The great deeds of Edward I. should not go for
naught, they declared. He had won Scotland; his son should not lose it.
Robert Bruce, the rebel chief, had been left alone until he had gathered
an army and nearly made Scotland his own. Only Stirling remained; it
would be to the endless disgrace of England should it be abandoned, and
the gallant Mowbray left without support. An army must be gathered,
Bruce must be beaten, Scotland must be won.
Like the cry of a pack of sleuth-hounds in the ear of the timid deer
came these stern demands to Edward the king. He dared not disregard
them. It might be as much as his crown were worth. England meant
business, and its king must take the lead or he might be asked to yield
the throne. Stirred alike by pride and fear, he roused from his
lethargy, gave orders that an army should be gathered, and vowed to
drive the beleaguering Scots from before Stirling's walls.
From every side they came, the marching troops. England, hot with
revengeful blood, mustered its quota in haste. Wales and Ireland, new
appendages of the English throne, supplied their share. From the French
provinces of the kingdom hosts of eager men-at-arms flocked across the
Channel. All the great nobles and the barons of the realm led their
followers, equipped for war, to the mustering-place, until a force of
one hundred thousand men was ready for the field, perhaps the largest
army which had ever marched under an English king.
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