by Julianne Lee
Crap. “All right, then, let’s go.”
They hurried back to rejoin the company, and Alex had his knights form up to intercept. The provision train seemed to be following the river and would have to ford at a particular spot to attain the castle in question, so that was where Alex took his men. He cantered over the land on each side of that ford and wasn’t entirely pleased with what he found. It would be best to place his ambush on the far side to catch the convoy while it crossed, the way William Wallace had skunked his enemy at Stirling Bridge, but here the ford was too generous and the land after the crossing was too open. There would be no way to contain the English while they crossed or once they were on the other side, and Alex didn’t care to be outflanked.
His best bottleneck was before the ford. The land just short of the crossing was a narrow field, hemmed in by the river on one side and a steep slope on the other. They were well away from the train’s intended destination, and blocked the only route to it, atop a long, low hill that overlooked the field. This was where they would await their prey.
Alex and others who owned coursers retired their rounseys and mounted the larger horses trained for battle. Squires supplied their knights with lances, then fell back to ready themselves at the rear. Alex himself declined to use a lance. He knew their value in battle was not worth the risk in wielding them, particularly to himself for he was untrained for them. But he didn’t discourage his knights from them. So long as the English were carrying lances, he needed men who had them also.
Scottish knights arrayed across the hill, and squires waited behind it. The reserves would be out of sight of the English until they were needed, a surprise tactic the Duke of Wellington would hone in his struggles against Napoleon a few centuries later.
There the detail waited, each man taking the opportunity for a drink of water—or to relieve himself of some water—as needed. Alex stared at the track by the river, down the slope where the train would first show themselves, and occupied himself letting go of all that mattered to him except to win this battle. He readied himself to die. It was a difficult process at any time, but especially now, for Lindsay kept rising in his thoughts. She was at his back, mounted and waiting with the other squires, and just as likely to die today as himself. More likely, perhaps, for she wasn’t as aggressive as the men and had doubts about this job. He hated that she was involved, and was far less sanguine about what might happen to her than about his own possible fate.
The excited scout came at the gallop, his mount dancing as he reined in before Alex, and reported the approach of the English convoy. The trap was ready to be sprung. Alex’s pulse picked up as he realized he was about to fight his first pitched battle as a knight.
The wait was not long; by the standards of the day, they’d made their position barely in time. The band of Englishmen came over the rise in the distance, then halted at sight of the Scots ranged on their rise. Their apparent surprise made Alex wonder if the train had even bothered to employ scouts. It was entirely possible they hadn’t, what with the state of military matters being so slipshod these days and the arrogance of those loyal to Edward II so prevalent. But the English knights hurried to make up for their mistake. Quickly they came forward from the wagons and arranged themselves across their end of the ground, foot soldiers to the rear.
The Scottish line began to creep forward, a forest of lances already beginning to tip to front for the charge. Alex spurred his horse before them to put a stop to that. “Hold!” he called to them, loud enough to hear but not enough to carry across to the enemy. “Don’t give yourselves away. Show the English you’re not afraid; don’t let them see you fidget like shy girls before a suitor.” He rode along the line, looking each man in the eye as he passed. “You men are Scots. A fighting force superior to any in the world. Know those coddled southerners are afraid of you. Know they will see your calm and be the more frightened for your confidence. And when I give the order to charge, you will assault them. You will overpower them. You will ride through them like...” a smile touched his mouth, “...like crap through a goose.”
There was a cough from the rear, and he thought it might have been Lindsay, who had surely seen that movie, too. The rest of the men nodded, in complete agreement with General Patton.
“On me, men.” Alex returned to his place in the line. Horses all through the ranks fidgeted with the tension of their riders, but there was no more jostling for the front line.
And so they all waited. The English waited for Alex to charge, and he waited for them to make the first move. Sir Orrin bellowed a challenge, and Alex ordered calmly, “Silence.” His men eyed him sideways, but obeyed. “Be still,” he commanded. His courser shifted weight impatiently, eager to run, and Alex held him with his knees.
One of the English rode out to the middle of the field under a flag of truce, apparently to parlay. Alex remained where he was. He wanted those supplies and knew they were worth a fight, for the Scottish army was chronically underprovisioned. The train had no choice but to come this way, for if they turned back the Scots would charge immediately and take them from behind. No deals for the English today. Alex only sat his horse and stared.
Everyone continued to wait, then finally the negotiator returned to his line. Across the way there was a great deal of putting heads together and agitated gesturing, and Alex figured he had his opponent good and pissed off now.
“Wait for it,” Alex urged his men.
Finally the English arrayed themselves to charge. Alex again told his men to wait. The English began their charge, and still Alex said to wait. The attackers rode nearly the length of the field, and were halfway up the slope to the Scottish position before Alex finally drew his sword to brandish it over his head, and bellowed as he spurred his mount, “Charge!”
His courser surged forward and he rode with his men toward the oncoming English lances. Alex galloped at speed, his sword held high, and he saw he was chosen by a man opposite. He aimed himself. Steady, he told himself. Speed and distance...speed and distance...steady...sword high, let him think you’re a yahoo. Let him think all Scots are idiots. Each stride of his horse was measured in his head. Every wobble of the English lance observed. Closer he came. Like flying a dogfight in slow motion. At the last moment before his opposing number would touch him, he ducked and slipped sideways in his saddle to press against his horse’s neck, let the tip of the lance past, and swung his sword behind himself to catch his attacker in the face. The English helmet flew.
Immediately he righted himself and reined in, then wheeled his horse. The English knight held his bleeding face in one gauntlet, his horse loping and stalling under no control. Alex spurred his mount to finish the guy off with a blow to the back of his now bare head, then turned for a fresh opponent.
Horses and men all around screamed and shouted, amid the crunch of metal on metal. Swords flashed against mail and plate with the dull thud of banging pots under which could be heard the grunts of exertion.
Alex faced off against another enemy and engaged him. Their horses circled as they went at each other, each trying to reach the other’s off side. Then Alex gave that up and crowded in an attempt to get inside the sword length. He knocked his opponent with his pommel, but for his trouble was clouted by a mace in the English knight’s left hand. Alex saw stars, and had to parry madly the sword that followed the mace. He shook his head to clear it, and renewed his effort at gaining an advantage with his sword. The horses circled once more.
In a flail of legs and head, the English horse went down, screaming, hamstrung by an unhorsed Scot who then dispatched Alex’s opponent as casually as swatting a spider. Alex saluted his follower, then wheeled his horse and spotted Lindsay whacking hell out of a foot soldier with her mace. Mounted, she had a terrible advantage of height, but the infantryman slashed at her leg. She kicked him, and when he turned back she clobbered him in the head with her mace. When he stood again, without his helmet, she hit him again. This time he fell and didn’t get up. Ale
x smiled.
Then across his chest he took a surprise hit from nowhere. The hauberk held, but his breath was knocked nearly away. He gasped for air, in remarkably little physical pain as he cursed himself for losing his focus. The horses danced away from each other and Alex swung to oppose his attacker, then the riders charged again to clash swords and circle once more. At another approach, Alex took the off side and had his horse crowd the other. Close in, he drew his dagger quickly to stab his opponent under the chin. The Englishman dropped his sword to grab his neck in a hopeless attempt to save his own life. Blood gushed over his gauntlet, and he quickly slumped over his saddle.
Alex turned to survey the waning struggle, and found Lindsay on foot now, swinging her mace at an English knight who had her at a disadvantage with his sword though he was also on foot. In an instant Alex was on him, attacking from behind and swinging like a polo player, and broke the knight’s hack with a heavy blow. The English knight swung as he went down, and caught the underside of Lindsay’s arm. She shouted in pain and fell to her knees. Alex wheeled his horse, then leapt from it to go to her.
“Are you all right?” He reached for her arm.
She jerked it back and struggled to her feet. “Get away from me!”
“Lindsay, give me your arm.” But she ignored him and tried to stanch the bleeding herself.
The clamor about them was dying, and Alex glanced around to find the tatters of the English detail were fleeing, back the way they’d come, leaving their pack train and wagons to the pursuing Scots. He flagged down Sir Cullan and shouted orders to him over the din.
“Send your squires to chase them a short distance, but only far enough to keep them from trying to reclaim their goods. Then the squires should give up the chase and return. You and the knights take charge of that train immediately, and start moving it off toward Linlithgow. We’ll keep moving so long as there’s moonlight tonight to see by.”
“Aye, sir.” The knight hurried to obey.
Then Alex turned to Lindsay, who was pressing a hand to her wound with little success. The hand was entirely red with blood. “I said, give me that arm.”
“No! I want you away from me!” She shouted in anger, and her voice cracked with the pain of her wound. Her eyes glittered with rage. Dark hair spilled from her helmet and stuck to her face from the sweat. She shoved it away with a bloodied hand, and left a smear across her forehead.
“I saved your life.” The battle high was still pounding in his ears, surging in his veins, and he was gasping for breath. There was still much to do, and in a hurry. He had no time or mental energy for this.
She squared off with him. “And who asked you? Are you going to be following me around the rest of my life to make sure I never have to do anything I’m supposed to? Why can’t you just let me do this? How come I’ve got to be something different to you from what I am to everyone else around here? However in hell am I going to make a reputation with you following me around, fighting my battles?”
“I just want you to be safe.”
“No, you don’t. You want to fuck me. And I’m telling you right now, MacNeil, that’s not going to happen.” She let go of her wound and raised her mace. “If you come near me again, I’ll bloody kill you. I mean it, Alex. You will not touch me. Ever.”
Words stuck in his throat. He was so shocked he couldn’t even tell her how wrong she was. All he could think was that he wanted to knock her out just then. So he stared, his mouth dropped open. Finally she turned and walked off, blood dripping from her fingertips.
Once she was far enough away he could trust himself to move, he thrust his sword into the sod with every bit of strength left to him. Then he threw back his head and bellowed his frustration and anger so it echoed off the slopes around him. A few well-chosen expletives were added, and only then could he think about looking for his horse. Through the darkness of his rage, he found the thread of thought for what was needed next. He focused on that.
First he searched the dead knight’s body for his ransom cache and slipped the leather drawstring purse into a pocket of his flight suit. Then he remounted for the work ahead, taking the provisions to Edward Bruce. They hurried, and rode straight through to Linlithgow. Alex posted Lindsay at the rear of their column, and so never spoke to her the entire way. The rage festered in his gut, and he had to contain it as best he could.
The plunder was rich, more so because a good half of the English contingent was left dead on the ground while Alex had lost only five of his knights and six squires. When they reached Linlithgow Castle, Alex was paid appropriately for the cattle and supplies, the money for which he distributed to his men according to rank and seniority, himself taking the lion’s share, which was his due as commander. Then, in addition to Lindsay’s share, he tossed her the purse from the knight who had cut her. She glowered at him, but he could tell she was nonplussed by the gesture.
Then he walked over and stared straight into her face, leaning in the way he used to when impressing his ire upon ill-behaved enlisted seamen. She pulled in her chin and leaned back, but otherwise held her ground. He said, his voice a low, ugly, pissed-off growl, “Now hear this, soldier. If at any time any man in my command finds himself in a position to give aid or support in battle to a comrade, he will give it.” He paused briefly for that to sink in, then continued. “We are a unit. We are not a cluster of yahoos flailing at the enemy. We work together, we give support, and we accept support. Any deviation from this policy will be met by immediate disciplinary action.” Another short pause, then, “Am I coming in loud and clear, soldier?”
Her reply was prompt. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. See that you don’t forget it.”
“Yes, sir.” Anger still flashed in her eyes, but he thought she understood. Alex turned on his heel and walked away.
That night they encamped just outside the castle walls. He had one of the hunters slaughter and spit an entire cow for his men to feast on, and in addition provided them all with bread, cheese, mead, and public women from among the camp followers of the larger army.
The fire was high, throwing sparks and flaring at dripping grease from the roasting carcass. Now that they were all relatively safe, well fed, and well on their way to being drunk enough to not care how ugly the whores were, the men of Alex’s company relaxed, lounging around the fire, telling and retelling of the skirmish to each other and to the women, and to anyone else who would listen. Others from the castle and Bruce’s men came to share in the food and festive mood, and Sir Hector came to hear the exploits of his half-brother Ailig and cousin Cullan.
Musicians began to collect. First a guy with a lute wandered in to serenade and accept whatever coins might come his way. He was a rangy, rawboned character, with a bright eye and a quick wit as he improvised his ribald lyrics. Soon he was joined by a midget with a small, wooden whistle and a boy who played a flat drum with a two-headed stick. Now the soldiers, most of them drunk enough they had no business even trying to stand, were moved to get up and dance to the lively tunes with the women in their company. The lute player sang songs of love, of knights giving service for the regard of great ladies. Of romance and devotion, pure and chaste.
Romance. Love. The words gave Alex a knot in his gut that felt the size of a cannonball, and he sucked down an entire bowl of mead in one draught. Maybe if he could get drunk enough, the knot would loosen and stop annoying him.
After a while, after more than his share of mead, he decided he felt pretty good. His purse was fattening, and quickly, considering he’d only been at this a few months. He’d come through this battle with no worse wound than a deep bruise across his chest and a slight hitch to his breathing, and that bit of luck surprised him as well as relieved him. It brought a weird feeling of immortality at the same time he knew the odds were against him living a long, full life. Since Kosovo, each time he lived after having prepared to die was like a reprieve, and the joy of it was heady.
The alcohol in his brain made the world
swim, and the sharp edges of reality blurred so there was no pain. Anywhere. Even when he looked at Lindsay and saw her sulking and bored, the sleeve of her flight suit rolled up and a bloody rag wrapped around her forearm, he was able to shrug it off and not care. Let her sulk. He didn’t care. She didn’t want him to help her; he didn’t care.
Damn straight, he didn’t care. He didn’t.
What he cared about at that moment was the woman who plopped herself down next to him and snuggled up. “Hello,” she greeted as she pressed her breasts against his arm. Her waist was cinched and laced, but he could feel the cushion of her bosom against his flight suit. She was warm and eager, and soft. Very soft, everywhere. He decided he liked women whose breasts weren’t bound by elastic bandages.
“Hello, yourself.” He knew the grin on his face was an idiot’s, but he couldn’t wipe it away. It just wouldn’t go.
“You’re a handsome one.”
That gave him a charge of pleasure, though he couldn’t return the compliment. Her hair was frizzy, brown, and uncombed, and her round face was completely free of chin. But just then he figured all cats were gray in the dark, and if she thought he was handsome then that was something at least. She placed her hand on his upper thigh and squeezed, and that made him more than smile. He took a glance at Lindsay, who was frowning at him from the other side of the fire, then he leaned down and kissed the whore.
The woman eagerly accepted, and moved her hand straight to his crotch. She leaned back, pleased at what she’d found, and said, “Oh, but you’re even more handsome than I’d thought!”
He laughed, and kissed her again as he grabbed her chest. She fumbled with the front of his flight suit, then began to take a closer look at it. “What sort of garment is this, then? I’ve never seen the like!” She tugged at the flap over the zipper and tried to pull the teeth apart, then held it to the firelight and ran her finger over them.
