Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (17 page)

They stood beside his ship, he absently stroking her hair. “I did not mean to dismiss you last night when you said you wished to fight. You are a woman of passion and courage, of course you wish to fight.” He shifted then, seeking her gaze. “But my own courage would fail if ever you took to the battlefield. Forgive me, but I am happy you must remain behind.” He pressed a kiss to her lips. “I would have you live,” he whispered. “This world is a far better place with you in it.”

New Park on the outskirts of Stirling Castle

June 1314

Garik, along with a force of five hundred Highland warriors, held position amid the trees on top of Gillies Hill. Flanked by Logan and Duncan, he stood in the frontline. From the hilltop, he could see New Park, a narrow strip of land, dotted with towering trees and carved in half by a river called the Bannock Burn. Across the Burn, and beyond large patches of murky swamp land, the English army readied for battle. Edward the Second had assembled fifteen thousand foot soldiers and three thousand heavy cavalry at Berwick upon Tweed and marched his army north in an attempt to cease the Scottish seige of Stirling Castle.

Garik looked over his left shoulder at the castle in question. He did not doubt it would be theirs. With an army of only six thousand foot soldiers and no heavy cavalry to speak of, the Bruce’s army stood poised to accept Edward’s challenge. Garik had been unable to conceive of an army of such size when rumors of its approach first reached Stirling; that is, until the mammoth enemy had arrived. But if the Scottish war for independence had taught Garik anything, it was that size mattered little.

His eyes shifted to their own side of the Burn, drawn by a line of Scottish soldiers riding Galloway nags, which were rugged ponies used for reconnaissance and ambush attacks. Against the English cavalry, who rode large chargers, they would be crushed, and so they moved from the fore to take up position behind the Scottish infantry. Then Garik scanned the men who stood near and a smile curved his lips. The Scottish army had something the English lacked: a Highland infantry.

Garik faced the enemy without fear. Like his king had boasted years ago, their greatest weapon was their superior knowledge of the land—and never had this been more true. Because of the river dividing their armies, the enemy could only deploy as many knights as could cross the bridge at once. To avoid the bridge meant the English would have to attempt the swamps, and given the weight of their warhorses and the armored knights those beasts carried, they would no doubt sink into the muck and likely never clear the river. The only option remaining would be to move farther down the shore to dryer land, but still they would have to cross the water, and this time without a bridge.

Movement at the base of the hill snagged his attention.

“The king comes this way,” he said to Logan.

The Bruce rode a small, brown palfrey with the visor of his helmet drawn, but Garik knew him by the coat of arms on his shield: a yellow background with a blood red cross, at its center a helmet; and above it all a blue lion rampant. The Bruce rode toward them, picking his way around the trees while he made his ascent. Stopping in front of Angus Og, who stood only a few feet away from Garik, he slid from his mount.

“My hope rests in thee,” the king said, placing his hand on Angus Og’s shoulder. Then with a dip of his head to the rest of Highlanders, the king mounted and returned to New Park where the Scottish infantry moved into position.

Angus Og turned to face his men. “The king places his hope in us,” he cried out for all to hear. “We, the men of the Isles, hold the hope of Scotland’s king.” The hill erupted with the various battle cries of the Highland warriors. The Bruce’s words, Angus Og’s fury, and the thunderous roars pouring forth from the hearts of the surrounding warriors came together in Garik’s mind, filling him with an eagerness for battle. They were on the side of right—this he did not doubt. Regardless of the size of their enemy, they would push the English out of their borders once and for all.

Even if Garik could not have seen the English advance from his position on the hill, he would have heard the clanging of armor and the pounding of their horse’s hooves. He gripped his Viking battle ax in one hand and his Highland targ in the other.

“We are ready for them,” Angus Og cried. “Let them come.”

Amid the throng of Highland warriors Garik was the only one not clad in his clan’s plaid. He wore his leather jerkin and a shirt of mail. For armor, many of the other Highlanders wore padded shirts beneath their plaids and leather gauntlets, but like Garik they wore no helmets. There long hair hung in fierce disarray. When ordered, they would rain down upon the English like the savages their enemy made them out to be.

The first sign of their foe breeching the river was the colors Garik recognized as belonging to the Earl of Hereford. His banner boasted blue, gold, and silver stripes with six lions rampant. A call for the Scottish infantry to tighten their formation rent the air.

“They are going to form the Schiltron,” Duncan said eagerly.

The Scottish foot soldiers raised their shields into position and clustered together into a tight circle, merging as if into one warrior, and from out of this armored being rose countless long spears, ready to sink into the weak chinks in the approaching knights’ armor. Garik watched for which of the Scottish lieutenants would take the lead of their vanguard company. A rider came to the fore and the sight of the commander made Garik’s heart soar. It was the Bruce himself.

“Our king leads his men,” Angus Og shouted to the warriors behind him. The hill came alive with the energy of the warriors’ blood lust.

Garik knew every man on that hill wished to be beside their king, but they would not descend upon the English until Angus Og gave the signal. They were hungry for battle but greater than their lust was their discipline.

Garik watched the English cavalry cross over the bridge and weave through the sparse woods of New Park with their lumbering mounts, the trees forcing them to break formation again and again. The Schiltron advanced toward the enemy undeterred by the trees, which easily passed through as the formation curved around them like a wave hugs the shore. In between the Schiltron’s spear men, Garik spied mixed infantry with their knives and axes at the ready to protect the spear men and to finish off the cavalry when they fell.

“Look there,” Logan shouted, pointing to a knight who had broken rank and was now charging toward their king.

“Garik, ye ken all of their blasted crests. Who is that?” Duncan growled.

“It is Sir Henry de Bohun. He is the Earl of Hereford’s nephew.” Garik ceased talking and held his breath. Their king now faced mortal danger. Henry de Bohun thundered across New Park atop his fierce charger. The king, riding his small palfrey, looked like a child in comparison.

“The Bruce is armed only with a battle axe,” Garik said as he watched de Bohun lower his lance into position and charge ever faster. Fear for his king gripped Garik’s heart, but just as de Bohun was upon him, the Bruce jerked to the side, ducking de Bohun’s lance. Then he straightened up in his stirrups and brought his ax down with such strength that he split du Bohun’s skull in half, helmet and all. The hillside erupted with roars of triumph as the dead Englishman slid to the ground.

The Earl of Hereford screamed with fury, ordering the men in his command to advance. The Scottish Schiltron held firm. The English cavalry continued their charge. Those not wise enough to pull back before they reached the Schiltron were skewered on the long spears.

“The Schiltron advances,” Garik shouted.

“Look at the Earl of Hereford now,” Logan said. The Earl, unable to control his troops, retreated. Confusion claimed the English ranks, but then a fresh wave of English cavalry charged from the side where dryer land allowed their horses to pass in greater number. Garik’s heart pounded with fury. Then the low croon of a horn filled the air.

Angus Og turned around and shouted. “’Tis the call of our king,” he cried.

The battle cry of the MacKinnon tore from Garik’s lips as he charged beside his brothers in battle down the wooded hillside. He imagined they were a terrific sight—savage, half naked, and hungry for blood. They thundered toward the confused cavalry with ferocious might and lethal intent. Garik leapt for an English knight, pulling him from his horse. The knight lay pinned to the ground beneath the weight of his armor. Seizing his helmet, Garik sliced the enemy’s head from his neck with one swing of his ax. Then he pulled himself onto the horse and charged deeper into the fray.

It felt like mere seconds passed before the English troops began to retreat. As the last of the English cavalry raced back over the Bannock Burn, the Bruce dismounted from his horse to stand before Angus Og and raised his bloody ax high in the air while a cry of triumph tore from his lips. New Park erupted in a chorus of cheers as the Scots celebrated their victory.

While the fire of triumph still burned within their hearts, they turned to the unhappy tasks of attending to the dead and searching for prisoners.

“Send out the Galloway nags. I would know our enemy’s plan,” the Bruce said to Angus Og.

Garik saw two of their light cavalry head off into the wooded hills, riding rugged ponies that easily navigated the narrow pathways.

A while later the scouts returned and reported that the English had not retreated beyond their camp.

“They mean to try us again in the morn,” Lord Douglas said, joining them. Garik greeted the young lieutenant just as two priests passed by, reminding him of the Scottish lives lost despite the ease of their victory. He had already helped dig many of the graves that would cradle the bodies of their fallen brothers. With a silent prayer, he turned back to James who had already begun discussing tomorrow’s strategy. Then a thin voice interrupted. Garik turned around and was surprised to find Finn MacLean, Balfour’s youngest brother. Like the rest of them, blood splattered his face and plaid, but, despite, their victory, his shoulders stooped with defeat.

“My lords,” he said, kneeling before Angus Og and Lord Douglas.

“My brothers are among the dead,” Finn said.

Ronan came forward. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Keep away,” Finn snapped at Ronan. “I ken ye do not mourn their passing, but my father will,” he said, turning once more to face Angus Og. “With your permission, I will return to Mull and bring my brothers’ swords to my father who, God willing, will still be alive to accept them.”

Angus Og stood in silence for several moments, but then his hand came down upon Finn’s shoulder. “This war has taken enough from the Mull MacLeans. I ken your father is not long for this world. Ye must go and bring comfort to your clan.” A tear fell down Finn’s cheek as he stared up at Angus Og in bewilderment.

Garik could not help but feel badly for this youngest son of Darach MacLean. He clearly found himself in a position that was not only never planned, but Garik could tell it was unwanted.

“Finnean MacLean, by my trove, I am aggrieved for your loss,” Ronan said. “I will call upon ye when we make our return to Mull. I hope we can continue our discussions of peace.”

Finn’s shoulders stooped further still, but then he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, appearing to stand a little taller. “That is also my hope,” he said.

“We will see that your brothers are buried with every honor,” James said, offering Finn his condolences.

“Thank ye, my lord,” Finn said. “But I’ve already seen it done. They were buried alongside their men just as they would have wanted.” He turned away then, shuffling under the weight of his dead brothers’ swords.

“’Tis a shame for the MacLeans,” James said, when Finn was out of ear shot. “Although he is the more decent man, he lacks the strength to lead.”

“I would not dismiss Finn altogether,” Ronan said. “’Tis a wonder how tall and straight a man can stand when he is no longer trod upon. I wager there is more to Finnean MacLean than meets the eye.”

“For the sake of his people, let us hope ye’re right,” Angus Og said.

“Ye ken this changes everything,” Duncan said.

Garik, Logan, Duncan, and Ronan stood in silent reflection, each man knowing the others’ thoughts. The loss of both Balfour and Calum brought the promise of change to Mull. A century’s long feud may have just come to an end. With the prospect of winning both the war against England and the war at home, the Mull MacKinnon smiled at each other, their hearts brimming with hope for peace.

The morning sun alighted upon tall grasses that stretched beyond the forest of New Park. The small open plain abutted the Scottish side of the Bannock Burn not surrounded by marshland. Garik stood on the boundary marking where the safe refuge of the wood ended and the open expanse of field began.

The Highland warriors stood beating their shields with the butts of ax and dirk. The sound thundered across the plain, no doubt chilling the hearts of the demoralized English army gathering on the other side of the Burn. At the front of the Scottish defense were four separate Schiltrons, which stood at the ready, each one an armored unit with innumerable, threatening spikes.

James called Garik over. “Gather men and hide amid the Schiltrons. Protect the spear men, and when the opportunity arises, strike down the enemy.”

Garik did as he was bid. He dispersed the MacKinnons among the spear men, and then he too hunkered down beneath their shields. Peering through a slit, Garik strained to gauge the enemy’s position. Then suddenly a whirring sound filled the air.