Author's note
First - I am so sorry this story hasn't been updated in such a long time! Those of you who follow me on Tumblr will know it's been a tricky year, one way or another, but that's no excuse for being so slack.
So - thank you, dear readers, for hanging in there! A special thanks to those of you who have read, reviewed, followed and favourited this story while it's been on hiatus. I always love to hear from you! :)
I am dedicating this update to a lovely guest reviewer - your recent reviews of this fic helped to inspire me to come back to it, as I always intended to do, so thank you very much for that! Hope you enjoy this new chapter.
Four weeks later
Tom approached the crest of the hill, keeping himself and his horse just below it so that he would not be seen against the horizon.
Before him was laid out the machinery of a siege in full flow, the earthworks at the foot of the castle rock well advanced, the siege engines drawn up in formation. Spotting the banner of Edward the Bruce, who was leading the besieging forces on behalf of his brother the King, Tom advanced stealthily through the forest below, towards the camp of his friend and liege lord.
A young man challenged him. "Hold there. Who are you? Who claims the right to meet with the Lord?"
"Tom Branson, one of the Lord's trusted generals, returned from a reconnaissance mission." He dismounted, leaving his horse tethered to a nearby tree.
At that moment, Edward himself lifted the flap of the tent. His face lit up in delight as he clapped his friend on the back.
"Tom, a cáomh – good to see you made it here safely. What news of the English forces?"
"When I left them, they were still encamped on the road. Edward is a coward and wants to overwhelm our troops with sheer force of numbers, so he is awaiting reinforcements from the south and west before marching to confront us."
"With luck, he will be too late. I've already treated with the constable of the castle, Sir Philip de Mowbray – if the English army isn't here by Midsummer's Day, he will hand over the keys without a fight."
Tom was surprised to hear this. "How does his Grace the King feel about this arrangement?"
Edward was defensive. "What do you mean?"
Tom tried to be diplomatic. "Well, I was thinking that King Robert has always relied on the element of surprise in his attacks. By reaching this agreement, it means that the tyrant Edward knows where our army will be on that day – we lose our key advantage."
Edward nodded and dropped his head. "Tom, as ever your eyes are sharper than a falcon's. My brother arrived yesterday and he was of the same view. Let's just say words were exchanged that were harsher than usual between brothers."
"What preparations have been made for the battle to come?" Tom changed the subject, seeing this was still a sensitive point for his friend.
"Here, let me show you. We've been digging defensive lines..."
Edward was back in general mode as he showed Tom around the camp, as well as the preparations that had been made beyond it.
They stopped to watch their battle-hardened army drilling in the art of the schiltron, the tactic made famous by William Wallace – an entire battalion of men in a great circle, bristling with long spears, almost impenetrable even to mounted knights in armour. This time, they would be even more effective – they would be mobile, able to travel on the battlefield to the place where they were most needed and strike hard against the English forces.
"Tom Branson? Is that you?"
Tom turned to see the tall figure of a man he'd not encountered in some time.
Acclaimed by those who followed him (and even by his enemies) as one of the finest knights in Christendom, Robert the Bruce was a strong and complex man. A man who, in his youth, had been allied with Edward I in his war against the Bruce family's rival for the Scottish throne. A man who, in recent years, had taken back the crown of Scotland stone by stone against massive odds, since his coronation by the Scottish bishops in the time of Longshanks, but who still wasn't recognised by Longshanks' son as its King.
"Your Grace," Tom said, bowing his head.
"Tom, well met – it's good to see you."
"Congratulations on your victory in Edinburgh, sire. Your brother told me how you swept all before you and retook the castle from the invaders."
Robert was thoughtful, his bright eyes darting towards Edward. "Yes, indeed. We were fortunate that the castle watch was sparse and that they were looking the other way as our scaling ladders mounted the battlements. That made it easy for us to open the gates for our army and storm the keep before destroying the fortifications. You know how I feel about English castles in Scotland! But then... I come here to find that my brother... well, enough of that. What's done is done, eh, Edward?"
"Yes, my liege." The two brothers exchanged smiles – clearly, their long standing relationship was none the worse for the occasional disagreement.
"Open battle is inevitable now – the gauntlet has been thrown down. If we can win here at Stirling, Tom, I'll be a legend – evoking the ghost of the Wallace's famous victory at the Bridge."
"I agree, your Grace. Surely your right to rule could no longer be disputed after victory at the gateway to Scotland itself?"
"Come now, Tom. Tell me the news of the English army."
Near the Scottish border
"Your Majesty?"
"Yes, what is it?" King Edward seemed querulous as he looked up from his card game, his wine goblet trembling in his hand.
"I have news of the arrival of the Earl of Pembroke and his troops."
"At last! Don't these lords know I need their forces to crush the Bruce in battle before Midsummer's Day? Where are the others? The Earl of Lancaster, the Earl of Warwick?"
The messenger bowed low. "Your Majesty, they have not come."
"Traitors, all of them! I will deal with them when I return to London once the rebellion is crushed once and for all. Any signs of rebel scouts, or those accursed steel bonnets?"
"No, your Majesty."
Piers Mandeville, at the King's side as always, spoke confidently.
"Your Majesty, the traitor Bruce will be expecting our approach. Stirling Castle has always been the brooch that holds Scotland together, and the road to it has been here since the time of the Romans. He will surely know we must use that way to reach the castle, especially with this large an army."
Edward nodded. "I agree with my lord the earl of Grantham. How long until the remaining reinforcements we have been promised reach us? The soldiers are already tired from our long march. Every day we wait means using more supplies, more chance of deserters."
"They should be here in two days, Your Majesty."
"Then make the army ready. We march to victory as soon as they arrive."
Sybil was sitting quietly in the corner with Gwen. They were working on their embroidery, which meant their eyes were occupied, but their ears were not, and the Queen couldn't help wondering whether her husband would send forward scouts of his own. If the Bruce knew the way they would march into Scotland, surely he would be ready for them?
Midsummer's Eve
The swirling dust clouds were the first sign of their approach. Then, there was a rumbling felt through the earth, as if a measureless number of men and horses were marching, together, along the ancient road to Stirling.
All eyes in the Bruce camp were turned towards the sound. When the army of King Edward II came into view at last, it was a sight to tear the breath from the body.
Thousands upon thousands of them. The sun glinted on the armour of the knights, seated on fine French warhorses, their pennants flying in the summer breeze. The fabled Welsh longbowmen, ready to wreak havoc as their overlord commanded, followed close behind them. Foot soldiers marched in columns so long, you couldn't see the end of them. And behind them all, massive flocks of sheep and herds of cattle came with the wagons, ready to provision the immense invading army, the largest English army ever seen.
"Blessed Lady – they have at least double our numbers," Robert murmured, crossing himself.
Tom tried to reassure him. "It has ever been thus, your Grace. Our army has faced larger armies in every encounter with the English – back to the time of the Wallace – and we have still won some memorable victories."
Edward chimed in. "And don't forget, brother – our army has grown into a formidable fighting force over these long years with you, while the tyrant Edward had to scavenge men and arms from wherever he could. A scout from the camp of the Elliots told me that the army we see here came together only a few days ago. How can such a force, however large, be as effective as our men? We will strike a hammer blow here to make Longshanks turn in his grave."
Robert laughed, a touch of bitterness in his tone. "Let us hope we can! I'm hoping that the proud and arrogant English knights won't be able to stop themselves from trying to teach us a lesson, humble us into dust with a charge through our ranks. If they do, our men can hold them."
It didn't work out quite as Robert had planned, not at first.
A select group of English knights led their forces in circling those of the Scots, probing, seeking a weakness that would allow them to pierce through to the castle and reinforce their besieged comrades. The fighting was scrappy, piecemeal – neither side fully engaging. Like two dogs circling each other – a large, strong one and a small, snappy one – each army was testing the mettle of the other, neither ready to commit outright.
But, in spite of their many attempts, the English knights did not break the line. The Scots held firm, and the English became irritated at their tenacity, leading one of them to make a bold, risky move that turned the tide of the fighting.
Towards the end of the day, Tom was riding along the edge of the plain with a small force of mounted men when he heard the unmistakable beat of a horse's hooves, a horse fully laden and galloping towards him. He turned in his saddle – one of the English knights had spotted Robert the Bruce rallying his men, lightly armed and unprotected, and sought a chance for immortality by breaking ranks to engage the King of Scots in single combat.
Tom didn't hesitate. He spurred his mount forward, speeding towards his King. Reaching down beside him as he rode, he grabbed something from his saddle and lifted it over his head.
The story was told afterwards that Tom looked like a mounted devil in flight, his face snarling, his arm swinging above his head and then down with an unstoppable force. A force borne from years of fighting, running, hiding and striking again. From witnessing the suffering his people endured at the hands of the English. From the love that crowned his heart for the unreachable Queen of England.
The heavy battleaxe in his hand cut through the knight's helmet as if it were butter as it descended, cleaving him from crown to chin. The body toppled once or twice in his seat, then fell to the ground, splayed out on the earth in a pool of gore.
Robert pulled up his horse, holding on as it bucked and reared, ready to run. "Whoa there, easy." He looked at Tom, whose face was now spattered with evidence of his courageous deed.
"Tom Branson, you have saved my life. I won't forget that."
"Only doing my duty, your Grace." He looked down at his hand – the shaft of his weapon was broken in half from the force of the blow. "Perhaps I could trouble you for a new axe?"
Emboldened by the rescue of their King, the Scottish troops pressed forward. They fell on their enemy, who were disadvantaged by the marshy ground into which the heavily armoured English knights were in danger of sinking. Enough slaughter ensued to put the English into full retreat as the Scots returned to their camp in the forest.
At the end of the first day of the battle, the army of Edward II was stopped in its tracks.
"Your Majesty?" Gwen's concerned face appeared over Sybil.
The Queen slowly sat up. "What happened, Gwen? I feel very strange."
"You fainted, Your Majesty. Here, let me help you up."
Gwen took Sybil's hand and guided her over to the bed. Sybil sat down, putting her hand to her head, realising how dizzy she still felt.
"May I fetch someone for you?"
"No, thank you, I am feeling better. Just let me rest a few moments..." The next thing she knew, the contents of her stomach were on the floor.
"Oh Gwen, I'm sorry, I couldn't help it."
"Don't worry, your Majesty – I will look after it. Please just lie down and take some rest. You must be exhausted."
Sybil lay back among her pillows and closed her eyes. As often happened in moments like this, her last meeting with Tom came to her mind. She could almost feel his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, his loving gaze resting on her face like a caress.
Four weeks ago... She realised with a start that she hadn't had her courses since then and wrapped her arms around herself as the likely implications of that fact sank in.
Edward will know I've betrayed him – he hasn't been near me in weeks.
Now, the battle to come had become as desperate for Sybil as it was for Tom – he must win and find a way to take her from the King's side, or she would be lost.
But how could this be accomplished? Sybil felt a trickle of fear down her spine like ice water – for Tom and for herself, as well as for their children, born and unborn. What would become of them?
The sun had set and the English had retreated for the time being, but everyone knew they would be back the next day. Tom was on his way to the royal tent to meet with his commanders when he heard a voice behind him in the darkness.
"Branson? Is that you?"
"Who goes there?"
A figure rode out of the night. A figure he recognised, a figure who should not have been there.
"Take me to the King of Scots, will you? I have news for him." The man dismounted, leading his horse behind him as he lifted his visor. There was no mistaking his identity.
Tom nodded, and together the two men walked in to speak with the Bruce brothers as they discussed their plan for the following day.
"Your Grace – a visitor." Tom stepped back and gestured to his companion to speak.
The other man stood firmly, lifting off his helmet as he spoke.
"Sir, if you wish to take all of Scotland, now is the time. Edward's army is grievously discouraged. You may beat them on the morrow with little loss and great glory."
A grim smile tightened Robert's lips. "Thank you, sir knight. May I know your name?"
The English traitor looked to Tom, who nodded to him to speak.
"Your Grace – my name is Sir Matthew Crawley."
A/N -
"a cáomh" = my friend in Middle Irish, according to the Electronic Dictionary of the Irish Language.
Some historical notes:
This chapter is based on what I believe really happened as the two armies met on the first day of the Battle of Bannockburn. In particular, the incident with the battleaxe is legendary – although it was the Bruce himself who killed the English knight, rather than one of his men. (I had a reason for making that change to history, as you will see!) And there really was a turncoat knight who rode into the Scottish camp after the first day, although he was actually a Scot previously loyal to Edward II who changed his mind about his allegiance. I used his reputed words for Matthew's speech.
I have also played with dates in this story, as you can see clearly from this chapter. The Battle of Bannockburn was fought in 1314, which would mean (for those of you following the timeline) that Sybil and Tom's son (also called Tom) would already be nearly seven at this point, since in this fic he was conceived before Edward I died in 1307. However, at this point in my story, baby Tom is still less than one year old. Hope you can forgive my fast and loose attitude to history for the sake of fiction – I couldn't make Tom and Sybil wait that long to be together! :)
In this chapter, we finally meet Robert the Bruce himself. He was indeed a complicated man! The story of his family allying with Edward I in his youth is true (and there were many who saw him as a traitor to Scotland because of it). At that time, the Scots King (John Balliol) was more or less a puppet of Edward I's, having been appointed by him upon the death of the Maid of Norway, the last living heir of the previous royal family of Scotland (who had been engaged to marry Edward I's son). When Balliol rebelled against England, the Bruce family saw it as a chance to take the throne they believed was theirs by right, and (on the principle of 'my enemy's enemy is my friend') they joined Edward I in defeating the Scots army, a defeat which led to the exile of Balliol. However, Edward I then decided to take the Scottish throne for himself (stealing the Stone of Destiny while he was at it).
With some more political to-ing and fro-ing as the political landscape shifted back and forth in Scotland, Robert changed sides again more than once, always with the objective of pursuing his own claim to the crown of Scotland at any cost. Along the way, he even murdered in anger his chief rival for power in Scotland, John Comyn (a kinsman of the exiled King John Balliol), in a meeting in Greyfriars Church in Dumfries. This was a frightful crime, considered to be sacrilege for which he had to seek forgiveness from the Church before they crowned him, and which soon sent him on the run from Scotland to an island off the coast of Ireland. From there, he led a long guerrilla war against Edward I and his son which ended up in the decisive Battle of Bannockburn, of which we've just seen the first day.
Robert paid a high price for the throne – several members of his own family were murdered by the English, and there was one other consequence which I will write about in later chapters.
More to come soon, I hope. I look forward to hearing what you think!