The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  It wasn’t the retreats, low morale, or uncomfortable night that had convinced Alex what he had to do—no matter what the risk—it was the utter ineptitude of the English leadership. The army was unorganized and hampered by a ridiculously long train of supplies that stretched for twenty leagues—Despenser had even brought furniture, for Christ’s sake, for the earldom of Moray that the king had promised him. Furthermore, King Edward had no real battle plan (arrogantly believing that Bruce would retreat or be no match for the “superior” English troops—despite recent proof to the contrary), and he’d not only failed to put an end to the squabbling among his commanders, he’d actually made it worse by fueling the bad blood between Gloucester and Hereford by appointing them joint commanders, leaving the important vanguard of the army without clear directive.

  What chance did the English have to end this war when no one was in charge, the commanders were at each other’s throats, and the king wouldn’t listen to reason? And even if the English did manage to end it, could Alex count on Edward to protect the Scots in the Borders? Or would they just exchange one kind of suffering for another?

  Alex listened in disbelief as Edward humiliated the very nephew he’d foolishly favored with co-command of the vanguard—young Gloucester—and ignored his sound advice.

  “We have arrived in time to relieve the siege,” Gloucester pointed out. “There is no need to force the Scots into a confrontation tomorrow. The men are tired after marching for a week. The carts and infantry are still straggling in. Let us rest a day, get the men organized, find better ground for our troops, and wait and see what Bruce will do.”

  “And give him a chance to slink back into his fox hole?” King Edward demanded furiously. “Are you a fool, nephew, or merely a coward?”

  The word fell like the slap of a gauntlet. Gloucester’s face turned nearly purple with anger.

  Hereford, his enemy who’d been forced into joint leadership with Edward’s favorite nephew, smirked.

  And that is how it went in that crowded, hot, and pungent tent, teeming with angry and disheartened knights in battle-scuffed mail: fractious discord made wider by the king, and any effort to urge caution met with scorn and derision.

  If Edward had troubled himself to walk around the camp through the boggy ground and look at the disarray and exhaustion of his army, he would have seen the truth. But like the unfortunate Sir Henry de Bohun, he was so caught up in the perceived glory of defeating Bruce and the Scots in a pitched battle that he would not heed caution. With nearly eighteen thousand men—three times as many as Bruce—Edward would not conceive of anything other than an English victory. If Bruce could be persuaded into taking the field, that is.

  At least on that they agreed. Bruce needed to take the field. And if Alex wanted an end to this war—the right end—he knew what he had to do.

  “It’s not too late.”

  He sure as hell hoped she was right.

  Despite it being close to midnight, the sky was not yet completely dark as Alex crept through the shadows, winding his way through the tents and fitfully sleeping soldiers. The English were on alert, half expecting a middle-of-the-night attack by Bruce. Still, Alex was stopped by sentries only once.

  “I carry a message from the earl”—Pembroke, Alex meant—“to my men guarding the carts.” The carts that were on the other side of the Bannock Burn.

  They let him go.

  It was partially true. When Alex arrived at the carts, he explained to his men what he planned to do and told them to be ready when the time came.

  If the time came.

  Though there were signs that Bruce might be considering doing what he’d avoided for eight years—meeting the English in pitched battle—Alex knew that prudence and caution would be urging the king to take the small victories he’d won today and slip back into the mist, leaving the fight for another day. Alex intended, however, to convince him to stay and fight.

  So far Bruce had surprised him, and Alex wondered whether Bruce, too, wanted to fight. Was he looking for a definitive end to the war? Had he grown tired of the cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing?

  The fact that Bruce had let the English army march unmolested this far—a complete change of tactics from the previous English invasion—and had stayed in the area to face them today, suggested that he might.

  But Alex knew that if he did not act, there was every chance the Scots would leave the forest of the New Park by morning.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He knew with every fiber of his being that this was the chance Bruce had to defeat the English and end the war. So he swallowed his pride—knowing he would have to do so many times before the night was over—removed the surcoat that identified him as a knight, and told himself that even if he felt like a dog slinking back with its tail between its legs, he would do whatever it took. In this case, the ends definitely justified the means.

  As he slipped through the English perimeter and headed toward the New Park, he entered the eerily quiet buffer of land between the two armies. After stumbling into a pit carefully hidden beneath leaves and branches and nearly becoming impaled on one of the wooden stakes at the bottom, he was more careful about where he stepped. But the honeycomb-like defensive pits dug by Bruce’s men were one more indication that Bruce might want to fight.

  Each step Alex took closer to the Scot camp he knew well could be his last. If one of their scouts didn’t put an arrow through him first, he knew Boyd and MacRuairi would be fighting for the honor of doing so with a blade. But if he was going to die, damn it, it wasn’t going to be fighting behind Edward Plantagenet’s banner.

  Joan was right; he had to take a chance.

  He held his hands up in the universal signal of surrender as he approached, but that didn’t stop the arrow that whizzed right by his ear—too perfectly directed to be a mistake.

  Alex stopped and cursed. There was only one man skilled enough to make a shot like that. Of course Bruce had his best men on watch tonight; it was Alex’s bad luck that he’d run into one he knew too well. “I’m here to see the king, MacGregor.”

  Two men stepped out from behind the trees. He didn’t need to see their nasal helm–covered faces to recognize the shadows of Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor and Arthur “Ranger” Campbell.

  Alex swore again. Christ, not one but two of his former brethren.

  “I think your king is in that big fancy pavilion there on the other side of that burn,” MacGregor quipped.

  What had he expected, open arms? He’d known it would be like this. They wouldn’t make this easy. No, they would make him pay for his betrayal—he knew that. And he would take it, damn it, until he convinced the king.

  Alex gritted his teeth and said patiently, “I have important information that Bruce will want to hear.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Campbell said. “And perhaps an assassin’s dagger as well?”

  Alex knew they had no cause to trust him—and every reason not to—but still, the accusation stung. Gritting his teeth some more, he removed his sword, dagger, and even his eating knife, and held them out. “Check me if you wish, but this is all of them.”

  Both men came forward. MacGregor took the weapons and Campbell, after a cursory search, stood back. “He’s clean.”

  “This better be good, Seton,” MacGregor said. “Make one false move and it won’t just be my arrow that strikes you.”

  Alex understood. They would all be vying for that honor.

  They took him to the king. Just outside the royal tent, which was about a third of the size of Edward’s and not half as fine, Alex passed by a handful of tied-up men whom he recognized; they were some of the more important English soldiers who’d been taken prisoner by Randolph today.

  “Seton,” Sir Thomas Gray said with obvious relief. “You’re a sight for weary eyes. Did the king send you to negotiate our ransom already?”

  Alex answered with a shake of his head. They would find out the truth soon enough.

  After ent
ering the tent—or rather being shoved through by MacGregor—a glance at the hardened visages surrounding him told Alex that he’d come at the right time. He’d interrupted the king’s war council. For gathered around the king were his chief advisors: Douglas, Randolph, Neil Campbell (Arthur’s elder brother and one of Bruce’s most loyal and longtime companions), Edward Bruce, the Abbot of Inchaffray (who brought the relics of St. Columba), and every single member of the Highland Guard.

  Perfect.

  He ignored everyone but the king, who if his icy expression was an indication, was just as happy to see him as the rest.

  “Sire,” Alex said with a bow.

  “You are either extremely brave or extremely foolish.” Or maybe a little of both, Alex thought. “Say what it is you come to say, and then leave. As you can see, I’m busy.”

  Alex faced the man he’d always believed in—even when he’d turned his back on him. It was more difficult than he thought it would be. No matter what his reasons, he’d given Bruce his loyalty—his oath—and he’d broken it. Whether he had good intentions couldn’t seem to stem all the shame.

  Alex cleared his throat. “I made you a pledge nine years ago to help see you on the throne, and tonight I have come to fulfill that pledge.”

  “Is this the same pledge that you conveniently forgot about for two years?” The look the king gave him could have cut through stone. “I would never have believed that Chris’s brother would have turned traitor.”

  Though the blow wasn’t unexpected, it was powerful. It was also deserved. His brother had loved Robert Bruce like a brother; he would never have understood what Alex had done. But Alex did, and he realized that was enough.

  He drew himself up, meeting the derision in the king’s gaze directly. “Traitor for what I thought were good reasons,” he said simply. “Which is the same reason I am here now. I bring you my sword and information.” He didn’t pause long enough to let the king comment. “The English army is disheartened, has lost faith, and is in disarray. Whatever authority Edward once had is gone. There is no one in charge, his leaders are too busy vying for position or squabbling. They do not expect you to really fight and have no battle plan if you do. You are not likely to get a better choice of terrain and know the benefits of the ground upon which they are camped.”

  He moved over to the crude map that was set out upon the table, not surprised when Boyd stepped in front of him. The two men eyed one another.

  “Let him pass, Raider,” the king said.

  Boyd gave Alex a long, hard look meant to intimidate, which it might have years ago, and then reluctantly did as the king commanded.

  Alex pointed to the spot between the Bannock Burn and the Pelstream Burn where the ground narrowed. “If you attack them with your schiltrons here in the morning, you will win.” Schiltrons typically stayed fixed in one position, but what Alex was proposing was that they be dynamic—that they move—which he knew Bruce had trained them to do. “Most of the infantry are camped on the other side of the Bannock Burn. By engaging the first column of cavalry in this narrow area with your schiltrons, the second will be hemmed in by the burns and won’t be able to reach them—you will take away their advantage of number. Nor will their archers be much help. In such close quarters, there will be too much risk of hitting their own men. The morale of the soldiers is so low they will scatter like frightened mice.”

  “And how do I know that you are telling me the truth?”

  “I pledge my life on it, sire. Feed me to the wolves,” he said, motioning to his former brethren, “if what I say is not the God’s honest truth.”

  The king looked at MacLeod in silent question. The fierce Island chief and leader of the Highland Guard shrugged and looked to Boyd.

  His former partner eyed him for a long moment. “He’s too bloody noble to lie.”

  It wasn’t a compliment—at least to Boyd—but it seemed to satisfy Bruce enough to let Alex continue.

  “You have better leadership,” Alex said. “Your men are better trained, and more important, they are fighting for something.” He took a deep breath, knowing the king wasn’t going to like what he had to say next. “I know you have had many reasons to avoid pitched battle to this point, but there are some who will never recognize you as king until you defeat the English army to army. This is the battle people want, my lord. Give it to them. You may never have a better chance.”

  The room was silent for a long moment.

  It was Edward Bruce who was the first to speak. As Alex had never gotten along particularly well with the king’s only remaining brother, he was surprised to hear his support.

  “He is right, brother. We have them where we want them. And if it is half as bad in the English camp as Seton suggests, we can put an end to this. Victory will be seen as God’s judgment and prove to everyone that you are the rightful king.”

  As Alex had been saying for years, a pitched battle was the only way of doing that. Bruce had to show he had a right to the throne, and in this case it had to be shown by right of battle.

  One by one Bruce went around the room asking each man his opinion, and each—some with more reluctance than others—gave an affirming nod.

  But the ultimate decision rested with Bruce. He didn’t say anything right away, but stared at Alex until he felt like a bug under a rock.

  “Well, Seton, you are either the messenger of destiny or the messenger of death. I guess we shall find out which.”

  Alex released the breath that he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He’d done it. He’d convinced the king, and in doing so, hopefully put an end to this war.

  Dismissed, the men started to file out to find their pallets. But Alex did not think anyone would be sleeping much this night.

  “What about him?” Boyd asked the king, indicating Alex. “Should I tie him up with the others?”

  Bruce considered him for a moment, and then surprisingly one corner of his mouth lifted. “Give him back his weapons. Let him fight tomorrow. It’s his life on the line.”

  They all knew there was far more than Alex’s life on the line, but Alex had his second chance—from the king, at least—and he intended to do what he could to ensure Bruce did not regret it. Ever.

  The Nativity of St. John the Baptist,

  Midsummer’s Day, June 24, 1314

  Midsummer’s Day, which also happened to be St. John’s Day, dawned sunny and hot. As the English woke from their uncomfortable and restless night, they stumbled out of tents to an inconceivable sight. The Scots were mustering for battle!

  As Alex had foretold, the English were not prepared to face Bruce—and certainly not for a Scot offensive in broad daylight. The Earl of Gloucester was so hastily awakened he didn’t even have time to don the surcoat that bore his arms. It would spell his doom, as when the Scot army of moving schiltrons attacked—led by Edward Bruce with Randolph and Douglas on either side—Gloucester, undoubtedly with the king’s accusation of “coward” still ringing in his ears, mounted a quick charge against Edward Bruce and was cut down from his horse and killed rather than be held for ransom.

  Alex watched it all unfold from his position fighting in the king’s division, slightly behind Edward Bruce’s. But to the English cavalry, which had little room to maneuver in the narrow ground between the two rivers, the Scot army must have seemed like one dense, moving wall of spears that they could not penetrate. The Scots kept pressing forward and the English kept falling beneath their pikes, men and beast skewered by the deadly points of steel.

  It went on for hours, a fierce melee of pikes and horsemen. What was nearly the entire force of the Scot army was now pitted against the English front.

  Only once did Alex come close to death. Ironically, it wasn’t at the hands of the English, but at the hand of the man he’d hoped would one day be his father-in-law.

  A small opening between the schiltrons had appeared, enabling a handful of English to penetrate. One of those men was Sir Edmund Mauley, King Edward’s senes
chal, who had lost his horse and was locked in a fierce battle with Boyd. Suddenly, another knight shot through the opening on a horse, intent on driving his lance into Boyd.

  Alex shouted a warning. But Boyd didn’t have a chance to react. Alex didn’t think. He reached for his dagger and threw.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Alex sensed the threat moving toward him even as he watched the horseman, now with a dagger in his neck, falter and drop his lance. Alex spun and lifted his sword, but only managed to block the blow from one of MacRuairi’s swords. The other penetrated his mail and sank into his side—fortunately not in his gut where it had been aimed.

  By this point, MacRuairi must have realized Alex hadn’t meant to kill Boyd but to save him.

  “Fuck, Seton. I didn’t see . . . are you all right?”

  Alex removed the hand that had gone instinctively to the hole in his side. Noticing only a small patch of blood, he nodded. “It’s just a scratch.”

  MacRuairi didn’t look like he believed him, but there wasn’t time to say anything more. Another wave of men had appeared and they lifted their swords to fight them off.

  The next time he looked over to Boyd, Sir Edmund was down. His former partner caught his eye and nodded in silent thanks. But Alex knew it didn’t change anything.

  The battle raged on, and Alex fought like a man possessed—or perhaps like a man with something to prove. Shoulder to shoulder with his former brethren they surged forward against the faltering English line.

  He read the surprise, and then the hatred, on more than one face as his former English compatriots realized what he’d done. Despenser shouted something at him from across the battlefield—with an almost gleeful sneer—but his words were lost in the roar of the fighting. As Alex was only too anxious to meet him knight to knight, he was disappointed that was the last he saw of him.

  It was mid-morning when Alex knew his faith would be rewarded. The fabled English archers, whose arrows might have penetrated the schiltrons of pikemen and made a difference in the battle, were deployed despite the close fighting and threat of hitting their own men. Bruce, however, was prepared. He ordered Robert Keith, the Marischal of Scotland, to attack with his cavalry that had been held in reserve for just this purpose.