Drive far away our wily foe, and Thine abiding peace bestow; If Thou be our protecting Guide, no evil can our steps betide.
In the tight ring of dry-mouthed spearmen, men unflexed a hand from the shaft and crossed themselves. Even if they did not understand the Latin of it, they knew it was a call to God to hold His Hand over them as the coloured talons scarred towards them, paused, then started to coalesce into fat, tight blocks of silver-tipped dazzle.
Deep in the forest of spears, someone was sick.
Peering through the leaves like an animal, Hal saw the horse of the Van gather like wolves, the great bedsheet banners of Lincoln and Hereford smothering the host of lesser pennons of their retinues. They were planning to fall on the centre and Hal grinned through the sweat as he saw the sudden flutter in them; the Selkirk archers had released.
The horsemen bunched; commanders galloped back and forth and, in the still, fly-pocked swelter of the woods, men who knew the muscled sign of it grunted expectantly as the huge blocks started forward at a determined, knee-to-knee walk.
‘Not long afore they find oot,’ Bangtail shouted with glee and was shushed for his pains. Still, the joy of it was hard to keep from bubbling up, Hal thought and almost let out a sharp yell of triumph as the splendid, implacable riders came up over a slight lip – and found the great slew of boggy loch they had not seen before, spread out like a moat in front of the first two schiltron rings.
Confusion. Milling. The Selkirk men let loose again and horses were goaded to plunge and buck, flinging men to the ground with a noise like falling cauldrons. The faint sound of cheers washed up the Hal’s ears, followed by the great tidal roar . . .
Tailed dogs.
Slowly, painfully, the commanders galloping and yelling – even striking shields, Hal saw, so that the whole straggling mass started to turn to the left, towards the Battle of De Warenne, their unshielded side to the arrows as they circled the long strip of muddy marshland that had balked them. Many of them had not put on their full-face helms and were hunched and turned from the arrows as if in a snow storm.
It was a moment to savour – yet Hal saw that all this did was concentrate all the force from the centre to the right of the Scots line, where he and the other Herdmanston riders huddled in the trees.
‘Watch to yer right, lads,’ Sim growled and the men crouched on the patient garrons as De Warenne’s knights came up, wheeled into formation and started in towards the great shield ring – and the Scots knights that blocked the passage between it and the woods. They would pass close to Hal, he saw, funnelled by wood and schiltron spears to a mass the Scots knights could match for frontage – and Hal would lead his twenty riders out into their flank, hoping the flea bite would be enough to unnerve the crush of English knights.
‘God preserve us,’ muttered Ill Made Jock.
‘For ever and ever,’ came the muttered rote response.
‘Lente aleure!
The cry came, faint as lost hope, from the English commanders of the echelles as, one by one from the right, these sub-units began to move off, lances raised.
‘Paulatim.’
The pace picked up slightly, the huge mass of mailled men churning forward, horses snorting and calling out in high-pitched squeals of excitement. Griff shifted under Hal, for he smelled the rank battle stink, felt the tremble – as they came level, the great quake of it came up through the saddle into Hal’s belly. Leaves shook; a twig fell.
‘In the name of all God’s Saints . . .’ someone whimpered.
‘Pongnie.’
One by one the units obeyed and spurred, the great warhorses churning up the ground, the riders bellowing. Yet they were so closely pressed that they could not manage more than an ungainly half-canter, half-trot and still remain knee to knee.
‘Now,’ Hal hissed, watching the distant block of horse, the figure of Wallace head and shoulders above the tallest in it, watched him raise that hand-and-half to arm’s length over his head . . .
Someone broke from the back ranks, speeding off into the woods like a pursued fox. Another joined him. Then another. Wallace brought the sword down and surged forward, trailing a knot of men – twice as many hauled their mounts round and bolted.
The nobiles of Scotland had run after all.