Heartsick, the father reached across the table, then stayed his arm, unwilling to touch his son with his leperous hand.
“My son. Look at me. I cannot be king. You, and you alone, can rule Scotland. What I tell you, you must do — for yourself and for your country.”
Young Robert held his father with his eyes and did not look away.
46
The plains of Falkirk lay not far from Stirling. Had the mists not been so heavy that morning, Wallace could have looked into the distance and seen the hill where the castle stood and the smaller one opposite it, where he had rallied the Scots to victory.
Longshanks had chosen to assemble his army upon a different field, not only fleeing the ghosts of that last defeat but escaping the battlefields features of river and bridge that Wallace had used so effectively the first time.
Wallace did not like this ground. It was open and smooth and offered no natural obstacles he could use for maneuver and strategy to neutralize the superior numbers of the English. He wanted to fight anywhere but here. Stirling would have suited him again, with it’s bridge and he could seal and its river he could use to be out of range of the arrows. When his scouts told him where the English were heading, his first thought had been to slide the Scottish army back, pull the English into a forest, a bog, a hillside, an ambush, to choose his own day and his own ground.
But the roving bands of Highland clansmen discovered the English army for themselves, and when word was passed through the Scottish ranks that the enemy was close, it was more than their instincts could bear. They moved in the direction of Falkirk without ever receiving he order to march and in fact did not march at all but raced to the battlefield, each clan competing to be the first in position to fall on their hated foes and drive them from the land.
Wallace and his lieutenants rode to the highest ground they could find and looked out over the wide smooth stretch of grass that was about to become a vast killing field. Wallace was grave.
He heard the Highlanders chanting, banging their shields in high sprits only segments of the English army were visible through the mists, but it was clear they were there in great numbers. The Highlanders were unafraid; the more English to kill, the better.
Old Campbell looked at Wallace’s grim face and said, “If we don’t begin the battle soon, the clans will start it for themselves.”
Wallace looked toward the crest of the next hill to his left. Mornay was there at the head of his cavalry. Of all the nobles, only Mornay had come. But he had brought nearly a hundred rides, all armed and battle-ready. “At least we have Mornay,” Hamish said.
Wallace looked to the hill on his right. It was bar. He had sent a message to the Bruce asking him to anchor the right of the Scottish battle line, but he had received no reply. Seeing Wallace’s face as he gazed toward the empty hill, Hamish said, “The Bruce is not coming, William.”
“Mornay has come. So will Bruce.”
There was no time to send more messages, no time to argue, no time to plead. There would be no negotiations at this battle; it would all be settled with blood. Wallace peered across the field, trying to see the English positions, trying to see all the way to Longshanks and into his mind. “They will attack first,” he said. “That’s what I would do, before we can get set, before any of our reinforcements reach us.”
Hamish wanted to argue that there would be no reinforcements, but William seemed so sure there would be, as if he could, by believing strongly enough, make the Bruce appear from the mists. Wallace began giving orders, deploying his troops. Looking to Hamish and old Campbell he said, “You lead the schiltrons into the center of the field; we can’t let them charge through our middle.” He turned to Stephen, “You back the spearmen with the infantry. Tell the Highlanders to charge with their broadswords against anything that approaches the schiltrons.” He seized a mounted messenger by the shoulder. “Tell Mornay to watch for the ranks of crossbowmen. He must charge their flanks at the first sign of them on the field. Now go!”
Everyone hurried to take their places. Wallace looked toward the bare hill, where the Bruce was to be. It was Scotland’s most desperate hour. Everything was against them now. And yet if the Bruce would come, if they could stand together, noble and common, on that fields, then whatever else happened would be Scotland’s victory in the eyes of William Wallace.
Longshanks and his generals sat in their saddles, arrayed for battle, banners flying, pikes at attention, faceplates lowered, all ready for battle. And yet they waited. There was no hurry at all. Longshanks was anxious to see the battle begin, but he waited — precisely because he wised to see it. Until the mists lifted, he would not begin.
It was not long before the winds began to rise. Banks of fog, like low clouds, drifted before their eyes, then opened to reveal the Scots streaming into the plain before them. Longshanks studied the schiltrons that had so decimated his last army. He marveled at them. Fourteen-foot spears. Such a simple idea. Yet no one had ever tried it before. Because it took courage to stand there before the charge, stand and believe the idea would work when no one had ever seen it work before.
He stood across the field and in the lifting mists he saw the man who had lit the fire of faith and courage and had spread it among his people: William Wallace, alone now on his horse, watching his army move forward.
Longshanks lifted his visor so that his voice could be heard by all around him. “Whatever else happens today, I want William Wallace. Dead or alive. But I want him.”
With a wave of his royal hand, Longshanks sent his army forward.
Wallace saw Longshanks through the break in the mists, saw him stretch forth his long thin arm and wave his troops forward. Longshanks, his enemy, within sight. He could see the king’s cold hatred in the slow, almost languid deliberateness of the gesture. So many men on both sides being sent to their deaths with a dispassionate wave that said, “I am king; it is my will that you give your lives to my purposes, so let us get on with it.”
Wallace spurred his horse down to join Stephen among the ranks of the Scottish swordsmen, behind the schiltrons. “Do you see them yet?” he called, reining to a stop besides his Irish friend.
Stephen was scanning the mists all around the edges of the field. “No, I….. Wait, there!” Wallace looked in the direction Stephen pointed, and sure enough, Stephen was right: moving up toward the schiltrons were blocks of crossbowmen.
The bowmen were still far out of range, even with their new weapons. Stephen shouted for his men to hold their positions; the cavalry would charge them first, then the infantry, hoping to confuse the crossbowmen and diffuse their fire. With Scots bearing down on them from two directions, the Englishmen with their unfamiliar weapons would surely break and run.
But as the crossbowmen marched nearer and the stillness of impending battle descended upon the fields Wallace heard a haunting noise. “Do you hear that?” he said to Stephen.
Stephen nodded and strained harder to peer through the veil of mist. There, behind the bowmen, he saw the blocks of Longshanks’s infantry, wearing kilts and marching to bagpipes. Irish troops.
Stephen of Ireland stared at the approach of his countrymen. Wallace spurred his rose up beside him. Stephen lowered his eyes, ashamed. “So that’s where Longshanks got his solders,” Stephen said. “Irishmen, willing to kill Scottish cousins for the English.”
“Their families are starving, Stephen. They’ll feed them however they can. If you don’t want to fight them –”
“No, I’ll stand with you.”