The Scotsman (42 page)

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 ground. 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.

Soothing the terrified destrier with calming hand and voice, Alex noted the red and white crest stitched onto the cloth that had once been white. His eyes narrowed. It was familiar, a red lion and black hawk—Devlin.

If Devlin had been unhorsed, no doubt he lay among the fallen, and he stepped over sprawled knights who lay dead on the field, searching for the lion and hawk shield among those slain. Around him men moaned, while in the distance came cries of battle as the enemy was yet pursued. The Scots would run them to the ground now, and take prisoner those of value to ransom or exchange. Alex wiped stinging sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, his sword in one hand and the leather reins in the other.

Christ Almighty, there had been work done this day that would not soon be forgot … so many English barons lay among the dead. But he did not see the man he sought. Slipping a little on gore, he progressed slowly over the littered field toward the burn. Then he stopped, watching in grim wonder as the routed English crossing the Bannockburn became bogged in its muddy depths and were crushed and rolled over by the panic of those who fled after them. Between its narrow banks, the burn became choked with struggling men and horses, many who drowned or were drowning as their comrades ran heedless over their bodies.

That was where he found Nicholas, Lord Devlin, on one knee with his sword still clutched in his hand and hot frustration in his eyes as he tried to turn his men back to fight. Bareheaded beneath the blazing sun, Devlin
seemed not to notice or care that they were beaten, laying about him with the flat of his sword in an effort to create order out of chaos.

Despite the hatred he felt for him, Alex also felt a grudging admiration that Devlin showed courage where his comrades did not. With most of the English fleeing in panic, seasoned veterans among them, this young man preserved his courage and his calm, trying to marshal his men and get them to safety.

When Devlin saw him approach, he struggled to his feet and stood swaying, sword at the ready. Fierce hatred glittered in eyes as bright a blue as the cloudless sky over them. “Fraser … come and taste my steel, for I have long awaited this moment.”

Alex halted and released the reins of Devlin’s mount. The destrier seemed not to know what to do, and put down its great head to stand motionless. Moving in front of the beast, he caught and held Devlin’s gaze.

“Your horse has already yielded the day, my lord Devlin. I claim him, your sword, and your person in the name of Robert Bruce, King of Scotland and my sovereign majesty.”

“I do not yield.”

Levering the bloodied tip of his sword toward Devlin, Alex said softly, “Then you will die.”

“So be it.” Devlin hefted his sword in both hands. His shield was gone, his helmet gone, and the once-white surcoat was ripped and bloodied. Dirt and blood streaked his face, as well. He was sorely wounded, yet held his weapon at the ready, and Alex understood. It was what he would do.

Blood surged through his veins as he parried Devlin’s first thrust, catching it on the edge of his blade and forcing the swords upward. Twisting, he disengaged and swung back around, only to be met with an answering
parry from Devlin’s sword. The shock of the blow vibrated down his arm. They met, clashed, parted, and met again, each swinging impact a harsh buffet of muscle and stamina. Both were weary and drained from the fight, yet intent upon finishing the business between them.

They fought across the muddy banks of the burn, sliding in muck and blood, over fallen comrades and bushes. Sweat streamed, sunlight glittered along the blades and in their eyes. Then Devlin went down, his foot slipping on gore to send him crashing to the ground. Alex took immediate advantage of the opening and straddled him, his sword point aimed at Devlin’s throat for the final thrust that would end it.

Devlin looked up, grim knowledge in his eyes now, along with the hatred. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he neither asked for mercy nor yielded.

Panting for breath, winded and filled with blood lust, Alex leaned on his sword so that the tip pushed harder into the mailed cowl protecting Devlin’s throat. This one act would end it all, the months of simmering hatred and resentment, with a single hard shove of his sword. But it would end Jamie’s life as well. Warfield, if he still lived, would not let this pass no matter what had happened on the battlefield this day. His daughter was gone to him, and if Alex took his heir as well, there would be nothing left for the earl to fear.

With the cries of the wounded and dying filling his ears and his enemy at his feet, Alex struggled between duty and vengeance, all that he had lost and all that would be his. Schooling his conflicting emotions into abeyance, he took a deep breath that smelled of death and blood.