Logan Hepburn stared down at the new grave in his family’s burial ground. He could almost hear Jeannie’s voice, pleading with him not to leave her. But he wasn’t leaving her. Not really. He was simply answering his country’s call. The queen’s own messenger, bound for Edinburgh from Friarsgate, had stopped some weeks before to pass on Rosamund’s warning of the strife to come. And then the head of his entire family, Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, had sent word of the king’s call to arms. A man didn’t ignore such a message if he were loyal, especially if he were kin to one of the king’s best friends and longtime supporters.
He had gathered twenty-five men, not including his two brothers, Colin and Ian. But when Jeannie learned he was planning to depart she grew hysterical, and nothing he did could calm her. As she was near her time, he decided to give her a few days to grow used to the idea that he was leaving. But he sent his brothers ahead with twenty of his troop, delegating Colin, the elder, captain in his absence. It was almost a week before he could calm his wife and make her understand that this is what a man did when his king required it.
“Your own father and brothers will have answered the royal summons,” he told her. “I have no choice but to go, else I be branded a traitor and shame our earl.”
“They did not teach me this in the convent,” she wept.
“We have been fortunate in having had peace between our two countries for many years,” Logan explained. “But in our country’s history, Jeannie, when the king has called, his subjects have answered. England is our most ancient and bitter enemy.”
“But they have not attacked us!” she cried. “Why must the king attack them? What do we want with English soil, Logan? Explain it to me. Make me understand why you must leave us now!”
“I do not believe the king means to take any of England for his own, wife,” he began. “I think this is a means of forcing Henry Tudor to come home and cease his war against King Louis. If his own realm is in danger, certainly he will leave France and hurry home to defend it. King James will probably withdraw at that point. They will argue over reparations, and peace will come again. There is little danger, I promise you.”
“No war can be fought without casualties, Logan,” Jeannie said. “Even if there is no English army in the north of that land, its citizens will fight the Scots, and men will die. I fear for you, for our children growing up without their father.”
“I have to go,” he said finally. He could waste no more time cosseting her.
“I know,” she told him, resigned, “but still I do not want you to leave me.”
“My brothers and our men are already a week ahead of me, Jeannie,” he said. “I am ashamed that I am not with them. Is this the lesson you wish me to teach Johnnie? That a man should be a laggard in war, in his duty?”
“No! No!” she cried. “Of course not, Logan.”
“Then I must leave you, lass, lest I bring shame upon the family. It is difficult to erase such shame. It lingers for years,” Logan told her.
“Go, but go before I grow frightened again, Logan,” she told him. “Go now!”
“Maggie and Katie will be coming with their bairns. I promised my brothers,” he said to her.
“Aye,” she replied. “They should be here for safety’s sake.”
He hurried from his hall. He hadn’t even kissed her in farewell. He had just gone, relieved to escape, anxious to catch up with Colin and Ian, and eager to join in the fun of an invasion. After gathering up his five remaining men, they set out unaware of what lay ahead of them.
James Stewart had sold off much of his personal wealth in order to purchase the seven great guns he planned to use to chastise the English and make them fully aware of his strength. They were called the Seven Sisters. His brother-in-law, Henry of England, would continue to fight alone, for the pope had received word that the Ottoman ruler was even now planning a large campaign into Western Europe. He sent to James asking him to mediate between the Holy See and King Louis of France. James Stewart chortled with satisfaction, but the English refused to allow his ambassadors through their territory. They would gladly receive his ambassador in London, but he could go no farther, thus rendering him useless. Henry Tudor considered his war against France a holy war, even if the pope no longer saw it that way. Henry Tudor knew what was right, and besides, the pope had written to him saying that he had changed his mind about Scotland acting as an intermediary between him and France. Having been offered no proof of this, James Stewart and his advisers did not believe it.
No more was heard from the pope, and the Scots knew that this was due to the English cardinal who now had his ear. The English were all but at war with the Scots upon the high seas. James Stewart, after many years of devoted service to Christendom, was shunted aside by the pope in favor of a younger man with a great deal of gold, which Henry Tudor was using to buy as much influence as he might. The Venetians were now busy preparing to defend themselves from the Turks, should it prove necessary. King Ferdinand, that wily and dishonest ruler, did nothing but mouth platitudes. France was busy fighting England, and Scotland was alone to fend for itself.
The Earl of Hume went forth to clear the Northumbrian border forts. He did so, but he lost a third of his men to English arrows due to his own neglect in clearing the gorse and bracken from the field where they fought. The English had hidden in this thick undergrowth, rising to ambush the too-confident Scots. Yet despite this, just about every man in Scotland between sixteen and sixty had rallied to the king’s banner. Clansmen from the Isles, clansmen who normally would have fought each other, artisans, merchants, felons who volunteered to serve the king, the sons of the poor, and the sons of the well-to-do all marched side by side with their beloved king.
The king had been visited before he marched down into England by an old crone who demanded to see him and would not be satisfied until she did. Like the king, she had the lang eey.
“Dinna go down into England, Jamie,” she warned him. “Dinna go, for ye shall nae come hame again!” Her glance pierced him. Her finger waggled at him.
But James Stewart knew it. His own second sight had told him this long ago.
The old woman continued with her warning. She grasped his sword hand so tightly he thought she had crushed it at first. His bones, she said, would not return home. And then she made reference to his heirs, who would be desperate to live in a green land, not Scotland, and how two gold rings would make one. That he did not understand, but he thanked her and gave her his royal blessing. At that she stared but a moment into his eyes, and then shaking her head, darted off, leaving the king to ponder what he had not comprehended. Two rings making one? But when the morning came, James IV of Scotland began his final march into history. It was his destiny, and he knew it.
Logan Hepburn was aware of none of this as he rode from his holding in the southwest of Scotland to meet with the king’s forces. The journey was an odd one, for the land seemed to be deserted. Here and there he met up with other men both young and old, and they joined his little band, for their destination was the same. So they traveled through the early autumn rains, moving west and south. They crossed the Tweed River moving into England now, the evidence of the army ahead of them plain to see. They found Ford Castle and its lands about it untouched. The lady of the castle, alone, had been cooperative, and James Stewart had spared her holding, though he had burned her house down as he departed. He remained a few days before moving on to Flodden. And it was there Logan and the men with him found the Scots forces on the ninth day of September.
The mist, the smoke and the heat of battle rose from the field below the hill known as Flodden Edge. On the west side of the hill they found the trees had been cut down and a fort constructed. And it was before that fortress that Logan stood, watching in horror as the battle was coming to its dreadful end. He could see the king’s banner in the mud, which meant the king was dead, for while he lived that banner would remain flying no matter what. His gaze moved over the field, but he
saw no Hepburn flag aloft either. The ground was muddy, and many of the men had fought in their stocking feet because leather boots would have slipped easily on the treacherous ground. The Scots had lost the battle now coming to its close. That was painfully clear to Logan and his companions. The stench of death was everywhere. The laird of Claven’s Carn put his horn to his lips and blew it. The distinctive note the horn sounded would tell any of his own people still alive to follow the sound and come to him. He waited and then blew his horn twice more. Finally, three of his clansmen struggled from Flodden Field and up the hill to where he waited.
“Any more?” he asked curtly. The smell of death surrounded them.
They shook their heads.
“My brothers?”
“Slain, my lord, with the Earl of Bothwell,” one of the men reported, adding, “The English forces are also to the west, my lord.”
“We’ll go north and east then,” Logan said grimly. “Quickly now, lads, before the English start looking about for living prisoners. Take whatever horses and boots you can find for yourselves.” He waited briefly while the trio found mounts and footwear. Then, with a wave of his hand, they cantered off, leaving the battlefield behind. They rode straight for the border. It was imperative they not be caught in England. Their timely exit gave them more chance at survival than those left alive behind them had had. They rode until there was no more light left to see the ground beneath their horses’ feet.
That first night, they made camp beneath the overhanging rocks in a narrow ravine. They lit a small fire beneath the rocks where it was unlikely to be seen. The formation where they sheltered was almost a cave. They had eighteen oatcakes among them. Broken in two, one cake could serve as a day’s rations. Thirty-six pieces divided among the nine men would last them four days. They would be well into Scotland by then and might beg a meal from a local clansman. They would be welcome into any hall with the news they brought. That night, those with whiskey left in their flasks shared it with their companions. They would refill those flasks with water come the morrow.
Around their little fire that first night the three Hepburn clansmen told their laird the story of the battle. Their spokesman was Claven’s Carn’s blacksmith. His name was Alan Hepburn, and he stood six feet, six inches in his stocking feet. His brow furrowed as he remembered.
“The king were a brave laddie,” he began. “He led us all himself, although the Earl of Hume did give a lot of orders. At one point our own earl said loudly that he saw no crown on Hume’s head and he should shut his mouth and let the king command us, for he did it better than any.”
The men listening laughed quietly, those who had not been there picturing it, for they knew their earl very well.
“The battle was fierce,” Alan Hepburn continued. “The English were led by the Earl of Surrey, I was told. The king did not mean to fight in the field. He meant the English to have to come to us on the height, but their wily old commander sent troops around us to the west. The king feared they might get over the border, and none left to defend the farms but old men, women, and very young laddies. Ah, he were a good man, our Jamie was!” Alan Hepburn said, and he wiped the tears forming in his gray eyes. “ ’Twas he who told us to remove our boots, for the ground was slick with mud and we would be in less danger of sliding and falling in our stocking feet.”
“What happened?” the laird asked his blacksmith. “We were well matched, and we should have won the day. Something had to have happened. Did any of the earls withdraw their men?”
The blacksmith shook his head. “Nay. Half the men were down the hill, and then the phalanx was broken, my lord. They began to slip and slide. One grouping fell or tumbled into the other. The mud was treacherous, and many could not arise. The English swooped in on them, and it was slaughter. Your brothers, however, were already with our earl in the midst of the field with the young archbishop of St. Andrews, who was fighting with his father, the king. Much of the clergy avoided direct combat, instead firing the canons, for then they could be said not to have been fighting.”
“You saw my brothers go down?”
“Colm, Finn, and I were battling nearby. The Earl of Bothwell was surrounded, and your brothers rushed to his defense. They were slaughtered,” Alan said. “Hume, the young archbishop, and the king were then slain. The word began to spread that the king had been killed. It took the heart out of the men, my lord, and then we heard your horn. At first we were not certain it was you, but the call came twice again, and so we fought our way from the battlefield to find you,” Alan finished.
“I am ashamed I was not with you,” Logan said.
“Thank God you were not, my lord, for this day we have lost our good king and the flower of Scottish nobility,” Alan told him. “Claven’s Carn needs you, especially as your lad is so young.”
“The new king is not much older,” Logan replied. “God help Scotland now. What of the Earl of Angus? Was he also killed?”
“Nay, my lord,” Alan said excitedly. “The king left old ‘Bell-the-Cat’ Douglas behind, for the queen begged it. She and Bishop Elpinstone do not get along it is said.”
Logan nodded. It had been a wise thing to do.
They had ridden for the next few days, making their way back to Claven’s Carn. When their oatcakes had run out they stopped at a farm, begging a night’s shelter in the warm, dry barn. Both the men and the horses were grateful.
“Can you feed us?” Logan asked the farmer. “We have eaten the last of our oatcakes last night and have had naught this day. I can give you news of the king.”
The farmer nodded. “We’ve not much, but we’ll share,” he said.
“When my men are cared for I will come in and tell you everything I know,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.
The farmer’s wife delegated Alan, who was the largest of the laird’s men, to carry a cauldron of rabbit stew into the barn. She followed, her apron filled with several loaves of bread. The men called their thanks to her as she returned to her cottage and then set about tearing chunks of bread off the loaves, and dipping them into the stew to eat. Their knives speared what tender pieces of meat they could find. Inside the farmer’s dwelling, the laird of Claven’s Carn told of the disaster at Flodden while he ate a bowl of the stew, thinking it was the best he had ever tasted. The farmer placed a small mug of beer before him, and he nodded his thanks.
“So, our Jamie is dead,” the farmer said. “God assoil his good soul.” He crossed himself, as did his wife. “The battle was terrible, then. I could not go. My bairns are not old enough to help, and my wife is again with child.” He hung his head.
“ ’Twas better you remained than became canon fodder,” the laird replied. “My wife is also with child and grew frightened when she knew I must go. I sent my brothers, now slain, and twenty men with the king. When I had calmed Jeannie, I followed, only to reach Flodden at the end. I saw no fighting. Three of my clansmen survived the battle. The others were with me. I am ashamed, for I knew the king. The Earl of Bothwell, the Hepburn of Hailes, was my kinsman. I was married in the royal chapel at Stirling.”
“What was meant to be has come to pass,” the farmer’s wife said softly. “If it was meant that you die at Flodden, you would have. It was not.”
“You have the lang eey, mistress?” Logan asked her.
“Sometimes I see things,” the farmer’s wife said quietly.
He nodded. “The king had the lang eey.”
“I know,” she answered him. And then she said, “I will feed you and your men again in the morning, my lord of Claven’s Carn. And I will give you what oatcakes I can spare. The harvest was good despite the rains, and I can make more for the winter.”
Logan thanked the woman and left the cottage, joining his men in the warm barn. Most were already sleeping soundly in the sweet-smelling hay. Dry for the first time in days, he joined them. Two days later they arrived at Claven’s Carn, where Logan learned that his wife, Jeannie, had died in childbirth, his second son w
ith her. They had already been buried in the family grave site on the hillside. His sisters-in-law sat gossiping in his hall, oblivious and uninterested in Flodden.
“Do you not wish to know of your husbands?” he asked them.
“Had they survived,” Katie, his brother Ian’s wife, said, “they would be with you.”
“Will you not at least weep for them, then?” he inquired of the pair.
“Would it bring them back?” Colin’s wife, Maggie said.
Astounded by their hard hearts, the laird sought out his old nursemaid, who lived in his keep and knew everything that happened within. He found her in her chamber at her loom, weaving and humming as she worked. “What happened, Flora?” he asked her as he sat down on a stool by her side. “How did my wife die and the lad with her?”
Flora turned her face to him, her hazel eyes sorrowful. “The bairn was just a wee bit early according to my calculations, but bairns will come when they will, Logan laddie. The young mistress was frightened with your going. She wept all the time after you left us. She was certain you would be killed and voiced her fears to any and all who would listen. You would die, and she would be left a widow with two children to manage Claven’s Carn for your son, John. She would be the prey of wicked men and robbers who would know she was alone and helpless.”
“Jesu!” he swore softly. “I did not realize she was that frightened.”
“You had to go, Logan laddie,” Flora said. “The lass was convent bred and afraid of her own shadow, though she hid it well from you. She did not wish to shame you. The wee bairn came feet first, but in his struggle to escape his mother’s womb, he became entangled in the cord and strangled. I could not turn him, though I might have been able to if either of your sisters-in-law had helped me. I needed them to aid me, but they would not. They said you would blame them if anything happened, and they could not afford your ill will for they had their own bairns to consider. The women servants were all in their own cottages, as their men were gone. I had no one. The lad was stillborn, and I am sorry. He was a big bairn for all he came early. As for your poor wife, she bled to death. There was nothing I could do, Logan laddie. You know I would have saved her if I could. I am so sorry,” Flora concluded.
Until You Page 36
