain, caught unawares, was rocked backwards, his arm flung wide. Thrusting his sword up under the edge of his shield, Robert punched the tip through MacDouall’s mail coat and gambeson to pierce the flesh of his armpit. Snarling with the effort, he rammed the blade home.

The captain roared, his sword falling from his fingers to clang in the dust, but he managed to kick out, catching Robert above the knee. As Robert stumbled back his sword pulled free of MacDouall’s body. His foot caught on a grain sack discarded by the looters and he went down, dropping the weapon. Mad-eyed, MacDouall wrenched a dirk from his belt with his left hand. His right was clamped to his side where blood pumped, staining his surcoat. Robert reached out, his fingers curling around the grip of his fallen sword. As MacDouall thrust towards him with the dagger, he brought the sword up and round in a mighty arc. The blade came down on the captain’s wrist, cleaving mail and flesh, its momentum halted only by bone. MacDouall’s mouth stretched in a hideous scream. He dropped to his knees, his hand, still in its mail glove, now hanging at a sideways angle, dangling from the wrist. Blood spurted from the wound.

Hauling himself to his feet, Robert stepped towards MacDouall, meaning to finish it.

‘Earl Robert!’

He turned, distracted, to see Robert Clifford riding towards him with a score of knights.

The knight pulled his horse up sharp. ‘Sir Aymer’s men are being attacked from the rear. Come,’ he ordered, slamming his spurs into the flanks of his destrier.

Lungs burning from the exertion and the smoke, Robert looked around for Hunter. The destrier, well-trained, hadn’t bolted. He was close by, stamping in agitation, eyes reflecting the flames rippling up the sides of the buildings. Shouting to Nes and his brother, who had despatched three Galloway men between them, Robert climbed into the saddle. Leaving Dungal MacDouall curled over his bleeding hand, he and his men rode away across the market square into the corpse-strewn streets.

On the edge of the town, fierce fighting had broken out. In the red glimmer of fires, Robert saw the white and blue striped surcoats of the knights of Pembroke. They were clashing with a motley crew of mounted men. Many of the English foot soldiers had forsaken their positions and were engaged helping Valence and his men tackle this company, creating a breach in the perimeter through which scores of Scots were fleeing. Some Scots, dazed by the darkness beyond the flames, or slowed by injuries, blundered straight into the mêlée, but many more escaped thanks to the efforts of this new force.

Clifford was riding ahead. As the royal knight entered the fray, Robert caught sight of a massive figure, scything an axe into the crowd around him. There were few men so impressive in height and size. Robert, still some distance away, knew instantly that it was William Wallace. A jolt went through him. He slowed his horse, letting other men ride on past him, his eyes fixed on Wallace, who roared as he hacked into an English foot soldier, sending the man flying backwards in a mist of blood. An English knight charged in at him from the side. Wallace turned, moving with surprising speed and fluidity for such a large man, and, with a savage arc of his axe, took the top off the man’s helm as if he were slicing open an egg. Half the knight’s skull went with it. He fell forward, spilling his brains as he slipped from the saddle. Robert had not been on the field at Stirling or Falkirk. Although he had watched Wallace in training and often heard tell of his prowess and fearlessness during his time in the rebel army, he had never actually seen the man in the heat of battle. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

More of Valence’s men were closing in, moving to surround Wallace. Robert had a mad impulse to shout a warning. He caught himself in time, but he needn’t have worried. All at once, Wallace veered away, his men following at his shout. It seemed they had only engaged in order to give as many Scots a chance to escape from the town as possible. All who could were now withdrawing, turning and riding into the night after the rebel leader, leaving hundreds of wounded and dead behind them. To his left, Robert glimpsed a group of horsemen moving fast out of the town. Several were wearing the red and black surcoats of the Comyns. Seeing Clifford gesture to him, Robert forced Hunter in pursuit. His brother and several Carrick knights, seeing him break away, followed swiftly.

The horsemen had a good lead, but Robert managed to compel Hunter to a last burst of speed. Fixing on a man at the rear, a knight judging by his trappered horse, he galloped up on him. The knight turned, too late. As Robert smashed his sword into his back, the man was pitched from the saddle and caught up under the hooves. Edward Bruce rode up behind another who bore John Comyn’s arms. With a sideways swipe he hamstrung the man’s horse, which went down, crushing its charge.

Sensing motion behind him, Robert turned and came face to face with a snarling Scot, bearing down on him. It was Alexander Seton. Time seemed to slow. In the few seconds it took for them to pass one another, the swing of their blades faltering and going wide, Robert saw the shock of recognition reflected in Alexander’s face. Then, his friend was galloping on past to be swallowed by the darkness. As the Carrick knights tackled the last few riders, Robert brought Hunter to a shuddering stop. Removing his helm and letting it fall to the mud, he collapsed back against the cantle, taking great gasps of clean night air. Smoke coated his mouth with its acrid tang and it burned when he swallowed. Sweat ran into his eyes.

‘Did you see Comyn?’ His brother came up alongside him. Edward had removed his helm and his nostrils and mouth were stained black. With his bloodshot eyes, it gave him a demonic look. ‘Bastard just rode right by me. I couldn’t get to him.’

‘William Wallace was with them,’ Robert told him between breaths. ‘I think he made it out.’

Edward’s eyes widened. ‘Wallace? He’s back in Scotland?’

Robert nodded. For a moment, they stared at one another, the surprise of this sinking in through the numbness of battle.

Clifford rode over, his surcoat, sword and horse all slathered in blood. ‘Comyn?’

‘Gone,’ Robert answered. He nodded to where the Carrick knights were rounding up the Scots they had managed to bring down in the pursuit, checking the bodies for signs of life. ‘We took six.’

Clifford cursed. ‘We would have got them all if not for that company. They came out of nowhere.’ He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving a smear of blood across his face. ‘I think it was William Wallace leading them.’ He cursed again, bitterly. ‘More men and we could have taken both him and Comyn. The rebellion would have been done for.’

‘No matter. We have done them great harm this evening.’

Clifford nodded after a pause and gave a hard smile. ‘That we have.’ He gestured to the fallen Scots. ‘Make sure your men secure them. The king wants prisoners.’ Clifford paused, before riding off, his eyes lingering on Robert. ‘Well fought, Sir Robert.’

Dunfermline, Scotland, 1303 AD

After Brechin Castle surrendered, its commander killed on the walls by a stone shot from a trebuchet, King Edward led his army north. Like a plague, they laid waste to everything in their path; razing castles, destroying towns, burning barns of grain and scorching the earth. Seeing the telltale smoke of their coming on the horizon, many Scots fled before them into the mountains and moors, driving livestock and saving what they could carry. The old and sick remained, locked behind the flimsy barricades of wattle and daub houses, listening to the rumble of hooves, supply wagons and siege engines roll in.

In the last days of summer, the king marched through Aberdeen into John Comyn’s lordship of Badenoch. After laying siege to the Red Comyn’s chief stronghold at Lochindorb, which he captured in a matter of days, he remained here for some weeks, hunting stags on the moors and enjoying the wine in the castle’s cellars. The victory, though sweet, coming as it did after Comyn’s assault on the advance party at Roslin, was soured somewhat by the knowledge that even as he was drinking his enemy’s claret, the knave himself was busy despoiling the north of England.

Daily, Edward waited for tidings of the company he had sent south to counter the Scots, impatient with the silence. Just as autumn was turning the leaves to gold and the days were drawing in, the news he had been waiting for came. Aymer de Valence had bested the rebels near Carlisle, killing several hundred of their infantry and sending the survivors scattering back into the depths of Selkirk Forest. The king, satisfied by these tidings, moved south, winter descending through the mountains in his wake, bringing the first flurries of snow to lace the higher peaks.

At Perth, close to Scone Abbey, his army joined the force commanded by his son. Prince Edward and his men, among them Piers Gaveston, had been busy pillaging the earldom of Strathearn and the prince was keen to show his father the plunder they had gathered during the campaign. The king, pleased to see his son seemed to be taking his martial responsibilities more seriously, organised several days of jousting and feasting in reward, at the end of which Gaveston was crowned champion, to the irritation of some in the Round Table.

But Edward presided over the celebrations a king preoccupied. Although he had succeeded in progressing unchallenged to the far north of Scotland, devastating the lands of his enemies and severely weakening their resistance, it had not been a complete victory. Stirling Castle – the capture of which was essential to the control of Scotland north of the Forth – remained in Scottish hands. In the west Ulster’s men, after seizing several castles including the high steward’s stronghold on Bute, had foundered. Despite Ulster’s allegiance, many of his troops, unpaid and starving, had deserted and sailed home. But more troubling still for Edward were the tidings that had come with the news of the rebels’ defeat.

The report from Aymer de Valence stated that among the Scots fighting under John Comyn’s banner was William Wallace. Aggrieved that the infamous outlaw had somehow managed to return unchallenged from France, slipping through the blockade of ships in the Channel, Edward found himself deeply agitated by Wallace’s arrival. The rebel leader appeared like a comet or other bad omen late in his day of triumph, auguring disaster. More than ever, he wanted to hunt down the beast in its lair and drag it from the shelter of Selkirk.

The one thing that appeased Edward came on the fourth day of his sojourn in Perth in the form of a message bearing the royal seal of France. It was a letter from King Philippe, formally ratifying the peace between England and France. The truce, which excluded the Scots, restored the Duchy of Gascony to Edward and his heirs and granted approval for the marriage of his son to Lady Isabella. Philippe, who sent greetings to his sister, Queen Marguerite, and gifts for his nephews, Thomas and Edmund, said he no longer wished to be at war with his brother-in-law.

Edward knew it wasn’t familial sentiment, but rather the expense and difficulty of the continuing war in Flanders that provoked the French king’s peace, but the reasoning was immaterial. What mattered was that he was once again in possession of Gascony and the Scots no longer had a hope in hell of placing John Balliol on the throne. Leaving Perth somewhat lighter of heart, Edward took over the impressive monastic precinct of Dunfermline Abbey on the banks of the Forth, to winter and to reward his commanders.