Book Read Free

The Scotsman

Page 31

by Juliana Garnett


  “Catkin … ah, God.” Helplessly, he floundered, caught between his fierce desire to declare his love, and the fear that it would destroy her. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he saw tears tracking her cheeks. It undid him. Touching the silvery paths with his finger, he said softly, “Yea, my love, I recall it well. Twas the night before we left to ride north, and when I asked you what was wrong, you said you feared to go with me. I knew then you lied. I knew you waited to hear me say it as well.”

  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and silence fell again. Lacing her fingers through his, she drew his arm upward to bring their joined hands between them.

  “You clasp my hand, and you call me love. Yet you do not say the words. I languish without them, Alex. If you feel them, say them, and if you do not, I wouldst know that as well, for I cannot bear to think I may lose you on the morrow and never know for certain if you loved me.”

  “Have I not shown you how I cherish you?”

  “Yea, you have. But I wouldst hear it.”

  There was no escape, and he did not know if he erred or did more harm than good, but he could no longer evade the truth. Pressing their joined hands to his mouth, he said against her soft skin, “I love you, catkin. God help us both, but I love you far more than I ever thought ’twas possible for a man to love a woman. You are my world, and I pray that I do not slay you by daring to love you.”

  A little sob caught in her throat, and she whispered, “How could you think your love wouldst kill me? ’Tis the lack of it that sorely wounded me, but now I will be whole. Oh, Alex, my love….”

  Bending, he kissed her, and tasted the salt of her tears on his tongue. Then he drew back, still holding her hand, and said, “All I have ever loved in this life has been taken from me, catkin. I did not want to risk you by loving you.”

  It sounded awkward and foolish even as he said it, but it was done. Her fingers tightened around his palm.

  “Come back to me, Alex, and I will give you more love than you can hold.” She brought his hand to her mouth, and holding his gaze as she pressed her lips against the back of his fingers, she said, “I am to bear your child. We need you.”

  Jolted, he sat staring at her for a long moment as the shadows lengthened and it began to grow dim. Her face was a pale oval shimmer in the fading light, and her eyes were like huge violet bruises as she waited for his response.

  Then, gathering her into him, he crushed his face into the fragrant mass of her hair and said around the thickness in his throat, “I love you, Catherine, and if all goes well, I will make you my wife. Our child will grow up heir to the barony of Kinnison, and as Scotland grows and prospers, so will we.”

  He meant it. Despite the sudden surge of fear that she would be taken from him as Catriona Fraser had been taken in childbirth, he knew that he would fight to his dying breath for the lands that would belong to the coming child. This would be his heir, and though none could ever replace the two beautiful children he had lost, it was as if all had been forgiven and he was being allowed a new beginning.

  A beginning that included this fair English flower who meant the world to him.

  27

  It was the Sabbath, June 23. Just after sunrise, the Scottish army under Robert the Bruce heard mass, kneeling on the battlefield to pray for their cause. As it was the vigil of Saint John the Baptist, they observed it as a fast, and took only bread and water as sustenance.

  Alex marshaled his men into formation with Douglas, their division numbering near a thousand. The marsh was at their back, and Edward Bruce and his thousand men on the left. Almost directly across the old Roman road, Bruce waited with his two thousand foot composed of the wild Highlanders, and to his right were the hidden pits and bogs. Randolph, Earl of Moray, was left of Bruce and up near Saint Ninian’s Kirk with five hundred foot soldiers. Behind Bruce, Sir Robert Keith held his five hundred light horse in abeyance.

  On the other side of the Bannockburn lay the English. The land sloped downward from their position, so that Alex saw Hereford’s standard fluttering in the midday sun as the enemy milled about the edge of Torwood Forest.

  “They do not hurry,” he remarked, and Robbie laughed.

  “Nay, why should they rush to defeat?”

  Robbie’s optimism was not isolated. After the divisions had been formed, Robert Bruce had it proclaimed to each that any man who may be faint of heart could depart at once. The answering shout arose from near six thousand throats as one: “We will conquer or die!”

  The muted clank of sword and armor rustled around them, and the sun beat down with a vengeance from a cloudless sky. Alex removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow, then tugged it back down over his damp head and gazed across the valley that separated the armies.

  As the English finally emerged from Torwood and onto the grassy meadow that sloped down to the Bannockburn, sunlight glittered on the brightly colored banners and from their polished metal armor. His throat tightened. The Earl of Hereford’s pennant fluttered next to that of the Earl of Gloucester as they led the vanguard across the meadow and approached the ford over the burn. In the front, clad in full armor and mounted on a powerful horse, rode a well-armed knight bearing a spear and wearing Hereford’s colors.

  “Is that Devlin?” Robbie muttered, and Alex shook his head.

  “Nay, he would be wearing his own colors. I would guess it to be Hereford or his nephew, Sir Henry de Bohun.”

  “Christ above, Alex—look!”

  Blood ran cold as Alex saw the Bruce inspecting the tightly formed ranks of Scots who were partially hidden in the woodland near the burn. Alone, the king rode a small gray palfrey, and carried only an ax in his hand. The gold circlet around his helmet marked him as the Scottish king, and apparently, Hereford recognized it and saw his chance.

  Spurring his huge destrier forward, he couched his lance as he rode straight at Robert Bruce. There was a stirring among the men as all waited anxiously to see the king’s reaction to this bold challenge. Dare he answer it? Caution bid that he fall back within the safe ranks of his soldiers and let the armies decide the outcome of this battle, but that was not his nature.

  “He must know ’tis his old enemy Hereford,” Robbie muttered in a tight voice, “for de Bohun wears the crest on his surcoat. Christ have mercy, for the king is mounted on a pony and has no lance or spear, yet Hereford is well armed!”

  But Robert Bruce turned his horse toward Hereford and waited for the charge; at the last moment, he swerved aside and stood up in his stirrups to bring down his great ax with such force that it split through de Bohun’s helmet as he passed, so that skull and brains, along with his ax handle, snapped in twain.

  For a stunned moment, there was silence on both sides as Bruce wheeled his small horse about, then the king’s Highlanders broke with wild cries of exultation, swarming over the breastworks and onto the field. They charged the English cavalry as they attempted to line up in formation on the open ground below, hindered by the fact that many had fallen into the pits and were badly floundering. Swiftly, Bruce halted the pursuit of the English as they broke and ran, curbing the Highlanders from giving full chase.

  Galloping back to the commanders who awaited him in consternation, he did not reply to their remonstrations for what might have happened had he fallen to de Bohun, but only lamented the broken ax handle. All eyes had been on the confrontation, and when Bruce looked up, he pointed to a body of English horse riding under cover of the bank along the Carse toward Saint Ninian’s Kirk.

  “Moray, a rose has fallen from your chaplet,” Bruce called roughly, and Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, at once galloped to his men and deployed them in a schiltron to the open ground over which the English would have to pass.

  From their position on the slope, Alex and the rest of the Douglas division watched as Randolph was assaulted by the English. The battle dragged on, and the Scots were hard-pressed to defend themselves as the dogged English cavalry tried to break their ranks
with battle axes, swords, and maces. So great were their numbers that the tight-knit band of Scots was nearly hidden from sight by the mailed knights who assailed them.

  Douglas asked the king if he could go to Randolph’s aid, but Bruce sent him back to his post. As it grew more doubtful, Douglas fretted over Randolph’s fate and was at last given permission to go to his aid. Yet as they drew close, Douglas halted his men and exclaimed, “The Earl of Moray has gained the day, and since we were not there to help him in the battle, let us leave to him the credit of the victory.”

  Alex watched as the English took flight, some north to Stirling Castle, and some south to rejoin their army. It was growing late in the day, and Randolph’s men sagged to the ground to remove their helmets and wipe dust and sweat from their faces. When evening fell and the Scottish forces met with Bruce, the mood was jubilant as all crowded around to offer Moray’s weary men praise.

  Finally, Bruce spoke softly, and they grew quiet to hear him. “Tonight, there will be dismay in the camp of the English because of the double defeat of powerful knights by men on foot. Yet, if you feel you have shown mettle enough and wish to retire from the field, the decision is in your hands.”

  Their reply was unanimous. They would fight at first light. Bruce smiled slightly. “Sirs, since you will it so, make ready in the morning.”

  They dispersed, and Alex went first to Gillies Hill, so he could reassure Catherine that he yet lived. Supply wagons were scattered across the green slope and in the narrow belt of wood that edged it, and he found her sitting in the shade of a spreading oak where a cool breeze lifted her hair in gentle drifts.

  Relief lit her eyes when she saw him, and she leaped to her feet with more vigor than she had displayed in some days. Flying to him, she was folded into his embrace as he caught her against his chest, and he held her that way for a long moment.

  “Have you any wounds?” Her words were muffled against his surcoat, and he laughed.

  “Nay, catkin. I did not even lift my sword, save to buckle it around me.”

  Her head tilted back. Late sunlight glinted in her eyes as she searched his face. “Is it over? Is the battle done?”

  In answer, he squeezed her, and she buried her face against his chest again and shuddered. After a moment, she drew away and took him by the hand to lead him to the shade beneath the tree. It was cooler at the edge of the wood and with the approach of evening, and he sat quietly beside her as she laced her fingers through his and held him.

  “Did you see my brother?”

  Her quiet question was not unexpected, and he shook his head. “Nay, catkin. I did not. Though I did see Hereford’s banner there. Most like, he fights under the earl’s standard if his quarrel with your father still holds.”

  “Alex—”

  “Do not say it. You know my answer.”

  She sagged against him, and he slid an arm around her. Nothing he said would help. He could not promise he would not kill Devlin if he had the chance. He still bore the red scars on his chest as a reminder of English mercy, and another reminder below his belt. It had been the last he had thought would kill him, but it may have saved his life. For when the hot iron had seared into his flesh with such excruciating agony he had lost his tenuous hold on consciousness. When he had roused, it was over. Devlin had arrived, and Catherine right after him, so that he was saved from being too brutally scarred. Oddly, it had been the first wound to heal.

  It was John Elliot who had told him of her courage in demanding they cease the torment, for he had hidden nearby in the wood to watch. Brave little catkin … so tender and yet so strong. He wished he could tell her he would spare her brother, but Devlin would not make the same promise.

  Sliding his hand over her arm down to her wrist, he felt the thin prominence of her bones beneath his fingers. “You are too thin, catkin. Have you eaten?”

  She looked up at him with a smile. “Soon, you will be saying I am too fat, sir, so enjoy my lean frame while you still can.”

  Spreading his hand over her still flat belly, he thought of their coming child. What if he was killed in the battle on the morrow? What would happen to both of them? He had not wed her, and their child would have no name. There would be no generous stipend from his hand for the child or mother, nothing but scorn and shame. Perhaps it was not fair, but for a woman of Catherine’s position to bear a child without benefit of priest was viewed more harshly than a village maid lying with a man of rank. And more than just ethics, there was the right to be suzerain that attended the birth of his child.

  He leaned close and nuzzled her hair. “Catkin, wilt thou wed me?”

  Drawing away, she turned to look up at him, her eyes serious. “Yea, I have said I would.”

  “Then we shall do so this eve, for I wouldst have it done before the morrow.”

  Her eyes widened, absorbing light from the setting sun. Reaching up, she traced her fingers over his mouth. “I fear me that you have a foreboding of the morrow that I dread to hear.”

  “Nay.” He caught her hand. “ ’Tis just that I have long delayed what should have been done.”

  “But what of your brother?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “Jamie’s fate is sealed on the morrow as well. It has nothing more to do with you, or even with me. He has become entangled with the fate of all Scotland, and if we win the battle, we win his life.”

  “Then yea, lord, I will wed you this eve should you find a priest willing to say the vows.” She paused, and a smile curved her mouth. “My father should be pleased to learn that I am wed on Saint John’s Eve, as he bade me do.”

  Alex laughed and pulled her to him with fierce emotion. “But I do not think he had me in mind, catkin.”

  “Nay, he did not. Nor did I at the time. Yet, I think I must have known that you would find me, though I did not know your name.” She tucked her fingers into the edge of his dusty surcoat. “Shall we find the priest?”

  Dawn broke on June 24, the feast of Saint John the Baptist, less than four hours after the sun had set. As the sun lifted over ragged crags and tree spires, rays of light glinted from the plumes and trappings of the English cavalry arrayed on the hard clay of the carse, and warmed the sodden English infantry scattered through the marshes beyond the Bannockburn.

  To the west, the Scots stirred beneath the heavy leaves of the trees in New Park. After a light meal to break their fast, the men formed their divisions, their banners spiking the air like bristles. Scottish priests had conducted mass in each division, then retreated to the safety of Gillies Hill to await God’s decision. After the customary knighting on the field of those chosen for that honor, the Scots were blessed by the Abbot of Inchaffray, who held a casket of the most sacred relics of the kingdom.

  At the end of the solemn ceremonies, Bruce ordered the advance. Three divisions moved off in waves, while the fourth division and the cavalry stayed in reserve on the lower slope of the wooded park. Armed knights more used to doing battle from atop savage destriers arrayed themselves in the deadly line of the schiltron beside the foot soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, all with one aim in mind: unhorsing and destroying the English knights.

  The battle began with an attack on Edward Bruce’s schiltron—an attack quickly repulsed as the vanguard was beaten back by the hedgerow of bristling spears. When Randolph came to Bruce’s aid, the English attack broke and turned back, setting off a stampede of wounded and riderless horses that clogged the field. Douglas entered the fray, barring the English from penetrating the tight circle in which they were held on three sides, and preventing their infantry from joining the battle.

  Alex fought between Robbie and John Elliot, both good men, and thrust about him with sword and spear. In such close quarters, it became impossible for the English archers to continue their deadly fire for fear of hitting their own, and the rain of arrows slackened. The Scots advanced slowly, pushing back the English with ferocity. Horses screamed, and blood pooled on the hard clay of the carse without soaking into the gr
ound. Steel rang on steel, and the brittle crack of breaking spear shafts and the dying cries of men were deafening.

  It was brutal. Alex moved forward with torturous progress, using his sword to dispatch the fallen knights, while Robbie wielded the spear with vicious efficiency. Grimly, through the tumult of grunting men and slashing weapons, the Scots beat back the English forces further still. Knights tumbled from wounded destriers to the blood-sodden ground, elegant garments trampled underfoot and fouled. The Scots ranks were so tightly packed that they pushed over the fallen in a wave, treading upon men and beasts alike in their relentless advance.

  The rallying cry of “Press on, press on! They fail!” rang over the serried ranks as the Scots neared victory. King Edward took flight, and the royal standard left the field. With their king in retreat, the army began to falter. Then Bruce gave the signal, and the Highland reserves who had come too late to be trained and waited on Gillies Hill were called up. They streamed down the slope with banners made of sheets fixed to poles and spears, and at the sight of yet more Scottish soldiers, the might of the English army turned and fled. It was a complete rout. Every English knight who had not been unhorsed spurred his mount in panicked flight.

  Robbie gave chase and Alex found himself alone, his bloodied sword in his hand as a path cleared before him for the first time. He blinked sweat from his eyes and looked up and across the field in time to see the Earl of Hereford’s banner quit the carnage. It fluttered, then dipped and disappeared. A riderless horse careened toward him, whites of the eyes showing, and Alex moved to one side to grab the dangling reins. Snorting, the beast reared and plunged, and he brought it down with a hard yank. It stood trembling, foam lathered on muzzle and chest, rich, ruined caparison hanging in tatters between its quivering legs.

 

‹ Prev