Braveheart Read online

  “Stop!” Lochlan screamed. “Men! Do not flee! Not now! Wait until we have negotiated!”

  But Mornay was scarcely surprised by what he saw.

  “They won’t stop, and who could blame them?” he said quietly.

  But suddenly they did stop. William Wallace came riding into the mob of men followed by his clan. He was striking, charismatic, his head without a helmet, his hair flowing in the wind, his powerful arms bare, his chest covered not in armor but a commoner’s leather shirt. Wallace rode a swift horse like he was born on it.

  The entire Scottish army watched in fascination a Wallace and his men rode through them toward the command hill. A half dozen of the men with Wallace were also mounted. The rest ran in that Highland scurry that was as fast as a horse’s trot; some of them carried on their shoulders mysterious wool-wrapped bundles so long it took three men in a line to carry each.

  The deserting Scots whispered among themselves. The young soldier who, without knowing or intending to, had started it all now frowned a the veteran and wondered, “Could that be William Wallace?”

  “Couldn’t be. Too young. Not big enough,” the veteran told him.

  The common soldiers, already having broken ranks, drifted in clusters up the hill to see the confrontation. As Wallace and his mounted captains reached the nobles, Stephen of Ireland, riding beside him, laughed. “The Almighty says this must be a fashionable fight, it’s drawn the finest people,” Stephen said.

  Lochlan and his noble friends stared at the tall, powerful commoner before them. So this was William Wallace. Wallace started back. “Where is thy salute?” Lochlan said, his noble pride already stinging from the defiance of the rabble.

  “For presenting yourselves on this battlefield, I give you thanks,” Wallace said.

  “This is our army. To join it, you give homage,” Lochlan demanded.

  “I give homage to Scotland. And if this is your army why does it go?!” Wallace reined his horse around to face the mob of sullen men, all ready to desert. For a long moment he said nothing, just sat on his horse and looked down in awe at this thing that had grown beyond anyone’s imagination.

  He glanced at his friends: Campbell, Hamish, Stephen. They had no suggestions; they were just as awed as he was.

  Then a shout came from a grizzled veteran, deep within the ranks of the deserters. “We didn’t come to fight for them!”

  And another man called, “Home! The English are too many!”

  There was a rising clamor of agreement. Wallace raised his hand, and the army fell silent. “Sons of Scotland!” he shouted. “I am William Wallace!”

  “William Wallace is seven feet tall!” the young soldier called.

  “Yes I have heard!” William shouted back. “He kills men by the hundreds! And if he were here, he’d consume the English with fireballs from his eyes and blots of lightning from his ass!”

  Laughter rumbled through the Scottish ranks. It was not a noise that anyone on the battlefield had expected to hear that day. Wallace was smiling, but now the smile left his face.

  “I am William Wallace. And I see a whole army of my countrymen, here in defiance of tyranny! You have come to fight as free men. And free men you are! What will you do with freedom? Will you fight?”

  “Two thousand against ten?” the veteran shouted.

  “No! We will run – and live!”

  “Yes!” Wallace shouted back. “Fight and you may die. Run and you will live at least awhile. And dying in you bed many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance to come back here as young men and tell our enemies that they may take our lives but they will never take our freedom?”

  And the army of common Scotsmen, who only moments before had been trudging away from the battlefield, united in a shout that made the ground shudder. The sound – not the noise of many small creatures but the roar of one great one – quivered in the chest of every man and made him feel a part of something too big to control.

  Down on the plain, English emissaries in all their regal finery galloped over the bridge under a banner of truce. The Scots grew silent watching them come.

  The veteran, ashamed of what he had been doing five minutes before and wishing to justify his actions, pointed out to the bridge and yelled to his comrades, “Look! The English come to barter with our nobles for castles and titles. And our nobles will not be in front of the battle!”

  “No! They will not!” Wallace boomed. He dismounted and drew his sword. “But I will.”

  Slowly the chant began and kept building louder and louder: “Wal--lace ! Wal—lace! Wal-lace!”

  The bagpipers played and pulled the mob back into the clan units. They lifted their weapons – spears and hoes, short swords and axes – toward the overwhelming numbers of the enemy army, and they stood.

  Old Campbell, Hamish, and Stephen moved up beside William. The two Scots, father and son, were inward and quiet, but the Irishman’s tongue was quick, and he said what they were all thinking: “Fine speech. Now what do we do?”

  “Bring out our spearmen and set them in the field,” Wallace said and watched his three friends gallop to the center of the front row of the Scottish battle line, where their clan had taken up a position.

  Mornay rode over to Wallace bringing the horse he had dismounted and extended its reins to him, an invitation to join the prebattle talks. Wallace mounted up and rode out with the Scottish nobles to the near end of the bridge, where the English contingent was waiting.

  The two groups of riders met. Cheltham, a black-bearded noble whose square face bore the scars of previous battles and who would be expected to lead the English charge should this confrontation result in actual battle, glared at Wallace; Could this fierce-looking commoner be who Cheltham thought he was? Cheltham knew the others: “Mornay. Lochlan. Inverness,” he said, nodding to each.

  “Cheltham,” Mornay said, “this is William Wallace.”

  Cheltham refused to look at Wallace again. “Her are the king’s terms,” he said brusquely. “Lead this army off the field, and he will give you each an estate in Yorkshire, including hereditary title, from which you will pay him an annual duty of –“

  “I have an offer for you,” Wallace broke in.

  Cheltham tried to ignore this crude interruption.

  “—From which you will pay the king an annual duty ---“

  Wallace pulled his broadsword and snapped its point to within an inch of Cheltham’s throat. “I said I have an offer for you!” Wallace shouted, and Cheltham’s eyes flashed in fury and disbelief at this violation of their protocol.

  “You disrespect a banner of truce?!” Lochlan sputtered in similar outrage.

  “From his king”! Wallace asked. “Absolutely. Here are Scotland’s terms. Lower your flags and march straight to England, stopping at every Scottish home you pass to beg forgiveness for a hundred years of theft, rape, and murder. Do that, and your men shall live. Do it not, and every one of you will die today.”

  Cheltham barked at the Scottish nobles, “You are outmatched! You haven’t even any cavalry! In two centuries no army has won without it!”

  ”I’m not finished!” Wallace roared, “Before we let you leave, your commander must cross that bridge, stand before this army, put his head between his legs, and kiss his own ass!”

  The outraged Englishman wheeled his horse around and led the rest of the negotiating contingent in a gallop back to the English battle line.

  Wallace and the Scottish nobles watched them go.

  Mornay was the first to break their silence. “I’d say that was rather less cordial than he was used to.”

  “Be ready, and do exactly as I say,” Wallace told them and reined his horse back to the Scottish army.

  The noblemen looked around at each other and then followed.

  Wallace galloped to the center of the Scottish line and dismounted where his men were breaking out new fourteen-foot spears. Hamish, eyebrows raised, looked expec
tantly at Wallace: had he done as they planned? Wallace smiled faintly and nodded.

  “I wish I could see the noble lord’s face when he tells him,” Hamish said.

  Over on the English side of the field, within the shadow of the castle, Lord Talmadge’s blood boiled from Cheltham’s report. His eyes narrowing with rising fury, he glared toward his enemy and saw Wallace’s spearmen taking up a position on the far side of the bridge. And at that very moment the Scots turned, lifted their kilts, and pointed their bare backsides at the English! To Talmadge it seemed they had aimed the demonstration at him personally!

  “Insolent bastard! Full attack! Give no quarter! And I want this Wallace’s heart brought to me on a plate!” Talmadge ordered.

  Cheltham spurred his horse to form up the attack. The English army moved forward toward the bridge, so narrow that only a single file of riders could move across it at any time. The English cavalry, two hundred knights, crossed the bridge quickly and formed up on the other side of the river.

  And with that one simple repositioning of his forces, Talmadge had put the Scots in the most dangerous situation they could have faced. The cavalry was his most formidable threat, the one for which no army had a counter. The Scots’ only hope would have been to try to stop the riders at the narrow bridge, where, had the Scots resisted, an assault of archers and infantry would have been required to get the horsemen across. But the Scots had not even contested the maneuver! It was clear to Talmadge that Wallace was not only insolent but a fool.

  Things looked terrible to the Scots themselves. And it was then that Stephen turned to Wallace and said, “The Lord tells me He can get e out of this mess. But He’s pretty sure you’re fooked.”

  Talmadge and his men started across the river in dismay. Still the Scots were doing nothing. “Amateurs!” Talmadge spat in disgust and dismay. “They are neither wise enough to contest us or smart enough to flee! Send across the infantry!”

  “M’lord, the bridge is so narrow—“ Cheltham began.

  “The Scots just stand in their formations! Our cavalry will ride them down like grass. Get the infantry across so they can finish the slaughter!” Talmadge demanded.

  The English leaders shouted orders and kept their en moving across the bridge. Talmadge gestured for the attack flag.

  The cavalry on the other side of the bridge saw the signal banners commanding their attack. They took the lances from their squires and lowered the visors of their helmets. They were proud, plumed, glimmering; their huge horses, draped in scarlet and purple, held them high above the mortals who stood on mere earth. They looked invincible.

  With a great shout, the knights charged.

  To the Scots who stood and watched them come on, the noise of the horses’ hooves was like thunder of a storm that no army could weather. No one on the battlefield had ever seen anyone even try. Formations of men, feeding on each other’s will to fight or poisoned by each other’s panic, had always scattered, for there was no known weapon for footsoldiers to resist the charge on open ground and no amount of courage to stand and face it.

  And yet the Scots stood.

  On and on the horses came. The rising thunder of the charge mixed with the sound of a heart hammering in every Scottish chest.

  The lances lowered, an onrushing cluster of death.

  Closer…..closer…..closer.

  Wallace jumped to the front of his clan. “Steady!” he shouted. “Hold….hold….now!”

  The Scots snatched their fourteen-foot spears from the ground and snapped them up in unison, thrust forward in ranks, the first line of men bracing their spears at an angle three feet above the ground, the men behind them jabbing theirs at a five-foot level, the men behind holding theirs at seven feet.

  The English knights had never seen such a formation. Their lances were useless—too short! —and it was too late to stop. The momentum that was to carry the horses smashing through the men on foot now became suicidal force; knights and horses impaled themselves on the long spears like beef on skewers.

  Talmadge could see it; but worse was the sound, the scorching screams of dying men and horses, carried to him across the battlefield.

  Wallace and his men now stood protected behind a literal wall of fallen chargers and knights. Wallace drew his broadsword and led his swordsmen out onto the field where they attacked knights that were still alive. Most were off their horses; a few had managed to pull up their mounts. But the armored knights moved like turtles; the Scots swarmed around them, and the field ran with blood.

  Suddenly all was quiet. Wallace lifted his huge, blood-stained sword, faced Talmadge in the distance, and bellowed, “Here I am, English coward! Come and get me!!”

  Talmadge was even more enraged –and his judgment was gone. “Press the infantry across!” he barked at Cheltham.

  “But m’lord!”

  “Press them!”

  Cheltham gave a wave, and the vanguard of the English infantry began to stream onto the bridge.

  Wallace smiled. He grabbed Hamish by the shoulder. “Tell Mornay to ride to the flank and cross upstream. Wait! Tell him to be sure the English see him ride away!”

  Hamish hurried off with the message.

  The Scottish nobles watched from their position on the abbey hill as the English infantry began moving across the little bridge. Behind them were their personal contingents of cavalry, a few dozen riders lightly armed. Having had not part in the first great shock of the battle, they felt unable or unwilling to do anything more than watch – and criticize.

  “If he wait much longer, he will squander the brief advantage he gained,” Lochlan was saying as Hamish galloped up.

  “Ride around and ford behind them!” Hamish ordered.

  The nobles did not challenge Hamish’s insolence; rather they questioned the wisdom of the instruction that they knew had come from Wallace. “We should not divide our forces!” Mornay protested.

  Hamish exploded. “Wallace says do it! And he says for you to let the English see you!”

  “You listen to me, you common bastard!” Lochlan spat, but Mornay understood the strategy and put his hand on Lochlan’s arm.

  “They shall think we run away,” Mornay said. “He has got them. He has planned everything from the first moment.” He looked at Hamish. “Tell Wallace we will do it.”

  Mornay stood high in his stirrups, waved grandly to his men, and led them in a gallop around the back side of the hill.

  Lord Talmadge saw the Scottish nobles ride off and shouted to Cheltham, “See! Every Scott with a horse is fleeing! Hurry! Hurry! Press them! Lead them yourself!”

  Cheltham spurred his horse forward and herded half the English arm across the fiver.

  Wallace lifted his sword, “FOR SCOTLAND!”

  He charged down the hill toward the soldiers massing on the north side of Stirling bridge. And the whole Scottish army followed him.

  The English soldiers on the Scottish side of the bridge could not stand against the ferocity of the attack. They were outfought, outled, and outnumbered. They were thrown back toward the bridge itself, their only lifeline.

  Talmadge was shocked at the butchery of his forces. It seemed impossible to him. It was a scene so horrible, so unthinkable to him that he could barely look, and yet he could not pull his eyes away. He felt his other field commanders at his shoulder, wanting instructions. It was hard to think. “Press reinforcements across!” he ordered them.

  The flagmen signaled; the English infantry leaders, desperate to save their friends on the other side, tried to herd more of their footsoldiers onto the bridge, turning the already jammed passage into a plug of writhing humanity.

  On the other side of the bridge, Wallace and his men were carving through the English vanguard. The Scots had already reached the bridge itself. Now everything was chaos. The English footsoldiers on the bridge who tried to shove their way forward to fight were pressed back by those trying to flee the hacking Scottish blades. Talmadge’s cavalry was gone. His arch
ers, with fiend and foe so tightly packed, were useless. And his infantry had a deathgrip on itself.

  But Wallace and his men moved only in one direction; forward. They hacked at anything they could reach: necks, faces, backs, it didn’t matter. The waters below the bridge ran red with blood.

  “Use –use the archers!” Talmadge sputtered.

  But the archers saw that they were useless now, and they had begun to smell the stink of panic rolling through the army; they were edging back, looking for a route to flee.

  On the bridge, the Scots kept carving their way through the English soldiers – nothing could stop them. Wallace was relentless; each time he swung, a head flew of an arm. Hamish and Stephen fought beside him and swung the broadsword with both hands. Old Campbell lost his shield in the grappling; and English swordsman whacked at him and took off his left hand, but Campbell battered him to the ground with his right one and stabbed him.

  The Scots reached the English side of the bridge and began to build a barrier with the dead bodies.

  The English were not without courage. Cheltham, rallying the infantry blocked on the castle side of the bridge, led the desperate counterattack. The Scots made an impenetrable barrier of slashing blades, yet still Cheltham kept coming. As his men reeled back, he urged his horse into a gallop, intending to punch a hole through the Scottish barricade…

  And Wallace stood to his full height, swung the broadsword, and hit Cheltham with a vertical slash that parted his helmet, his hair, and his brain.

  Talmadge had seen enough; he wheeled his horse about and galloped away.

  “Bloody coward!” his remaining general spat. But there was no time for that; he had to save the army. “We are still five thousand!” he shouted. “Rally! Make a stand!”

  The English forces below the castle were trying to form up for a second counterattack, just a Mornay and the Scottish horsemen, having forded the river high upstream, came crashing into the English flank. The English reinforcements were taken completely by surprise.