The Laird's Bastard Daughter (The Highland Warlord Series Book 1)

by Tessa Murran

  Suddenly, men and horses were streaming towards him, Scots, running and yelling, ‘for the Bruce, for Scotland.’ They were poorly armed, with hooks and pitchforks, not proper soldiers, but vicious none the less. They crashed into the trees and the volley of arrows slowed as they began to put to rout any stray archers lurking behind in the woods.

  Heaving himself to his feet, Cormac picked up his sword and staggered back towards the schiltrons. When he emerged from the trees, it was to see that the east schiltron was going on the attack, emboldened by the King’s own schiltron, also attacking, along with hoards of Scots, running alongside it and advancing downhill.

  The English were being routed, their cavalry fleeing and trampling their own infantry in their desperation to escape. They were heading towards the boggy ground and the Bannockburn, in a disorderly, terrified mass of men and flailing hooves. With no archers to protect them, and getting in each other’s way in their haste, they were easy targets for the pursuing Scots, who gave no quarter. It was ruthless butchery, and it marked the turn of the tide towards a colossal victory for Robert the Bruce. And God knows they had they earned it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By late afternoon, the Bannockburn had turned into a killing ground. English riders who had fled down one side of the ditch of the burn, had been unable to scramble up the other side to safety, so great were the numbers of dead horses and men piled into it. The sun still burned fiercely, and with it came the carrion flies, their buzzing already a steady hymn of death.

  Behind Cormac, on the Carse, the enemy wounded groaned and were quickly dispatched. Their bodies were looted and then left for the crows.

  For hours, he had been hobbling around, trying to find Lyall, as Robert’s forces mopped up the remaining enemy resistance. Black Douglas had already set off in pursuit of King Edward, trying to cut off his escape over the border to England. The English King would be lucky to escape with his life.

  Cormac had searched at the spot where he had last seen his brother, flipping over corpses, so covered in filth and blood he could scarce tell Scots from English. It was like walking through a nightmare, each dead man a torture, thinking he would see Lyall’s face, rigid and staring in death. He was exhausted, his wound was still oozing blood, and his head was starting to swim.

  ‘Cormac.’ A strangled cry came from nearby, and Cormac looked up from the burn to see Lyall on a horse which was picking its way through the carnage towards him. How the hell he had managed to get hold of a horse, God knows, but it was indeed Lyall, and he seemed unhurt.

  When he reached Cormac, Lyall dismounted stiffly, and they fell together.

  ‘Thank God you are alive. I feared the worst. Are you hurt?’ gasped Cormac.

  ‘Not really. My head aches fearfully, my throat is raw from shouting, and I am so weak I fear my bones have turned to jelly. But, Cormac, you are bleeding.’

  ‘A flesh wound, ‘tis nothing. Lyall, Baodan Gowan is dead.’

  His brother barely reacted, he seemed numb, but his jaw was working. ‘Good. Did you do it?

  ‘No, an archer took him and got me as well.’

  ‘That needs to be cleaned,’ he said, looking down at Cormac’s leg in dismay.

  Lyall seemed to be far away, and there was something brittle about him, as though the slightest thing might make him snap at any moment.

  Cormac took his brother’s face in his hands. His green eyes were staring and vivid in the mud and blood crusting his face. He looked like a stranger, a different man to the one who had been at Cormac’s side in the schiltron at the dawn of the day. ‘Father would be proud of how you fought today, Lyall,’ he said, feeling his eyes fill and something tight take his heart.

  Lyall pulled away and cast around at the field. He spat his disgust out onto the ground. ‘Cormac, all this…how can any man be proud of this?’

  ‘Father always called you ‘boy’, remember, Lyall. Today he would not say that for today you fought like the bravest of men for the glory of Clan Buchanan and for Scotland.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as glory, Cormac, and this monstrous thing will live in my nightmares for years to come.’

  ‘Aye, but time heals, and Lyall, we must live with our nightmares. They are the price we pay for freedom.’

  ***

  Ravenna picked her way around the corpses and carcasses of dead horses, swelling and bloating in the summer heat. Many times she retched, not just at the carnage, but at the hopelessness of her situation. Cormac had not come back, though much time had passed since the battle had ended, and she had watched from the safety of the trees as the Scots had run the English off the field and into the burn.

  She dearly wanted to run from the hellish scene, from the stench of death, from the sight of men piled on top of one another, their hands pale, stiff claws, reaching upwards, frozen in their death throes. No one lying here had a peaceful, gentle end. She had hoped to find Cormac, wounded maybe, and unable to make his way back to her, then perhaps she would make the difference between him living and dying. But if the next corpse she rolled over was him, then it would be the end of her, she knew it.

  She was not the only one picking over the battle’s aftermath. Other women were searching, and every now and then, the eerie quiet would be rent with wailing, as someone found a loved one, a husband, a son, a brother, broken and bloodied and gone forever.

  Carrion flapped busily amongst the dead, crows and ravens had already come, eager to feast on the remains of men’s quarrels. Human carrion were there too, poor people taking what they could from the bodies of the once-proud knights from great houses, slain with their fine horses. They stripped them of armour and left them, lying virtually naked, pitiful under the sun, like soft snails drawn from their shells. Rings were cut from fingers and weapons taken too, for this war was not over yet, and the Scots needed all the arms they could get.

  Some good people helped the Scots wounded back to camp, but for the English, their groans of pain were cut short with a knife or an axe. Chivalry had been set aside, and little quarter was given by men whose blood was up with an orgy of killing. No one seemed to be in charge any more.

  Ravenna wiped a hand across her face, staring out across the field. Night was coming on. She had to get back to Morna, who’d been left back at the camp, with some of the women. She could have covered more ground with her, but she did not have the heart to subject her to this. She watched in growing desperation as a horse picked its way up the Carse with two men walking slowly alongside it, one limping badly. They were crusted in blood and muck and unrecognisable, but something about the way one of them walked, the set of his shoulders, the black hair…

  As they got closer, her heart leapt into her mouth.

  With the last of her strength, Ravenna picked up her skirts and ran.

  Chapter Thirty

  She flung herself at his chest, and he groaned. The first thing that went through Cormac’s head was that Ravenna’s face was filthy, as was the rest of her. She began to cry, leaving white streaks down her cheeks, as the tears cut through the dirt.

  ‘Don’t cry, for I am safe, Ravenna,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  She shook her head. ‘I am not crying over you, you fool, it is your tunic, it took me an age to sew it, and it is all torn.’ She picked at it with her fingers, over and over. Her voice came out in a sob, and so he took her head and laid it against his chest. They hung together for a moment as Lyall stood quietly by.

  Ravenna pulled away from him and went over to Lyall and hugged him close. Cormac watched his brother’s shoulders heave as he sobbed quietly into Ravenna’s hair.

  Cormac looked down at the ground, his heart breaking for his brother’s pain. His own eyes grew wet, and he wiped them. After an age, while he tried to pull himself together, he heard Ravenna say, ‘We must find you somewhere to sleep and some food and drink.’

  Cormac swallowed hard and looked at her.

  ‘Come on now,’ she said, ‘both of you, come w
ith me, it’s alright now.’

  They followed her up the field, as the sun set behind them with a blood-red glow.

  ***

  Hours later, Cormac lay on a pallet in a tent, next to Lyall, who was soundly asleep. He could not sleep. While he had hung his head with exhaustion, Ravenna and Morna had wiped the blood and grime from his hands and face, and torn off his bloody tunic over his shoulders. His arms were too stiff to do it himself.

  Ravenna had insisted he fill his belly, but he’d retched its contents back up when she had stitched up his wound, probing and then cleaning it, relentlessly. The pain had been terrible, and jolted him awake, though his body begged for sleep. Later, he would begin to drift off, but any loud noise from outside would make his heart thump and his hands clench into fists, and he would be jolted awake, watchful and tense.

  ‘I fear I cannot rest, Ravenna, there is too much danger still,’ he said.

  She lifted her tunic and showed him a knife strapped to her leg. ‘I will wake you if I need to, and if anyone comes near you while you sleep, I will make them regret it. Morna and I will stand guard over you, do not fear.’

  She went back to stroking his hair off his forehead. It was soothing, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy as the screams of horses and clanging of lances and the smell of blood faded away. There was something he had to tell her, but his mind could not hold on to it. A meaty aroma, wafting into the tent, was the last thing he was aware of before he sank into a deep slumber.

  When he woke, bright sunlight winked through the flaps of the tent as people came in and out. He propped himself up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Ravenna lay beside him fast asleep, arm outstretched over his chest. He picked off her arm and tried to rise, but his leg hurt like buggery and every muscle in his body screamed when he tried to move.

  ‘You’ve been asleep for hours, brother,’ said Lyall, who was sitting up watching him while shovelling stew into his mouth. ‘Don’t wake her Cormac, she is worn out.’

  ‘Morna?’

  ‘Just stepped outside the tent for some air. The sun is well up, and the day is getting hot. Do you want some? said Lyall, offering his bowl.

  ‘No, my guts are roiling, later perhaps. I will go and find Morna, the camp is no place for a young girl.’

  ‘I think she has learnt to take care of herself, from this one here,’ said Lyall, pointing at Ravenna. ‘Don’t fash yourself, she can’t wander far now she’s turned her ankle. She won’t stop complaining about it.’

  Cormac looked down at Ravenna. He knew her to be fierce, but asleep, all that faded away, and she looked young and soft and utterly vulnerable. And he loved her so.

  He rose slowly and, by instinct, strapped on his belt and sword before he stepped outside, blinking in the bright sunshine. Morna was standing a little way off, just looking out at the camp life going on all around her. When she spotted him, she limped over and kissed his cheek with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Walk with me a bit,’ he said.

  ‘How can we, with your leg and mine?’

  ‘I can walk unaided, and it’s not far to the river. I need to move, and I need to wash off the smell of death before Ravanna wakes up. We can lean on each other and stay upright.’

  ‘But people say there are the bodies down there.’

  ‘We’ll go upstream, where it is clean.’ He smiled at her, but inside he was horrified. How awful that his little sister should have to think of such a thing.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, and she took some of his weight, as they limped slowly to the edge of the camp, winding through the tents and tethered horses until they got to some long grass near the river.

  A little way off, under the trees, sat a group of men, huddled together, dejected, their heads hanging down. Some heavily-armed men stood over them. As they walked a few paces on, they passed a man coming from the river, a burly fellow with a terrible scar on this head and missing an ear.

  Cormac recognised him at once. ‘I am glad you survived the battle unscathed. Lachlan, isn’t it?

  ‘Aye, though I see you were a bit slow getting out of the way of the English,’ he replied smirking.

  Before Cormac could reply, they heard a man’s voice raised nearby, quivering with fear. ‘Please, no,’ he begged, but his voice was silenced abruptly with a dull crack. Cormac tried to push Morna behind him.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Executing some prisoners, caught them hiding out in the woods near the Carse,’ said Lachlan.

  ‘By order of the King?’ asked Cormac.

  ‘Aye, he said he doesn’t want to keep fighting the same men time and time again, and we’ve no food for them anyway, so it is the knife or the axe for this lot.’

  Cormac watched as another man was pulled onto his knees by a man with an axe, which was dripping blood. Morna suddenly stiffened and dug her nails into his arm.

  ‘Come, Morna, let us away from here,’ he said.

  ‘No. You have to stop them. You can’t let them do it,’ she said frantically, eyes wide.

  ‘It is what happens in war Morna, we cannot intervene.’

  ‘No,’ she yelled, running off towards the group of men. Cormac limped after her as best he could, with the scarred man alongside him.

  Morna stopped dead, right in front of the men, and pointed at the prisoner on his knees. The man was young, with hair so matted with blood and dirt it was impossible to tell what colour it was. He was staring back in agonised recognition, and shaking his head at her.

  ‘Let him go, leave him alone,’ she screamed at the soldiers around her.

  ‘Morna, you can’t get in the middle of this. It is the King’s order,’ growled Cormac.

  She turned to him. ‘I know this man, you have to spare him,’ she whispered. ‘Will, his name is Will, please, Cormac, stop them. He helped us, Ravenna and I, when we were on the road here. We owe him our lives. You cannot let them slaughter him.’

  Cormac looked at the ruffian on the grass and at the soldier with the axe in his hand, ready to split the man’s skull open. He had no idea what Morna was talking about, but he had never seen her react like this before. ‘Wait,’ he yelled, holding his arm out. The authority in his voice made the soldier take heed and lower the axe. ‘What do you mean, Morna?’ he hissed.

  ‘Some outlaws took us when we were making our way here. They were bad men mostly, but not Will, he let us go in the night.’

  Cormac took hold of her shoulders. ‘Did they hurt you, either of you?

  ‘No, but they would have if it weren’t for Will.

  ‘Outlaws, you say?’ What the hell would outlaws be doing, riding around the woods just as a battle was about to start? He needed to get to the bottom of this. ‘Release him. This man is to come with me,’ he barked.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to kill all the filthy, English swine.’

  ‘And you are a good, loyal man to do it. But I have need of this man.’ Cormac drew his sword out slowly and stood up straight to his considerable height. It gave the soldier pause.

  ‘Orders is orders and…’

  ‘This man is Cormac, Laird of the Buchanans and he has the King’s trust,’ said Lachlan, at his shoulder. ‘Disobey him, and it will not go well for you,’ he said, drawing his sword too.

  The guard sneered but backed down. ‘Take the wretch and be done with him then, one less head to blunt my axe on.’

  Cormac took hold of the young man by the scruff of the neck. He was no threat, for his hands were tied behind his back, but Cormac was enraged by the bold way he was looking at Morna.

  ‘Take my sister safe back to camp, now,’ he snarled at Lachlan, who took hold of Morna’s arm.

  ‘This way, lass,’ he said gently.

  ‘No, where are you taking him? I’ll not go back, Cormac, until I am sure Will is safe.’

  ‘You will do as you are told, I will get him clear, and later, you and Ravenna will have some explaining to do.’

  ‘I will not forget your kindn
ess, Morna Buchanan,’ shouted the man called Will, as Cormac dragged him through the grass towards the river. ‘I hope I may repay it one day.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ snapped Cormac, but the young man took no heed. ‘She’s bonnie, your sister. She’ll be quite the woman soon.’

  Cormac was too angry to speak.

  ‘I didn’t touch her, if that’s what you’re thinking, though, trust me, I wanted to.’

  Cormac cuffed him around the head with the hilt of his sword, but the wretch didn’t seem to care.

  ‘Ow. I suppose I deserved that. But I didn’t deserve a death sentence back there. I was fighting for the Scots, and they mistook me for an English archer.’

  ‘I care nothing for your lies. What is your name?’ said Cormac, through gritted teeth.

  ‘You heard it…Will, and I…’

  ‘Your family name, and don’t lie.’

  ‘My name is William Rourke Bain O’Neill. Remember it, Buchanan, for I will be a great man one day.’

  ‘According to my sister, you are little better than an outlaw and, I suspect, you are a traitor too.’

  ‘We all have to start somewhere. As I hear it, the Bruce began as such a one, and now he thinks he is King of Scotland. We’ll see how long it lasts.’

  ‘You either have guts to spare, saying that to me, or you are witless.’

  ‘I’ve never been witless, and I’m not planning to be, any time soon. You should release me already Cormac Buchanan. I don’t think you can make it much further on that leg of yours.’

  ‘If it weren’t for the pleading of my sister, I would take your head without a second thought for what you just said about my King.’

  ‘I’ve no reason to be loyal to your King,’ said Will, his piercing blue eyes burning with indignation. ‘The Bruce killed my family for not pledging to him, they were too afraid of what the English would do to them. Slaughtered the fighting men, burnt my home to the ground and defiled any women they did not kill. They said that anyone who took in one of my clansmen would be deemed a traitor. Those who survived are scattered to the wind, and so was I. As an O’Neill, I had to run from his retribution, and I have been running ever since.’