The Promise of Peace

by Carol Umberger

  Keifer admired Randolph’s methods—by killing local cattle, he kept his army in meat. That and the oatcakes made a satisfying meal. Though the food was monotonous, Keifer found it met his needs. And most importantly, without the added weight of wine or water casks, they could travel swiftly through the countryside. The lack of wagons gave them superior mobility. And from what Keifer knew of English tactics, they would need that advantage to be victorious.

  They crossed the border into England and raced south, splitting into three columns, each led by a different commander. Keifer stayed with Sir Bryan’s group. As Keifer and Owyn sat around the campfire on their third evening, Keifer knew they must be getting close to the English army. He asked Sir Bryan about the battle plan for the coming days.

  Bryan picked up a stick and drew a crude map in the dirt. He pointed to the ground. “We are about here, well into English territory. Our scouts tell us Edward and his troops are still south of us. It looks like they plan to enter Scotland by traveling up the eastern march. ’Tis what they’ve done in the past.” Bryan drew the low country of the northeastern-most English counties. “They will expect to feed off the land and thus save their supplies for when they enter Scotland.”

  “But we won’t let them get that far north,” Keifer said.

  “Aye. And just to be sure, tomorrow we will begin burning and looting the English countryside between here and the border. If they do make it past us, they won’t have enough provisions left to come deep into Scotland.”

  “Would we burn our own lands to prevent them from coming north?” Owyn asked.

  “Aye. Randolph and Bruce have done it in the past and would do so again.”

  “Speaking of Bruce, where is our king? Did he ride with one of the other troops?” Keifer asked.

  Bryan said, “He is in Ulster, dealing with his wife’s inheritance there.”

  Disappointed, Keifer said, “Ireland? What if we need him to fight this battle?”

  Bryan shook his head. “We will not engage the English. They have far superior weapons and over two thousand heavy cavalry.

  ’Twould be suicide to meet them head on.”

  “So what will we do?”

  “As we have done in the past. Lure them to us by day, using the terrain to our advantage. Then slip away at night and disappear.”

  “To what purpose?” another of the men asked.

  “To get them to make a mistake we can take advantage of.”

  Keifer grinned with sudden insight. “You want to capture the king!”

  Sir Bryan clapped him on the back. “Can you think of a better way to force England to sue for peace on our terms?”

  “Then we may see battle yet?” Keifer asked, hoping he didn’t sound overeager.

  “On a very limited basis, perhaps. And only when conditions are in our favor.”

  Keifer looked at Owyn, and the other man shrugged. They had trained for war, were willing and ready to meet the English on a battlefield. Keifer stifled his disappointment that he might not even draw his sword on this campaign.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, watched as the slow-moving English army, led by young Edward III, advanced on the Scottish position north of Durham. In the several miles between where Randolph stood on an overlook and Edward’s army, the English countryside lay in devastation. While Randolph disliked putting common people—even though they were English— out of their homes and destroying their crops, he had to use these tactics against such a superior force.

  The death of Edward II and the widowed Isobella’s takeover had created a crisis within the English government. With luck, Randolph hoped to use the confusion and division amongst England’s nobles to Scotland’s advantage. While Randolph and his three columns of raiders ransacked the northern counties of England, the English marched north with a mighty army, the pride of which were 2,500 heavily armed Flemish knights.

  Randolph’s own troops, on the other hand, traveled light. Sir Thomas had no intention of engaging Edward’s superior forces. Instead, he would lead the young, inexperienced king farther and farther from his supply source, allowing hunger and frustration to take its toll. It was a good plan. He’d thought of everything. Today they would put the plan in motion.

  Sir Thomas turned to Bryan Mackintosh. “We have succeeded in making them dependent on their baggage train. Now we must separate them from their supplies.”

  Sir Bryan nodded. “How do you plan to defend against the new weapon?”

  The baggage train included a gunpowder cannon. Randolph had seen one demonstrated while he was in France. It wasn’t terribly accurate, but the noise and fire were enough to immobilize an enemy with fear. “We must stay out of range of its projectiles and lead the English into terrain where the cannon cannot be taken.”

  “Aye.” Bryan pulled out a map and spread it open. “I suggest that all three columns band together, move south, and wait for them to come to us.”

  Randolph stared at the map Bryan held. Bryan was an excellent tactician, much like his father. Sir Thomas carefully weighed what the younger man said. “Agreed. But what if we were to put out the word that we are headed for the Tyne at Haydon Bridge?”

  “You think Edward will be fooled into thinking we are done raiding and headed home?”

  “Aye. But we will move west of the burned area and wait to see if he takes the bait. If he heads for the Tyne, he’ll have to abandon the wagons when they reach the boglands. His army should be on short rations by the time they reach the river.”

  Bryan smiled grimly. “And we won’t be there or even close by.”

  Randolph nodded. “We’ll let them wait there for awhile before we split into two groups and lure them after us. You and Douglas will lead the forward raids and I’ll remain behind to cover the rear. Gather your men and move out.”

  Bryan left, and Randolph looked to the overcast sky. Rain threatened, and not for the first time he wished he were safe and warm in his home in Edinburgh.

  EDWARD III, the fifteen-year-old king of England, paced back and forth as his tent was being set up at the end of another wet, dreary day. A mild drizzle still fell, chilling him despite layers of warm garments and a waterproof oilcloth. Blast the weather.

  Though old enough to wear the crown and lead troops, Edward needed to prove himself as the rightful leader of England so that he could oust his mother and her paramour. A victory over Bruce would allow him to do so.

  Acting on reliable intelligence information, Edward had taken his army north to the Tyne River at Haydon Bridge to await the retreating Scots. The certainty of victory had balanced out the need to leave their supply wagons behind. Or so he had thought.

  Eight wet, miserable days later, days when the supplies they’d been able to carry with them had dwindled to nothing, there was still no sign of the Scots. Saddles rotted in the damp, fires could not be built with the water-logged wood, and the men were hungry and grumbling.

  So he had offered a reward to any man who could bring back word of the location of the Scottish army. Two dozen squires had scattered in all directions, seeking the elusive enemy.

  Yesterday one of the men returned—the earlier reports had been false, and Edward had been sitting here in the miserable weather for naught. The Scots were camped on the south bank of the River Wear, twenty miles to the south near Stanhope Park.

  Edward hastened his hungry army south, finding the Scots camped with the raging river in front of them and a marsh to their backs. They were trapped, and Edward eagerly anticipated moving in for the kill.

  His tent, always first to be pitched, was soon ready. He entered the tent and gladly shed several layers of garments as the peat fires in the braziers warmed the enclosure. Warm and fed, despite his army’s hunger and cold, Edward looked forward to morning. Tomorrow would be his day of glory at last.

  KEIFER AND OWYN stood beside Sir Bryan and watched the English set up camp on the other side of the river. Keifer wondered why they didn’t attack now—he
itched to take part in his first combat.

  Sir Thomas joined them in the gathering dusk. “Our opportunity has arrived. You and your men will circle around to the south and cross the river. That will put Edward between you and me. Attack when their camp is quiet for the night. You will attempt to capture the English king.”

  Keifer looked at Owyn, whose grin must surely match his own. To capture the king! Quickly Keifer brought his attention back to Randolph and his instructions.

  “Once you have him, make for the river, there. His men will not be able to cross the river on foot, which will delay their pursuit until they can saddle their horses. Send a few men to cut the horses loose so the English will have to round them up before they can follow you.”

  Keifer was puzzled. “But the marsh will prevent our retreat.”

  Randolph smiled. “I’m sure Edward thinks so, too. My men and I will make it possible to retreat through the marsh.”

  “How?”

  “We have scoured the countryside for wooden planks which we can lay over the bogs, cross over, and then pick the planks up as we move forward. It will be slow, but until they find planks of their own, the English will not be able to follow.”

  Keifer was exhilarated to see action at last—to be one of the men chosen to raid the English camp in hopes of capturing the young king. The English nobles would have to pay a hefty ransom for their king—nothing short of a treaty of peace and recognition of Scotland as an independent country.

  His enthusiasm did not dim in the nearly three hours it took to circle around the camp. The water was high at the river crossing from the recent rain, and the mud sucked at the horses’ hooves. They traveled slowly and as quietly as possible, as their success depended on taking the English by surprise.

  Keifer saw his uncle among those who would set the English horses free. The man’s presence unnerved him, but he’d given no indication thus far of any animosity to Keifer. Still, he was glad to have Owyn at his side as they moved into position.

  At the earl’s signal, Keifer and Owyn followed Sir Bryan into the sleeping camp, slashing at tent ropes and trampling anyone in their path. The king’s large tent had been easy to spot at a distance and in daylight. But in the confusion and cover of darkness, Keifer lost his bearings. He turned his horse this way and that, fending off half-dressed enemy soldiers until the alarm was sounded.

  Keifer wondered if his uncle had been successful with the horses.

  When he’d disarmed yet another Englishman, Keifer looked up to see Sir Bryan just ahead.

  Sir Bryan pointed. “There! Go!”

  Keifer spurred his horse in the direction the knight pointed and found himself heading straight for the pavilion that housed the king of England. By now the royal household guards—Edward’s most trusted and well-trained knights—were awake and armed, and the fighting became fierce.

  All the practice in the lists had not prepared Keifer for real combat. The confusion and noise overwhelmed him. He followed behind Sir Bryan, slashing with his sword, jostled by friend and foe. Twice Keifer had to curb a blow to avoid harming a fellow Scot. Though the guards were on foot, they were suicidal in their ferocious protection of their king. As the camp awoke, more and more English came to the defense of the king’s pavilion.

  After the initial shock, Keifer stood his ground, engaging and defeating several men. Now the hours of practice made sense. Sweat poured off him and his arms grew weary. Despite their best efforts, the Scots were driven back and it soon became apparent that the king could not be taken without serious loss of life and limb. Sir Bryan blew his horn to signal their retreat to the river.

  Disappointed that they failed in their mission, Keifer turned his horse around and fought his way free to ride after his comrades. He and Owyn were among the last to leave the camp. Sir Bryan sat on his horse at the side of the trail and waved them on. He would wait until he was sure all the Scots had cleared the field before following them.

  In high fettle, Keifer and Owyn whooped and hollered. They hadn’t captured the king, but they’d come close enough to give the boy a good scare.

  The English by now had started to round up their horses. It would be some time before they caught and saddled their mounts to give chase. Keifer urged his horse faster. The muddy ground slowed them, and Keifer’s horse stumbled and regained its balance. As he came in sight of the river, Keifer looked over his shoulder and pointed to Owyn—a rider was coming up behind them. Keifer spurred his horse and pulled ahead of Owyn by several yards.

  The land sloped gradually toward the river with a final thirty yards of fairly steep embankment before the water. Thick forest lay on either side of the trail. The ground was churned up by the several hundred horses that had already passed over it, and Keifer’s mount struggled to keep up its pace.

  By now the other rider had caught up to them. Uncle Angus! And he still had his sword drawn! Too late Keifer reached for his sword, barely unsheathing it when Angus swung his sword. Keifer raised his sword and stood in his stirrups to withstand the blow against his blade.

  He felt his saddle shift to the right. He stood on the left stirrup to right it and heard a sickening snap of leather. Before he had time to react, the saddle slipped further right, throwing the horse off balance.

  It slid on the wet, muddy incline.

  Keifer reached for the horse’s mane, grasping the hair in a futile attempt to stay aboard. But the high cantle and pommel anchored him in the saddle. Where it went, Keifer would go too.

  Owyn forced his horse between Keifer and Angus as Keifer’s horse reared up in an effort to shake the unbalanced load off its back.

  In horror Keifer felt the animal lose its footing and go down, taking him with it. As the animal went over, Keifer kicked his feet from the stirrups but was unable to get free of the saddle before the horse hit the ground, pinning Keifer under its weight briefly before it lurched back to its feet.

  Keifer looked up and saw Owyn, saw him wave his sword, saw his mouth moving as the cantle dug deep into Keifer’s back. A sharp jolt shot down into his hips and legs and up to his head. His brain exploded in pain.

  One thought filled his head and heart before the world went dark.

  Nola.

  OWYN WATCHED IN HORROR as Keifer’s horse went down. He barely checked his own mount in time to keep from running over Keifer where he lay, much too still. Owyn faced his father, kept his mount between Angus and Keifer.

  But Angus ignored him and halted his horse a few feet away. “Well,” his father bellowed. “Will ye finish him off or should I?”

  Owyn just stared at his father. “Keifer Macnab is my laird. Ye’ll have to kill me first.” Owyn shook his head in disbelief as Angus charged toward him, sword drawn. The blow glanced off the chain mail on his left arm, stinging and bruising but not breaking through the protective barrier.

  Angus came at him again. This time Owyn was ready, slashing and pushing his father back and away from Keifer. Their swords clashed and the hilts tangled, locked together as each man fought to disengage. With a mighty shove, Owyn freed his weapon and immediately attacked, catching Angus in the side. Angus leaned sideways to escape the worst of the blow.

  Owyn pressed his advantage, slashing at Angus’s sword arm. The other man’s saddle did not have a deep seat for fighting. This made it easier for him to move out of range but it also made it easier to unhorse him. Owyn slashed repeatedly at his father’s sword arm until the man dropped his weapon. Then, while Angus was off balance, Owyn shoved with his foot and sent him to the ground.

  Angus picked himself up and grabbed his sword from the mud, ignoring Owyn, stalking instead toward Keifer. He stood over Keifer’s still body, but instead of raising his sword to strike, he bent down and yanked the laird’s ring from Keifer’s finger.

  Enraged, Owyn leaped from his horse, landing on top of his father. The ring flew from his hands into the mud. Angus grunted in pain and Owyn moved quickly away from him. From the corner of his eye, Owyn saw ano
ther rider approaching. Desperately he searched until he found the ring. Angus rose to his knees, stilling as the rider slid his mount to a halt. Sir Bryan dismounted and strode toward them. “What is the meaning of this?”

  But Owyn returned his attention to Angus, who glanced to where his sword lay in the mud and inched toward it, still on his knees.

  Fearing that any distraction would be disastrous to Keifer, Owyn ignored the knight and stood on the tip of his father’s blade. “Do ye yield?”

  Angus jerked his head toward Keifer. “Is he dead?”

  Owyn didn’t know for sure, but he wouldn’t give Angus the satisfaction. “Nay, he’s alive, ye miserable blackguard.”

  “Let me stand.”

  “Do ye yield?”

  Angus eyed both men and let go of his sword. “Aye.”

  Sir Bryan walked over and knelt next to Keifer, his back to Owyn and Angus.

  Owyn indicated that his father should stand and lifted his foot to retrieve Angus’s blade.

  In one fluid motion Angus came to his feet and pulled a dirk from his boot, lunging toward Keifer.

  “Sir Bryan! Watch out!”

  The knight spun toward them and reached for his sword hilt, rising to his feet to withdraw it fully. Angus was nearly upon him and, seeing the danger, Bryan didn’t hesitate. He plunged his sword in Angus’s gut and withdrew it with an upward flourish.

  Surprise, shock, and anger crossed the wounded man’s face as he slowly sank back to his knees. “Ye’ve killed me,” he said in obvious disbelief. He fell sideways to the ground as blood stained his tunic.

  Sir Bryan stared down at Angus and then at Owyn, his expression confused. “This is your father.”

  “Aye. He tried to kill Keifer.”

  “I’m sorry, Owyn. I should have tried for a maiming blow, not a lethal one.”

  Owyn’s knees were shaking with anger at his father for forcing Sir Bryan to kill him. “Sir, I believe if ye hadn’t killed him, I would have.”