Part 25 (1/2)

When the Guardian saw what was happening, the color drained from his face.

”What benighted, craven cowardice is this?” he demanded in a constricted voice.

Thinking desperately for some way to salvage something-anything-for the Scots, it occurred to Arnault that perhaps not all those with Comyn were active agents of the betrayal.

”It may yet be possible to rally them,” he said. ”I'll do what I can.”

”Go!” Wallace agreed, with a backward glance at the English cavalry crus.h.i.+ng his bowmen. ”And may G.o.d give you His aid.”

Without another word Arnault put spurs to his horse and set off at a gallop after the fleeing hors.e.m.e.n and the treacherous John Comyn. Returning to his men, Wallace dismounted and made a place for himself inside one of the center schiltrons and from there watched the terrible carnage being inflicted on his Scottish bowmen. Those not stretched dead already on the b.l.o.o.d.y ground were forced to flee for their lives. The Stewart's brother bravely tried to rally his men until he, too, was cut down by the English knights.

Only a handful of the Scots n.o.bility had remained to fight on foot after the desertion of the Scottish horse, and were now sorely pressed as the English cavalry began s.h.i.+fting their attention back to the schiltrons.

Macduff of Fife was ensconced amid the spearmen of his land inside their schiltron, and was exhorting their continued resistance as the English resumed their harrying. Wallace, too, shouted encouragement to his men, but each fresh a.s.sault reduced their ranks. With the Scots cavalry fled, and their archers driven from the field, the plight of the men holding the schiltrons grew gradually desperate.

The English knights swarmed closer, randomly attacking wherever there was the prospect of an opening.

By now the fences of stakes surrounding the schiltrons had been trampled or smashed aside, and gaps began to appear in the Scottish defenses. More knights than spearmen had perished in the initial exchange, before eliminating the Scottish bowmen, but the blood of the English n.o.bles was now on fire, and it had become a matter of honor to prove that a few bands of unwashed peasants could not stand against them. Yet time after time, the Scots held their ground and threw back their enemies in b.l.o.o.d.y confusion.

It was time for Edward to s.h.i.+ft his tactics. Cursing his headstrong n.o.bles for their costly bravado, he sent messengers ordering them to desist, lest their l.u.s.t for blood and glory hand Wallace a victory by attrition.

Even as his command was being reluctantly obeyed, he sent his archers marching over the streams and up the slope. What the reckless ferocity of his knights could not accomplish, the deadly accuracy of his bowmen surely could.

Sweating inside their armor and cursing the stubbornness of their foes, the knights withdrew to east and west, re-forming their scattered companies and giving their panting warhorses a respite from the battle.

All along the lower slopes of Slamman Hill, the English archers began forming up in multiple ranks.

Brian de Jay, sensing that the decisive moment was approaching, led his band of Templars up onto the hill to join the rest of the English chivalry. Though eyed disdainfully by some of the English commanders, for holding back so conspicuously from the initial attacks, Jay declined to take affront, confident that he soon would be in a position to justify his actions.

Very shortly, a lone horseman came galloping toward the Templars, directing Jay's attention toward one of the central schiltrons. Amid those lesser men, even at this distance, the commanding figure of William Wallace radiated stubborn defiance in the face of hopeless odds.

”Now it truly begins,” Jay said to the brothers de Sautre, when his informant had gone. ”Our bowmen will soon flush this rebel out of his lair-and then he shall be ours for the taking.”

Edward's Welsh archers took to the fore, seconded by a force of Genoese mercenaries armed with crossbows. They could not have asked for a more ideal target than the four great circles of closely packed soldiers, without skirmishers or horse to protect them. Orders were pa.s.sed up and down the line, crossbows were loaded, arrows were plucked from quivers and longbows drawn by strong Welsh arms. At a bellowed command, the bowmen unleashed their attack.

The flight of arrows was dense enough to darken the sky and cause any but the stoutest heart to falter.

Arching high in the air, they fell in a deadly hail upon the packed ranks of the Scots, slaying and maiming men in each of the schiltrons. Seeing gaps appear in the Scottish ranks, the English officers renewed the command to fire, and another volley of missiles soared skyward, plunging among the Scottish spearmen with devastating effect. Wallace was in as much danger as his men, and those closest to him lifted their s.h.i.+elds to protect him as the barbs rained down on all sides.

”They haven't the courage to close with us,” Wallace shouted. ”They can't throw sticks at us forever-and then we'll see them off!”

In spite of their desperate situation, the Guardian's show of confidence was not entirely feigned, for he well knew the arrogance of the English chivalry. It was that very trait that had proved their undoing at Stirling, and he clung to the hope that Edward would not be able to restrain their impetuousness, that they would charge prematurely, while the schiltrons were still intact. If he could inflict another b.l.o.o.d.y defeat on the proud English knights, the Welsh, who comprised the bulk of Edward's infantry, might yet desert him.

But with each fresh flight of arrows, more spearmen fell. The blood-soaked ground was thick with bodies, and the hopes of the Scots began to yield to grim fatalism. However much the English knights might chafe at the bit, eager to avenge their fallen comrades and kinsmen, Edward had made his wishes brutally clear. No member of the English feudal host was to venture forward again until the king's own royal trumpeter sounded the charge.

Brian de Jay was as impatient as any for the final a.s.sault to begin, and he watched with satisfaction as the Scottish ranks grew more and more depleted. After a time, it was difficult to tell how many still lived and how many were corpses with no more s.p.a.ce to fall. Yet still the packed formations held their ground. As often as the English raised their bows to loose another flight of arrows, the Scots continued to stand firm, drawing strength from their common defiance as they braced themselves for death, determined to keep faith with those who had gone before them.

Warhorses snorted and stamped and knights impatiently brandished their lances until, at last, Edward gave the long awaited signal. In response to the trumpet call, the bowmen retired and the unleashed English chivalry resumed their attack from both wings. The surviving Scots tried to close ranks to meet the charge, but were impeded by their own dead, who littered the ground at their feet.

The wall of armored hors.e.m.e.n smashed into the depleted schiltrons at full gallop, with lances couched, and at last the weary and wounded Scottish infantry gave way before the furious momentum of their enemies. Ranks of spearmen were vengefully impaled and hurled to the turf, there to be ground into b.l.o.o.d.y pulp under iron-shod hooves. When one side of the schiltron collapsed, those left standing with their backs unprotected could only seek to flee before they were ridden down or killed where they stood.

In some cases panic took hold, causing men to fling their c.u.mbersome weapons aside and run for their lives. Others maintained a semblance of order, retreating gradually uphill with their spears still extended to fend off their pursuers until they reached the treeline. All across the field, however, the schiltrons were breaking and the Scots army was being swept from the field. Brian de Jay saw Wallace's schiltron shatter and the Guardian himself fall back before the furious onslaught of the English knights.

”Now, brothers of the Temple!” he cried, turning toward his men. ”As Christ is your savior, visit G.o.d's own vengeance upon these traitors!”

He adjusted his helmet and lowered his lance, then led the warrior monks forward to the attack. With their white surcoats and banners flying wild in the breeze, they charged across the field in a mighty wedge, for all the world like the point of a gigantic spear aimed squarely at the one man who was Scotland's hope for freedom.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

ARNAULT HAD NOT DRIVEN A HORSE SO HARD SINCE HIS days in Palestine, eluding Saracen patrols and enemy archers to deliver intelligence to the Grand Master at Acre. His present mission, if in service of a different Temple, was no less urgent: to halt the fleeing Scottish n.o.bles and lead them back to the field before it was too late for Wallace and for Scotland.

By the time he caught up with the first of them, their initial hasty flight had been moderated to an orderly retreat. In the absence of English pursuit, they gave no appearance of fear or confusion-which reinforced Arnault's suspicion that it was no impulse of panic that had driven them off, but a prearranged plan to save themselves and leave the Guardian to his fate. How many had conspired to incite this act of cowardice, and how many had simply followed where others had led, he could not tell. Doubtless some, seeing the great ma.s.s of their companions fleeing the battle, had simply felt they had little choice other than to go along.

Those to the rear paid Arnault little mind as he rode along their flank, perhaps under the a.s.sumption that he was one of their own number who was simply tardier than the rest. A few taut faces registered flickers of recognition-and wary apprehension from a few, knowing him as a scout in the service of the abandoned Wallace-but wearing no man's livery, he aroused no particular attention as he galloped up the line looking for the most influential of them-and there were many, earls and barons among them. But he continued until he caught up with the front of the column, where Comyn and his men rode, then reined his horse sharply around to confront them.

”Hold, Comyn of Badenoch!” he cried. ”And likewise, you others who call yourselves men of Scotland!

What, in G.o.d's name, are you doing? Have your insides turned to water, that you scatter like children when the battle is scarce begun?”

The lead riders slowed, with a ripple effect that went back all along the line. Comyn, addressed by name, reluctantly brought his mount to a halt and gave Arnault an affronted glower without deigning to rise to the challenge, but his Comyn kinsman, the Earl of Buchan, brashly moved his horse a few steps closer to Arnault's.

”It may be scarce begun,” Buchan retorted, ”but this battle is already sorely lost.”

”Aye, Wallace has led us wrong,” the Earl of Atholl agreed, riding closer. ”Why should we be the victims of his folly?”

Arnault raked them over with a steely glance, watching others of the leaders edge closer, moderating his words.

”It was not so long ago that you were grumbling against him for running from Edward,” he reminded them. ”And now that he makes a stand, you have turned tail and fled!”

”Wallace told us Edward was in retreat,” John Comyn retorted hotly, ”and that we had surprise on our side. Little truth there was in that vainglorious strategy! All the time, Edward was marching straight for us, and the Guardian was leading us into the jaws of a trap.”

Angry murmurs and shouts of agreement rose from the ranks of the hors.e.m.e.n. Comyn began to edge forward, seeking to bypa.s.s Arnault, but found his way blocked by his challenger's horse.

”The coward finds reasons for his cowardice,” Arnault called out in a voice pitched so that all could hear, ”and the farther he runs, the more excuses he finds. But that does not make them true, nor does it lessen his dishonor.”

Others of rank were coming up from the rear to investigate-Menteith, Strathearn, even the Stewart-and these ranged themselves in loose, uneasy groupings around the two men. By the faces, Arnault sensed that many of them could feel their hearts agreeing with his words.

”n.o.bles of Scotland,” he went on, ”G.o.d has not given you authority over your fellow men for your own aggrandizement. It is your bounden duty to defend this land on behalf of all who lack the wealth or power to do so themselves-for the women who bear your children, for the men who tend your cattle and harvest your crops, who stand to fight beside you-and die beside you, if need be. If you turn your backs on such a trust, then what other purpose is there to your lives that is worthy of a knight's honor and bravery?”

A few of those who met his gaze flushed and looked away.

”Fine words,” Comyn bl.u.s.tered, ”from one who has shown no such bravery himself. Many of us here fought at Dunbar and at Stirling and at battles after, but what of this braggart who bears no ensign?”

He turned directly on Arnault, his voice filled with arrogant disdain. ”What t.i.tle or rank do you hold, that ent.i.tles you to address us in such a fas.h.i.+on? You are no Scot, by your accent-and yet you presume to harangue us about our duty to our nation. Can it be that you are serving the purpose of some other power, who would gladly see us destroyed to suit their own designs?”

Arnault had not intended to reveal himself, lest he endanger his greater mission-especially with Torquil lost, and with Brian de Jay riding in Edward's train. But the danger to Wallace-and to Scotland-was dire, and he knew that only drastic measures could help them now.