History Corner: The Battle of Stirling Bridge

Or When the English Brought 9,000 Men to a Bottleneck and Still Lost

It’s September 1297, and two very grumpy English commanders are about to discover the consequences of underestimating a man with a broadsword, a national grudge, and excellent terrain.

Let’s set the scene. The English crown, led by Edward I (also known as Longshanks, or King “I will Colonise Anything That Moves”), had just spent the better part of the 1290s asserting dominance over the Scots. After all, Scotland was in chaos following the death of their king, Alexander III, and his heir, the Maid of Norway (a four-year-old with an unfortunate name and an even more unfortunate lifespan), had died on her voyage over. Cue a royal-free-for-all.

Edward, ever helpful and definitely not opportunistic (ahem), offered to mediate the succession crisis. And by “mediate,” I mean “install his own puppet king.” That king was John Balliol, who quickly realised that being king in name and doormat in practice wasn’t exactly the gig he’d been after. When Balliol dared to assert Scottish independence, Edward said “absolutely not,” marched north in 1296, and flattened the place. He removed the Stone of Scone (yes, like the scone, but rock hard and spiritually important), stuck it under his throne in Westminster Abbey, and declared Scotland officially under English rule. Problem solved, yeah? Not quite. Because Edward forgot one tiny detail: the Scots were absolutely fuming. 

And into this fury stepped William Wallace. Not the kilt-wearing, blue-faced screaming man from Braveheart. Wallace was probably the son of a minor noble family, well-educated, and deeply, violently opposed to English occupation. After killing an English sheriff in Lanark (some say because the man executed Wallace’s wife, so fair enough), he went on a Robin Hood-style rampage. Meanwhile, in the north, Andrew Moray was doing the same thing – leading an uprising against English forces near Inverness.

While Wallace’s name rings through history classrooms and Mel Gibson monologues, Moray is the quiet co-revolutionary, the kind of guy who read Sun Tzu before breakfast and reminded everyone to pack extra rope for tactical retreats. His rebellion in the north was just as pivotal, if not more so, but he didn’t get the Hollywood treatment – just a nasty injury and a statue fewer.

By the summer of 1297, these two rebel leaders joined forces. Wallace brought fire and charisma; Moray brought military strategy. Together, they were about to show Edward’s army exactly what happens when you overlook a rebellion.

Enter the Battle of Stirling Bridge.

The English had assembled a force over 9,000 – a terrifying mixture of cavalry, infantry, and poorly-informed optimism – under the command of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, and Hugh de Cressingham, the English treasurer in Scotland (a man whose main qualification for war appeared to be “being very annoying about taxes”). They’d marched north to crush Wallace and Moray’s rebellion once and for all.

This was no mere skirmish, either. This was the full English battering ram: knights in chainmail, longbowmen ready to puncture anything with a pulse, and a treasure-backed force that thought victory was a simple stroll away. The army had the budget of a blockbuster (rather fitting if you ask me) and the humility of a peacock at a vanity contest.

Wallace and Moray? They had maybe 6,000-8,000 men. These weren’t knights or trained soldiers. They were local farmers, artisans, minor nobles and angry lads with pikes. They were also extremely strategic. The Scots had taken up position on high ground, watching the English faff about on the southern bank of the River Forth, just outside Stirling. The only way to cross? A narrow wooden bridge, probably about six feet wide, and crucially, only able to fit two men side-by-side. Two. For a force of 9,000. This was not, I think we can agree, ideal logistics.

The bridge itself deserves a moment of reflection: it has, after all, given its name to the battle. It was probably rickety. It was definitely creaky. And it absolutely was not designed for thousands of heavily armoured tourists waving their swords. Imagine trying to funnel an entire football stadium’s worth of people through a checkout aisle at Tesco. That’s the scale of error we’re dealing with here.

Now, Surrey and Cressingham could’ve waited. They could’ve looked at the terrain, assessed their enemy, and built a temporary ford upstream. In fact, their Scottish allies begged them to do exactly that. But that would require patience, caution, and not underestimating the Scottish. Instead, they chose vibes. On the morning of 11 September, the English began crossing the bridge. Slowly. Not a strategic manoeuvre, more a poorly choreographed medieval conga line.

 It took hours. One can only imagine the mood of the English soldiers stuck in the rear ranks, who, despite the English love of a good queue, were probably grumbling and moaning (as we do best) as they waited for a chance to even see the battlefield. If battles had Tripadvisor reviews, this one would probably be something like: “Would not recommend. Long wait times. Terrible communication. Ambushed violently before breakfast.”

 Wallace and Moray watched it unfold from the nearby Abbey Craig. They let the English cross. They waited until roughly half of Surrey’s army – including Cressingham and the vanguard – had made it over. Then they pounced. And by pounced, I mean obliterated.

 The Scots came charging down the hill in tight schiltron formations – essentially mobile spike pits made of angry men with long spears – and tore through the English forces trapped between the river and the marshy ground. With nowhere to retreat and nowhere to regroup, the English vanguard was massacred. Men fell into the river. Horses panicked. The bridge collapsed or was perhaps sabotaged. The remaining English forces on the other side could do nothing but watch. 

It must have been awful as an English solider waiting to cross, seeing your comrades getting minced from a safe but helpless distance. Some reportedly tried to wade across the river to help. That went about as well as you’d expect, considering they would have been wearing 60+ pounds of metal, not the most common material used for flotation devices.

 Cressingham, the deeply unpopular taxman, was killed – and, according to several sources, flayed. Legend has it, Wallace had a sword belt made out of his skin, which may be exaggerated, but frankly feels very on-brand (anyone else glad Ramsey Bolton didn’t take inspiration?). Even in death, Cressingham was irritating. The English army was decimated. Some estimates suggest up to 5,000 of their men were killed. Wallace and Moray lost fewer than 150. Surrey fled the field so fast he barely took time to pack up his camp. Scotland had scored its first major victory in the Wars of Independence, and it was spectacular.  

It wasn’t just the scale of the win; it was also how humiliating it was for the English. We’re not talking a scappy pub brawl here. It was the equivalent of an under-12s school team dunking Real Madrid. At breakfast, England thought they had it in the bag. By lunch, the bag was on fire.

In the immediate aftermath, Wallace’s status soared. He was named Guardian of Scotland in the name of King John Balliol, who was still imprisoned in the Tower of London. Moray, sadly, had been fatally wounded during the battle and died a few months later. But their combined efforts had changed everything. The English had been humiliated. A people considered disorganised,and inferior had just pulled off a masterclass in guerrilla warfare and tactical terrain usage.

And it wasn’t just a military win; it was a psychological one. Wallace became a symbol of national resistance. The Scots had faced down the full might of English imperial ambition and walked away victorious and emboldened.

 Now, don’t get too romantic. Wallace’s fortunes would crash down fast. In 1298, Edward I returned to Scotland in person and defeated Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk. Wallace would spend the next seven years evading capture before finally being betrayed, taken to London, and, given the king of over-the-top executions only the English could invent, hanged, drawn, and quartered, with bits of him distributed across the realm. But Stirling Bridge remained the high point. A masterstroke of planning, patience, and picking your moment. The English had all the weapons, all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men (don’t sing) – and it counted for nothing because Wallace and Moray used terrain like a third army.  

To this day, it serves as one of history’s most underrated “we told you so” moments. A bridge too far? No. Just the wrong bridge, on the wrong day, against the wrong Scots.

 And if you’re wondering where Edward I was in all this carnage? He was down in the south, dealing with France and Wales, and probably threw another tantrum about who dared breathe without permission. Stirling Bridge would have infuriated him. So much so, in fact, that his campaign the following year was swift, brutal, and very much designed to prove a point. Still, the damage was done. Wallace and Moray had proved that resistance wasn’t futile. The mythos of Scotland’s fight for independence had been born, and it all started with one narrow bridge and two men who saw an opportunity in English arrogance.

Today, there’s a Wallace Monument near the battlefield that looks like a Gothic rocket ship and is deeply beloved by Scots and confused tourists alike. There’s no trace of the original bridge (clearly), but the symbolism remains. A bridge too narrow, an army too confident, and two commanders who knew exactly when to strike.

The Battle of Stirling Bridge is a warning label for hubris. A reminder that even in a world of knights and castles, sometimes the smartest weapon is just letting your enemy walk into a trap of their own making.

And that, friends, is how you win a war with a hill, a pike, and a whole lot of righteous fury.

Katelyn is an editor, aspiring author, and history fanatic living in the south of England. She graduated from the University of St Andrews with a degree in English and is now attempting to navigate the chaotic world of adult responsibility in the ways she knows best: writing and having fun. When she’s not sat at her desk working or writing, she can be found swimming, embroidering, or spending time with her loved ones.