The King's Rebel

by Morrison, Michelle

  His armor complete except for his helm, William stood and began his rounds.

  "Hamish! Are ye plannin' on sleepin' through the battle?" he said to the lump rolled up in a blanket near the cold fire.

  "Don't ye wish," came the amiable reply as Hamish rolled to his feet, completely armored as well.

  William grinned at his rumpled friend. "Sleep in yer armor, did ye?"

  "I wanted to make sure ye didn't get the jump on killin' the English."

  The two men made their way through the camp, inspecting the motley array of troops. By the time they reached Robert's pavilion, William all but vibrated with suppressed eagerness for the battle to begin.

  "Any word on the English position?" he asked the king.

  Robert frowned. "Aye, but I'm no sure what to make of it."

  "Why? Where are they?"

  "There is only a small contingent under the command of Aymer de Valence."

  "De Valence?"

  "Aye," Robert said. "One of Edward's faceless lieutenants."

  "Does he prepare for battle?" William asked.

  "No."

  "No? Is the man daft?"

  "One would think so," Robert mused as he stared out across the open field toward the English encampment a few miles away.

  William followed his line of sight and saw a small puff of dust on the horizon. It grew as the rider approached and William frowned to see the herald dressed in the king's colors. "They do not send an emissary to treat before the battle?" he asked his cousin.

  "Let us see why," Robert said, mounting his horse and moving to intercept the messenger. William followed and within a few minutes, they were respectfully approached by the herald.

  “My lords,” the herald said in a carefully precise voice that conveyed neither emotion nor indifference. “I bid you good morning and send you the greetings of my lord, Aymer de Valence, representative of his most noble grace, King Edward of England.”

  Robert nodded and responded with equal courtesy. Frustrated with impatience, William tightened his legs around his horse and the beast shuffled to the side. He brought it back into line and returned his attention to the conversation.

  “I trust you come with an invitation from your lord to treat with him before I engage him in battle.” All hint of Robert’s Scots burr was wiped from his careful diction.

  Neutrality evident in the smooth plains of the herald’s face, he bowed in bland apology. “Nay, my lord earl—“

  ”He is the king!” William snapped.

  A brief flash lit the herald’s eyes, though of fear or mockery, William could not tell. “As you say,” he responded.

  Robert had clearly lost his patience as well. “What says your lord? Does de Valence wish to treat or does he simply choose to die in battle?”

  “My lord de Valence chooses neither option, my lord.”

  “Neither?” William snapped, but Robert held up a restraining hand.

  “Either he wishes to avoid battle by treating with me and granting my demands, or he wishes to face me on the field and put our fate in God’s hands. Which is it, man?”

  “My lord, forgive me, I am a simple messenger.” The herald glanced quickly at William as if expecting an explosive response and when none was forthcoming, he continued. “My lord de Valence sends me to inform you that he will not treat with you, nor will he meet you in battle. He urges you to return to your homes and await a confrontation with King Edward’s army another day.”

  “So Edward can take time to gather more men? Prepare greater devastation?” William spat out.

  Robert did not rein him in, instead asking, “To what purpose? And to whose benefit?”

  “My lord, I know not,” the herald answered, appearing as if he truly were as confused as the Scots.

  “Do not heed this man, Robert,” William said, jerking his horse around to confront his cousin. “This is a trap.”

  “My lord,” the herald said.

  Robert turned his attention from William’s intent expression.

  “Lord de Valence instructed me to tell you that if you violated his peaceful overtures, you and your men would be devastated, the fields of Scotland sown with lye, the women raped and the old men humbled.”

  “As if Edward has not already employed such tactics,” Robert sneered.

  “But if you accede to his request, he will arrange a treaty between you and King Edward which will benefit you and your country.”

  William scoffed and Robert glanced at him. “You doubt the good herald’s words, cousin?”

  “Aye,” said William. “For this de Valence is but an extension of Edward and never has Edward granted any rights not won by blood and battle. It is a trick, Robert. Do not play into their plans.”

  Robert studied the distant horizon for several moments. His decision made, he looked at neither William nor the herald, but stared instead to the south where de Valence and his men must be encamped.

  “I will grant de Valence the benefit of the doubt,” said Robert. “Convey to his lordship that he will rue the day he was born should he be playing me false. Tell your lord,” he sneered. “That should my trust in him be misplaced, he will beg for the mercy of devastation, lye-strewn fields and dishonored women!”

  William bit back a savage grin. His bloodlust was unabated, but at least he’d heard Robert promise dreadful retribution. For the English were lying. Of that William was sure.

  As they returned to their camp, Robert said, “Prepare the men to leave immediately. I dinna trust the English any farther than I can spit.”

  “Aye,” William agreed. “And I’ve seen ye spit. It dribbles all down yer chin.”

  Robert grinned, a mirror image to the savage smile on William’s face.

  “When will they attack, do ye think?” William asked.

  “A fortnight, perhaps. Maybe sooner.”

  William nodded his agreement. “We should be able to make Methven if we leave immediately. That should put us out of range in case de Valence decides to attempt a moonlit raid.”

  “A worthy idea. How soon will we be able to leave?’

  “If we ride in our armor, we can leave as soon as the tents are down.”

  “And if we ride in our armor, we shall be prepared in case de Valence is even now coming to attack,” Robert said.

  “Aye.”

  ***

  At least Meghan would be safe, William thought, though his muscles ached from the build up of anticipation that had had no outlet in battle. They would withdraw to a safe distance and he would have time to find her, make his amends, marry her, and force her to return home.

  Home. Though William had never seen Innesbrook, the thought of a life there with Meghan brought a peace to his soul that he never thought possible given the battle lust that coursed through his body. Yes, he would make a home there with her and he would lead her clan into battle right behind Robert as they severed their ties with England forever.

  She would forgive him for failing her father and forget that failing amidst the sweaty passion of their honeymoon.

  William paused in his pleasurable ruminations. "Hey lads! Get yer arses movin', aye? Or d'ye wish to be left behind and suffer the company of the English when they finally arrive?" he yelled at a group of soldiers who lounged around a smoldering campfire.

  A grizzled veteran grinned and answered, "Ach, William, ye tell us to pack up, but we know 'tis but a matter of time before high and mighty lords-"

  "English and Scots," interjected another.

  "Aye, lords from both sides o' the border decide that they will have a bit of sport today after all. Then where will our bonny king be with a bunch of soldiers worn out from packin' an' unpackin'?"

  "He'll be in Methven, awaitin' to hear from the English king. I heard the messenger, ye auld fools. There'll be no battle today." At least, not here, William thought. He still had his doubts about Lord de Valence.

  He left the soldiers to their good-natured grumbling as they packed up their meager belon
gings and scanned the horizon. He was determined to maintain a careful vigil of the surrounding area for fear that de Valence's words were a ploy to draw the Scots out of their strategic battle position.

  As they made their tedious way north, the men complaining and sweating as they traveled in armor, William's suspicions did not abate. Though scouts did not report any English following them, de Valence's army to the south was small enough; they could travel quickly if need be.

  Returning from his inspection down the line of men, William hailed Robert.

  "Ye dinna suppose de Valence actually spoke the truth when he said he'd no wish to fight, do ye?" he asked his cousin.

  Robert shook his head, a deep furrow sown between his thick brows. "I've no idea what to think," he said. "I'm kickin' myself for not attacking the English whether they wish to fight or no, but another part of me thinks that perhaps Edward really is considering a treaty with us."

  William refrained from venting his opinion of that possibility. He knew the king had more than enough to worry about without second-guessing himself.

  "Either way, you should address the clan leaders so they dinna think we're retreating."

  "Is that what the men think?" Robert asked, his frown deepening.

  "Nay, but a soldier will go where he's told by his laird-even a Scots soldier."

  His meager joke worked and Robert laughed. "Aye, well, I'll call the lairds together tonight and tell them..." he expelled his breath in a gust. "I've no idea what I'll tell them, but I'll convince them that we have the upper hand over the English and discreetly beg them not to return to their homes."

  "A king never begs," William admonished.

  "Oh, aye, I'll order."

  ***

  The last weary stragglers finally crested the small rise and descended the steep walls of the valley in which the Scots planned to spend the night. The terrain was a deathtrap should the English attack, but they'd had no reports of English in the area and the deep valley would hide them from sight and perhaps confuse de Valence's scouts who were no doubt trying to track the Scots army.

  As the last man made his way into the valley, William exhaled a sigh of relief and took off his helmet, hanging it by the strap on his saddle. He'd been sure that they would be attacked as they withdrew, but now he joined Robert in hoping that the English king truly meant to negotiate for Scotland's freedom.

  He took one last survey of the horizon, squinting into the hazy sunset and studying the encroaching dusk to the south. To the north, the few lights of Methven proved they were not alone on this great swath of Scotland, but there were no English out there tonight. Satisfied, William allowed his horse to pick its way down the valley wall and into the camp. His tent had been set up and Hamish handed him a mug of ale as he slid off his horse.

  "Ye'd make a wonderful wife," he told his friend.

  "Nah, I've burned the stew."

  William wrinkled his nose. "Aye, and ye don't smell so good. Or is that dinner?"

  Hamish handed him a wooden bowl of stew and shrugged. "'Tis one or the other."

  As William sat by the small fire with his scorched supper, he glanced along the valley’s ridge once more. His gaze drifted from there to the scattering of tents, wondering which one housed Meghan. Perhaps after supper he would allow himself to wander the camp—ostensibly to check on the men, but actually to find Meghan. Most of the lairds had foregone the luxury of a tent tonight and William thought he had a better chance at finding her clan.

  Three bites into Hamish’s stew, William decided he would prefer hunger.

  “Now ye’ll no hurt my wifely feelings eatin’ only a smidge of my stew, will ye?” Hamish whined when William stood to leave.

  “If ye had any wifely feelings, I might try to choke down a few more bites, but as it is...”

  “Aye, and now ye’ll be off chasin’ skirts while I’m left at camp.”

  “Just one skirt,” William murmured, turning to leave. “And she’s probably not even wearin’ a skirt.”

  “Try not to be such a dunderhead this time and mayhap she’ll no send ye packin’ again!” Hamish called after him.

  William hunched his shoulders against the advice even as he took it to heart. Nay, he’d not be such a dunderhead again, nor would he allow Meghan to scorn him again. They were meant to be together, any fool could see that. A self-satisfied smile crossed his face as he strode through the encampment.

  A shrill war cry split the calm night air, wiping the grin from William’s face even as it stopped his heart. The English! Damn them all to hell, he had known—known!—they would try such trickery! Against the deep blue of encroaching night, he glanced up to see the entire western edge of the valley lined with fully armored and armed soldiers.

  Filling his lungs, William bellowed Robert’s own war cry, alerting the Scots to the attack. As the English troops poured over the lip of the valley, William raced back to his tent, cursing whatever distraction had caused him to leave his weapons behind.

  The exhausted Scots were sluggish to respond to the threat and as Hamish met William with his sword, the first agonized death cries tore the night air.

  “I knew it. I knew they would attack!” William spat.

  “Aye, well, now we all know it,” Hamish replied, panting to keep up as the two men raced to the battle.

  As the light faded, William could scarcely distinguish Englishman from Scot and he prayed his sword would find its true mark. Then the battle rage surged through him, flooding his mind with but one purpose, heating his limbs to their task and wiping all distractions from his periphery.

  With a strength born of fury, he hacked and slashed his way into the thick of the jumbled enemy line. As if aided by the fairy folk of the ancient religion, he found he could see as clearly as if it were dawn instead of dusk. He used that advantage ruthlessly as he killed every man in his path. He vented his rage at the perfidy of the English, vowing they would not gain another inch of this valley. On a deeper level, one which he was scarcely aware of, his heart pounded out the urgent message that he must not allow these men to reach Meghan. He would do whatever it took to keep her safe.

  In response, his arm hefted his broadsword as if it weighed no more than a dagger. He shoved with his shield, knocking over enemy soldiers as if they were piles of kindling, stacked for his amusement. His senses sharpened still further and he smelled the tang of blood mixed with the smolder of extinguished fires. He saw the man in front of him drop with a gash in his neck from which there would be no recovery. He heard the cries of the wounded, heard Hamish yelling at him that they were surrounded, that the English were everywhere, that Robert had ordered the Scots to escape as they might.

  He glanced around and knew that he would not escape. There were too many of them and the otherworldly strength that had allowed him to cut a huge swath through the enemy lines was even now diminishing.

  His heart clenched abruptly, though not in fear for himself. Meghan. He would have failed her again. And when the English got their hands on her...

  William’s fading strength suddenly surged and without heed to Hamish’s call, he began his final, futile assault.

  ***

  William awoke face down in the dirt. An ant stalked industriously by his nose, undisturbed by the dust that wafted in his exhalations. William took a deeper breath and exhaled, raising more dust, which filled his eyes and clogged his throat. Gagging, he struggled to push himself up, but found his arms refused to lift him. Instead, he rolled over and gazed at the bright blue sky above him. Where in God’s name was he?

  "Done sleepin' are ye?" The hoarse croak to his right sounded like a strangled bullfrog. William gingerly turned his head and saw Hamish squatting beside him. One eye was swollen shut and a brilliant shade of violet. His bloodied nose had only recently dried, but it looked as though nothing would be able to straighten its mangled length.

  "What-" William began but the dust in his mouth froze his words. Working up a meager amount of spittle, he tri
ed again. "What happened to you?"

  "Are ye daft? The bastard English attacked us last night. Did ye take a blow to the head?" Hamish said, squinting his good eye at the matted mess of William's hair.

  William tried to move his arms again and found that his left arm now worked, although it tingled in painful protest at being flattened beneath him for hours. He ran a numb hand along his scalp and found no unusual knots or bumps. "I'm alright," he said. "What happened to your voice?"

  "Kicked in the throat,"

  "The throat?" William said, wondering that his friend was still alive.

  "Aye. By a horse."

  "A horse? Good God man. How is it ye lived to tell me of it."

  Hamish put a hand to his neck and winced as he swallowed. "I'd no wish to live, believe me. But someone had to save yer thankless arse, did they no?"

  Bracing himself for a wave of pain, William pushed himself upright. A cautious glance around showed him a disheveled band of men, all as bruised and battered as he felt and as Hamish looked.

  "Where is Robert?" he said, worriedly pushing himself to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, black spots whirling before his eyes.

  Hamish grabbed his elbow and after several deep breaths, William's equilibrium returned.

  "He's here. And unhurt, though I suspect his pride will take a while to heal."

  William stumbled to the group of men and found his cousin sitting in the dirt, staring at his hands as if they had somehow failed him.

  "I should have attacked the English," Robert said.

  "Aye," William replied, sinking to the ground. "Is that why the king of Scotland is sitting in the dirt? Because he did not attack the English?"

  Robert shook his head. "I'm no king. If I were, I'd no have trusted those cursed bastards. I'm no fit to lead a horse to water, much less free this country from Edward's stranglehold."