by Alisa Adams
When Alastair and his clansmen entered the camp, scores of other soldiers followed suit. They came in droves: close at the heels of the horsemen followed scores of bearded and burly men. Many of them carried their bows, the deadliest weapon that the mind of man had yet devised, shoving forth from behind their shoulders. From each man’s girdle hung sword or axe, according to his humor, and over the right hip, there occasionally jutted out the leathern quiver, with its bristle of goose, pigeon, and peacock feathers.
Behind these men strode drummers beating their nakirs in a rhythmic cadence, and along with them came trumpeters in parti-colored clothes in a slight imitation of an English army. After them came numerous sumpter-horses carrying cloth, tent-poles, spurs, wedges, cooking kettles, spare arms, horseshoes, bags of nails, and the hundred other things needed when an army marched off into battle.
Further afield children played on the mud-covered ground. Their mothers worked at their chores close by, never once missing a glimpse in their offspring’s direction. Off and on, seated groups of men, women, and children could be found foraging their partner’s scalps for lice and fleas with their hands and a comb. Tradesmen peddled their wares to the soldiers, quartermasters and the nobility. At this hour, in the late afternoon, a plethora of prostitutes sprung forth from their tents in search of their first customer of the day.
“This place looks like a bleedin’ Sassenach army. What happened to the days when we only marched with plaid, rations, and weapons?” said Murtagh, with evident disgust plastered on his features.
“Aye, what are all these women and children doing here?” asked Brice.
“Those’d be the camp followers, son. Some wives follow their husbands into battle, and they bring along their children. Tradesmen find an army camp to be most lucrative, and the more liberal kind of women make a fair copper as well,” said Alastair.
Brice nodded. “I see. Why didn’t we take Ma and Skye with us then?”
“Because I dinnae believe it is the place for them. There is nothing more horrible than a defeated army after a battle then maybe a victorious one. What do ye think the Sassenachs would do if they beat us, eh?” When he saw understanding dawn on his son’s features, he continued, “The English would pillage the camp, raping and killing as they went. Would ye want Skye there? Or yer mother for that matter?”
“No, Da, I would not,” said Brice, feeling an icy shiver skirt over his spine.
“They are best off back at Diabaig and as far away from this butchery as possible,” said Alastair.
“My Laird, my Laird, Laird Alastair Macleod,” yelled a man who walked in their direction at an enthusiastic pace.
Alastair squinted. “Niall, it is good to see ye. Are ye in charge of this madness?” He hailed to Niall Bruce of Carrick, one of Robert the Bruce’s illegitimate sons. They knew each other from previous campaigns and the inevitable nights of revelry that followed such deeds.
“No, that would be the king, my good friend.”
Alastair dismounted and handed the reigns to Brice. He walked over and embraced the other Scot. “Well met, brother.”
“Well met, Alastair; it has been a long time.”
“Far too long. How fare ye? Is that wife of yers still pestering ye?”
Niall hacked out a laugh. “The foul, nagging wench never leaves me alone.”
“That might be because ye never shy away from the lasses, my friend. She has all reason to be suspicious of ye and yer wandering pecker. Not a moment goes by that ye don’t sneak a quick glimpse under their arisads” Alastair slapped him on the shoulder as he would a large pack animal.
Niall grinned. “My reputation precedes me.”
“That’s because ye bed them by the dozen, ye randy ole goat,” interjected Murtagh.
“By God, Murtagh. It is good to see ye too. And right by Alastair’s side as usual. It does me good to see that old loyalties never die,” said Niall, happily.
“Aye, we wouldn’t miss giving the English a good thrashing. And with our laird no less. About time we showed them some Scottish pluck again,” said Mungo, dismounting and grabbing Niall in a bear hug.
“And Mungo; the never faltering Mungo. How fare ye?” asked Niall.
“Got married I did.” A broad smirk tore across Mungo’s face.
“Oh, you poor sod.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. She’s a good woman, she is,” said Mungo proudly.
“And got him by the bawsack, if ye ask me. Poor man can’t do anything without the lass’s permission. Fancy the great Mungo being the dog to a woman. I thought I’d never see the day,” said Murtagh with a fabricated expression of ruefulness on his face while he shook his head. “Times do change; it is so said when a man becomes a whelp.”
“Bite ma bawsack, ye radge wee shite,” hissed out Mungo, lunging for Murtagh’s leg and starting to pull him off of his horse.
“I’d be too late then because yer wife has already tugged the blimen things off of ye,” Murtagh yelled when Mungo dragged him to the ground. He landed with a splat in the quagmire beneath the horses’ hooves. Mungo promptly started to cover him in mud.
“I can see the two of them haven’t changed a bit since I last saw them,” said Niall, laughing from the pit of his stomach. He looked away from the playful banter that to others might seem like one man trying to kill the other and faced Alastair. “Come – the king will be happy to see ye and hear yer words of counsel.”
“Doesn’t he have enough wise men filling his young mind with untruths and false hopes?”
Niall chuckled but soon became serious again. “That’s the reason I want ye there. Ye might talk some sense into the lot of them. Ye have seen more battles than many of us, and ye have a good mind. Currently, no one can agree on anything. Ultimately, the king will make his decision based on who shouts the loudest.”
“That bad, is it?”
“Aye, the only thing everyone appears to agree on is the necessity to march on the English and use this God-given opportunity to defeat them while they are at their weakest. Yet, no one has the courage to say when. They’ve been squabbling over the matter for months now. Did ye ken that King Philippe of France sent word of his worries months ago?”
“I seem to recollect that the Battle of Crécy took place only a short while ago. Why would he have sent word sooner?” asked Alastair.
“Ye are right of course. But as I said, the King of France asked for our aid two months before that ignominious defeat. We’ve been dithering ever since then. King David, advised by Patrick Dunbar, the Earl of March, and Robert Stewart thought it best to wait until the English disembarked most of their soldiers to France. He is now of the opinion that the English have no army to speak of back home.”
“That is sheer folly. King Edward would never leave his lucrative northern towns undefended. He is no fool.” Alastair ran a hand over his chin, emitting scratching sounds because of the stubble that had grown there into an auburn fleece. “What of John Randolph, Earl of Moray? He always had the king’s ear.”
“He finally got his way, only months too late – we march very soon now,” said Niall.
“So, now that we are presumably safe from English reprisals, we finally gather here to honor our commitment to the treaty with the French.” Alastair thought a moment. “Pray it is not too late… as ye say. With the French and their allies defeated on their own soil, there is not much left for them to do.”
“Aye, I ken. If the English get Calais, they will always have a stronghold close to England from where they can launch their future attacks – it will be disastrous for the French, and for us for that matter,” said Niall remorsefully.
“When Calais falls, there will be no end to their hubris,” said Alastair, shaking his head.
“Argh, ye wispy haired, leather-faced, bawbag-eyed wee catamite. I’ll show ye not to cross blades with I,” yelled Mungo.
“Stop, stop, I can’t take it no more; ye are making me pish in my kilt.” Murtagh rolled arou
nd in the dirt laughing. Blood oozed from his damaged nose where Mungo had punched him. “Awa’ n’ bile yer head, ye radge wee shite. You’ll be the death of me with yer pestering.”
“I am glad you two sods are having fun. Make sure the men are billeted and accorded rations – no whoring and drinking too much or I’ll have their hides – yers too for that matter if ye don’t cease with this madness. I am off to see the king and to find out what is in store for us.” Alastair turned to face his youngest son. “It appears ye have the best influence over those two galoots. Pray ye stop this foolish madness. Callum, teach them something useful; I ken ye are able.”
“Aye, Faîther, I will,” said Callum. He stared ahead as his father walked with Niall into the midst of the camp and toward the town beyond. He felt his heart burn with pride at being finally recognized for his talents. His father, at last, saw him as the person he was and he had never felt better in his life.
“He does love ye, brother. If that were not proof enough of it, then I wouldn’t ken what could be. I am proud to call ye my brother, Callum,” said Brice.
“And I,” added Doogle. “Ye are a wee shite that thinks he knows it all, but I love ye.” He looked down at Mungo and Murtagh, covered in mud and nursing their wounds. “Ye best get those two wallopers back in line, lest father has our arses.” He winked. “Best tell them some more about the Romans, eh? That seemed to keep them out of mischief… Something about a stratagem, was it?” Doogle flashed a smile at his younger brother.
Callum laughed. “Oh, Doogle. I ken ye as my brother for years, and yet, ye never cease to amaze me. The blighter may look like he is half asleep, but he hears everything.” He nodded at Brice to give the order. No matter what father had said, he would never usurp his elder brother’s right to command.
“Column advance – we seek our billets and retire for the day.” Brice focused his gaze on Murtagh and Mungo. “The two of ye are worse than a married couple. Clean up and prepare the men. We have work to do.” Brice urged his horse forward alongside Callum.
“Not so tough now, eh? Ye are a pair of ruffians. Look at ye in the dirt. Ye both could do with a wee turn in the burn down yonder,” said Doogle, nudging Murtagh in the chest with his boot before following his brothers.
Behind them, Murtagh and Mungo exchanged glances. “The cubs have become men,” said Mungo.
Murtagh clapped his arm around his friend. “Ye ken, Mungo, men they are, but boys they shall always be.”
“That was very insightful,” said Mungo, nodding as he indicated with his hand that the rest of the men move forward.
“Oh, not really. I thought of it when I was having a wee crap the other day.”
Mungo howled laughter. He immediately regretted it as his ribs ached from where Murtagh had rammed his elbow into them. “Some of the best moments those. I get such epiphanies when I sway my arse over the ground… Do ye want to hear what I thought of last, Murtagh?” he asked as he followed his friend up to his feet.
“Aye, brother.” Murtagh slapped his friend on the back. “Nothing like a good shite to get the mind working.”
“Callum must shit a lot then, eh?”
The two clansmen vented their mirth all the way to the quartermaster who was tasked with the allotment of troop placements and food rationing for the arriving forces. The man in question considered himself to be a veritable star. It was only afterward when they re-joined Callum and the other brothers, did Callum explain that such a function was a rarity in armies of the time. It showed a good commander who made sure his troops were issued supplies and other important things. Generally, soldiers had to forage for their own sustenance from the land.
Of course, none of this had deterred the two brawny clansmen from showing the quartermaster who was in charge. After lifting his kilt and whacking his backside for the better part of five minutes, the members of the clan Macleod were accorded the best billets in the camp.
7
The Eve of War
* * *
Perth, Scotland, September, 1346
* * *
“There will be hardly any men left to defend Northern England. King Edward is too greedy for his own good. While he leads most of his army in France, our forces will sweep south, taking everything of value as we go along,” said King David, enthusiastically.
“Aye, sire, we might even get as far as London and claim this entire island as our own,” said the Earl of March, praising his king. Ribald laughter followed this remark.
“That would teach the English not to underestimate us,” added another noble when the men quietened down.
“Some of England’s most lucrative towns will be at our mercy – Newcastle upon Tyne… Durham… We will march back with the riches of England on our wagons.”
Alastair watched this high-spirited exchange in silence. Everyone of note was present in the tavern located on Perth’s main street: Robert Stewart, the son of the late sixth High Steward of Scotland and Robert the Bruce’s eldest daughter, Marjorie, stood close to the king by the large fire. He was King David’s nephew and would one day become the King of Scotland and the first of the Stewart line. Other important personages included the Earl of March, the Earl of Moray, Lord David de la Haye, the Earl of Strathhearn and many others also comprising Niall from before.
The king had sequestered the entire establishment for his personal use. It was as all taverns were with low dark wood beamed ceilings, a stone floor with straw thrown on the surface, smudged white walls from the candle and fire smoke and the clatter of pewter tankards and wooden plates. The atmosphere was humid and warm from all of the men’s bodies crammed into the small space.
Food was being prepared – a large pig was being roasted on a spit in the hearth. The juices dripped from the carcass, emitting splutters of protest from the fire beneath it. Alastair was hungry, although he would much rather be with his sons and his men than where he was at that moment. Experience had taught him that most idle talk of war among nobles consuming copious amounts of ale and wine generally led to nothing other than sore heads the following morning. A full belly of pork and a chat with his old friend, Niall, would be his only consolation that night.
“What say ye, Laird Alastair of the Clan Macleod? Ye have been very quiet ever since ye stepped into the tavern,” said the king, directing his gaze to Alastair.
As he bowed, Alastair took a moment to furtively study the king. He had matured a great deal in the five years since he last saw him, after escorting him back to Scotland from France. Where his face had once been bare, he now sported a reddish-brown beard. The hair on his head was long. His appearance had filled out, ridding it of the last vestiges of youthful prettiness. In its place were the features of a handsome twenty-four-year-old man dressed in the vestments of a king off to war.
“King Edward is not his father but more like his grandfather. Edward the Longshanks. He is smart and resolute in whatever he does. We would be wise not to underestimate him, sire,” said Alastair, inkling his head a little.
King David frowned and sighed. Like lemmings, some of the other men present followed suit. “It appears you admire the man,” he said after far too much afterthought.
“What’s not to admire about a man who, as a lad, deposed and executed Roger Mortimer, his guardian, and his mother’s husband, for disrespecting him and arranging an unfavorable treaty with us. We must be cautious of such a king. For that is a king who is most dangerous – a man who is ruthless when he needs to be.”
“Cautious? Even when there is hardly an English army to speak off on this side of the English Channel?” asked the king with a surprised expression on his face. “I can be ruthless too, ye ken,” he added, inviting the obligatory mirth that such royal remarks warranted.
“Aye. As Alastair says, we would be wise to pay heed to caution rather than just blunder on down there, expecting the English to just let us through,” said John Randolph, third Earl of Moray. “I’d wager King Edward half expects us to attack his realm whil
e he is busy in France. He knows of the treaty between the French and us. He will have made the necessary preparations.”
“Well, I say the two of ye are far too restrained. Ye worry like a pair of washwomen by a burn. My reports tell me that we will face hardly any resistance. There is nothing other than the usual town garrisons. What can they do against us? I will command twelve thousand men… more than enough to give the English a taste of their own medicine, eh?”
A cacophonous roar and the clinking of tankards followed the king’s words as the men vented their approval. Not really joining in the acclaim, Alastair waited for the noise to die down before speaking.
“I pray ye are right, sire,” said Alastair, bowing. He did not trust the situation in the least. Were it any other king other than Edward, he would not have felt so bad. But this king and his son had proven to be adept in the art of war. There was no way they would leave the whole of England undefended.
“I am right, my Laird. Now, come, let us share a cup of wine, and you can tell me of yer sons – I pray they are well?” The king beckoned with his hand for Alastair to approach closer.
“I would be honored, sire. And yes, my laddies, and also my lady, are well and thrive. As it be, three of my sons are here with me at Perth,” said Alastair.
“Ah, good. The next generation is to follow in their brave father’s footsteps. I will sleep better at night knowing that.” King David moved closer to Alastair’s ear the moment the latter reached his position by the hearth. “On the day we face the main English army, should there be one…” He chuckled as if he had already won the war. “Then I would like ye, yer sons and yer men to serve alongside me in the main battalion in the center of the line.”
“I would be honored to fight alongside my king.”
“Good, then let us toast to a successful campaign and to the inevitable Scottish victory,” said the king, raising his goblet.
“To the campaign and to victory, My King,” responded Alastair.
