Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  And he was right. Murtagh and Mungo and partly Doogle, who had become more and more like the veteran clansmen the more time he spent with them, were invaluable. Their light and crude words, laced with occasional gems of wisdom from Callum, made the ensuing developments on the battlefield all the more bearable. The men were relaxed and waited patiently. They laughed when Murtagh and Mungo expressed their view on the English that invariably included vulgar insults. Nearly every cuss word available to them was used.

  The Scots, remembering their defeats at the Battle of Dupplin Moor and the Battle of Halidon Hill, remained on the higher terrain in a defensive stance. They waited for the English to take the initiative and attack. However, the English also took a defensive stance, knowing they had the superior position. Also, they were well aware of the fact that time was on their side. They could wait for months, receiving supplies from the English towns to the south. Furthermore, the longer the wait, the more men would flock to their banners, and in the worst case, King Edward might return home from France.

  The resulting stalemate lasted well until the afternoon. Many of the men in the Scottish host had sat down. No manner of backside wiggling, induced by hearty encouragement of the three likely suspects, had managed to insult the English enough to hurl their forces forward. Presently, Mungo and Murtagh were shouting invectives at the English line, and as could be expected, they were the only remaining men brandishing the whites of their bottoms with unabated enthusiasm. Morale had reached a low point. The wait was always the worst. It could sap a man of almost all of his strength.

  “Do those two never tire?” asked the king of Alastair. He shook his head in wonderment at the two burly clansmen who were presently jiggling to the implied tune of a Scottish dance. Occasionally, some of the warriors could not help but laugh despite the tension hanging over the Scottish host.

  Alastair chuckled. “I have never seen it happen before. If nothing occurs, they will continue what they are doing until the two armies withdraw for the night. It is their way.”

  The king smirked. “Ye are a lucky man to have such loyal men.” He studied Brice for a moment. He stood proudly, facing the English army. “And a fine laddie, yer eldest, all three of them to be exact,” he added.

  “Thank ye, my K—”

  “Crivens, we did it,” yelled Murtagh, enthusiastically. He hugged Mungo, after which, they hurled their attention at Doogle, who sat on the ground by their feet.

  “Ye see, ye dozy bod head. All it takes is stratagem and perseverance; ye young ‘uns give up too easily. Ye should listen to yer brother and us more often,” said Mungo.

  “Aye, had the both of us stooped with our insults, the bastards would never have moved,” added Murtagh. “Now, look at ’em.” He throated a hearty cackle.

  “Sire, the English longbowmen advance. They aim to harass our lines,” said Brice to the king.

  “Very good, laddie. Be sure to thank those two crazy clan members ye have there – Mungo and Murtagh,” he said, smiling and shaking his head as he watched their next antics. They had reanimated the enthusiasm in the entire battalion – kilts were lifted, there was spitting in the direction of the enemy and, of course, more swearing and the shaking of backsides that now consisted of more than a hundred. “Spirits are certainly high,” intoned the king with a slight smile creasing his face.

  The revelry did not last long. A loud whoosh sounded from the enemy army. Standing before the men-at-arms, the longbowmen had knocked their arrows and released them. All the Scottish could do was watch as the projectiles climbed into the sky. When they reached their apex up above them, the swarm of wood and feathers with the pointy metal tips almost blotted out the light in the sky – the eclipse seemed to last forever until they arced and began their descent. Gradually, the missiles’ zipping sound increased as they sloped on toward their hapless prey below them with lethal resolve.

  “Take cover,” yelled Alastair. He pushed the king down to the ground and pressed his body above that of his king.

  His sons followed suit.

  Both Murtagh and Mungo remained as they were – bare bottoms directed at the English and cursing.

  What had once been laughter and shouts of insult soon turned into screams of fear, anguish, and pain. Men rolled about on the ground with arrow shafts protruding from various parts of their bodies. Others lay still where they fell, immovable. Fortunately, the larger part of the troop had survived that first volley virtually unscathed. Murtagh and Mungo barely escaped from having their backsides peppered in the way Mungo had described earlier.

  “That was just the ranging salvo, sire,” said Alastair. “I suggest ye give the command for the attack before they slaughter the lot of us up here.”

  The king looked across to Niall.

  “Alastair’s right. We must attack now, lest we lose the advantage of our numbers. In terms of fighting men, we outnumber them considerably. If we let their archers harass us unopposed, we are done for,” Niall said, confirming what his old friend had claimed.

  “All right, sound the attack. We move forward as one,” said the king.

  Alastair nodded. He told Brice to notify the signalman so that he informs the other units in the king’s army. Before he could get to his feet, another lethal volley hailed down from the heavens, this time far more accurate than the first. More screams of anguish and pain followed. “We must go now before the next barrage hits us.” He lifted the king to his feet and guided him to the front of the line with Niall, Brice and even Callum in hot pursuit. “Sound the advance,” he yelled at Mungo.

  Hearing his laird’s command, Mungo promptly bellowed like a bull. In one fell swoop, the Scottish line gushed forward like the advancing tide of the sea. From up above, they might have resembled a colorful carpet, boasting red, black and silver in a lethal amalgamation of Scottish tartan and cold steel. Going on the offensive was the correct decision. However, the Scots’ poor position and the lay of the land resulted in their formations falling apart as they advanced.

  By the time they reached the perfectly arranged English soldiers piecemeal, it was too late – the slaughter had begun. Alastair stood in the vanguard with his king, Niall, Brice, and Callum. He was a tower of power as he dispatched one English soldier after another. Niall fought well too, but the king and Brice were the ones that stood out the most. Like an overprotective mother hen, Brice assisted his younger brother, Callum, to the extent that he only had to ward off a few blows. Inspired by Alastair’s example, King David was fearless.

  “Away, and take yer face for shite,” screamed Murtagh at the cowering English soldier before him. His trepidation was an occurrence of moments for soon he felt cold Scottish steel slip past his ribs. Too close.

  “Ye got to keep an eye out, laddie. These Sassenach arsepieces may not look like much, but what they lack in skill, they make up for in cunning,” said Mungo, helping Doogle to his feet. He barely had time to ruffle the lad’s hair before he launched himself back into the fray with a feral cry.

  Doogle soon followed until he found himself fighting alongside Alick, Bruce, Mungo and the indefatigable Murtagh in the front. Mungo’s chest swelled not only with air but also with pride when he saw his stepsons and Doogle fight like veterans. After his little warning, he no longer had to look after Doogle as much – the boy was a behemoth of bravery and skill.

  It was slaughter, with the Scottish doing the best they could. However, the English were relentless on their soil. The rise and fall of the swords, axes and the plunging of spears lasted for more than an hour. The mass of people pushing and shoving was like one living organism, separating the individual members of the clan Macleod across the entire frontage. Men’s instincts took over as fatigue overwhelmed them, their limbs acting as if they had a mind of their own – hack, thrust and plunge and do it all again was the mantra of the hour.

  Only the strongest of men could fight for so long. Already, the first hour had claimed the weakest and most hot-headed soldiers, the advent of the
second hour started to worm out the men standing in the front from the very beginning. Despite their superior numbers and ferocity in battle, the Scottish lines began to waver. It was only a matter of time before they collapsed and the men of Scotland would retreat out of fear for their lives.

  “Sire, the Earl of March must commit his men, or we are lost,” hissed out Alastair, dispatching another Englishman at the same time. He had been in the thick of the fighting the entire time. Exhaustion had started to show. His movements were no longer as coordinated. Sweat had covered his face, and his body displayed more battle wounds that would one day tell a story of his bravery this day.

  Brice instinctively positioned himself in front of his father and the king so that they could get their bearings right. “I will lead the defense while ye arrange for reinforcements.” His father gave his son a wane smile of gratitude. It was Brice’s first real battle – the lad was born for it. His forehead was covered in sweat, blood, and grime but other than that he looked as if he still had enough reserves in him to fight for another hour.

  “Macleod. Do what’s necessary. We need more men if we are to hold out here,” said the king

  Alastair nodded and turned to look back at the one remaining intact unit waiting up on the hill. He picked up a shaft with a pennant on it from the ground and waved it in the air frantically. The color on his face went a lighter shade of the tint of the clouds above. The Earl of March and Robert Stewart led their division in the opposite direction, vanishing behind the crest of the hill and back to Scotland.

  “If one of them is worthless, then the other is nothing… Robert Stewart, so overwhelmed by cowardice, broke his promise to God that he would never wait for the first blow in battle. What does the craven do? He flees with March and turning their backs on us… their king. Those two flee more valiantly with their force than they advanced in the hope to enter Scotland unscathed, and so they lead the dance, leaving me to dance my own tune,” said the king, his voice dripping with irony. “The despicable cowards.”

  Alastair fell to his knees. “We are done for… The bastards abandon their king,” he lamented, pressing his hands to his face. Images of Mary shot before his eyes, she looked beautiful, free, and ran across the Highlands like a dancing sprite – in just the way he remembered her. He tried to reach out to her, but she moved farther and farther away until she was but a speck on the horizon.

  “Da, we have to get the king out of here – without those reinforcements the battle is lost. Niall is dead, and Poor Callum has a deep welt on his left arm… It bleeds. Da, Da, come on,” yelled Brice. For a moment, his father did not respond. He was still lost in shock because of the hopelessness of their position. Brice turned to his younger brother. “Callum, look over there… Can ye see Mungo?” His brother nodded. “Good, I need ye to go to him and tell him that the laird orders him to save himself and ye and Doogle. Do ye understand? Get out of here and quickly.”

  “But what about ye?” Callum had put up a brave face the entire time for one with hardly a martial bone in his body, but he was almost at wit’s end.

  “I need to look after the king and Da and get them someplace safe. Now, leave… I will see ye soon, brother.” Brice reluctantly watched him navigate his way across the battlefield. Only moments remained until the thin Scottish line would dissolve under English pressure. “Da, get to yer feet, I am taking ye and the king home.”

  A shout of pain behind Brice brought a dazed Alastair back to the present. Brice spun on his heels only to find the king staggering like a drunken man.

  “That does not look good,” said Alastair, running forward to help his king remain on his feet. There was an arrow protruding from his face. “We have to get him away from here. If the English capture him, he will be a very useful political hostage. The government does not have the coin to pay a ransom. God only knows what they will do to make him pay for this attack.”

  “But we must remove the arrow from his head,” said Brice.

  “All in due course, laddie. Come on, give me a hand with the king.”

  Together, Alastair and Brice supported the king between them. They promptly began to run in the opposite direction of the fighting that progressively weakened as more and more Scotsmen fell or fled.

  “There’s a river not far from here. We shall go to the point where there is a bridge and hide under it. There, I might be able to remove the arrow.”

  “What then, Da?”

  Alastair smiled at his son anemically. “We will try and get home and save the king.”

  10

  An Ignominious Defeat

  * * *

  A few miles north of Neville’s Cross, Northern England, 17 October, 1346

  * * *

  “We have to keep moving, laddies. The Sassenachs won’t give up until nightfall,” said Mungo, herding what remained of the second brigade forward.

  The English were still in hot pursuit of the bedraggled men that no longer resembled the proud army that had marched that very same morning. It was a pitiful sight to see the pride of Scotland reduced so. The men that got lost or dropped back because of fatigue were promptly picked off by the enemy or captured.

  “If ye don’t want some English spear up yer bahookie, I suggest ye get a move on,” ordered Murtagh to some of the stragglers in the retreating column.

  There had been no news of the first brigade under the command of the Earl of Moray. But Mungo knew that if they had suffered the same treatment as they had, then they were most probably all dead or prisoners. Also, they had not heard from the king, Brice, and Alastair. For all they knew, they too were dead. It had taken all of Callum’s skills of persuasion to convince Mungo to escape from the battlefield without his king, his laird, and Brice. If it had been his choice, he would have fought his way back to them and even died in the process had that been his fate.

  “The miserable jobbies fled and disobeyed a direct order from their king to join the fight.” Catching up with the others at the front of the withdrawing group of men, Murtagh shook his head in disgust. “Calls himself the Steward of Scotland. I tell ye… that Robert Stewart is a radge shitehawk, and his mate, the Earl of March, is an even bigger tally-washer. I hope they both rot in hell for abandoning their king.”

  “I do not disagree with your description of them, Murtagh. However, what they lack in bravery and loyalty they make up for in cunning,” said Callum.

  “What do ye mean? What’s so bloody cunning about fleeing the scene of battle with yer tail between yer legs and leaving yer king behind to feed the crows?” asked Murtagh.

  “Well, only if you want the king out of the way. And what better way to do just that than having him die in battle.” Callum patted Murtagh on the back. “Ye do ken who is next in line to the throne, eh?”

  “Crivens… it’s that knobdobber, Stewart,” snarled out Mungo, almost stopping in his tracks.

  “Precisely. If King David has fallen, he becomes our new king,” said Callum.

  “What if we don’t want him?” asked Doogle.

  “We don’t really have much say in the matter, brother. A king is ordained by God. Robert Stewart is Robert the Bruce’s grandson. Parliament decreed his place in the succession, and as David has no issue, the way is open to him if he is dead.”

  “Nobody could’ve survived that,” said Doogle, looking downcast. “My da and big brother are both dead and for what? So that some greedy scunner can get his paws on the throne at the cost of so many lives? He should be hanged not crowned.”

  Mungo slapped the seventeen-year-old on the back. “Don’t ye get all maudlin on me now, laddie. Yer da and Brice are fine. They are good fighters, and I am sure they have saved our king and are hiding with him somewhere. Ye must never lose faith; it’s all we have right now.”

  “Aye, if it were me, I would be in the very next tavern wetting my thrapple with an ale,” said Murtagh. “And it’s just my luck – there’s not a blimen inn in sight on the route we are taking. Trust ye, Mungo, to pick t
he driest one.”

  “I think we should worry about getting as far away as possible from the English before we think about drink. I will only feel better when my feet tread on Scottish soil,” said Callum. The wound on his arm throbbed. Mungo had only managed to bandage it up hastily. Blood still oozed from it, reddening the grimy cloth Mungo had used.

  “What do we do now?” asked Doogle, He could not shake the notion from his head that his father and brother were dead. What would he tell Mother when they got back to Castle Diabaig? She would be heartbroken. And not to mention Skye. What a cruel fate to have found love only to have it ripped away so brutally. This time, returning home would not be a pleasant occurrence. There would be much crying – of that he was certain.

  “We do what yer father ordered us to do,” said Mungo, trudging alongside him. The man was indefatigable. He had fought at the front throughout the battle, and currently, he walked as if he’d just gotten out of bed after a good night’s sleep.

  “Shouldn’t one of us go back to see if they live?” asked Doogle, feeling exhausted. He had proven himself well in the skirmish, but his efforts were now coming back to haunt him.

  Murtagh placed his hand on the young man’s back and patted him there. “Yer da wanted us to escape alive. He wanted his two sons to return home safely. It is Mungo’s and my duty to follow his orders as if he were here with us.”

  Doogle nodded.

  Next to him, Mungo looked up at the sky. It was already getting dark. Soon, the sun would set, and they could turn in for the night. He had not heard any shouts coming from behind them. Maybe the English had given up the pursuit. He hoped so. As he walked, he said a silent prayer that Alastair and Brice were still alive. They had to be.