Stephen raised his eyes. They were bright with tears. He drew his sword and walked to the head of the Scottish infantry. Wallace was sue he would never see him alive again.
“Hamish!” Wallace shouted toward the schiltrons. “Do you see them?”
“Aye!” Hamish shouted back. Then he called to his father, and the two Campbells stepped in front of the formations of spearmen. They gave a signal; the long pikes bristled into the air, and the formations started forward toward the enemy. Hamish glanced back at Wallace; both men knew the spearmen were the bait here. When they had discussed their strategy around the campfire the night before, Hamish had said, “As soon as we move forward, William, you must ride to the rear of the battlefield. If this feint with the schiltrons doesn’t work, we will be butchered and there is not one thing you could do about it. So at least let me know, know, when we try it, that if it doesn’t work, you’ll still be alive. For our hopes will live only as long s you do.” Wallace had nodded even while feeling he could never deserve such a fiend. Now, as he saw Hamish and his father lead their most loyal Highlanders into battle, William dismounted from his horse and drew his broadsword. He took a place among the Highlander swordsmen, looked back at Hamish. Hamish’s blue eyes were burning bright. His brows knotted into a furious knot. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
He was still laughing as he quickened his step and marched toward the awful weapons of their enemies.
Wallace watched it all unfold in the slow ballet of the battle, the schiltrons moving forward like great lumber animals, the crossbowmen still as coiled serpents, waiting to strike wit their deadly fangs, it was mesmerizing….
But the bowmen were holding their fire.
Wallace scanned the enemy lines and ran to Stephen. “Look just there, riding in from the left!” It was the English heavy cavalry advancing as they had done at Stirling.
“The cant be that stupid to attack the schiltrons again,” Stephen said.
And yet the English heavy cavalry had begun to charge, their heavy horses thundering, shaking the ground. Hamish and old Campbell saw them coming, too, and halted the schiltrons. They jabbed their spears into the earth, bracing them into their deadly trap.
“The charge is a distraction!” Wallace shouted.
“Look at the crossbows!”
Hamish and Campbell could not her him, but Stephen did, and he saw that Wallace was right. The crossbowmen had begun to run forward, intending to close the distance between themselves and their targets as everyone watched the horsemen. And even now the English knights, having learned the lessons of Stirling, were pulling up their mounts before they reached the forest of spears. The horses wheeled and raced back toward the English lines as the crossbowmen stopped, closer than they had been before, and fired their first volley.
They fired hurriedly. The hailstorm of bolts slashed through the air in unison. The bolts fell just short of the front ranks of the schiltrons.
Wallace was waving frantically to Mornay with the Scottish cavalry. Mornay was looking right toward the action, and yet he did nothing! The crossbowmen were reloading; Wallace was screaming. “Charge! Charge them!”
Mornay tugged his reins and led his cavalry away. One by one, like a necklace of gemstones falling from a jilted lover’s hand into a depthless loch, the cavalrymen vanished from the hilltop.
Wallace and Stephen watched in silence as they were abandoned.
Beneath the cluster of royal banners at the center of the English army, Longshanks and his officers saw Mornay and his cavalry melt away. The English general, surprised himself at this development, looked at Longshanks. “Mornay?” the general asked.
“For double his lands in Scotland and matching estates in England,” Longshanks told him.
Wallace and Stephen looked on in agony as the crossbowmen unleashed another volley. The Scottish spearmen, bunched in a tight group, were helpless. The bolts cut through their helmets and breastplates like paper. The Highlanders who has seen Mornay ride away now looked to Wallace. With rising panic, through the wide eyes of the betrayed, they watched as he ran to his horse, leaped up onto its back — and charged alone toward the enemy.
With wild screams, Stephen and the Scottish swordsmen raced behind him.
The English heavy cavalry surged to meet them. Desperate to reach the bowmen, Wallace wove through the cavalry, first steering his horse at an angle across their line of charge, then cutting back before they could shift their heavy lances; he dodged in, slashing with his broadsword, cutting down one knight, then another. The Scottish infantry clawed in after him, dragging down the horses, hacking their riders then running on, following Wallace.
The English bowmen were about to fire again at the schiltrons when their captain saw the Scottish charge bearing down on them. He shouted for them to redirect their fire, and their hasty volley flew.
Longshanks and his generals were watching from the English command pavilion. They had exulted as the first volley had sliced through the schiltrons; they has seen Wallace lead the counterattack into their charging cavalry; they had looked on anxiously as he met and obliterated their horsemen; but now, as the bolts of the second volley cut into the Scots, and one bolt caught Wallace, the breath caught in their throats. Longshanks grabbed a general by the arm. “We have him!” The king cried out, the watched as far below them, Wallace wobbled on his horse, regained his balance, and kept up the charge. The corps of Scotsmen behind him had been riddled by the volley, but they ran on behind him, surging at the crossbowmen.
“My God, can nothing stop them?” the general said as he felt the king’s hand upon his arm become an angry claw. They watched as the crossbowmen, their weapons virtually useless once fighting became hand to hand, tried to flee as the Scots streamed in around them, led by Wallace, looking invincible, cutting huge vicious arcs with his broadsword.
“Full assault! Hold nothing back!” Longshanks ordered. “But take Wallace alive!”
The English infantry, several thousand strong, had already surged into the battle. The general signaled and Longshanks’s third wave — pike carriers, Welsh bowmen, fresh cavalry — began moving forward.
Wallace with blood flowing from the wound in his side, fought his way into the middle of field, where English infantry were now overrunning the schiltron. He hacked them down left and right, reached the Scottish center and found Hamish bent over another soldier. Wallace jumped for his saddle, bashed away the ax that an English footsoldier was swinging at Hamish’s back, and cut the soldier down.
“Hamish! Ham—“ William shouted. And then Wallace saw that Hamish was holding his father, fallen in battle. For a moment Wallace, like Hamish, was frozen at the sight. They had seen old Campbell fight on through all sorts of wounds, the loss of fingers, a hand, an arm, but now he had a gaping wound across his stomach. He was trying to push his son to make him leave him; he was finished.
Wallace’s arrival and stiffened the clansmen in the schiltron, and Stephen’s reinforcements were running up. The Scots were making a stand. Wallace had but a few seconds; he knelt beside Campbell. “Hamish, the horse!” Together Wallace and Hamish lifted old Campbell onto the saddle of his horse, and Wallace shouted at Hamish, “Get him away! Now. Now!”
Hamish obeyed, jumping onto the horse and galloping back toward the rear.
Wallace snatched up the broadsword from the ground where he had thrown it to help Campbell; he looked about him. All around were fallen Highlanders, men he had fought beside at Stirling, some who had joined him at Lanark. Dead now or dying.
Wallace screamed. No words, just a cry of fury. He held his sword high, and his men rallied.