June 24, 1314
The English
were trapped against the Bannockburn. The hedge of Scottish steel shoved once
more against the desperate knights, and Sir James de Douglas saw the banners flying
above the writhing mass. Those banners included the huge scarlet banner with
the Plantagenet leopards; that banner proclaimed that King Edward of Caernarfon was somewhere close
in the chaos. James bellowed his battle
cry, “A Douglas! A Douglas!” battle fury sweeping through him. Rage and hatred
unleashed for the losses and the pain. He smashed his sword into an English
face. For Isabella. For his father. For Thomas. For Alycie. He swung again and
again.
Around him his
men screamed, “Scotland! Scotland! On them!” Hungry for revenge, they had spent
their lives fighting the invader, and they had become savagely good at war. An
arrow sliced in from the right, striking James’s shield. He lifted it, but no
more came. Archers would have been the last chance for the English, but King
Robert de Bruce had planned well for them, and held back his five hundred Scottish
chivalry to sweep behind the English line and attack the archers.
James’s men shouted
as they thrust their pikes into the belly and face of English horses, into the
gaps in gleaming armor; they chopped with their weapons. And the English fell
back, horses screaming as they went down the steep edge of a gully.
The English
had nowhere more to go. Under the English hooves, men lay, dead, wounded,
shrieking in pain. Their commanders were shouting to retire. And the Scots
slashed into them. English knights shouted curses, thrust with lances, swung
swords as they were forced back. Ribbons of scarlet waved through the
Bannockburn’s waters. The English knights fought with the desperation of
trapped men.
Next
to James, one of his men grunted as he hacked his pike into the writhing mass
of English. Another horse went down. Blood and mud splattered onto James’s helm.
The rider threw himself free, landing flat on his back. James grunted as he
slammed a foot on the knight’s chest and thrust his sword down through his
throat.
“On
them!” The bellows from his men were deafening. "They fail!"
"Sir
James!"
James
spun at the hand on his shoulder, jerking his sword arm into position.
A
pale-faced lad dodged backward. "The king sent me. He wants you."
An
unhorsed Englishman screamed as his head was crushed by a slashing hoof. He
fell atop a knight already dead. James's own men wore helms and studded leather,
marked with the blue and white Saltire of Scotland, now streaked with mud and blood
and gore. The steel tide surged against the crumbling mass of a panicked foe. They
heaved forward a step.
Six
hours they’d fought, since the cool of dawn, hacking at an army that seemed
without number. His arm suddenly was heavy with the fatigue of a day of slash and
thrust.
The
English trumpets shrilled thin. Harooo
Harooo… Retire… Retire…
He
blinked the sting of sweat from his eyes. Where was Walter Stewart? In the
chaos, James spotted Walter’s blue and white checky pennant. He grabbed Iain’s
arm and pulled him out of the line of pikesmen. "Find Sir Walter. Tell him
he has command." He shoved his sword into his black leather sheath and
jerked a nod to the squire. "Lead on."
The
lad turned and clamored across the broken sod, past a sprawled body of a
knight, his armor still agleam as his blood soaked into the dry earth. For a
moment a breath of a breeze cut through the fug of blood and shit. Who could have imagined such a battle? A
body wearing a studded brigandine marked with a Saltire was pierced by the
shattered remains of a pike next to a stallion, its guts spilled onto the
ground. They trudged past it all and the uproar faded behind them into a rumble.
Beyond
a ragged stand of alder, leaves drooping in summer’s heat, the king’s golden
lion banner hung limp in the still air. The lad pointed. James slapped his
shoulder and strode through the welcome shade of the trees as he reached up to
wrench off his helm.
2 comments:
Superb!
Thanks! :-)
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