by Alisa Adams
Cries coming from outside the carriage made her stick her head out of the window again to see what was going on.
“Mungo, can you see the Sassenachs aboot? This is the place where they usually pass when they travel from Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Carlisle. There should be some rich pickings for us,” whispered Alastair, referring to the English tradesmen that plied the road. His hot breath left a plume of white in the cold winter air that soon intermingled with that of his men.
“Na, there’s none of them hereabouts.” Mungo, clansman of the clan Macleod, scanned through the thick shrubbery onto the dirt road in front of the small raiding party of twelve of the clan’s best warriors.
“We’ll just have to move closer to the toon. And while we’re at it, we will get revenge for what they did to my brother, Kyle, at the Battle of Stanhope,” said Alastair Macleod, referring to his older brother who had died that night.
“Aye. That we shall, brother. And I will praise the day when a bunch of them Sassenachs kiss the tip of this.” Mungo tapped the hilt of his broadsword lightly.
“I could just do with a wee dram of whiskey to wet my thrapple. The cold and drizzle are getting to my bones and threatening to freeze off my tackle and bawsack,” said another member of the posse.
Silent mirth followed this uncouth remark.
“Can’t you think of anything other than a tipple and yer welly. Have you not wetted your plaid and lain in it? That keeps the wind, rain and the cold out, ye dozy walloper. We should have left you behind at the borough with the lasses,” grunted out Mungo.
“And me missing out on all of the fun? Na, you ain’t getting all of them Sassenachs to yourself, Mungo. But with you looking like a dug licking pish of a nettle, they’ll all run away with fright at the sight of your ugly mug.”
Mungo smirked with the other men. He loved it when Murtagh made his little jokes. He was right though. He was a frightful sight. Scars crisscrossed his face. There was a large one that ran diagonally down his face. He had received it from an English sword during the battle a few months back. It was still a purple welt that became even more pronounced when it was cold. Dressed, like his brothers, with thin brogues on his feet, bare thighs with brawny muscles and a short buskin of various colors on the legs and all wrapped up in a great plaid, he was a fearsome sight. He carried a bow in his right hand and a dirk and broadsword on a thick leather belt around his waist. On his back hung a quiver of arrows.
Each man in the raiding party could shoot with a bow and arrow, but apart from maybe Alastair, Mungo was the best shot. The true Scottish warrior considered archery for cowards. They preferred to use the sword. Sometimes, the occasional fighter employed the use of an axe in imitation of the Norsemen that once roamed these lands. What made them all the same, was the fact that they would move up adjacent to their enemy and fight them in close quarter combat – that was the way of the clansmen, and that was the way of honor.
It had poured like sheets the entire voyage down from the heart of the Highlands and the Macleod borough located on the coastline of the Minch Sea. It had been a tedious journey over the rugged countryside that had thwarted the Romans in ancient times. A place that many found the most romantic in the world was also the most dangerous and unforgiving. And still a light drizzle wetted the men. Although the thick blanket of clouds had started to race across the sky at an increased speed, there was little chance of the sun breaking through them. The leader of the group looked up with a deep frown etched onto his features. He grunted something in his Gaelic tongue and looked back to the road where he hoped the enemy would miraculously appear.
At twenty-eight summers, Alastair was the second son of Laird Roderick Macleod Wallis. Due to his brother’s demise at the hands of an English soldier who had run him through with his blade, he was now the heir to the title. It was something he had never wanted. He had always been more than pleased to follow in his three-year-older brother’s footsteps. One day, as the second son, he might have received a homestead of his own in the MacLeod lands, but that was not to be. Instead, he would become Laird one day and shoulder all of the responsibilities that the title carried with it. His brother, Kyle, would have made a good Laird, of that Alastair was certain.
As soon as the priest had pronounced his brother’s death, Alastair’s father had thrown him into the task of the heir, giving him all of Kyle’s former duties without any delay. When Alastair had asked him why he rushed so, his father had responded by saying that it was a stupid question.
Four months later, Alastair knew why his father had considered him thoughtless at the time. His brother’s untimely death explained it. One day, he was a walking, talking and breathing heir to a lairdship and then he was nothing more than a rotting corpse in the ground. Things could change from one day to the next in times of war, and he needed to be prepared for whatever fate hurled his way. It was in times like this, waiting for the enemy, that he thought that providence was inexorable in its methods. He would just have to make do with what it served him, and maybe, he might be able to alter its course.
Alastair’s current command at the head of a small raiding party was one of those moments when he could change his path. His father and his men that had formed a part of James Douglas’ army had already returned home. Deep down, Alastair had wanted the same. There was nothing more pleasurable than being a part of a returning force and especially after a great victory. There would have been festivities with lots of food and enough whiskey and ale to flood the loch near the castle and, if he had been lucky, maybe a wench to warm his bed.
He shifted his weight on the thick, crispy green undergrowth that was sodden through to the core and already beginning to frost over. He scrutinized the men that were with him. There was Mungo, his second in command and a man he knew as a brother, and Murtagh, the one that complained about the rain and its effect on his privates, lay a little further afield. Murtagh was considered the funny man of the group – there was always a quip and a bit of banter no matter the hardships they shared. These two were his closest confidants and boyhood friends. Each one of them had sworn fealty to his father and would willingly also give their lives for his sons. Well, what was left of them at least.
The others also constituted the finest men in the clan. Tall, burly and fiercely loyal, they fought with tireless vigor and great zeal. When they caught the enemy by surprise, and they did not have the time to employ their superior discipline and tactics, the men of the clan would dominate them easily in hand-to-hand combat. Thanks to the rugged nature of the countryside, this was the preferred way of battle. The environment of the Highlands birthed rough and sturdy sons, men that could walk or ride for days and fight a battle thereafter and win.
“Listen! Something’s about,” said Mungo. He squinted his eyes and remained completely still.
“What’s that? I can only hear the birds. Yer bum’s oot the windae, ye wee bampot,” said Murtagh, insulting his comrade like he always did.
“Shut yer puss, fannybaws,” snapped Mungo. “Listen carefully; horses approach.”
The group of men lingered in anticipation with silent intent. Like the fox hidden in the shrubbery, they acted in imitation of the animal in wait of their intended prey. A sunbeam broke through the clouds as if God was telling them something. Sweet birdsong of the Greenfinch, a non-migratory bird, consisting of a combination of sweet trills and chesty follow-ups competed with that of the Redwing in the trees nearby. In time, the latter bird outdid, as its fluting song was soon taken up by its fellows, multiplying a hundredfold, until it became a pleasant rushing sound, almost like a distant waterfall.
“Aye, it’s horses all right, and a carriage by the sounds of it,” said Alastair.
Time seemed to pass by like a crumb being dragged through hot molasses. It was always like that when men waited for something to pass. For hundreds of years when soldiers did battle, the wait was always the worst. Questions would form in a man’s mind: would he live or would he die? And if he did, would it b
e an honorable death or one of ignominious defeat? All of them had seen brothers taken in the past. It was the way of the clansman and something they were raised to accept.
“There, I can see them,” hissed out Alastair, peering into the distance.
“How many of the blighters are there?” asked Mungo.
“More than enough for the both of us, brother. I can count twenty of the mingin bastards. This is going to be fun. I can’t wait to get stuck in,” said Murtagh, stroking the hilt of his axe. His features adopted a fearsome rictus. The eyebrows pushed together and became as one. His mouth firmed into a snarl. Water dripped off his long dark beard, and a hazy vapor started to rise up from his clothing as the sun in the sky became more forceful. “For the clan Macleod,” he said somewhat too loudly.
“Haud yer wheesht, ye dopy sod.” Mungo gave his comrade a ferocious glare. “If you can’t be quiet, I’ll run you through myself.”
“And I will be waiting. The last time we sparred, I remember seeing your arse in the dirt. Are you ready for seconds, brother?” Murtagh fidgeted aggressively. He was like a lion with the scent of its prey in its nostrils.
“Save your anger for the Sassenachs. Prepare your bows and take aim… Here they come. When I give the order, you will shoot one volley. Then, we’ll take them in hand-to-hand combat with our claymores. Death to the Sassenachs,” growled out Alastair.
“Death to the Sassenachs,” repeated the men.
A few of the kinsmen groaned at having to use the bow and arrow. It went against their creed. It was a cowardly way to fight no matter the advantages it brought with it. As time slipped by, it seemed that the warriors had all taken one deep concerted breath and held it in their lungs. Each one of them entertained their own private thoughts as adrenaline built up in their veins, ready for the bursting. One could literally sense the tension floating in the air like a heavy mantle. The clinking sound of armor, stirrups, and weapons intermingled with the thumping stomp of hooves growing more pronounced as the seconds ticked by.
“Take aim, men,” ordered Alastair, breaking the viscous silence. He grunted a reprimand at the men who fidgeted on the spot, making to get up and ready themselves for the offing. This was his first command, and he would be damned if he let the pride of a few brave fools put it in jeopardy.
The sound of twelve strings being pulled back to the ears in a series of twangs sounded almost cacophonous in the otherwise silent environ. It even seemed to blot out the ever-increasing thump of the horse’s hooves on the hard road beyond.
“Steady… Steady… Wait until I give the order.”
Alastair watched the man riding at the head of the enemy English convoy appear around the bend in the road. He sat astride a magnificent black horse. Alastair licked his lips in anticipation. Judging by his armor and the mount he rode, he was a man of substance, an aristocrat maybe. His surcoat, a sleeveless garment of rich material, was emblazoned with his coat of arms and hung loosely over his armor. Alastair tried to discern his house by studying the insignia on the front, but he did not recognize it. He was far better at identifying the sigils belonging to the different clans than recognizing English lords. The knight’s head was bedecked with a heavy helmet that had red plumage on the top.
Behind him, an escort of four men-at-arms on horseback followed. They sported body-covering mail armor over their quilted gambesons, helmets, and sur-coats bearing a different insignia to that of the lead knight. Their weapons consisted of lances, swords, and poleaxes. In quick succession, a carriage pulled by four horses came into view and behind it, even more men-at-arms, armed to the teeth. Alastair counted twenty-four men in total, and that was not including the vehicle’s occupants.
Timing was of the essence if the Scots were to best this impressive force. It was imperative that they kill as many of them as possible with the first fusillade of arrows. For should the enemy manage to get in line and charge them, Alastair’s first battle command would end just as quickly as it had started. The English had proven their efficacy at the Battle of Falkirk and against the French on many occasions. It was just pure chance that they did not have any of their famous longbowmen with them.
“Steady… Steady… Make ready.” Alastair waited patiently until the enemy convoy was right in front of his position. He had to judge the distance perfectly so that some of the arrows would pierce the mail. “FIRE!”
The twang of twelve bows resounded over the small tree-covered hillock, quickly changing into a loud whoosh as the projectiles shot into the air. It seemed like forever until they reached their point of maximum ascent before gradually descending onto their targets. With clinks and meaty thuds, they slammed into the English with lethal resolution. The horses whinnied in protest as some of them crashed to the ground. Men flew off their backs, some of them dead on the spot when an arrow had penetrated their protection. Others bent over in pain from their wounds. Even more of them only reeled in shock, but otherwise unscathed.
Their shouts of alarm and pain could be heard above the neighing of the horses and the stomping of nervous hooves. The birds in the trees above them launched into flight, spreading out in the sky in all directions. For a heartbeat, silence shrouded the knoll. Alastair pondered whether to follow up with another volley. His men looked at him expectantly until he turned his head with a wide grin covering his face.
A loud war cry erupted from the tree line as the clansmen ran forth toward their foe. They came down the knoll in a rugged line of steel, tartan, and flesh. Alastair was in the vanguard of his men with Mungo and Murtagh following in hot pursuit. With a powerful lunge, Alastair buried his claymore into the chest of a staggering Englishman. Beside him, Murtagh dispatched another of the enemy. Mungo fended off the point of a poleaxe that had the intent to spear his face.
“Not this time, Sassenach.” Mungo circled the big man before him. He immediately recognized his opponent to be a veteran. He held his weapon firmly in his hands, brandishing the lethal poleaxe above his head in preparation for the lunge that would soon follow. His visage was a mask of deadly intent. The man’s gray eyes darted to the left, making Mungo sneer and slip to the side when cold steel darted past his right cheek. With lightning speed, he rammed his shoulder into the other man, winding him and forcing him to the ground. One, two heartbeats passed, and he plunged the tip of his sword into his abdomen, splitting the links of his mail that embedded into his flesh.
In the meantime, Alastair had dispatched another soldier and was now fighting with the lord in charge of the detachment. The knight, who had dismounted, expertly parried Alastair’s first blows. He could feel him grinning at him from behind his visor. It was evident that he enjoyed swordplay and his skill proved it. He attacked, forcing Alastair back a few paces. His speed was prodigious despite the heavy armor he wore. He managed to keep up a relentless wall of steel until their swords locked. Only two fingers width separated their faces. Alastair’s nose almost touched the cold steel of his helmet.
“You reek like an animal, Scot,” hissed out the nobleman.
“Aye, that may be. But you, Sassenach, are a dead man. Now, stop footering aboot and let’s get this over with.” With brute force, Alastair forced his antagonist away with his sword arm, so that he staggered back a few paces.
“That’s it, lad – just like Doogle taught ye,” said Mungo, referring to the most experienced fighter back at the borough. Around him, the rest of the men stood. The remaining English soldiers had already been rounded up at sword point or killed. The aristocrat was the last man standing. The men of the Highlands yelled encouragement to their leader and insults at the Englishman.
“If this man wins, let him go free,” said Alastair. His breathing was steady. A few beads of sweat had formed on his forehead despite the icy cold air.
It was a matter of honor that the other clansmen did not intervene in the bout. The fight was going to be between the English gentleman and the Scot until one of them died. The two men continued to fence. Both of them sought out an ope
ning, some weakness, in the other man’s guard. Alastair twirled on his feet, alternating between left and right jabs. He advanced like a behemoth, and yet, he was fast and nimble, belying his heavy bulk. It took all of the knight’s efforts to withstand him a few moments longer. With a feral shout, Alastair attempted to finish him off with two slices to his front, but the man’s armor blocked the blow.
The session was far from over. Analyzing his efforts, Alastair saw that the only damage he had wrought was to shred the other man’s surcoat to tatters. Underneath it, his armor remained like an impenetrable wall. Quick thinking was needed if he was to best his skilled opponent. With lightning speed, he twirled on his heels in a pirouetting motion, taking the knight by surprise. When he reached his flank, he pushed forward with his bulk, knocking the other man off his feet. His claymore darted forward as if it had a mind of its own, finding the small open space between the helmet and neck.
Cold steel touched skin, cutting a shallow nick. The Englishman cried out in pain. Alastair’s arm wanted to press harder until there was no more resistance, but something held him back. It was an instinct, a premonition that he could not identify. Swallowing deeply and finally hearing his men shouting encouragement that he finished his antagonist off, he steeled himself for the coup de grace.
“That was nicely done, ramming yer claymore down his thrapple,” shouted one of the men.
“Aye. And look, the young lad’s not even fair puckled,” said Mungo, patting Alastair on the back.
Still holding the tip of the sword to the man’s neck, Alastair basked in his men’s praise a while longer. He exchanged a few celebratory glances with the clansmen until he caught sight of Mungo’s serious mien. “Now, there’s a good lad, finish the Sassenach off.” Alastair pressed his lips together and started to apply pressure to his sword arm. His victim tried to pull back, but he had nowhere to go.
“NO!”
The hoots of praise and anger spewing from the clansmen’s mouths went silent as all heads turned to the source of the protest. A piercing scream soon cut through the air.