Part 24 (1/2)

”The armies are close, that much I know,” he said, glancing back at his men waiting by the horses. ”Can you ride?”

Torquil took a deep breath. The freshness of the morning air was helping to clear his head. The greatest injury he had suffered was not of the body, and already the warmth of the sun and a measure of human kindness were combining to restore his strength.

”I am well enough,” he said, ”but my horse has fled, frightened off by my. attacker.”

”You have yet to tell me who that was,” Bruce said, ”but time is fleeting and precious. I doubt neither your courage nor the rightness of your mission.”

He shouted an order to one of the serjeants in his following. The man joined them a moment later, leading a handsome chestnut stallion. Bruce took the reins and presented them to Torquil.

”No horse will bear you on your way more quickly than my own,” he said. ”His name is Talorcan, and he is the fastest steed in Annandale.”

Torquil had to fight to find his tongue. ”Your generosity does credit to the house of Bruce,” he said. ”How shall I return him to you?”

”Give no thought to that,” Bruce told him. ”Think only of Wallace. I have no wish to see him fall to a traitor's hand, even if he does uphold Balliol's kings.h.i.+p.”

Torquil ran a hand along the stallion's sleek neck before climbing stiffly onto the saddle, given a leg up by Bruce.

”I haven't even thanked you properly for stopping to help me,” he said as he gathered up the reins.

”You have not thanked me at all, Templar,” Bruce replied, with one of his quicksilver smiles. ”Just remember that one day I may need your help.”

”If that day comes, then you shall have it, I promise you!” Torquil a.s.sured him.

”Then, take this as well,” Bruce said, pulling his sheathed sword from its hangers and extending its hilt to Torquil. ”A knight should have a sword, and I notice that you have lost yours.”

”I cannot-” Torquil began. But Bruce pressed it into his hand.

”I will not be using it today,” he said. ”And I think you will, indeed, have need of it-and later, if you come to serve me.”

Not speaking, Torquil slipped the sword into his own belt and gave Bruce a nod. As the earl gave his horse a farewell slap on the flank to send him on his way, Torquil could not help but wonder if there was more in this meeting than mere chance.

For the present, however, he knew he must set such speculations aside. Before him a battle was waiting to begin, and if he arrived too late, all Scotland might well pay the price for his failure.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

THE COMING DAWN BROUGHT NO SIGN OF TORQUIL. AS SOON as it was light enough, Arnault rode out beyond the Scottish encampment to question the forward sentries. Here he encountered a small Scottish skirmish force retreating in haste from their night foray toward the English lines. Last reported a full fifteen miles away, poised to pull back to Edinburgh, the English army appeared to have moved back half that distance during the night, and were now marching straight toward Falkirk.

Short of learning for certain that Torquil was dead, Arnault could think of no worse news. After questioning the skirmishers for further details, he kept one back and sent the others out again before galloping back to camp to relay the news to Wallace. He had already decided to refrain from mentioning Torquil's disappearance. Lacking information to the contrary, Wallace would simply a.s.sume that the younger knight was off on a.s.signment elsewhere-an illusion best not dispelled, for the Guardian needed no further anxieties to burden his thoughts just now, when there was so much else at stake.

”You are sure this is the army itself, and not a scouting party?” Wallace asked, when he had heard the scout's report-a question prompted not by wishful thinking, Arnault knew, but by a steadfast determination not to make a hasty judgment based on ill-founded information.

The scout nodded. ”The numbers alone confirm it's the main English host,” he told the Guardian, ”and moreover, they're arrayed for battle.”

Wallace's fellow commanders gathered around him, their expressions grim as they confronted the new perils presented by the news.

”Odd, that they should change course so precipitously,” the Earl of Atholl said. ”Is it mere chance that brings Edward this way, or has some traitor exchanged news of our whereabouts for a sackful of English gold?”

”Blind mischance or treacherous design, it makes no difference now,” Wallace said firmly, determined to cut short such speculation. ”The die has been cast, and we must make the best we can of the situation.”

James the Stewart shook his head, deeply troubled. ”If we retreat now, they might well catch us from behind and make mincemeat of us.”

”He's right, Wallace,” the Earl of Menteith agreed. ”There's nothing for it, but to draw up our battle line and let them do their worst.”

”They'll do more than their worst if we meet them here,” Wallace said, his calculating gaze already roving the surrounding landscape. ”Apart from a few low hills, this is almost flat ground. There's little but scrub and a few trees to impede a cavalry charge. No, we'll face them, all right-but not on terms that suit Edward.”

From one of his aides he took a map, which he unrolled and studied carefully.

”Here-and along here, just a short march back the way we came,” he said, letting several others hold it open so he could trace dispositions with one callused finger. ”No, Edward won't care for that at all-and hopefully, he won't notice that until it's too late.” His finger thumped on a marshy ground lying before the spot where he meant to make his stand.

”Pa.s.s the word to the troops that we'll march at once and make ready for battle when we get there.” He looked up at the cavalry commanders, the earls and James the Stewart and the younger John Comyn among them. ”Use the cavalry as a rear guard for now, and keep an eye out for the English until we reach our chosen ground. I'll send further orders when we arrive.”

The Scottish host wheeled about in its tracks like a great beast being tugged by a leash-some six thousand foot, supported by a few hundred Ettrick Forest bowmen. The cavalry contingent tallied no more than six hundred hors.e.m.e.n. They made a brave sight with their spears and banners, and many of them gave a hearty cheer as they marched past in view of the Guardian.

But though their willingness to fight was undeniable, Arnault could not help noting, as he kept himself ready in Wallace's vicinity, that they were outnumbered by Edward's army almost two to one-and the English superiority in cavalry and bowmen was likely to prove the gravest threat.

Wallace was equally well aware of this. Nevertheless, he sat his horse with an air of unshakable confidence, returning the salutes of his men as he directed them toward their new positions. Even in the face of such odds, his indomitable courage and personal charisma enabled him to lift the spirits of those around him, imparting a strength of spirit that just might make it possible for the Scots to carry the day, making up in courage what they lacked in numbers.

Arnault made his own a.s.sessment of the strategic possibilities as the army formed up on Wallace's chosen ground. Veteran of many a battle, it occurred to him that the Guardian might well have had this site in mind all along, in case some ill turn of fate should upset his plans for a surprise a.s.sault on the English rear.

The Scots were deployed on the southeast slope of Slamman Hill, with Callendar Wood at their backs to offer a ready sanctuary in case of the need for retreat. In front of them stretched a treacherous marsh formed by the junction of two streams-which would make it impossible for the English to make a direct a.s.sault without wading through the deep, muddy water.

Behind this marsh Wallace arrayed his footmen in four ma.s.sive schiltrons: circular formations several ranks deep, each consisting of over a thousand men standing shoulder to shoulder. Rank upon rank of long spears protruded in all directions like the spines of a hedgehog, in a formation designed to leave no open flank or weak spot exposed to a cavalry a.s.sault-and the Guardian had personally supervised the training of these men, ensuring that they learned to bring down a mounted knight in the most efficient way possible, by spearing his horse. Encircling the schiltrons were palisades of wooden stakes that had been fixed into the ground and bound together with lengths of rope to give further protection. Any knight who could make his horse charge home against this double barrier of sharpened wood and cold steel would be impaled without making a dent on the defenders.

Groups of archers under command of the Stewart's brother, Sir John, were arrayed between the schiltrons, with the Scots cavalry kept to the rear as a reserve-a threat to any bowmen advancing from the English ranks, who could be easily routed by a well-timed charge. If the English knights were rash enough to hurl themselves ruinously against the spears of the schiltrons, Wallace hoped that the Scottish horse would be able to take advantage of their disorder to launch a counterattack and drive them from the field.

What he had sacrificed in terms of mobility, the Guardian had gained in the strength of his defense. He had made his army into a fortress and was daring Edward to a.s.sault it.

Arnault was one of several in Wallace's train as he rode before the schiltrons, making certain that all was in readiness. Near the edge of the woods, his inspection complete, the Guardian drew apart from his advisors and reined his horse beside Arnault's, where they had a wide view of the surrounding terrain.

”The land itself has always been our ally,” Wallace said quietly. ”If our earlier plans were undone by treachery, the loyalty of those present here may yet redeem it.”

”I notice you name no names,” Arnault said.

”Nor will I,” Wallace replied. ”In recent years, the allegiances of the Scottish lords have s.h.i.+fted like the movements of the tide. Whether they follow me gladly or grudgingly is of no consequence. What matters is that today they stand and fight for Scotland.”

Arnault glanced back to where John Comyn was arraying his Comyn hors.e.m.e.n among the other cavalry, and wondered whether to voice his suspicions. He had no direct evidence that the Comyns were, in any way, connected with the English change of plans-or with Torquil's disappearance-and the prelude to a battle was a bad time to stir up dissension based on false accusations. Moreover, Comyn's men looked like they were preparing to do their duty by the Guardian.

”Sometimes a people's worst enemies are themselves,” Arnault said, somewhat ambiguously. ”But these, I think, will stand fast.” He indicated the spiked ranks of the schiltrons.

”I have no doubt of their courage,” the Guardian agreed. ”I only hope I may prove worthy of it.”

Arnault felt certain that no man could prove more worthy than Wallace; but before he could give voice to that sentiment, a hoa.r.s.e outcry went up from many points along the Scottish line. To the southeast, the sun was glinting off armor and spearpoints, and flags and banners were rising into view. The English vanguard had arrived: a ma.s.s of steel-clad knights, jostling forward in densely packed squadrons. Behind them marched the ma.s.sed infantry, interspersed with columns of archers and crossbowmen, moving into battle formation as they advanced.

It was a daunting sight: one that caused many a man in the Scottish ranks to murmur a quiet prayer, Arnault among them. A chill of foreboding s.h.i.+vered up his spine-and more than ever, he felt the lack of Torquil's solid presence at his shoulder. But all he could do was commend his brother-knight to the mercy of G.o.d, together with all the Scottish host.

A breeze swept up the hill, carrying the sounds from the enemy ranks: the m.u.f.fled rumble of horses'