Author's note
*waves hello* Once again, this story has taken a long time to update - so sorry about that! It's been an unsettled time in my life workwise in the last few months, but I am pleased to say things seem to be settling down again so it should not be so long till the next update, particularly since this fic is now almost done.
Happy to have you still with me! As always, thanks so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favourited this fic. I always love to hear from you. :)
This was a challenging chapter to write, trying to capture a mediaeval battle with all its chaos and ferocity. I enjoyed tackling it and I hope you enjoy reading it!
The next morning
Edward looked over at the enemy, sharing the disappointment his men were feeling.
He and his troops had camped after the first day of battle on a broad, muddy field before Stirling Castle. Spending a restless night, their sleep disrupted by the drunken antics of his Welsh mercenaries, they'd woken already exhausted and in low spirits, half hoping that the peasant army opposing them would have drifted away during the night.
Now, at first light, he saw the Scots soldiers appear by the thousands from the woodlands between the battlefield and the castle and drop to their knees.
"Yon folk are kneeling to ask mercy!" He tried to lift the mood with a joke.
A traitor Scot, Sir Ingraham de Unfraville, corrected him. "Your Majesty, they ask for mercy, but not from you. They ask God for mercy for their sins." He looked gravely at the King. "I'll tell you something for a fact, that yon men will win all or die. None will flee for fear of death."
"So be it," retorted Edward, confident in his army's formidable strength.
The King's young squire ran up, out of breath. "Your Majesty? It seems as if Sir Matthew Crawley is gone - perhaps he has fled the field."
"It matters not. We will win the day and fulfil the dream of my father, the Hammer of the Scots!"
He turned away, an uncharacteristically stern look on his face. Edward was ready for the biggest battle of his reign, and he was certain that he'd gain a glorious victory and step out, once and for all, from his father's shadow.
"Kyrie eleison
Christe eleison
Kyrie eleison"
Tom was amongst the kneeling throng listening to Maurice, the blind abbot of Inchaffray, as he spoke the words of the Mass. The Scots army was known for its piety and today was no exception – Robert the Bruce wanted all of his troops to be ready for heaven before they unleashed hell.
When the service was over, Tom got to his feet, hand shading his eyes as he looked towards the English lines. Where is she? Is she safe and well?
The King's brother Edward came over to him. "Come this way, a cáomh."
Tom followed him to the front of the army, where the King was waiting. "Ah, Tom – there you are. Kneel before me."
"Your Grace?" A confused look crossed Tom's face.
Robert the Bruce saw the look and smiled. "It's time you took the oath of a knight, Tom, especially after your valour yesterday in saving my life."
"But Your Grace – there are so many other men, more valiant than I, who deserve..."
"Leave that to me," the King said, closing him down. "Do you decline this honour?"
"No, your Grace." Tom knelt before the Bruce, bowing his head.
"Fear God and His Church,
Serve the liege Lord in valour and faith,
Protect the weak and defenceless,
Live by honour and for glory,
Respect the honour of women."
The King looked down at Tom. "This is your oath as a knight. God will hold you to it."
Tom lifted his head, accepting the obligations put on him as his eyes met those of his sworn liege lord. Robert the Bruce touched the younger man's left shoulder, then his right, with the flat of his sword.
"Arise, Sir Thomas Branson, knight banneret! You will command a battalion, next to mine – I want you close to me today."
Tom acknowledged his King's order with a nod as he stood, to rousing applause from his comrades in arms. Sir Matthew Crawley stepped forward from the front rank to congratulate him.
"Well done Tom - from what I've seen of you, you are a man of honour and courage. I am sure this is well deserved." He clapped the other man on the shoulder, and they exchanged grins.
"Sir Matthew? You'll fight with me today - I want to see what you are made of, and decide whether I can trust you." The King joined them.
Matthew bowed slightly. "I realise the word of an unknown man does not count for much, Your Grace, but I give it to you anyway – I'm sworn to your cause. Edward is a traitor King and I owe no loyalty to him, even though my sister in law is his Queen."
"We'll see. I might have a task for you later – a surprise for a part of Edward's army that he relies on..." The two men began to speak seriously, but before they walked away Tom stopped them.
"Your Grace?"
"Yes, Tom?"
"Speaking of the Queen... there's something I need to ask you."
"I'm sure this won't take too long, my lady. A couple of hours, perhaps – our knights will mow these rebels down like grass in the field."
Sybil bowed her head to hide the look on her face as her heart turned over in her chest. What if her husband were proved correct? What would happen to her, and the child she carried – and that child's father?
"Yes, my lord. I send my prayers for a successful outcome."
"Stay here, with the baggage train – you will be safe enough. I can't spare a knight to look after you, but there's no chance that those damned Scots will get anywhere near you here."
"Yes, my lord. As you wish."
It all comes down to this… if my husband wins today, I lose.
"Give the order, my lord Earl!" The King was clearly eager to get his troops into the fray. The largest army ever assembled in England, with two thousand mounted knights! They could not fail.
The usurping Earl of Grantham, Piers Mandeville, sat up proudly on his destrier in response to Edward's command. The massive warhorse, almost as heavily armoured as its master, reared slightly and tossed its head, setting its harness jingling.
"Knights – advance! To victory!"
As the trumpets sounded, the English cavalry began to canter towards the distant Scots army, knowing they had all the time in the world. Knowing that, once they were galloping at full speed, they'd be unstoppable.
"Put those blasted peasants to flight!" Mandeville snarled, crashing down his visor to hide his face as he took his place in the line. He noticed that they were not able to deploy at their full strength across the battlefield, trapped as they were between two areas of boggy, rough ground on the banks of a winding tributary of the Forth River. But he assumed that would not really matter, once their full power was unleashed on the enemy.
The tributary was called the Bannockburn. A name that would come to haunt his dreams.
On came the Scots, ever onward. A moving hedge – pikes bristling above the heads of the tightly packed foot soldiers as they trotted towards the enemy lines.
"Schiltron, take your position!"
The first rank of soldiers dropped to their knees, well drilled after months of preparation for this day. Each man knew his neighbour, trusted him, put his life in his hands. His pike was held firmly, the end braced against his foot, the head pointing forward and ready for action. The second rank fell into position behind them, followed by the third.
Edward the Bruce, commander of the first battalion, gave the order they'd all been waiting for.
"For King, for country – hold!"
Even without looking, the Scots knew the English cavalry were on their way. Through the ground beneath them, they could feel the horses' huge hooves pounding the earth, and the shock of it, vibrating through their entire bodies like a warning bell, could have sent them fleeing.
But they stayed.
The Scots second battalion took their position nearby in the same way. Their commander glanced over at Edward. The look the two men exchanged in that moment was one of calm, resigned courage, the culmination of years of struggle.
We will hold, or die.
The English knights, banners flying, armour glinting in the sun, continued to charge towards the enemy on their magnificent horses, expecting an easy victory.
As they approached the Scots, Piers Mandeville expected them to scatter in fear. Why aren't they running yet? But his training and experience assured him that they would, that it was just a matter of time. He motioned to his comrades to ride on, even faster.
The horses galloped hard, and right until they reached the opposing lines the knights assumed they'd see what they always saw. Foot soldiers falling away, fleeing in terror before the might of the English cavalry.
But the Scots held. Held with all their might, determined, unbreakable. The huge horses reared up, unable to stop themselves being impaled on the Scottish pikes, unseating their riders and whinnying in fear.
And the knights fell, unthinkably, back.
"Where are my archers? Get those Welshmen out on the field, now!"
The King watched as a swathe of arrows began to fly, carving a path of death through the air for any Scots they encountered. The longbowmen of Edward's army were feared throughout Europe – their expert use of the deadliest weapon of the age had turned the tide of battle more than once before, and he believed they could do so again.
So when he saw the Scots light cavalry charging through his Welsh troops, sending them running for cover, he couldn't believe it.
"Those damned Welsh cowards!"
"Your Majesty - isn't that man bearing the Crawley arms on his shield? The knight leading the charge against our archers? Surely it can't be?" De Unfraville spoke in disbelief.
Edward looked and his heart sank. Another betrayal, this one very close to home.
Everything was starting to go horribly wrong for him. Could some miracle help his army win the day?
He dared not contemplate the alternative.
On came the Scots, ever onward. A pack of lions – relentlessly hunting their prey, fiercely attacking the tender horseflesh before them.
The English cavalry had no choice but to retreat, and the combat became personal as they fell from their horses which were dying beneath them.
Although almost invulnerable on horseback, the knights wore such heavy armour that, once they were on the ground, it was almost impossible for them to get up. The Scots laid about them with a will, axes flying, and the blood of the fallen began to flow, coating the ground with gore.
"Get out of my way, oaf," gasped Piers Mandeville as he found himself tangled up with a fellow Englishman of the infantry, who was advancing as he'd been commanded to do and had ended up colliding with the line of retreating knights.
"I'm sorry, my lord. There's nowhere for us to go. That damned stream behind us has cut us off."
"Knights, regroup for another charge!" Mandeville tried to bring his cavalry back into the battle. But his knights were rolling backwards now, with no room to act as the Earl had commanded.
The Scots kept forcing them towards the Bannockburn behind them. Sensing their enemies' growing fear, the rebels were starting to chant:
"On them, on them. They fail!"
Tom, in the second line of the Scots attack, was pushing forward now to grapple with the enemy.
He was fighting like a wild animal – hands and face smeared with red, the smell of English blood in his nostrils. He hacked and slashed his way through the English lines, leading his battalion forward in lockstep with that commanded by Robert the Bruce.
As long as they held, he now knew the English could not break them. This battle could be won, the tyrant Edward could be driven back behind his borders... and perhaps, his Queen could find a way to be free.
"Their own infantry's blocking their retreat," he gasped to his second in command, James Douglas.
The man returned his gaze, pushing his hair out of his eyes with a gory hand. "Aye, they are. We'll grind them up like raw meat, you'll see."
As he spoke, the young man drove his axe into the head of an unseated knight, who had lost his helmet as he fell to the ground. Tom heard the sickening thud of metal meeting bone, saw the man's eyes open wide, then watched them go blank as his life left him and he slumped unheeded to the ground. His killer stepped over his body, already engaging his next opponent.
A messenger arrived with an urgent missive for Tom.
Sir Thomas, come to me now, I have a task for you – Robert
"James – take over, the Bruce has sent for me."
The man nodded grimly – the Scots had the battle well in hand. All that remained was the butchery. And they were well able for that.
On came the Scots, ever onward. A bloody tide – surging forward with unstoppable force, swallowing the enemy army whole and leaving Edward's soldiers dead in its wake.
The King watched from a low hill in horror as the glory of England fell, in shining disarray, beneath the feet of the marauding Scots. In the mad scramble of retreat, his massive army became its own worst enemy.
Those at the rear, never getting close to the fighting, were forced backwards by the cavalry. They stumbled and fell, blocking the path of those at the front – crushing each other in their panic, his men fell and died beneath each others' feet. The Scots continued the horrible slaughter, pushing relentlessly forward, sending many more Englishmen to their deaths.
"Why didn't they break when we charged them? They always break!"
De Unfraville, clearly oblivious to what might have been, was pointing at something. "Your Majesty, the terrain is against us once more. The only way to escape is across the water, and you can see – the banks are ten feet high, and steep with it. Our soldiers are drowning as they try to retreat."
Edward followed his arm and saw that he was right. As his men managed to escape the horrors on the far bank, they were splashing across the burn, trying to climb out the other side but failing, falling backwards and sinking below the rushing waters. The Bannockburn was already running crimson with the blood of his devastated army.
Even those soldiers who got through that hell were not safe, slumping to the ground beyond the burn in exhaustion and falling prey to the knives of the Small Folk, the camp followers of the Scots Army who had joined the fray in support of their King.
It was a debacle, his army defeated completely and utterly in the field by a force less than half its size.
Then Edward's heart lifted as he saw Piers de Mandeville come riding up, his armour spattered in mud and gore, but unharmed.
"Your Majesty – we must take you to safety – it's too dangerous for you to stay here."
"Concede the field? Never! What would my father think?"
But his friend was taking his horse's reins, gently leading him away. He lifted his visor and looked into the King's eyes.
"Edward, please – you are too important. We must ensure your safety, protect you from death or capture. Your lords will fight on to the end, you can be sure of that."
"The Lords who answered my call may not be enough. What about those who never came?"
But Edward grumpily nodded, allowing himself to be led away, towards Stirling Castle. Seeking refuge in defeat at the last English stronghold left in Scotland.
"Gwen, what is that noise?" Sybil dropped her embroidery as she stood up, heading towards the entrance to her tent with an anxious look on her face.
"I do not know, your Majesty. Shall we go and see?"
The two women came out into the sunshine to look upon an unbelievable sight. Their camp was overrun by the enemy, who were busy plundering Edward's baggage train – the mobile wealth of the English nobility.
One of the Scots, who seemed to be their leader, came towards her and nodded his head.
"Do not worry, ladies. We will not harm you."
Gwen was indignant. "Do you not know whom you are addressing? This is Sybil, wife of Edward, and your Queen!"
"No Queen of mine," he returned laconically. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."
"May I know to whom I am speaking?" Sybil tried to remain calm, but her voice trembled a little.
The reply that came back did much to reassure her. "Edward de Bruce – brother of the Scots King. And friend to someone I believe you know…"
"My lord de Mowbray! Open in the name of the King!"
A head appeared over the parapet of the castle.
"Your Majesty – we can offer you no shelter here. The Scots will be upon us before the day is out. You should head south, to England, any way you can."
"What is this treason? Refusing to open your doors for your King?"
"I'm truly sorry, your Majesty. I have no forces to protect you. The castle would be nothing more than a cage if you were to take refuge here."
Edward turned away, indignant, and began to ride around the edge of the battlefield, Piers Mandeville at his side. He was heading towards the woods from which the Scots had emerged that morning, hoping to leave the scene of his humiliation quietly, when he found himself surrounded by his enemies.
The leader of the Scots was a grim fellow, dirty blond hair pushed back from a face smeared with English blood. Battle hardened, broad shouldered, ruthless.
"We meet at last, King Edward."
His captor made a mock bow.
"Who is this insolent fellow?"
A half smile from the other man. "My name is Tom Branson."
A/N -
"a cáomh" = my friend in Middle Irish, according to the Electronic Dictionary of the Irish Language.
As in the last chapter, I did my best to capture a lot of what actually happened on the second day of the Battle of Bannockburn, and much of what you've just read is true based on the sources. Even some of the dialogue is real, including Edward's exchange with de Unfraville when he saw the Scots kneel in prayer at the start of the day.
A few historical notes:
There was a battlefield knighting that morning, but instead of Tom it was the young lord James Douglas (whom I've made Tom's second in command), one of Robert the Bruce's staunchest allies. After Bannockburn, Sir James earned a reputation so fierce among the English that he became known by them as the Black Douglas.
As for Tom's oath - it is a real one from the time, taken from the Song of Roland, an early mediaeval epic poem from the time of Charlemagne. (You may recognise the sentiments from the oath in the movie 'Kingdom of Heaven', which I think is probably also derived from this one.) A 'knight banneret', Tom's new title, is a knight who can lead troops in battle.
There's dispute among the sources as to whether the Scots took the field that day with three or four battalions. I thought I'd go for the latter, as it left room for our newly knighted Tom to command one of them.
Edward's archers (who did apparently party till very late the night before the battle) were scattered by a Scottish knight on the day – Sir Robert Keith. I had a picture in my mind of Dan Stevens in his Sir Lancelot outfit for this scene! :)
Burn - the Scottish word for a stream. The Bannockburn (its Scots Gaelic name i Allt a' Bhonnaich according to Google) is a bit of a misnomer, I think - it's more like a small river from my research. But it's a great name all the same, and it did run red with English blood by the end of the battle.
So the pieces are now all in place for the next chapter when (at last) you will find out whether Tom and Sybil will be able to be together...
Hope it won't be too long until then!
