by JR Tomlin
"It won't be long. Form your schiltron."
The men leapt to their feet. Donnchadh grabbed the pike topped with the starred banner of the Morays and he trotted to the side of the road. Andrew watched as the men pulled their pikes from the piles of weapons. He moved amongst them as they formed three lines across the road to the edge of the trees, touching each man on the shoulder, joking with one whose hands shook, nodding his head in approval at their close-packed lines, shouting that they would show the English what Moray men were made of. His armor clinked as he walked, but his head was bare. Fingers of a cool wind mussed his hair like Caitrina running her hand through it in the quiet of their bed. He had bid her wait for him at Avoch. "I shan't be gone long, my lady wife," he had vowed.
He'd left fifty men to guard her at the castle though she'd argued he'd need them. They'd nearly come to words over it, but he told it was her duty to hold the castle for him. With that, she could not argue.
Where are they, he wondered. Could their spy have been wrong? Much rested on the truth of what they had been told. The leaders of all of the English in the north had met to plan an assault on Avoch, but Cressingham, curse him, was still in the south, at Glasgow from what Bishop Wishart had said in his last letter. They'd time this attack for the same week as Wallace's and Douglas was gathering men in his Lanarkshire lands to join them soon.
"They don't know how many men you have raised, my lord," the spy had sworn. "Only that the castles have fallen."
"How many men does Fitzwarine have in his following?" Andrew had asked.
"Four hundred when I left but the others he's meeting could add to the number."
"Fitzwarine has us at least two to one then," Pilchie said.
"True enough." Robbie grinned. "But we have one thing he doesn't. Surprise."
"Two things," Andrew had said and laughed. "Surprise. And pikesmen."
Robbie and Pilchie came at a dead run around the bend in the road, waving their arms. Andrew motioned Donnchadh to him and drew his sword. The pennant cracked overhead in the breeze.
"Steady, men. Keep your pikes braced."
Robbie drew his sword as he dashed into place beside Andrew and Pilcie took the other side, unslinging the heavy mace he carried across his back
Andrew ran his eye along the lines. The front line of men knelt so their pikes were at a higher angle. The lines behind thrust theirs between the shoulders of their fellows into a deadly hedgehog of sharpened steel.
"Pray God that Sir Waltir is right," Pilchie said, "or we're dead men."
A bird cooed and chattered in the distance, another answered, and then another. Black grouse, the males at their spring lekking. He'd heard them every spring of his life except for the one he'd spent in an English dungeon.
Calm fell over the woods. In the hush, he could hear them coming, the heavy tread of a troop of horses, the rattle of swords and armor, the mutter of voices, a laugh.
"Steady," he said. "They'll soon learn what it means to face Scottish pikes."
Time slowed to a trickle. He heard an order shouted and a curse at a squire's clumsiness. A horse whickered. And the first horsemen rounded the turn in the road. A knight, armor glittering. A white banner with a red cross. Four more and then more.
"Form up!" the leader shouted. Fitzwarine. Andrew could not be sure, though, since he did not know the man by sight. Armor jangled. The horses stamped and pawed. The first dense line of enemy twenty knights formed.
"Brace and hold firm," Andrew said. He shifted the grip on his sword. If they got past his pikesmen, they'd buy his life dearly.
"Charge!" The morning erupted.
Thunder of hooves shook the ground under his feet; it trembled up his body. Louder, a deafening roar, it was a terrible sound. The sound of death--rushing to kill or to die.
The beeches let out their breath. The crossbowmen he'd hidden fired their bolts. Shouts turned to screams. A horse pitched to its knees; its rider crashed to the ground. He rolled under crushing hooves. The bolts whistled again. Horses stumbled and went down.
Half the horses shied, rearing, breaking their charge before the barrier of pikes. More came, rushed upon the points of steel. Men shouted. A wave of flesh, men and horse, dashed upon razor-sharp steel to the shriek of impaled horses. Men chopped savagely at the hedge of pikes.
The battle writhed before him.
"For Scotland!" he bellowed with a force that tore at his throat. "Scotland and Moray!"
The hiss of bolts. The rumble of hooves. The crack of a broken pike and one of his men died, ribs crushed by iron-shod hooves.
With a sickening crash, another wave of horse slammed onto their line. They went down, pikes ripping through their chests. Maddened, beasts reared into their ranks, raining blood. A man galloped away, slumped over his horse; shards of a pike came out through his back. A knight vaulted clear as his horse fell, only to be impaled.
From past the struggling mass of men, he heard the cry of "Fitzwarine!" and "To me!"
"Hold firm," Andrew shouted. "We have them!" He watched, sweat rolling down his face, for a break in the line, for an enemy to meet him in a song of the sword. But the lines of pikes held. The battle was a tearing of flesh, the snap of a shattering pike, shrieks and groans of pain from man and from horse. He panted as though he'd been fighting, but he'd not blood his sword this day.
Their first line showed gaps, but the second held. Men lay broken under the piled line of horses.
Past the thinning line of knights, he saw Fitzwarine jerk his rearing horse in a circle. "Break off!" He'd lost his helm and blood ran down his face. "To me! To me!"
Fitzwarine bent over his horse's shoulder, pounded its flank with a fist, and galloped away. A bolt whistled past him. A dozen English still ahorse turned, galloped after him.
Andrew watched the enemy flee. The blue and white banner of Moray rippled over his head.
"Mercy," a voice moaned from the pile of dead and dying.
Andrew raised an eyebrow and gave a wry smile to Pilchie, who looked a bit pale around the mouth. "That answers whether Waltir's theory will work."
It was the rest of the day's work to bind prisoners, strip the dead and give a mercy stroke the suffering mounts. Andrew was bloodied to the elbow by the time they were finished and the green tint of sunset turned to pewter.
Spring nights are short in Scotland and dawn was lightning the sky by the time Andrew stood, arms crossed, considering the high gray battlements of Urguhart Castle where the banner of the English flew boldly over every tower.
A quarter of their men, led by Robbie Boyd, were in the edge of the woods cutting timber for shelter. Four prisoners were tied near a campfire where a deer roasted dripping fat. Even in the warm spring, they'd need huts for a siege. Robbie must have left them to it since the man strode towards him, frowning. "Starving them out may take too long."
"Mayhaps. Mayhaps not. A siege at least will give them a fright and show them we aren't beaten. Who is to say they've prepared?"
Robbie grunted and shrugged. They'd been arguing this since the end of yesterday's battle.
Andrew pointed. "Take twenty men around past the postern gate. It's near enough the lochside; they could try to slip supplies in that way."
Robbie rubbed his chin with a thumb. "No one knows they're under siege yet to come to their aid. There is that."
"Yet. I want a council tonight after you've carried out my orders. The three of us." He watched Robbie stalk towards the campfire to choose his men. He'd best walk the guard line and check the picketed horses. They could afford no surprises. He'd not give that advantage to his enemies.
A distant warning horn blew from a sentry post.
Hands to his mouth, Andrew shouted, "Form the schiltron. Square formation!" He sprinted towards his men, cursing as he ran. The worst luck. It had to be bad luck. No one could know they'd laid siege.
Pilchie was already harrying the men into the square. With many foraging, they'd have a hundred.
"Two lines!" he bellowed. "Crossbows to the rear!"
By the time Andrew reached them, they had a small square formed across the road. Again, the outer pikesmen knelt, their pikes thrusting up at a sharp angle, grasped both hands. Behind, pikes thrust past their shoulders. Even two lines would be hard to breech. They parted to let Andrew into the center where Donnchadh, holding his banner, and Pilchie with his mace awaited him.
He swung around to see a force approaching at a canter, a hundred chivalry. He squinted at the green banner snapping in the wind. The earl of Ross. But Ross was in an English dungeon. Then he realized that the horse in the lead was ridden by a woman. He chewed his lip. The countess? It had to be. A youngster rode beside her and Andrew recalled the Ross heir was near an age for knighthood.
The party drew to a halt far enough away to be out of bolt range. The lady appeared to be arguing with the lad and one of the knights. She gestured sharply and pointed while they just shook their heads in denial. When the man laid a hand on her bridle, she gave his hand a blow that backed him off.
"What the devil?" Pilchie muttered.
"So much for no one knowing about our laying siege." Andrew rubbed the back of his neck. "Whatever they do, we'll have to change our plans."
"Och! I can't believe..." Pilchie's voice trailed off in bafflement as the Countess of Ross kneed her horse and rode towards them.
"She knows we can't attack her. Smart woman."
She pulled up a few horse lengths away. "Andrew de Moray," she said with a disapproving frown. "If you think this will free your father or my husband from their dungeons, you are sorely in error."
He pushed his men aside to step outwith the schiltron. He couldn't let it be said he was afraid to face a woman and he shook his head in dismay. "You see those prisoners, my lady?" He tilted his head toward the four men in bonds. "More lay in chains in my own Avoch Castle. The time will come when the English want their return, and I will bargain for those the English hold. In the meantime, I'll not bend a knee to that usurper or his minions." He took a step toward her and lowered his voice. "Understand me, lady. I will see them out of Scotland and any Scot who shelters or aids them is an enemy. Make no mistake. Choose your side, you and yours."
She sat stiffly erect in the saddle, face stiff with anger. "I have my duty. If I have to deal with the English to free my lord husband, well, I don't have to like it. But I will do it." She frowned down at him, biting her lip. "You're wrong, but I have no desire for blood feud with Moray. We'll not fight you this day."
She twitched her reins and turned her horse's head to return the way she had come. Andrew scowled after her. She'd given up far too easily. They would be back. Probably with more men. He gripped the hilt of his sword as he watched the troop of her men gather around and then follow her back over the hill. The plan for a siege was spoiled. Once they were out of sight, he sent ten more men to double the sentries and another to bring Robbie Boyd for a conference.
It was time for a new plan.
The next morning Andrew had his men spread out thin around the castle, a handful blockading the road to the main gate and another the postern gate. The rest were out of sight within the woods hammering together rough ladders. They would have enough an hour or two after dark. Such an attack was a desperate ploy against so large a castle as Urquhart but it was worth trying. Besides, he could not afford to retreat so easily. They had to make at least a try.
In late May, night would be short and never truly dark, but still a good night for a fight. As he walked along the line of his men, nodding and patting their shoulders as he encouraged them, the sun warmed his head and a breeze from the water fanned his cheeks. Grouse roasted over the fire for a meal sending up a rich, gamey scent. He was about to tell one of the men to be sure to not fill his belly so full he'd be slow with his sword. He stopped.
Something flashed. Shapes moved on the water, three of them. He'd barely had time to realize what they were when they touched the rocky beach. Devil take them. Boyd had gone to help with the ladders and his men must have not watched the water. His fault. His orders had not been clear.
They were too far to hear a shout. He ran down the sharp incline to the water. "Ware! Stop them!" The rowers had tossed aside oars and leapt ashore, hoisting boxes and barrels, but half a dozen drew blades. Andrew skidded, his weaker leg giving, and rocks tumbled down making his men look up. He pointed towards the water. "Enemies!" He turned back. "To the postern!"
The postern guards jerked their swords free and rushed the boat. Others sprinted from their posts above.
The boatmen charged headlong up the narrow path to the narrow gate, shouting as they ran. "Open! Supplies!"
Andrew reached the path in time to sweep a cut at the knee of one of the armed men. Robbie Boyd would have mocked it but all the same, the man lost time as he dodged. Andrew backhanded him across the face with his sword. The man tumbled down the slope, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. Looking up the slope to the postern gate, he saw a dozen of the boatmen dash through the narrow postern gate. It slammed shut. He cursed.
Next to the water, Pilchie smashed his mace into the head of one of the boatmen. Ten bodies sprawled on the trampled ground in crimson puddles.
Still cursing, Andrew left Pilchie to see if any of their men needed tending as he tramped back up the slope. He saw with relief that the road was still blockaded. Supplies getting through really didn't matter. The siege was done with except for making a decent end to it.
Robbie Boyd cantered from the trees and threw himself from the saddle when he was near. "What happened?"
"Damn Ross and all their ilk. They got supplies through from the shore."
Robbie Boyd sucked a breath through clenched teeth as he narrowed his eyes at the walls of Urquhart Castle. "You're sure it was Ross?"
"Who else? She doesn't want to fight us, but needed to show the English her..." He spat. "...loyalty. And she will get word to the English at Inverness of the siege."
"We don't have long then. If you're right, then we'd best make it tonight for feigning an attack. And... back to Avoch?"
"Oh, no." He chewed a lip for a moment. "The Earl of Ross holds the Castle of Balconie." He laughed at the look on Robbie's face. "That castle next. Losing it will severe her communications with Ross. More. It will show that anyone who betrays Scotland pays a cost. We move fast, a feint against the walls tonight and before light we march."
CHAPTER FORTY
Andrew drained the cup in his hand then set it down carefully on the long, trestle table. He gripped a fist. "All surrendered? Except Wallace?"
His uncle cleared his throat. "Wallace attacked Ayr then retreated into Ettrick Forest--his usual lair from what I hear. The English had brought up an army of nearly ten thousand men with a thousand chivalry. They had the Bruce, the Stewart, Bishop Wishart and the Douglas, with their entire army, all with their backs to the wall at Irvine and outnumbered ten to one. So they negotiated a capitulation."
Heat like a forge flamed through him. "God rot them. The Bruce. Damn him!"
"Better to feign surrender for a while than repeat the Battle of Dunbar." David gave him a level look. "You know what Wishart thinks of an oath taken by force. As soon as he may, he'll repudiate it. And they still have to track down Wallace. He's wily and good fighter--I'll give him that."
Andrew scanned the great hall of Balconie Castle with its high vaulted ceiling and dark walls lined with bright tapestries of feasts and great hunts.
"Perhaps." He shook his head. "The Bruce is fixed on gaining the crown. But what does a crown mean in a conquered country?"
"Would you support him?"
He paced up and down the long hall. "What does that matter? Once we force the English out..." He whirled to glare at his uncle. "ONCE, hear you. Once we force them out, we will name Guardians of the Realm to rule in the stead of a king. The crown--that must be settled later."
His uncle made a soothing gesture. "Peace. I am with you on it, remember." He moistened h
is lips.
"Forgive me. I know." He managed a quirk of a smile but paused at the uneasy look on his uncle's face, a look he had never seen before. His uncle knew something he'd not yet divulged. "There is more."
"Wishart did not dare put it in writing as it came from a spy so sent word by a lay brother he trusted." David moistened his lips. "The earl of Buchan is free and has sworn fealty to the English king. He's been commanded to return and put down rebellion--in Moray."
Andrew's breath caught in his chest and he almost choked on it. Was there no end of treachery? "Buchan?" He looked around, desperate for something to hit--to destroy. He picked up the cup and flung it against the mantle. It shattered with a crash. Andrew cursed. "He's our cousin--blood kin. Not just maermar with the oldest title in Scotland." He whirled to pace the length of the hall and back again, muttering curses under his breath. Finally, he took a deep breath. His anger went cold and flat. "Has he left London yet? With how many men?" He narrowed his eyes as he tried to visualize his cousin's force. "He couldn't have his own men or many of them."
"From word that Wishart received, he's leading a five hundred English chivalry and to raise his own caterans when he reaches his lands. We should have a few weeks, but he'll make for Buchan as fast as he can; you can be sure of it."
"Can he really mean to fight us? Raise his men against Scotland?" The treachery lay in his belly like wood. "I can't believe it. I--had doubts of him after Dunbar, but to fight his own kin?"
David chewed his lip, staring past the wall. "I don't know. I truly don't know. But we must be prepared for it."
"Or make it plain that if he betrays us so, he will pay a large price." He let out a long breath. It was no great change from what he had already planned. "I have to move fast. Betimes, I want word of Wallace. It may be we can work together somehow--join our forces. Can you get word to him?"