He shrugs. “What do you propose then? We just ... give up and walk away?”
“Yes.” I lower my gaze. Even I, an out-of-place American from some other time, realize how ridiculous a proposal that is. I can’t impose my twenty-first century thinking on any of them. These are proud men. They’re soldiers. Robert the Bruce had brought their fractured groups together as one nation and defeated the mighty army of England time after time. They intend to do the same, no matter what the odds.
“Between the two of us, Roslin ... I agree with you. It would save so much grief.” Archibald places a hand lightly on my forearm. “But that is not up to me alone to decide, my friend.”
Then he strides to the middle of the circle, hands clasped behind his back. He raises his chin, looking nobler than any man I have ever known. “So what shall it be, my lords? Do we stand down, cede Berwick, that city which we have fought so hard for since before our noble King Robert came to the throne? Or do we stand and fight?”
“Fight,” Menteith replies. Then pounding a fist on his chest, he roars, “Fight!”
A pause follows. Some of them are hesitant. They know this is suicide. But unlike in my time, they see no honor in compromise. Nods of agreement spread. Then Keith and Atholl echo Menteith’s cry. Moments later, it’s a rumble of agreement.
Good God, I’ve never been surrounded by so much testosterone, so much ... stupidity.
“We fight then,” Archibald says. He holds his arms wide until they quiet. “The last time this many Scots gathered in one place ... was at Bannockburn. No one thought Scotland would win the day, but we did — and we shall again.”
History, so it seems, can’t be changed. And in that case, my fate is determined, too. If I am to die this day — leave Mariota just as I had Claire — I no longer fear death. There will be another life for me, hopefully another love.
They cheer as he turns to go to his horse, held off to the side by a groom. As he passes me, I step toward him. “I wish to be in the vanguard, my lord.”
He lets out a small laugh. “Is this because I questioned your courage?”
“I have only this life to give in Scotland’s defense. Let me.”
“Don’t be so sure of your own death, Sir Roslin.” The look he grants me is so intense, it sends a cold shiver down my spine. He raises a hand, palm down, to the level of the top of my head. “Touch your hand to mine.”
I extend my left hand to tap the flat of his palm.
A half smile curves his mouth. “Now, the other hand.”
Biting the inside of my lip, I try, but can’t.
“How good are you at wielding a weapon with your left hand, Roslin? Not very, I presume. Could you even bear the weight of your shield with your right? I doubt so. No, you’ll stay with the reserves in the rear, tend to the extra horses and supplies. When we defeat the English, we’ll have need of you.”
With that, he walks by me and mounts.
A lot goes through your head when death looms: the people you loved, the ones you hated, the things you’re proud of, the chances you had but didn’t take.
This day as I watch the army of Scotland — my brethren — advance down the slope from Witches Knowle, I sense the wisdom of seven lifetimes in every bone, blood vessel and sinew of my being. I’m still afraid of the pain that will come with dying, but not death itself, for I know my soul will carry on and that every word I have ever spoken, every action I have ever taken, will echo through the millennia. Like a pebble tossed into the ocean, one molecule displaces another, one action elicits a response, the word spoken is heard by another’s ears.
If I do have another chance at life, I pray I can put this life’s lessons to good use. For nearly thirty years, I’ve tried to make sense of my dad’s harsh words and quick criticisms. I now realize it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. He was hurt early in life, although I’ll never know how or by whom. The verbal weapons he lobbed at me and Mom were expressions of those inner wounds. But instead of drawing us nearer to him like a lasso reeling in the wild colt, they had pushed us further away and thus shielded him from more pain.
I have to let go of how he failed me and remember my love for my mom. I have to remember that being in that house where my parents fought constantly inspired me to be a better husband, to love Claire with all my heart, to cherish what was good about her and overlook her flaws. God knows I have my own. She loved me despite the fact that I arranged the books on my shelves by size and color one day, then by subject matter the next, never fully satisfied either way. I’m not that man anymore, the one who tried to control every insignificant minutia of his day. I know what matters now.
Sir Henry might never say he loves me, or is proud of me ... or that he forgives me for William’s loss. But he risked his own life to save mine, and that’s the greatest act of love there is.
And just when Claire was taken from me, Mariota was given to me. I shouldn’t have ignored that. Maybe in the next life, I’ll get it right.
A memory breaks free: the day Claire and I spent at Georges Square in Glasgow, eating our Indian food, watching people when an old couple caught our attention.
‘Promise me something, Ross.’
‘Anything.’
‘If, for some reason, we don’t both make it to that age, promise me you won’t mourn me forever. That you’ll find someone else to make you happy. I can’t stand the thought of you being alone.’
Claire gave me full permission to move on, to love again, and I’d missed my chance.
Beside me, Christian leans against a sturdy, forked branch which serves as a crutch, gazing on as the three schiltrons — the left commanded by Lord Archibald, the center by young Robert Stewart, and the right by the Earl of Moray — descend onto lower ground. From here, their bristly spear points resemble the spines of a hedgehog. Each man in the formation is half an arm’s length from the next. Those on the perimeter of the wedge shape hold their shields before them, edges overlapping. The rest clutch them high, ready to cover their heads. Christian was supposed to be one of the spearmen, but on his way back over the bridge that night, he’d leapt too soon. The fall had been far and he’d ended up with a broken ankle, unable to walk.
Sensing my eyes on him, he glances at me, a sneer marring his youthful face.
“You were very brave that night,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “It made no difference, though, did it?” A mess of blond locks tumbles across his eyes as he returns his gaze to the impending battle. “I’m not sure any of it will.”
He’s right ... but I can’t tell him so.
The Scottish army, I estimate, numbers well over twelve thousand. More than the English, but it won’t be enough. As I’d forewarned Archibald, Edward’s army hasn’t moved from its vantage point. The progress of our men slows as they enter the marsh. The rains have soaked the ground, making it like a sponge that can hold no more. Doubtless they’re slogging through muck halfway up their shins. Even so, they maintain their lines, spears gripped firmly, shields at the ready.
There’s a tug on the reins. My horse nickers and tosses his head. I remember earlier that morning, when Sir Henry mounted his own horse. The look in his eyes was grave.
“Your sword has saved many a Sinclair man,” he said to me. “It was a gift from the King of Norway to my own great-great grandfather. Keep it close. Use it. Never let it from your sight.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to yank me into his arms and give me a bear hug, but suddenly he turned away and was lost in the press of preparations.
On the opposite slope, the Welsh and English archers nestle arrows to their strings. They raise their bows. The Scots hoist their shields above their heads and forge onward. Black slashes cut across the sky, arcing high. Moments later I realize it isn’t a flock of birds, but feathered arrows, seeking their targets.
Men crumple beneath the onslaught. Wherever one man goes down, another pushes forward to fill the gap. My stomach twists. I grip the reins o
f my horse, shut my eyes tight. Somewhere out there are my father, Duncan, Archibald, earls, knights, and nameless hundreds who I’ve marched beside, shared meals with, slept beside under the stars, laughed with. It’s hard to imagine their lives being snatched away in an instant. Harder still to imagine being one of those marching on, while wounded and dead fall beside you, yet having to push on.
When I open my eyes again, I can barely fathom the horror unfolding before me. The Scots continue across the boggy expanse, then slog uphill, arrows raining all around. The right division, sorely depleted, is the first to collide with the English. The fight is fleeting. Like a tear through wet paper, the Scottish lines falter, then break. Whether Moray called on them to fall back or they simply lost heart, I can’t tell. Men begin pushing back through the ranks, then fleeing downhill.
The center division continues to advance, but the left, led by Archibald, has already turned back. What began as an organized attack is quickly becoming a chaotic retreat.
The distance from the top of Witches Knowle on which I stand to the top of Halidon Hill is maybe half a mile, yet thousands and thousands of men are racing in our direction, desperate for safety, slowed only by the litter of bodies.
As the Scottish army collapses in on itself, the Earl of Ross, who commands the waiting rearguard at the top of the slope, makes the call for his Highlanders to stand their ground. I expect them to ignore his command — there can be only one outcome — but they don’t. As men from the retreating divisions reach us, running for their lives, the Highlanders remain firm.
It’s all unfolding too quickly. I can’t watch any more. If I stay, I’ll die, too. If I run, I have a chance — to live.
I whirl around, expecting to see Christian, but he’s nowhere in sight. Gone. My first fear is that he’s been trampled underfoot, but if that were the case, he’d be easy to find. No, he’s gone to fight, even though he can barely stand on his own. If I can get to him, help him on my horse, I can get him out of here in time. So many soldiers are shoving past me, though, that I can’t move forward. Only back. Away from the battle.
“Christian!” I yell. But there is no answer. Only the deafening roar of defeat.
My horse pulls his head back sharply. His black eyes are pressed wide, his nostrils flared. Gently, I try to reel him in, so I can steady him and mount. He resists, steps backward, then finally yields. Just as I slip my fingers in his halter, another panicked horse slams into his flank. My horse rears. The leather burns as he yanks away. I duck instinctively, fall to my knees. Feet pound around me. Behind me. Over me.
Through the crush of men fighting and fleeing, I glimpse Alan on his horse. He hooks his sword downward, his blade biting into the bare neck of a helmetless English solider. The man’s head flops sideways; he sinks to his knees, then falls face down in a gurgle of bloody spittle ten feet from me.
Alan’s eyes lock onto mine for the longest of moments. Then he spurs his horse sharply and gallops away.
A shield lands beside me with a thunderous thud. I grab its edge, pull it to me and huddle beneath it, waiting for my end.
This is it. This is the day after all.
I will die. But I have no fear. For I will live again.
Just, please God, hurry up. Be quick about it. I’m not good with pain.
A verse from Oscar Wilde flits through my scattered thoughts:
“And the wild regrets and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.”
34
LONG, LONG AGO
Berwick, Scotland — 1333
I swim in darkness. Cold nothingness. All suffering — gone.
I’m content. Glad to be free of my torment.
Torment?
The memory of a face appears through the mist of my dreams: translucent skin, eyes as green as the first unfurling leaves of springtime, hair like molten gold aflame. Her flesh beneath mine, warm, supple, my fingertips tingling. Her nearness stirring my blood.
Mariota.
I fight to wake. To climb from the airless void that entombs me and claim my own breath again. I gulp air, sputter and wheeze. My ribs scream in pain. The deathly clang of battle, broken by intermittent grunts, rings in my head. I cough, taste blood on my tongue. Or is it that I smell it in the air?
No. I don’t want to go back. Not there. Not Halidon Hill.
I don’t want to return to the future, either.
Just let me be dead, for God’s sake.
The tang of damp iron curls inside my nostrils, overlain by an indescribably warm sweetness and the aroma of crushed grass.
Again — the ring of metal. Helpless dread gnaws at the pit of my stomach and seeps into my guts, filling me with panic, intensifying with each hammer of my heart. I try to sit up, to open my eyes, but I flail where I lay, enveloped by darkness.
One glimpse tells me all I need to know. It’s over. We’ve lost.
I inhale again, long and deep, letting air fill my lungs, an assurance that I’m alive. For the moment, at least. Turning over, my right shoulder throbs with a habitual ache.
I tried to tell you, Archibald. Tried to tell you this would end badly. Tried to save you and the whole fricking army of Scotland. But you were too Goddamn stubborn to listen. And now you’re dead, along with thousands of others.
Yet if it hadn’t been Archibald and all the soldiers, the citizens of Berwick would have met a terrible fate, just like they had in Longshanks’ time.
In the end, does it matter how the end comes? Fate is fate. There is no cheating it.
A sob convulses me, sorrow suffusing every inch of my soul like a black miasma. I don’t want to live, knowing I’ve failed, knowing that these deaths hang on me.
If souls are allowed seven lives, like the Cathars believe, why can’t I escape this one?
Overcome with exhaustion, I close my eyes again. Each breath becomes shallower, each heartbeat fainter.
Please, please let me die. Let me go.
If I could slit my wrists, hurry my passing, I would. If only I had a knife ... My fingers twitch to reach for my belt, but I’m too weak. Can’t move.
In the murky darkness of my dreams, I see Alan’s face. See the way he had watched, triumphant, as the English soldier fell before me. The determined smile that had possessed him as he sped from the hill. North, undoubtedly. Toward Blacklaw Castle. Where Mariota is waiting — for me. He’ll tell her I died. And then he’ll ... he’ll ...
Mariota!
Alert now, I gulp air in great shuddering heaves. It’s long past nightfall, but even in the grayness, I can make out the scattered bodies, the heaps of dead in the distance.
I rake my fingers through the damp grass, trying to grab anchor so I can pull myself to my hands and knees. If I can’t run from here, I’ll crawl. Anything to escape this nightmare. To return to Mariota. And God help Alan if he does anything to her. I’ll kill the bastard.
“Roslin?” someone croaks in a whisper. “God’s bollocks, is that you?”
I look over my shoulder to see a man crouching some twenty feet away, a short sword held loosely across his knees. He looks around, then scoots toward me. As he comes nearer, I recognize the broken teeth, the scraggly beard of white.
“Duncan?” I push myself up on my good elbow. “Tell me — are you an angel, or the same old crusty turd you always were?”
“If I’m an angel, heaven’s no better than hell.” In front of me now, Duncan hunkers lower, looks me up and down. “Well you look a bloody fine sight. Ugly as ever. Whole ... except for that crack in your skull where your brains are leaking out.” He jabs rough fingers at my temple and I wince. A trace of warm blood seeps from beneath a fresh scab there. More gently then, he traces the edges of the wound. The skin is still there, mostly, the gash no more than an inch.
Sitting now, I clench his wrist. The blood drains from my head and I grip him tighter, trying to keep myself uprigh
t. “I need to get back to Blacklaw, Duncan. Will you help me?”
He twists his face in thought, turning his head from side to side as he peers into the darkness. “Can you ride?”
I nod, even though I’m far from certain I can. “If I fall ...”
“If you fall, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you there like a sack of grain.”
And he would.
“Good then.” He lifts me up, but my legs are weak. I lean on him, for support as much as for courage. “Help me find a horse. Mine’s dead and it looks as though you’ve lost yours.”
How Duncan even found me is nothing short of a miracle. Thousands of ravaged bodies choke the marshy ground beyond Halidon Hill, sometimes stacked haphazardly in piles four or five deep. Even more than a mile from the worst of the massacre, there are bodies strewn about. The first few corpses we stumble past, I stop, turn them over and peer down into their faces to see if it’s someone I know, or if perhaps, like me, someone else has lived and been left for dead. But they’re all dead, many with limbs or ears missing, or big flaps of flesh torn loose to expose sinew and bone.
I slip on someone’s entrails, or maybe it’s brains, or both. Duncan latches onto my elbow, then puts my good arm over his shoulder.
“We don’t have time for that.” He yanks me forward. “’Twould be a pity for us to have survived this long, only to be gored by an English spear because you had to gawk.”
Here and there I can make out shapes moving among the bodies: scavengers searching for valuables among the dead. Then I see a form stir, try to crawl away from one of the scavengers. A blade flashes in the darkness. A cry of mortal pain rings out, then fades to a dying moan. Had the wounded man been a noble, he might have been taken prisoner and ransomed, so that he would one day return to his family. But common soldiers aren’t granted such graces.
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