Such a connection was highly desirable and Humphrey’s young nephew, had
the sudden wild urge to bring greater glory not only to the family but on himself and so win the admiration of his influential uncle.
There was Robert the Bruce, the King of the Scots, already a legend, and de Bohun remembered the old and honoured custom that battles could often be
settled by single combat and that if the leader of an army could be thus slain, the battle all but won.
What honour would befall the de Bohun family and in particular, Sir Henry
if he called out the mighty Bruce and slew him? And there he was seated on a small grey mare― with nothing but a battle-axe in his hand and the only reason he could be seen to be the King was due to the golden circlet he wore over his helmet.
Young Sir Henry rode forward.
Robert the Bruce was taken momentarily by surprise. He glanced at the
young rider magnificently equipped on a fine warhorse, armed for battle. It was madness to answer the challenge. He was seated on his steady grey mare. She was agile and surefooted in marshy land but how could she stand up to this mighty armoured figure?
To refuse the challenge was unthinkable yet to take it was perhaps
foolhardy. But he must take it. He could imagine the rejoicing there would be in the English ranks if it was said he was afraid to ride out against the young knight.
He had to go into the attack and he had to act promptly.
He heard the gasp of those around him as he spurred the grey mare and rode out to meet de Bohun.
‘Madness, madness!’ murmured Douglas and he thought: Where will this
day end? Randolph on the point of being taken by the English, the King accepting this unequal challenge―
The hoofs of the warhorse pounded the earth as de Bohun, lance ready, came thundering towards Robert the Bruce.
The Scots watched with fear, the English with exultation. There was
scarcely an English soldier who did not wish he was in de Bohun’s shoes. His name would be remembered forever.
Then the surprise. The lance should have pierced the Bruce’s heart but it did not for with incredible agility he swerved at the important moment. The lance thrust missed him and raising himself in his stirrups Bruce lifted his battle-axe and brought it down on de Bohun’s head which was all but cleft in two.
The Bruce back to his men. They surrounded him.
‘My lord, you could have been killed. This could have been the end.’
He looked rueful. ‘I have broken my battle-axe,’ he said, ‘It was a good
one.’
Inwardly, he was exultant. He could imagine what effect this would have on the enemy and his own soldiers for that matter.
They would regard it as a good augury and when a small army faces a large
one, auguries are very welcome.
Douglas had witnessed the King’s adventure and, considering it extremely -
rash, decided that he would himself take action. He was not going to let
Randolph be entirely annihilated by Clifford’s men no matter what Bruce said.
If the King could act rashly an impulse so would Douglas. The King had risked his life for a gesture. Well Douglas was going to do all in his power to see that Randolph did not lose his.
He summoned his men and rode swiftly towards the castle where the
fighting between Randolph and Clifford was still going on, but as he approached he could scarcely believe his eyes for the ground was littered with the English dead and he could see that Randolph was not only holding his own, but winning the day.
‘Hold!’ cried Douglas. ‘We will not help him. To do so would be to take
from him the honour which is his.’
He was right, even as he stood there watching, the English cavalry— or at
least that which could get away― was galloping off with some Scots in pursuit.
It was like a miracle.
Randolph had driven off the proposed attack on Stirling.
‘God is smiling on us this day,’ said Douglas.
―――――――
Night fell on the camps. The English had been sobered by the death of de
Bohun and the defeat of the cavalry on the way to the castle, but not unduly so.
They outnumbered the Scots and the spirit of Great Edward marched with them.
On that Monday, the twenty-fourth of June of the year 1314, as dawn broke
the Scottish army heard Mass performed by Maurice, Abbot of Inchaffray.
Every man was on his knees. Edward, from afar saw this and remarked to
Robert de Umfraville, ‘Do you see? They are kneeling.’
Robert, Earl of Angus since the death of his father in 1307 and who had
fought against the Scots on many occasions and as Earl of Angus was regularly summoned to the Scottish parliaments, knew Scotsmen well and he answered.
‘Yes, my lord, they kneel. But to God, not to us. I tell you this, my lord, that army will either win the day or die on this battlefield.’
‘We must see that they die on the battlefield then, Angus.’
‘My lord,’ went on Angus, who had become anglicised and believed that the
alliance of Scotland with England would be advantageous to both countries and had therefore sworn fealty to the English crown, ‘I know the Scots. They will be great fighters but they lack the discipline of your army. If you feign to retreat beyond the encampment they will rush forward to attack and fall out of order.’
‘Make semblance of retreat!’ cried Edward. ‘Never.’
In his shining armour he felt supreme. He thought momentarily, I wish
Perrot could see me now.
He was going to win. He was going to confound them all, those who had
been critical of him and had sworn that he could never compare with his father.
He glowed with excitement as he sounded the call to charge
Gloucester and Hereford prepared to advance towards the right wing of the
Scots which was under Edward Bruce.
Gloucester muttered: ‘I shall go ahead of you, Hereford.’
Hereford retorted, ‘My lord Gloucester, that will be my place.’
‘You mistake me, my lord,’ cried Gloucester, ‘if you think I shall follow
where you lead.’
As they argued, the Scots advanced and Gloucester with a small company of
men rode forward. It was folly for they found themselves surrounded by Scots and without sufficient support to withstand them. Thus the wrangle had put both Gloucester and Hereford at an initial disadvantage.
The battle had begun.
The English should have had the advantage. Their cavalry was magnificent,
but the Scots employed the custom of the schiltrom which was a formation like a hedge with each man holding his twelve-foot spear before him, so that even the heaviest cavalry must hesitate before throwing itself against those
formidable spears.
The archers provided the worst hazard for the Scots and even the schiltrom could not withstand those showers of deadly arrows which kept falling and
decimating them. The Scots however carried battle-axes beside their arrows which meant that when they had exhausted their supply of arrows they could rush forth with their axes and wreak havoc.
The hours passed and the battle raged. Bruce’s spirits were high. Luck was on his side. He had chosen the right place in which to fight and he was on his home land. The English were exhausted by their journey north; they were not in their native land. There was not a Scotsman who would not have died that day for Scotland for who knew what his fate would be if he fell into the hands of the English?
The sounds of battle were deafening. The knights shouted their war crimes
as they plunged into the fray and spear clanged against spear in the deadly conflict; arrows flying through the air pierced the horses’ flesh, driving the creatures to madden before they died, and the air was filled with the groans of the wounded and dying men; banners trailed on the ground among pennants and broken spears and the grass was spattered with the blood of Scots and English.