by Alisa Adams
This made Mungo and Murtagh growl in unison.
The expression on Mungo’s face soon lit up. “Stratagem, eh, clever boots? A clever stratagem it was… That bastard King Edward. He sure showed us,” he said, his cheerfulness only a brief interlude.
“Aye, Mungo. That is stratagem at its finest taking place before us,” said Callum solemnly.
“But our king said that there are hardly any men left in England because of the invasion of France,” interjected Brice.
“It appears the king was wrong and the scouts he sent were probably paid off by the English,” snarled out Alastair, answering for them all. The expression on his face had become grimmer still as the first of the retreating Scots dashed past their position at the edge of the camp. “Hey, ye there, what’s afoot?” he yelled.
The man he addressed ran straight past him without stopping for a heartbeat. His clothing was besmirched with blood in places, and he had dropped his weapons, leaving him unarmed in ignominy. Behind him came even more men in similar states of disarray and infamy. None of them heeded the laird’s calls. The tide of men grew thicker still as the rout increased in size.
“I’ll grab one of the gunky twally-washers,” growled out Mungo, dismounting from his horse and heading in the direction of the closest fleeing man as if he were a bull on the rampage.
“Stop right there, Mungo,” ordered Alastair. “I believe that is the man we are looking for.” He pointed ahead toward the hill.
“Who might that be?” asked Murtagh, who had also dismounted.
“William Douglas, the man in charge of those soldiers,” said Callum.
“Soldiers my arse,” spat out Mungo. “Those are a bunch of jobbies; calling them soldiers would be an insult to the profession.”
The person to whom they referred advanced at a sedate pace. Every so often, he made sure his men moved forward and that they never left any of the wounded behind. He issued his orders at a continuous rate. The result being that the next and final wave of retreating men came in a more organized flow. They had even had the intelligence to set up a rear guard in case of further English harassment. Alastair eyed the man he had never met. He was in command of a division, but he had never partaken in any of the senior councils with the king.
“Ye, William, stop. I am Laird Alastair Macleod of the Clan Macleod. Pray tell me, comrade, what is afoot?”
The proud Scotsmen looked up from where he stood on the ground in front of Alastair’s horse. He wore the typical plaid of his people that was enwrapped with a leathern girdle around his waist upon which his claymore and an axe were attached. His stern but handsome face was tainted with dry crusts of blood. It was obvious by the way he carried himself that none of it was his.
His breathing was heavy but even. He looked around himself and spat on the ground in disgust. “The bastards came at us out of the mist like a flight of deadly wraiths. The scunners attacked us without warning. I did not ken where they came from. At first, we were advancing to the south of Durham, around Merrington, ye see, and then my force stumbled in disbelief when we laid eyes on them. A line of men all of them armed to the teeth – they came – more and more – hundreds – I dinnae ken – maybe thousands…”
Alastair raised his hand to forestall the man from rambling on and repeating his words that had turned from almost clear elocution into a slur. “Doogle!”
“Da…”
“Son, give the man something to wet his thrapple. Poor blighter has been fighting and running all morning.”
“Aye, Da.” Doogle slid down off the back of his mount, stepped a few paces and handed the disheveled commander his leathern water flask. “Have a wee dram of this, sir,” he said in the calmest of tones he could muster. Despite the state of his command, Douglas did not look like a coward; he stood proud. His behavior was more one of shock than of fear. There was something else in his eyes though. Doogle recognized it as sadness at the loss of so many of his fine men because he had been unprepared.
“They wiped out more than three hundred of my laddies,” he croaked out as he handed Doogle back the flask. “Three hundred of my boys… God above… why?” He lifted his hands to his face and began to weep.
Alastair let him be for a moment. He watched the other man with a hard expression on his face. So many things went through his mind that he could hardly control them. “Are they following, William… the English?”
Douglas slowly looked up with red blots in his eyes. “Aye… they’ll be a coming soon. We only met with the two rearward divisions of their main army. The rest of them will be setting off now to finish us off.” He shouted a terse command to one of his men. Promptly, he brought over an English captive. “This is one of ‘em, and he don’t look like no farmer with a pitchfork.”
“No, he doesn’t,” concurred Alastair, eyeing the well-armored English soldier, wearing a red tunic over his chainmail that covered his head, body, and limbs. “Did he give ye any information yet?” he asked, turning back to Douglas.
Douglas hacked out a laugh. “Only that we are dead men. He claims the Archbishop of York, some William de la Zouche, mobilized a large force in Richmond a few months past. He says there are thousands of them… He claims that they wanted us to invade.” He ran his hand across his jaw. “I could go on?”
Alastair waved his hand dismissively. “Take him away and put him in irons. Ye and I are going to King David. We need to inform him that a Sassenach army is about to attack the camp and annihilate us if we do not act fast and wake up and prepare the men.”
Douglas nodded. “We best be off then.”
“Aye.” Alastair turned to face Brice. “The men are under yer command, son.”
Brice nodded solemnly. “Aye, Faîther. I will not disappoint ye.”
Alastair gave his boy a wan smile. “I ken that, laddie. Nothing heroic, and don’t let Murtagh talk ye into anything crazy like charging the main English line with a handful of lads, should they advance down that hill,” he said, pointing.
“No, Da,” said Brice, letting a small grin play on his lips.
“Good. I’ll be off then… William, grab a horse and let’s go.”
Neville’s Cross, Northern England, 17 October, 1346
* * *
The moment he had received the news from Alastair and Douglas, King David the Second had led the entire Scottish army to high ground to a place called Neville’s Cross. It was the site of an old Anglo-Saxon stone cross close to the town of Durham. It was where he was in the process of preparing his army for battle. It was also the place where his fate for the next decade would be decided.
“See how they arrange themselves,” said the king, peering down at the English forces marching in neat columns onto the field.
“Aye, my King,” said the Third Earl of Moray. “May I suggest we arrange the men in the classical manner?”
The king did not respond at once. He watched on in silence as the English force under their brightly colored banners and pennants advanced like a knot of slithering snakes across the land. Drums and trumpets announced their arrival arrogantly as if they were already the true rulers over all of the British Isles. On both the left and right flanks rode the cavalry. These impressively armored men rode destriers covered in armor plating like their riders. With them, the knights carried long lances fluttering the pennants of their houses and that of the king. Last, but not least, advanced thousands of bowmen. This very same type of soldier had claimed the victory for the English at the Battle of Crécy a little over a month ago.
“All right, enough of just idling away here and gaping at the supposed pomp of this far inferior force. How many of them do ye think there are, Macleod?” asked the king, swiveling his head to Alastair.
Alastair stroked his chin. “Mm, it does not appear to be an overly large army, sire. I would say three to maybe four thousand men from Cumberland, Northumberland, and Lancashire, with maybe another three thousand from Yorkshire.”
“How do ye ken the soldiers’ o
rigins and numbers so precisely?” asked the king, looking distinctly impressed.
Alastair smiled. “Douglas captured an English soldier with an incredibly loud mouth during the skirmish this morning. He is so certain of an English victory today that he ranted on about what fine men were available in the north of England. It was quite amusing actually.”
The king was not amused in the least. “Good, Macleod… very good.” He turned to look at the Earl of Moray. “Moray, let us begin with the placement of my troops.”
“My King,” said the Earl of Moray, inclining his head slightly.
“Put the Earl of March in charge of the first battalion…” The king was about to proceed when a haughty voice interrupted him.
“I refuse, sire. I shall not take charge of that force,” the Earl of March said.
Alastair could not believe his ears. The insipid looking nobleman, sitting astride of his horse as if he did not belong there, had just blatantly refused his king’s direct order. He had ferrety eyes that skimmed to the left and right as if their owner half expected to be attacked in the very next moment. Thin wisps of dark blond hair escaped from under his chainmail. To Alastair, he more resembled a Sassenach than a Scot.
“And why not?” snarled out the king. He was used to Patrick Dunbar’s, the Earl of March’s, dithering and fickleness. He had acted so the entire time the campaign preparations had taken place back in Scotland. Never was there anything right; either it was too soon, too dangerous, or there simply there were not enough men to execute the campaign effectively. However, strangely enough, from one day to the next, he was raring to go; well, him and his mate, Robert Stewart.
“It is not my place, my King…” Dunbar’s lower lip trembled a little under the king’s fierce glower. He cleared his throat. “To usurp such a position of honor in your host. Ye should take command of it yerself or maybe Laird Alastair or even—”
“Haud ye wheesht, ye craven turd,” growled out the king. “Moray, ye shall take command of the first.”
“My King, it would be a privilege. I was hoping to fight by yer side… Will ye do me the honor of joining me so that I can always claim to have fought alongside my king?”
King David smiled. He reached out and patted the forty-year-old man on the shoulder. “I would like nothing more, old friend. But today, I will command my own division…” He lifted a mail-gloved hand to forestall a protest. “I ken what ye were about to say.” He looked to Alastair. “Macleod here and his lion’s brood of fine laddies will look after me well enough.”
“Aye, sire, that we will… To the death if need be,” said Alastair.
“Let’s hope it will not come to that,” responded the king.
“Well, ye will be in good hands with Macleod, my King. He fights with heart. I feel good to ken that he will be by yer side,” said the Earl of Moray. “Do I have yer permission to take up my command, sire?”
“Aye… do me proud, Moray.”
“I will, sire.” With those words, the proud Scottish nobleman heeled his horse in the direction of his troops that waited a short distance away, behind the commander’ location. When he got to where he needed to be, he dismounted and let his mount be led away by one of his men.
King David snapped his head in the direction of the Earl of March. “Ye will do yer duty whether ye like it or not. Ye will take command of the third division… Take Stewart with ye and remain in position. We must hold the line no matter what happens. God forbid something untoward occurs today, we cannot let the line collapse lest the men rout. Ye are to plug the gaps with yer men. Either Laird Macleod or I will signal ye when ye are to commit yourself. Do ye understand me, March?”
“Aye, my King.” The Earl of March squirmed in the saddle as if he had something unpleasant lodged under his kilt.
King David did not give the chastened earl any more attention. He issued more orders to other personages of note, dividing them amongst the individual units. Finally, he got to Neville, his father’s bastard son and his half-brother. “Ye will fight alongside me and Macleod. Do ye accept?”
A large grin split the other man’s face. “Aye, my King. It would be an honor.”
“Good, it is settled then.” The king coaxed his horse forward in the direction the Earl of Moray had just ridden a few moments before. With him went Alastair, Neville and the rest of the men of higher station. When he stood before his waiting army, he shifted his weight in the seat of his saddle as he scanned the faces of his men arrayed in front of him.
There were all kinds of different expressions to be found. His gaze glided over various types of faces, most of which were covered in dirt, some of the warriors had painted blue color on them, and others remained as they were, naked in the eyes of God. There were very young men, youngish men, and older men, exhibiting all manner of hair color from flaming-red, brownish-red, blond and gray, to name the predominant few. Most of them sported shaggy beards of various density, color, and length.
Even if some of the younger lads appeared nervous, their eyes stared ahead, and their miens were focused. The supportive words from the veterans helped allay any fear that they might have felt. All in all, these men of Scotland were ready to die for their king and country. Of that, King David was convinced.
At last, King David cleared his throat. “Men of Scotland, the time has come for us to face our enemy once more… We ken them, for we have fought them many times before this day. LOOK!” He swept his arm across the expanse behind him. “Aren’t there far fewer of the bastards this time ‘round than the last?”
His remark invited a chuckle from the soldiers that rippled over their heads and spread out in all directions.
“AYE, MY KING!” yelled one of the more audacious of the warriors. His cry was soon picked up on, continuing until the king’s voice took command once more.
“This day, we do not fight King Edward’s best for they are all in France, sampling the women and the wine over there…” More laughter from the men. “Yet, we are the very finest Scotland has to offer. Hence, to me, the outcome of this battle is relatively clear, eh, laddies? The result is irrefutable.”
“VICTORY FOR KING DAVID; VICTORY FOR SCOTLAND!”
The entire host took up the battle cry. Alastair and Niall yelled their acclaim as well. At one point, Alastair was certain that he heard Murtagh, Mungo and his son, Doogle, shouting in the distance – he shook his head with delight; he so hoped it was them and his other two boys.
The jubilation lasted for what seemed like an eternity until the deep rumble of the English war drums took center stage. Promptly, the enemy soldiers started to form ranks. It would not be long now before the battle would begin.
“I have had another word with our English captive,” said William Douglas, approaching. “This time, he was not as forthcoming as the last with his generosity in verbosity… I had to give him a small incentive in order to obtain some more information,” he said with a grin and tapping the hilt of his dirk.
Murtagh and Mungo sniggered knowingly. “What did the blighter divulge?” asked the king.
“If ye look across the field, sire, ye will see that the enemy has divided their forces in very much the same manner as we have. According to our English friend, Sir Henry de Percy commands the first, Sir Thomas de Rokeby the second and the supreme commander, William Zouche, Archbishop of York, the third division,” said Douglas.
“And those infernal longbowmen behind them wait until they can pepper our arses with their arrows,” said Murtagh, joining in the conversation unabashedly, as his nature suggested.
“Aye, brother, that’s stratagem for ye. The jobby-flavored bawsacks will make our behinds look like a bunch of flaming hedgehogs,” said Mungo sagely.
“Aye, I tell ye. Those radge wee bumpots will use those bowmen to coax us out. They won’t let us wait it out.”
“Aye.” Mungo and Murtagh continued to exchange further gems of wisdom despite the presence of the king. In their points of view, the moment a man entered
a troop of men, no matter his station, he became a part of it. Of course, they paid deference to rank when it came to following orders in the heat of battle, but that did not mean that they could not voice their opinions freely.
“Who are these two fools?” asked the King with a slight smirk on his face. He had never seen the likes of them in his life. He wasn’t sure whether to discipline them, agree with them or laugh at them.
The repartee continued no matter the king’s interruption.
“No, no, no, Mungo… As ye said, the Sassenach stratagem will be to lure us out with their archers, but do ye ken what we will do to counter that – to make them think twice about knocking those arrows, eh?” The grin on Murtagh’s face was massive. So large in fact that his beard almost seemed to disappear into his mouth.
“No… Tell me, brother?” asked Mungo. There was a minor undercurrent of excitement lacing his voice. Other than being with Freya and his two daughters, this was where he loved to be the most – on the field of battle with his laird, Murtagh, his sons and those of the laird’s.
“It’s very simple really. We shout first, loudly mind, then we turn around and lift our kilts and show them our arses.”
The two men, who had already done this on countless occasions before this day, still found the notion hilarious. Murtagh even slapped the king on the back in an attempt to coax forth some reaction of mirth. Not finding any, he spun on his heels, lifted his plaid and wiggled his behind in the direction of the English army. This had Mungo reeling in hysterics. It took many minutes for the two of them to notice their laird attempting to speak to them.
“Will the two of ye haud yer tongues. Ye are in the presence of our king.” Alastair had trouble controlling his laughter because Mungo and Murtagh were infectious at times like this. It was men like them that kept up morale in the face of doubt and despair.
“It’s all right, Macleod. These men of yers… I like ‘em. I’d rather be amongst the likes of ‘em than some of the fools I’ve had to deal with these past months,” said the king. He asked both of their names and patted them on the shoulders, commending them for their bravery and tomfoolery. He had not seen them in action yet. However, their entire way radiated bravery. “Keep up the good work, laddies,” he said, at last, returning his scrutiny to the enemy.
