Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (29 page)

The prospect of civil war entered Edward’s mind like a poison, seeping, weakening. He had told his generals several months ago, in an imperious speech during a council in York, that when he died the inscription on his tomb would read
Scottorum Malleus
. The Hammer of the Scots.

Now his army starving and mutinous outside, those words came back to mock him.

“My lord king?” The door opened and the earl of Surrey entered.

The loss at Stirling had aged John de Warenne beyond his years. He looked haggard and gray, and walked with a stiff-legged limp, tormented by gout.

Behind him came Brian le Jay. The Templar master’s face was burned by the the fall of the templars

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sun, his nose beginning to peel. Neither man had endeared himself to Edward.

All he saw when he looked at de Warenne was defeat and le Jay had been more of a hindrance than a help, following orders reluctantly and questioning almost all his decisions.

“The Templars have distributed the last of their grain, my lord,” said de Warenne, in his rasping tones. “There is no more.”

“And their personal stores? What about them?” Edward stared at le Jay.

“We must keep enough provisions for ourselves, my lord,” responded the Templar master firmly. “Else we will be no use to you on the field of battle.”

“What field?” snapped Edward. “What battle? Is there no news?”

John de Warenne shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Then you can tell the scouts if they have nothing to report they may as well not bother returning at all!”

“My lord,” murmured de Warenne, “the men are restless. We cannot keep this up. They will start deserting unless we fill their bellies and give them a visible target to fight. We may need to consider turning back, just to Edinburgh.

We’ve more chance of finding food there.”

“No,” said Edward abruptly. “We stay until Bek returns. If successful, he will bring supplies from the castles.” He paused, his eyes alighting on a wine cask. There were more outside the preceptory walls, many more, loaded on wagons. “In the meantime, have the wine we took from the cogs delivered to the troops. It will hearten their spirits.”

De Warenne nodded, but le Jay spoke up. “Wine, my lord? Most of the men haven’t eaten properly in days. Combined with this heat it will—”

“Do not challenge me on this, le Jay,” responded Edward. “Or I swear I shall turn my army toward your preceptory. The promise of meat and ale within should make them suffi ciently motivated.”

Brian le Jay’s eyes fi lled with angry surprise. But biting back a response, he nodded stiffly and strode from the room.

An hour later, weary cheers rose as the casks of rich Gascony wine were taken out around the camp. Men, half-delirious from sun and exhaustion, drank it by the bowlful. Some pushed comrades aside to get at the sweet liquid that stung their parched throats and stained their mouths. Brian le Jay and the Templar master of Scotland watched in grim silence from behind the gates of their preceptory as soldiers reeled and staggered in the fields, some vomiting almost immediately with the effects of the wine on their empty stomachs.

Cheers and drunken laughter quickly turned to shouts and arguments. A large company of Welsh foot soldiers, angered by their meager rations, tried to 164 robyn

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storm the supply wagons of the royal guard. English soldiers barred the way and a brawl began. A group of priests tried to stop it, getting in between the companies to beg them to see sense. But in the confusion several were killed.

As the drunken brawl descended into a riot, barons sent their knights to quell the fighting, but the appearance of armored men on horseback did nothing to subdue the struggle. The Welsh came to the aid of their beleaguered comrades and the English to theirs, until half the infantry were at war with one another. The English had far greater numbers, however, and soon the Welsh were routed from the camp. They fled to a nearby wood, leaving almost one hundred of their fellows dead on the grass, now littered with empty casks.

Edward looked out upon the devastation from the gates of the preceptory.

Evening was drawing in, the sun throwing red light across everything. A pit had been dug and the dead were being hauled into it. De Warenne had come to inform him that the Welsh had sent a message threatening to go over to the Scots. Edward blustered at this, proclaiming that his enemies could do what they wished, for he would crush them all on the same field soon enough. But despair had begun to creep in, chilling him in the evening’s warmth. For one foolish decision, he could lose the last of his failing authority.

It was then that Anthony Bek returned, riding down the road toward the preceptory with the warriors of St. Cuthbert’s Land, backlit by the fl aming sun.

Edward started forward, seeing carts being drawn behind the company, loaded with crates and barrels. His hope turned to elation as the bishop of Durham met him at the Temple’s gates and informed him of his victory over the two castles. He had also received word from Edinburgh that the supply ships had made it into Leith and the food shipments would be with them shortly. But, most promising of all, the enemy had been sighted by Bek’s scouts. Wallace and his men were only thirteen miles away, just south of Stirling, near a town called Falkirk.

falkirk, scotland, july 22, 1298 ad

The air was dead, without even a whisper of breeze, as the English Army formed up in front of a narrow stream. Beyond, on the slopes of a moor, Wallace was deploying his troops. It was past ten in the morning and the sun was the fall of the templars

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full in the faces of the soldiers, the sky flat and white, leached of color by the blaze.

Lines of infantry were jogging out of the woods that crowned the moor, clutching twelve-foot-long spears. Following the orders of Wallace and his generals, they trickled down the hillside to pool in four huge circles. The outer ring of soldiers in each immediately knelt, one knee on the scrubby grass, the other wedging their spears in place, the butt on the ground and the shaft slanting outward. The men behind stayed standing, their spears also pointing out, until these shield rings, known as schiltrons, bristled on the hillside. Between each, companies of archers stood ready and behind this forest of spikes and arrows the Scottish cavalry formed up. Alongside Wallace and his men were earls and lords, companies of knights gathered around them, but the nobles were still a small force in comparison to the army of commoners who made up the schiltrons.

The soldiers were nervous, watching the enemy at the foot of the moor, but they stood firm to a man. Most of Scotland was back in their hands. Here, now, they had so much more to lose than they had on that summer day a year earlier on the slopes of the Ochil Hills, and so much to gain. If they could defeat the English one more time, before the very eyes of their tyrant king, it could be the last blow needed.

Wallace rode before them, his voice booming across their ranks. He fortified them, filled them with strength and conviction. Then, at the last, with a fierce grin, he goaded them. “
I have brought you to the ring! Now let us see if you
can dance!
”

A resounding cheer answered him.

Edward looked around as the roar from the Scots cascaded down the hillside.

His jaw pulsed, but he made no comment as he ordered his generals to take their positions. The English, eyeing the stream and the rising slope beyond with caution, had moved into their companies. Wallace had chosen the battlefield well; he would fight on higher ground with the cover of a wood behind.

They would attack uphill with water at their backs. But, despite this, Edward’s men were eager for battle. Along with the massive force of infantry, there were four main cavalry regiments, under the earls of Lincoln, Norfolk and Hereford, and the bishop of Durham. These were augmented by the knights with John de Warenne and English Templars under Brian le Jay. There was also a corps of horsemen from Gascony and a large number of smaller companies, 166 robyn

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led by barons and lords, called to do their feudal duty. Edward himself had almost a thousand royal guards at his command, all clad in scarlet surcoats, matching his banner.

After Bek brought the news of the Scots’ location the previous night, all dissension in the English ranks vanished. The Welsh drifted back into camp, grumbling, but lured by the promise of food. With their target found and fixed upon, the army left Temple Liston as evening drew in. It was past midsummer, but the nights remained light and the army made it all the way to Linlithgow before Edward called for camp to be made, the men bedding down on the warm grass. With the anticipation of battle, a hush descended as the soldiers prepared themselves: tightening armor, checking blades and bows, reciting prayers. Just before dawn, they set out once more. As they neared the town of Falkirk, a line of spears was spotted on a nearby hill. Knowing the position of the enemy, Edward called a halt for Mass to be said. Afterward, he wanted the last of their supplies divided among the troops, but the generals were so keen for the fight that they refused to break their fast and, despite their growling hunger, insisted on riding on.

Now, at a wail from the trumpets, their horses snorting and stamping the ground, the English cavalry began to move. They crossed the stream, the knights leaning back in their saddles as their mounts descended the banks into the brown water then hauled themselves up the other side and set off at a confi dent trot. But with all their attention fi xed on the Scots on the slopes above, the knights didn’t see the bog that lay ahead until the front lines had ridden right into it. Horses went plunging into the sucking black mud, treacherously concealed by reedy grass and wildflowers. Knights cried out in surprise and fear as their mounts panicked and lunged forward, searching for surer ground, only to take them deeper into the mire. Men clung desperately to saddles as the beasts bucked in the stinking slime. All the while, the Scots on the hillside jeered and laughed to see the trap so easily fallen into.

Surveying his troops in such embarrassing disarray, Edward launched his destrier, Bayard, across the stream so he could bellow orders at his commanders. Slowly, the front lines began to pull back from the bog. Bishop Bek, riding with his men between the stream and the marsh, shouted that the ground was firmer to the east. Another company, under the earls of Hereford and Norfolk, found the same to be true to the west. The Scots fell silent as the English cavalry reordered itself and charged left and right, sweeping around to meet them.

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“Archers!” came Wallace’s yell, as he stood in his saddle on the crest of the moor.

The Scottish archers, set between the schiltrons, fixed their arrows and let them spring in two dark arcs at the converging arms of the English, who were bypassing the schiltrons and heading straight for Wallace and the cavalry. But unlike the Welsh longbow, the strength and accuracy of which could propel an arrow clean through armor, the shorter Scottish bows didn’t have the force to puncture the metal hides of the English. A few shots caught horses, but for every one man who fell, thousands more rode on, picking up speed as they crested the hill and thundered toward the Scottish cavalry. The faces of Wallace’s troops filled with fear as this steel horde came crashing toward them, lances thrust forward. As a few turned their mounts and rode for the woods, Wallace cried at them to stand firm, but the courage of those who remained was a futile gesture. Now, truly for the first time, the Scots understood the terrible power of an English cavalry charge.

The English host slammed into them like a wall of iron, making a shambles of their thin line of defense, slicing through those who stood against them, scattering the rest. Quickly, it became a rout. The Scottish peasants in their tight schiltrons watched aghast as their commanders abandoned them on the fi eld, fleeing into the safety of the woods, where the trees would hamper the pursuit of the English on their armored destriers. Only Wallace and a handful of his men remained. Seeing the battle on the hilltop was lost, they cantered recklessly down the slope to their infantry. Abandoning his mount, Wallace threw down his axe, grabbed a spear and wedged himself in the front line of one of the schiltrons, yelling orders until he was hoarse, as the English knights turned and surged toward the Scottish archers. The foot soldiers watched, helplessly, as the archers were divided by the cavalry charge, then pursued like frightened rabbits across the hillside. Knights yelled as they gave chase, the first few knocking men down with sword blows or lance thrusts, their comrades behind riding on over them, pounding bodies into the black soil, bones and spines snapping like twigs. In less than fifteen minutes, the only part of the Scottish Army left standing was the four huge schiltrons that braced themselves for impact as the English circled around and came at them.

“Hold!” Wallace bellowed as the knights careened toward them. “
Hold!
”

From the safety of the woods, Will sat forward in his saddle, his breath in his throat, as the English charged the schiltrons. There was a second of confusion 168 robyn

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as the lines struck; a blur of metal, color and motion, then the air was rent with the screams of horses and men. The Scots had stood fast and the English had barreled straight into their outthrust spears. The English lines wheeled around and retreated, leaving dead and dying comrades. Horses had been pierced and had collapsed, crushing their riders, or else had thrown them into the thicket of spears. As the wounded tried to haul themselves to their feet, the Scots in the row behind stabbed down, finishing them off. There were murmurs of relief around Will, as the men with him realized the schiltrons had held.

“Uncle!”

Will turned to see David riding up with Adam. Both were drenched in sweat.

“You’re hurt,” said David, staring at Will’s upper arm.

His tunic was ripped and the rings of mail beneath had been rent in a jagged line, through which he could see torn flesh. An English knight had caught him with a slicing cut during the charge. “I’ll live.” Will looked at Adam.