The fighting is long and fierce. Bodies are crammed so close in the narrow strip between slippery hill and glittering loch that long-hafted spears are rendered useless. I know not how many foes I alone dispatch – they come one after another so fast I can barely save my own skin, let alone see to my men.
Somehow, we endure, although I know not if it has been an hour or a day. They cannot break us and at last begin to fall back in broken waves, struggling up the hillside. The clamor and chaos of a fresh battle has given way to scattered patches of fighting: the random thud of a weapon lobbed at a shield, punctuated by the demonic howls of the dying.
I have but a moment to catch my breath, scrape the now cold and crusting blood from my brow, and call a retreat to spare what lives I can. Edward rushes by and I know he at least has survived this awful day. Then I see James waiting at the rear for me on his pony. His countenance bears evidence of both exhilaration and exhaustion. I follow close behind Edward.
Before we reach James, a riderless horse blocks our path momentarily. Then I hear a dull blow, the high bray of a horse going down, the snap of bones. With a curse, I guide my mount around the stray beast. There, on the dark, blood-wet grass, lies James, his eyes sinking back in his head. At first as I race toward him, it looks as if he has lost an arm entirely. But then I can see, halfway between wrist and elbow, his forearm bent oddly backward, his flopping hand pinned beneath his hipbone.
A wounded Highlander, lying nearby, pushes himself up on hands and knees and begins to crawl toward James, heaving himself along, as if determined that if he is to be left behind, he will bring down one more of his enemies to even the score. He clenches a knife in a mangled hand and creeps steadily closer. Now only feet from James, he raises his torso up. The knife jerks backward over his shoulder.
I let out a cry that startles him. He turns his head as my axe swings down upon his skull. I feel the jolt of metal shattering bone. Blood rains over me.
I bark at Edward to hold up and plunge from my horse to pull James up from the ground. A light load, I sling him over my horse’s withers, then pull myself back into my saddle. Twisting my hand tightly in the tail of James’ shirt, I spur my horse forward.
Balquhidder, 1306
Our losses are severe. And at a time when we can ill afford them. Southward we straggle, slowed by our wounded and lack of horses. Clouds blot out the sun and an early chill invades the air as evening comes on.
Gil, who has been leading the way, circles back to tell me we are somewhere near Balquhidder. There is no indication we have been trailed, crippled quarry that we are. Around us, bare hillsides are giving way to swaths of forest and Gil points to a faint shadow tucked deep amongst the trees.
“There’s a cave there,” he says, his voice drawn with fatigue. “I don’t know that it will hold us all, but we can at least lay our wounded within before the rain drowns us.”
As we head up the slope, James stirs to consciousness, moaning. He slips to the side and I dig my hand deeper in the wad of his shirt, hanging on with a strength I would have thought would be long gone by now.
At the cave, I hand James down into Boyd’s bearish grip and he takes him and lays him inside. The place reeks of mold and dampness and now the sharp tang of blood floods the air: the smell of life and of death. I leave my horse, go inside and sink down onto the cold, hard floor of the cave just within the entrance, pale gray light playing over rows of writhing bodies behind me.
Then the feeling washes over me – total and utter exhaustion so deep I feel I could sleep a hundred years. But there is too much to think on. Too much that has happened. And I know there will be no sleep tonight for me. Some of those we tried to save and have brought here suffer gravely. They will not see the sun rise.
Elizabeth and Marjorie have been whisked off under Nigel’s keen guard. I know not when I will see them again, or where. They will be hunted, pursued, just as we are. I can only pray they get as far as Kildrummy. I dare not think otherwise. Wish as I may, I can do nothing to ensure their safety. They are in God’s care, at His mercy.
Oh Lord, I beg you – keep them safe. Let no harm befall them.
Darkness invades. I feel the shadows creep upon my heart and I shiver, even as Edward sees to the lighting of a small fire near me. Gil squats before me, touches me on the shoulder, but even in that kind gesture I can gather little strength. The task I have embraced, the dream that has compelled me... foolish impossibilities.
James rouses, props himself weakly up on his good elbow, and glances fleetingly at his crooked arm. Then he rolls his head back and sinks down again, gritting his teeth.
Men will die, because of me. Because I would not bow to an English lord.
Stubborn, stupid, fool!
The night wears on. My head buzzes with thoughts I cannot banish, fears I refuse to face. On the rim of my sight, a black, blurry dot sways from side to side – a spider dangling from an overhang in the cave. It lets out a length of silken thread and sails downward. But the thread is too short, the damp breeze blowing in from the mouth of the cave just enough to push it back, away from where the slanting wall juts out. For a long while it hangs there, its legs twitching in futility. And then it scampers back up its fine, shining rope and five more times it tries again to reach the wall. To me, the space it is trying to span is not so far, but to the wee spider it must be miles.
Dawn arrives, faint and cold. Still, I have not slept. Cries of agony come from the wounded. The fortunate ones have slipped beyond feeling pain. Gil is hard at work, tending to them, while Boyd gives boisterous words of encouragement. Outside, Edward swaggers about, flailing orders at those who yet have the strength to stand.
I look again at the spider, seeing it more clearly now in the growing light, and rise to my feet on numb, quivering legs as I stoop to avoid the low ceiling. I step toward it, thinking to reach out, squash it and spare it the effort. But as I do so, it lets out one more thread and the draft of my movements is enough, barely enough, to waft it to the wall. It clings there, momentarily stunned by its success. Then it anchors the first thread and climbs further up the wall, beginning from a new point. Raptly, I watch as it builds its gleaming web and I am humbled by the persistence of so simple a creature.
Like the spider, I will fail more times than I succeed. The cost will be dear. At times, as now, it will be unbearable. But giving up would be to have lived in vain. For as much as I doubt myself, these men, these broken and bleeding men around me... they believe in me for reasons I cannot myself understand.
I stumble to the mouth of the cave, my bones grinding with weariness. The sun’s rays, growing stronger, fall upon my face. I close my eyes, inhale the damp morning air, and think of Elizabeth.
Author’s Note
Folklore has a way of becoming its own truth – sometimes even larger than recorded history. I employed both the lore and the recorded annals in the telling of this tale. In the portrayal of detailed events in this book, I have made every attempt to maintain historical accuracy; however, it must be remembered that the Scottish struggle for independence spanned several decades. During this time, countless battles and sieges occurred and many, many people took part in the events of the era. Political entanglements were far more complex than what I have presented here. Therefore, some events have been condensed out of necessity.
In trying to bring the people on these pages to life – with all their inherent fears and dreams, flaws and ambitions – I have elected to use language familiar to our own era, so that the great stories of the past will be relatable to today’s readers.
King Edward I of England was not referred to as ‘Longshanks’ until quite some time after this story took place. But I have chosen to call him by that name to eliminate confusion between him and his son, as well as Edward Bruce.
I have often felt as though I was born in the wrong century – or maybe that I have lived before. Given my Scottish roots on my maternal grandmother’s side and my inexplicable attraction to the event
s of this time... perhaps I did.
Excerpt from WORTH DYING FOR (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)
Prologue
Edward II – Bannockburn, 1314
The crash of weapons roars like constant thunder. Before me, my army – dropping to the earth like swatted flies. I have deafened to the screams. Gone blind to the sheen of blood. Dulled to the stench of death.
So many fallen. God’s soul, so many. My nephew, Gilbert de Clare, among them. But how can that be? What unspeakable acts have those heartless heathens committed on him? Yesterday, he rode away on my command. Out of brash loyalty. And did not come back.
Hereford said that Robert the Bruce, that base traitor who dares call himself ‘King of Scots’, butchered him in a single blow. Hereford lies. He saw wrongly. Gilbert fought valiantly – to the last tooth and nail. He was my playfellow as an infant. Closer to me than my own brothers. Never my judge. Always at my side when I called. Often there when I did not. Gilbert with his wry quips and his lust for drink and merriment.
Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, grabs at my mount’s reins. “We must leave. Now. To Stirling. Sire? Sire? Are you listening?”
I blink at him. Hot tears scorch my eyes. My sire always told me I failed at everything. That is why he fought so hard to keep from dying: so I could not have what was his and make ruin of it. I must prove him wrong!
“No,” I say, “we stay. See this to the end.”
His dark brows hood his eyes in foreboding shadow and I realize it is already the end.
“The day is lost,” Pembroke says in harsh, cutting honesty, “but Stirling still belongs to the English. We must go there, now. Stay here a moment too long, fall into their hands and it well may be your death they’ll be celebrating today.”
Death? I should embrace it, for what have I left to live for? Piers is long gone. Gilbert, too. And now this…
Centuries from now, will they uncover the massed bones of my soldiers buried in this foreign earth? Or perhaps a shattered skull hidden among the stones and sand of one of these shifting stream banks after a cataclysmic storm?
One hand pressed to my chest, I feel for the lump beneath my coat of mail. It is there still: the lion pendant Piers always wore with such devotion.
I look back toward where the Bannock Burn carves at the earth. Last night while the planks and beams from the village were being scavenged and dragged over the boggy ground to be laid across the burn as bridgework, we found that its banks were steep, its waters swifter and deeper than one might have guessed merely by its width. Now those banks are slickened by an oozing of mud and blood and crowded with a squirming mass of bodies, grappling over one another, begging for mercy, desperate to live even in their abysmal agony.
A chill washes over my face. I feel the sweat beading on my upper lip, stiffen to the fever in my heart, see the white, blazing orb in the sky and yet I am wet-cold to the bone.
Again, Pembroke yanks on my mount’s reins as he begins to lead me through the bedlam toward the Pelstream. My private guard surrounds us in a thick wall of armored knights and horses. But our own infantry presses in on them, blocking our route in a panicked jumble. My guards to the front order them away and follow their threats with a slash of blades. Those that will not yield are cut down or trampled underfoot. From the corner of my eye, I see another and another swarm of Scots rushing down from the high ground. Their mouths open in a yip of battle cries, but the din is all a buzz in my empty, ringing head. The new mash of fighters melts into a blur as crazed and complete as a swarm of locusts devouring a field of grain.
My standard bearer. Where is my standard bearer? My soldiers will not know where I have gone to.
I clamp my knees to my horse’s ribs and pull back on the reins as Pembroke fights to drag us forward. Some of the guard is already slipping down the banks of the Pelstream, their horses deftly avoiding the gored and leaking bodies that litter the slopes.
Young Hugh Despenser comes up on my left and the champion d’Argentan shoves his way through the web of death to be at my other side.
“I will see you to safety, my lord,” d’Argentan declares.
“There will be no safety for us at Stirling!” I cry, as I loose my sword from its scabbard.
“I assure you there is less here.” Pembroke pulls me onward as we slide down the bank and splash across the reddened stream.
A headless corpse entangles itself between my horse’s legs, jostling me. My wrist is snapped backward by the jarring and my sword slips from my fingers, landing hilt first in the stream. A nebulous cloud of scarlet seeps into the murky water from the dead man’s neck and floats over my weapon, lost to me. Pembroke guides my animal forward reassuringly. An arrow flicks out of nowhere and smacks against my breastplate. The jolt awakens me to reality. A wild Scottish arrow. Come from somewhere this side of the Roman road, by the little white church with the thatched roof. More shafts hiss through the air. A knight ten paces before me flies backward from his saddle with a white fledged arrow sticking from between his eyes.
My hand goes to my throat as I feel my heart there, choking out my air. “No, no! You’re taking us too close! They’ll kill us all.”
“It’s the only way,” Pembroke insists. “Would you rather fight a handful of Scots or drown in the river?”
The land between where the Pelstream and Bannock Burn conjoin and the broad Firth of Forth lies is riddled with pockets of marsh and peat bogs, impassable in many places for our heavy warhorses. There is no way to Stirling but by the Roman road. Bruce knew that and used it to this end. And I, in my haste and spite, have been lured straight into the snare. Now it tightens and strangles my army. The rope closes around me, burning, cutting off my air.
Stirling looms ahead. Gray and imposing, like an eagle guarding its crag. We ride over the rough, choppy ground, strands of my broken columns of soldiers, racing in the same direction. One of my faint-hearted archers, who had been scattered in the first charge of Scottish cavalry, runs alone on the narrowing stretch of ground between the river and the road, his bow long lost in his frantic flight. He stumbles, spills the useless clutch of arrows from the bag on his back, and scampers to his feet. Two strides later a Scottish longsword hews into his spine.
I jerk my torso in the direction of the Scottish horseman – hobelars they call them, lightly armed fighters on swift mounts who can move through the mountains like wildcats. He is not alone. Twenty or more hobelars are swiftly riding down our heavier horses. My guard is yet in the hundreds. But the hobelars seem to know who they are heading for. They lash at their mounts with the flat of their swords and bypass my knights to the rear. Several times some of my knights veer off, trying to block them, taking down a hobelar, but the rest come on and all I can do is ride like the fires of hell on toward Stirling Castle. It could not have been more than a mile away by then, but it may as well have been a hundred.
Fear claws at my soul, shrieking for me to give up, to let fate grasp its own conclusion, written as plain as a mason’s mark hammered in stone. For the moment, life exists only in flight. My head tells me to hurl myself down and yield, yet some primitive instinct pushes me impossibly on.
Ch. 1
Robert the Bruce – Balquhidder, 1306
I stumbled to the mouth of the cave, my bones grinding with weariness. The sun’s rays, growing stronger, fell upon my face. I closed my eyes, inhaled the damp morning air, and thought of Elizabeth.
The last I had looked into her eyes, bright and green as summer grass slicked with dew, no words had passed between us. What would I have said, had I time to say anything at all? That we would be together again soon? I did not know. That she would be safe? That neither.
That I loved her? Achingly so.
For her, I had sacrificed everything. Turned my back on my fellow Scotsmen to scrape the ground at Longshanks’ feet. With no more pride than some starving cur, groveling for fetid scraps. I thought I could have her and Scotland’s crown – all without so much as a drop of bl
ood shed. And so I took her as my wife and did Longshanks’ bidding. What reason did he have then to give me more?
How I had hated every day of it. Hated him for his cruelty and deceit. Hated myself for my weakness, for yielding to him. But I had believed some good would come of it. What good? Not this, certainly. My army crushed at Methven by Pembroke’s forces like grist beneath the millstone. My womenfolk wandering through the wilderness. So many more dead at Dalry.
Bloody and broken, we had made it as far as a glen pocked with rocky overhangs and small caves, somewhere near Balquhidder. We laid the worst of our wounded in the largest cave, stinking of mold and sheep droppings and crawling with insects, high up on the hillside. In a few days, God permitting, we would be on our way again. Yet every step would be clouded with the dread that John of Lorne’s Highlanders might attack again. Ah, how can we drive out the English when we cannot stop fighting our own?
Stubborn! Stupid! Fool!
“The sun out today, my lord?”
I turned at the sound of the voice, so feeble I might not have heard it, had I not been so close to its source. Behind me, near the cave’s opening, a man sat propped crookedly against the wall. He was perhaps in his mid twenties, but the toll of battle had added a decade or more. A faint webbing of veins traced purple across his milk-pale skin. Curly, dark red hair lay in matted clumps on the top and right side of his head. But on the left... the hair was gone. An oozing mass of dried blood and mangled flesh marked the place where, only a day ago, his ear had been. The right eye was swollen shut, too, the lid a lumpy, mottled patch of blue and green.
“Aye,” I said. “Bright and bold.”
“Good.” He half-smiled. “My Muriel will like that. She’s an ill-tempered beast when it’s gloomy.” A shiver gripped him hard, made his teeth clack. When it had passed, he patted his lap and the ground. Finding nothing, he drew his hand to his chest to cradle the other arm against the chill. His right arm was nothing but a stump – a bloody, grotesque stump – the hand hewn clean off by a Highlander’s axe. Someone had wrapped it in rags, but already they were soaked red.
The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 26
