Rivals for the Crown (54 page)

Sir Andrew de Moray had joined forces with William earlier in August, and together they went to meet Edward's army. The north was at last free of English control. Their forces were now 40,000 strong, with 180 horse. Among the horse were Rory, Kieran, Magnus, and their fathers and uncles. The Scottish forces arrived first.

On September 9, 1297, Warenne camped his men in a bend of the river opposite the wooden bridge, the causeway below Stirling Castle, the only passage over the area called the Scots Sea, for the Forth was tidal even this far inland. The marshy meadows around the mount upon which Stirling Castle stood could be treacherous and had often been the only deterrent to armies taking the castle. Stirling was the key to the Highlands, and it was now in Scottish hands. And only William and de Moray's forces were left to hold it.

On September 10, John de Warenne dispatched two friars to talk with William.

"We bring you an invitation," the friars said, "for you and your men to come to the king's peace. Our lord Edward promises impunity for past
offence
s."

"Take back for an answer," William said, "that we are not here to make peace but are ready to fight for the freedom of ourselves and of our country. Let the English come on when they please."

The friars frowned and rode away.

"Freedom!" William shouted after them, the cry echoed by his men, Rory's cry among them.

On September 11, the battle was enjoined.

The Scots knew what was at stake this day. The common men were in the majority of the forces here, and they knew that the winner of this battle would rule Scotland, if only for a time. If they lost, they and their families would pay the price of the defeat in blood. There would be no hostages, no ransoms of these men. Yet if they won, the nobles would claim the victory as their own.

They faced battle-hardened soldiers, some of whom had fought with Edward in the Holy Land, many more in France and Wales. The English were well armed, well trained, and well fed. The Scots had few nobles among them. The leaders of the strongest families in Scotland either backed Edward or had been decimated by the defeats at Dunbar and Irvine and lay in prison in the Tower, or their actions were circumscribed by worries for the safety of the family members they had been forced to surrender into Edward's control.

William chose his spot well, on the flanks of the foothills near Abbey Craig. Below them lay a loop of the River Forth, crossed by

Stirling Bridge, that linked to the causeway. To the north and east the majestic Ochil Hills rose from the plain; the river lay to the south, and beyond it, the village of Stirling, on the mound that rose high above the surrounding landscape. The wooden bridge was ninety or so feet long, only wide enough for two horsemen, and the causeway beyond it the same width. The marshland on either side was too swampy to hold an
armour
ed warhorse. With the foothills at their back, and on higher ground than the English, they could afford to wait for the enemy to come to them.

It was said that Warenne distrusted the English field position and delayed yet again. But Cressingham, clergyman though he was, and despised by his own men, urged immediate action in the most haughty and
no diplomatic
terms. He led the English troops across the bridge, the column advancing most of the morning.

The men around Rory were restless, but he told them to be calm, to wait. He had been among those who had devised their strategy, but the final plan was William's. Rory waited for the signal and watched the heavily
armour
ed knights advance. Their huge warhorses were
armour
ed as well, some beplumed. Overhead the bright banners of the knights and barons flew, the colors catching the sun that glinted off the
armour
and weapons.

Like the others, Rory wore a breastplate, chainmail gloves, and mail over his arms and head. And a helmet of
grey
steel, made just for him, with a cluster of oak leaves at the crest. The nose guard impeded his view and made the world seem at the end of a tunnel, but he wore it, for he was determined to live through this day. Magnus wore a helmet that had once belonged to Rory's

namesake, Rory O'Neill, long gone but with them in spirit, Gannon told them. They would need him this day.

"How many do they have?" Kieran asked.

"I've heard fifty thousand," Rory said. "And five hundred horse."

He did not tally the difference for his cousin. They waited. Rory battled his own impatience, reminding himself of their plan. And that these moments, spent in
armour
on the side of a hill, might be among his last. If they attacked too soon, they would wipe out the advance of the English army but leave the bulk of it intact. If they waited too long, their own ranks would be overwhelmed and outnumbered. So they waited, watching as the slow procession continued.

At eleven o'clock, the sun high in the sky, William sent the signal, one long blast of his horn, and the Scots moved forward with a roar of anticipation. Rory leaned low over his horse as they raced forward, his war cry joining the others. He raised his sword among the spears and battle axes around him. His father was at his side, Magnus just beyond. And there was Davey, and Kieran, and all the others, the friends and kin, swords lifted and battle cries loud. He said a prayer that they would survive this day. They would be among the first into the battle. The earth shook as they raced down the hill and across the soft ground to the head of the bridge.

They met the enemy with a clash of metal and a primal roar. The English were unprepared for the onslaught. It was a blur, of steel on steel, and men's shouts of triumph and screams of agony.

"On them! On them! On them!" William shouted.

They slashed their way through the knights to the head of the bridge. There was a stampede by those left on the wooden structure. Some panicked and whirled, causing the horses to rear and create even more confusion. Horses and riders were forced into the river. Most, weighed down by their
armour
, did not surface again. Some jumped into the water and were not seen again.

The fighting was vicious, but it soon became apparent that the Scots were pressing their advantage. Some of the English knights tried to retreat back across the bridge, hampering the advance of their own reinforcements.

Some fought valiantly, facing the Scots with measured strokes and sometimes successful thrusts, but it was in vain, for they were trapped. The Scots squeezed them together. As the death toll mounted and fewer knights were left to fight, there was more room on the bridge. Individual battles replaced the larger movements. Rory's horse was killed, and he jumped to the ground to fight on foot.

One knight, still on horseback, fought off every opponent, cutting a swathe through the Scots. Rory withdrew his sword from the man he'd just slain just in time to face that knight bearing down

on him, sword raised. Rory flashed his sword before the horse, which reared, reaching for him with its hooves.

As he darted out of the way of the flailing hooves, he knew he should thrust his sword into the exposed belly of the horse and refuse to hear the animal's scream, but he could not kill this magnificent creature.

He waited for the horse to settle, then he leapt at the knight, dragging him to the ground. The knight staggered but did not fall, his sword raised and at the ready. Rory circled him, leaning back out of reach when the knight thrust forward, then slashing at the man's knees, and missing when the knight moved away.

They parried each other's blows, their swords clashing together in shivering metallic squeals, falling away, only to be lifted again. The rest of the world faded. Rory saw only this man, this knight, this opponent, who seemed to personify all of England's efforts, his persistence and refusal to yield earning both Rory's hatred and respect.

Finally, one of Rory's blows landed, and another, and the knight staggered backward, the wounds to his arm and leg forcing his sword to fall and he to lurch to the side. Rory waited while the man recovered and once again faced his sword.

The knight's blade tore a hole in Rory's arm mail. The wound was not deep, but it bled profusely, his blood streaming down to his hand, making his grip tenuous. The knight struck again, high, hitting Rory with the flat of the blade on his temple. The metal of his helmet dug into his skin, and blood gushed into his eyes. He smeared it away. The knight swung again, but too high.

Rory gripped his sword with both hands and swung wide, feeling his sword hit the other's side and sink into flesh. And then again, the same blow, this time hitting the knight's sword. It flew from the knight's hand. Rory leapt forward, his blade at the man's throat, forcing him to his knees. He ripped the knight's visor up.

Henry de Boyer looked back at him.

Rory froze, a roaring in his ears. He tore his helmet off and let it fall to the planks of the bridge. And saw Henry's surprise, heard his quick intake of breath.

"Rory MacGannon. Of course. How could we not meet here?"

"Henry de Boyer. How could we not?"

Rory shifted his grip on his sword, and Henry gave it a glance, then looked into Rory's eyes.

"Do it. Take your prize, sir."

Isabel's face swam before Rory, laughing, lifting the crown of pine boughs. The Holly King and the Oak King. All that had happened since.

He shook his head. "I cannot. Stand up, Henry."

"We are enemies, sir. Your side has won the day. Do it."

Rory glanced around then to see that Henry was right. The fighting was all but over. On the shore, the Scots were raising their voices in victory cries.

"I cannot, Henry. You will have to live."

De Boyer struggled to his feet. Rory almost reached to help him, but he did not, watching as the knight at last stood upright. They stared at each other. Rory sheathed his sword.

"Ye'll be a prisoner, Henry, as I was. I'm hoping we treat ye more kindly."

Henry opened his mouth to answer, then jerked forward, his body falling into Rory's from the blow to his back. His mouth worked, and he slumped heavily.
Rory
clasped Henry to him, looking over Henry's head and into the eyes of a young man—a boy, really, his eyes wild. The boy let out a triumphal shout and raised his ax to strike again.

"No!" Rory shouted, dragging Henry back with him.

He was too late. The blade fell, knocking them both to the bridge with the force of it. Rory pushed Henry off him, then leaned over the knight. Henry took a quivering breath.

"Our rivalry is over, sir. I yield to you," he said.

His eyes rolled up in his head. He exhaled, slowly. And then Henry de Boyer died.

"I'm sorry, sir," the boy said. "Did ye want to ransom him?"

Rory could not speak.

The world was celebrating their victory. The people, who had been noticeably absent earlier, came streaming from the hillsides and villages. Rory watched them join the Scots. Around him he heard prayers being uttered in several languages, priests, some of whom had fought with them, giving the Last Rites. The groans of the injured and dying mingled with the prayers. Victory.

Rory looked down at his hand, covered with blood. Some his, some Henry's, mingled in death as they never would have been in life. He saw his father, pushing through the crowd toward him, and Magnus on the far side of the river, bending over someone on the ground. And there were Kieran and Davey, a wounded man's arms over their shoulders. William, being lifted atop men's shoulders.

Alive. Victory. He felt nothing.

Few of the English forces were left. The Scots took no prisoners. Some of the foot soldiers threw off their
armour
and swam across the river to safety, and many still on the far side of the river turned and ran for their lives. In the castle, the English commander called for his men to retreat, and they abandoned the castle, riding southward instead of aiding the stricken army.

Rory rode with William and the others, harrying the English all the way to the banks of the River Tweed, greatly reducing their ranks.

And then they turned north. It was over.

He sat with the others that night, in the Great Hall of Stirling Castle, drinking the finest wine he'd ever had and tasting none of it. Victory was not sweet. It tasted like dust in his mouth.

William was dancing now, his long limbs moving like creatures themselves, his laughter mingling with the others'. Magnus was there with him, and Kieran. Liam was seated by the wall with Gannon and Davey. Somewhere a woman laughed, the sound merry and strange in the sea of men's voices. Outside men were still dying of their wounds, and the dead lay in rows to be buried. And Andrew de Moray battled yet again, struggling to stay alive after being badly wounded. The Scots had suffered few other casualties. Ninety thousand men and few Scots among the dead. He should be crowing with the others, but he could not stand any more. He left the hall, left the castle. He made his way to the bridge, standing at the spot where Henry had died, and stared at the water. Remembering.

"What brutes we men are, aye?"

His father's voice came from behind him. Rory did not turn as Gannon came to stand at his side. Around him men were dragging bodies from the battlefield, laying them in long rows and removing the valuables.