Kingdom (17 page)

‘There’re too many!’ shouted John. ‘We’ll be overrun!’

Robert made a decision; no time to think whether it was right or wrong. ‘Niall! Edward!’ He pointed his sword towards the women. ‘Get them out of here! Take the foot soldiers and archers. Go back to the valley – make for the woods beyond the Fillan. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.’

‘Like hell—’ Edward began.

‘
Do it!
’ roared Robert, so fiercely his brother flinched.

Edward’s jaw pulsed, but he wheeled his horse around and, with Niall’s help, drove the foot soldiers into a protective wedge around the women, children and servants, forcing them back the way they had come.

Robert had one last glimpse of Marjorie – looking over her shoulder at him, stricken with terror – before he snapped down his visor. Kicking viciously with his heels, he spurred Ghost towards the advancing mass of horsemen. ‘
On them!
’ he roared, his voice echoing around the encasement of his helm.

His men rode with him, their horses ripping through the grass, kicking up black clots of mud. The rain was falling harder, gauzing the air. Ahead, the enemy were coming swiftly to meet them. Finally it was upon him: the reckoning Robert had known was coming for the murder of John Comyn. These men rushing towards him, swords and axes raised, were his judges and executioners, come to avenge the blood of their kinsman. But he would not falter, nor give them ground. The lives of all those he loved were at stake. With the image of his daughter’s face imprinted on his mind, Robert compelled Ghost, with brutal rakes of his spurs, into the front lines of the enemy.

The two forces came together in a vicious clash that resounded across the plain. Men and horses smashed into one another, spears splintering on shields, bones breaking under impact. Some men were hurled from saddles and sent tumbling to the marshy ground, where the mud was as slick as pitch. More managed to right themselves, shaking off the initial concussion, and set about those they found themselves among, hacking and battering. The rain pelted them all, blinding in its intensity, as if the heavens wanted to join in the battle.

Robert swept into the heart of the enemy line, thrusting his blade into the throat of a man who slashed out at him, eyes wide and white through the slit of his helm. The man convulsed and blood spewed over Robert’s blade as he wrenched it free. He felt a concussive crack on the side of his helm, which made his head ring. He roared as he struck at the men and horses crushed in front of him, ignoring the brutal pain in his shoulder as his shield was knocked and battered. His world narrowed into the shifting wall of flesh in front of him, which needed to be struck in every vulnerable place to bring it down.

The two cavalry forces were almost evenly matched, but all that would end when the foot soldiers, charging across the plain, reached them. Robert’s only hope in these few desperate minutes was that he and his men could kill or wound as many cavalry as possible so as to slow pursuit. That should give the women long enough to escape into the forest beyond St Fillan’s. His breath bursting hot inside his helm, he slammed his shield into the face of a man whose surcoat was adorned with the arms of Argyll. As the knight recoiled, Robert drove his sword into his ribs.

John of Atholl was fighting fiercely alongside his son. James Douglas was close by, his pale cheeks splattered with blood. He fought like a fury, teeth bared, his blade moving in whip-quick arcs. Christopher Seton had been carried deep into the mêlée, along with a dozen of Atholl’s knights. They were clashing with men wearing the arms of the Black Comyn. Gilbert de la Hay went at one unfortunate Argyllsman, whose helm had fallen off. As Gilbert swung a mighty blow towards his neck the man ducked, but not low enough. The blade bit into his forehead and went on through, taking the man’s scalp clean off, padded coif and all. Looking obscenely like an egg with the top sliced off, he sank from his saddle, a stunned look on his face. His horse bucked, its back hoof catching the face of one of the fallen man’s comrades. He reeled, retching blood and teeth. Other horses were going down, struck by swords and axes, squealing as they collapsed, pulling men down with them.

As another Argyll knight fell, gored by his blade, Robert twisted in his saddle. The women had disappeared from the plain, herded into the valley by his brothers and the infantry. The enemy foot soldiers were almost upon them, their fell voices ragged on the air. Robert went to yell the retreat, but his cry was cut off abruptly as he was jerked to one side. An Argyllsman had grabbed hold of his cloak and now wrenched him towards the point of his sword. Robert pulled back. The brooch that pinned his cloak snapped apart and the garment came away in his enemy’s fist. The man snarled and clutched for Robert’s reins instead. Crushed in between two horses, Robert couldn’t free himself. James Douglas, seeing the danger, lunged in at the Argyllsman’s blindside, hacking his sword deep into the man’s thigh before jerking it free, with an arc of blood.

As the man tumbled from the saddle, Robert hauled Ghost around. ‘
Back! Back!
’

Alexander gasped, struggling to draw breath back into his lungs. He was doubled up on the damp ground, curled around the knot in his stomach, where Comyn’s man had slammed a fist, cutting off his warning shout. It was from this perspective that he had seen the cavalry ride out from the trees, the plunging hooves shaking the earth beneath him. He had choked in the first few merciful breaths as the foot soldiers charged in their wake. The world, which he hadn’t expected to see again, came back into focus as his lungs were filled. The army had gone, out over the fields, the only ones left his two captors. One was at the tree line watching the battle unfold, the other was looming over him, the fallen rope in the man’s hands, ready to tie him up again.

Taking one last lungful of blessed air, Alexander grabbed hold of the rope and pulled his captor sharply towards him, at the same time thrusting his head up. His forehead connected with the bridge of his captor’s nose. The man reared upright in pain, clutching his face. There was a distant, resounding clash as the two forces met on the field. Faint screams rose above the roars of the foot soldiers, still surging across the grass. Tearing the rope from his captor’s hand, Alexander pushed himself to his feet, his bruised and beaten body screaming. Over the sounds of fighting, the other guard didn’t hear the snap of undergrowth as Alexander threw himself on his comrade, twisting the rope apart in his hands and bringing it down over his head to yank it tight against his neck. The man’s gurgled shout was cut short as his windpipe was crushed, but now the other guard was alerted. Seeing his comrade bucking and choking as Alexander strained on the rope, he drew his sword and ran towards them.

Alexander charged. Using the guard as a shield, he propelled him on to the outstretched point of the other man’s sword, forcing the guard down the length of the blade. The second guard toppled back with the momentum. The two men went down together, one on top of the other like lovers. Alexander lunged for the skewered guard’s sword, hauling it from his scabbard. He swooped on the man who had gone down first, ready to punch it into his vitals. He had no need. The guard had fallen back on to a tree root, splintered into a sharp shard by a charging horse. The root had gone clean through his skull and burst up through one of his eyes.

Breathing hard, Alexander staggered to where the guards’ horses were tethered. Keeping the sword in his fist, he freed one with a trembling hand. His captors had left him with only his undershirt and hose, torn and bloodstained. Digging his bare foot into the saddle, he mounted. Wrenching the beast around, he kicked at its sides with his heels. Once out of the woods, the rain soaked him to the skin, but its chill revived him and his mind sharpened as he urged the horse into a furious gallop. Across the great meadow, churned by hooves and pounding feet, the two forces of cavalry had merged, the different colours of coats of arms bleeding into one another. Racing past the first lines of foot soldiers, Alexander caught a glimpse of yellow, bright among the black of Comyn’s men. He recognised John of Atholl’s arms. Robert wouldn’t be far from his brother-in-law. The two were inseparable in battle. Alexander jerked on the reins, steering his horse towards those colours.

With a desperate burst of speed, he overtook the rest of the foot soldiers, the front lines of which had almost reached the skirmish. His horse crashed into several running men on the way past, knocking them flying. He entered the battle just behind Atholl’s men, barrelling through Comyn’s knights, hacking at their backs with his stolen sword. They didn’t expect attack to come from behind and those he struck toppled easily. Alexander felt a crushing pain in his leg as his horse was forced up against another. A stray sword grazed his arm, opening flesh to the bone, but the madness of battle was raging through him, taking him dancing along the brink of life itself, and he barely felt it.

The wet air stank of mud and opened bowels. Alexander was close enough to see the faces of some of Atholl’s knights. He felt a jolt go through him, catching sight of a young man among them, snarling over the rim of his shield. Strands of fair hair had come free from his mail coif and were stuck to his face.

‘
Christopher!
’

Alexander’s hoarse shout was swallowed instantly by the din of the mêlée, the crack of blades on shields harsh over the clamour of the foot soldiers, who had now entered the battle, axes and spears raised for a first strike at the enemy. They were too late. Robert and his men were breaking away, galloping back the way they had come, leaving scores of dead and dying behind them. Not all the king’s men followed, some caught too deep in the battle to leave it so easily. Christopher was among them with a small band of Atholl’s knights, hewing desperately at Comyn’s men who were pressing in, threatening to overwhelm them. Alexander roared in desperation, jabbing his blood-slick sword into every inch of flesh he could see, trying to reach his cousin. For a moment, the tide of fighting swept them close together. Over the shield, Christopher’s eyes widened in recognition. Alexander went to shout to him, then the metal rim of a shield cracked into the side of his head. The world vanished.

Alexander came to, coughing mud from his mouth and nose. He pushed himself up on to his hands and knees, vomiting up a vile stream of brown liquid. His eyes stung. Wiping them with the soaked sleeve of his shirt, he blinked his vision back to clarity. The world around him had changed. For a moment, he thought he had died and woken in another place. Hell, surely, for all the moans and whimpering. The rain had ceased and the plain was cast once more in sunlight. It shone garishly on the red mess of severed limbs and opened corpses that clogged the marshy ground. Wounded horses twisted among the dead and the dying. The air reeked. The marsh birds had vanished and crows had taken their place, winging their way from the foothills, drawn by the stench of carrion. Alexander sank back on his heels, staring at the plain. Where had the battle gone? The men? The thought brought his cousin’s face to mind.

Swaying with pain and exhaustion, Alexander managed to rise from the mud. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably. He stared around him, trying to keep his balance, until his gaze fixed on a patch of yellow and black stripes, vivid between the broken blades of grass. He staggered over and crouched beside the knight, one of Atholl’s.

‘Christopher Seton.’ Alexander’s voice came out as a croak. ‘He was fighting with you. Did he escape?’

The man’s eyes were open. He stared at Alexander with dazed incomprehension. Looking down the length of him, Alexander saw the knight had a wide gash in his side. The rings of his mail coat had been torn apart and the straw that padded his gambeson had burst up out of the gash. Like a scarecrow, thought Alexander numbly. The raw pink and yellow of intestines glistened beneath. The man continued to stare at him, licking his lips. Hearing the long note of a horn, Alexander jerked round. His eyes focused slowly on the great mass of men riding towards him. For a moment, he thought Comyn and MacDougall had returned, but these men weren’t dressed in black. He fixed on a banner, raised at the vanguard. The device was unmistakable – three golden lions on scarlet.

Pushing himself to his feet, Alexander forced one foot in front of the other, finally managing to break into a run. He heard distant shouts and the horn’s call ring out again. He was still running as hoof-beats came pounding up behind him.

PART 2

1306 AD

It is your country which you fight for, and for which you should, when required, voluntarily suffer death: for that itself is victory, and the cure of the soul.