Summer Warrior (The Clan Donald Saga Book 1)

by Regan Walker

  Surrounding the king were his commanders that Somerled had only just met. On David’s right stood Prince Henry, looking very much the heir to the Scots kingdom with his noble bearing and confident stance.

  On the king’s left was one of his nephews, William Fitz Duncan, a general and the Earl of Moray, as well as an English baron. On their way to meet David, Siwardsson had told Somerled that in the month prior, Fitz Duncan had led the Galwegians to victory over the English at Clitheroe, raising hopes for the battle to come.

  Somerled recognized others gathered there, among them Eustace Fitz John, a Norman baron of Northumberland, who recently switched sides and surrendered his castles at Alnwick and Malton to David.

  Malise, Earl of Strathearn in central Scotland, had joined David’s ranks and now stood with Lord Fergus of Galloway and the Galwegian chiefs, Ulric and Donald.

  Somerled recalled what King Olaf had said about the men of Galloway. While their lord was as finely dressed as any of the noblemen, his warriors were wild-looking with their half-shaved heads and bare legs. They wore only tunics and, at their waists wicked-looking daggers. Most carried long spears as well.

  Only two others were, like Somerled, blue-eyed and fair-haired, Siwardsson and another Saxon lord.

  To Somerled it seemed an odd collection of notables. He wondered how David intended to unify thousands of men from such diverse backgrounds and lead them into such a significant battle. Surely, they did not all consider themselves Scots. Somerled’s own men would not have thought of themselves that way, nor would the English barons who had sided with David. Many northern nobles had been forced to make a choice between loyalty and the reality of their situations. If they supported the wrong side, they would lose their land as well as their titles.

  “Ah, Somerled,” said the king, “I am glad you are here. You have met my nobles and commanders, of course?”

  “Aye, I’ve had the pleasure,” Somerled said, giving them a curt nod.

  “We but talk strategy, though one cannot be precise until we see what the English and their Normans have in mind. I’ve sent spies to survey the land south and see what can be learned.” The king, again considering the drawing before him, said, “My intention is to take the English by surprise if we can. The vanguard,” he said, pointing to the first line on the parchment, “will be led by Henry and his knights, reinforced by a bodyguard of mailed men-at-arms under Eustace Fitz John and the men of Galloway.”

  One of the Galwegian chiefs muttered an oath. David ignored it.

  “Behind them,” the king continued, “in the second line, will be your Highlanders and Islesmen, Lord Somerled. I will command the third group, consisting of Saxon and Norman knights. In the rear will be the men of Moray.”

  Somerled was curious as to why the king would place such well-armored men in the rear, but he did not ask. He did wonder about his archers, however. “Your Grace, if I might ask…”

  David looked up. “Yes?”

  “My Islesmen are known for their skill with a bow. Might you not want them with the vanguard?”

  The king appeared to consider the idea. “What you say is true yet I would prefer to place some of the Saxon archers with Henry and his mounted knights and have your men follow them. Once Henry has opened a hole in the English ranks, your arrows will find their targets more easily.”

  Before Somerled could respond, the Galwegian chiefs took great offense at the lines of battle the king had proposed. “We fight better than any Frenchman!” shouted Ulric. His reference to Frenchmen was how many described the Normans but, spoken by Ulric, it sounded more like a curse.

  While Lord Fergus remained silent, Malise, Earl of Strathearn, joined in the Galwegian chiefs’ objection. “Whence comes the king’s confidence in the Normans? I wear no armor but there is not one among them in Stephen’s army who will advance beyond me.”

  “Rude earl!” exclaimed Alan de Percy, baseborn son of the great Alan, and a distinguished Norman knight. “You boast of what you dare not do.” Turning to David, he said, “Sire, if the Galwegians fail, the rest of the army will lose heart. ’Twould be a fatal error.”

  “We will not fail!” cried Donald, the other Galwegian chief. “Remember Clitheroe where Fitz Duncan prevailed because of us.”

  “Why, my king,” pleaded the Earl of Strathearn, “do you listen to foreigners when none of those with armor would outdo the earl who wears none?” He meant himself, of course, an arrogant man Somerled did not trust.

  “Enough!” shouted David. The king appeared to be wavering, mayhap worried lest his fragile alliance of commanders might falter. “The Galwegians may lead the attack under their own commanders with the mailed knights in the second line.”

  Somerled bit back a curse.

  Prince Henry averted his eyes but, before he did, Somerled glimpsed a look of disapproval on his face.

  “That puts you, Somerled,” said David, “in the third line.”

  Though he disagreed, and knew his chiefs would like it not, Somerled did not argue with the king, who was obviously trying to keep the Galwegian wolves at bay. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  The meeting ended with some of the Scottish lords grumbling under their breaths as they departed the king’s tent.

  Somerled was about to leave when he heard Henry tell his father, “With your permission, I will add the Cumbrians and men of Teviotdale to my numbers.”

  The king nodded. “Probably wise.” Then to Somerled, “I will add the men of Lothian to your numbers in the third line.”

  Somerled nodded. Though he would have aligned the warriors differently, he did not question further David’s orders. At least his Islesmen would not have to rush the English knights in the company of the overly confident and wild Galwegians. He much preferred to follow Henry who appeared well-trained and in full command of his mailed cavalry.

  Derlinton, North East England, August 1138 A.D.

  IT HAD TAKEN THEM weeks to cover the nearly fifty miles between Hexham and Derlinton, which lay twenty miles south of Durham, close to the River Tees. The delay was owed not only to the army’s unwieldy size but to the stop at Durham. While the king paid a visit to the castle, the Galwegians plundered the surrounding towns, enraging Somerled.

  “’Tis unseemly for a Christian king to allow the wild Picts to prey upon innocent villagers,” he spit out when reports reached him of their savage acts. He and his companions were discussing the recent events in the tent erected for them. He thought of Gillecolum and Liadan, left behind on Islay, relieved they were safe. “I will speak with Lord Fergus.”

  He was not the only commander to refer to the Galwegians as wild Picts, for that was their reputation, much deserved. It rankled that the Lord of Galloway permitted his men to behave in such a manner when Somerled would not allow such actions to be named among his own warriors.

  “I doubt you will find a receptive audience with that one,” said Maurice.

  “Still, I must try,” said Somerled. “Failing there, I will speak to David.”

  Somerled found Fergus lounging in his tent with the two Galwegian commanders imbibing the wine they had brought with them from Galloway. “My lord, a word if I might.”

  With a jerk of his head, Fergus sent Ulric and Donald out of his tent. “What is it, Lord Somerled?”

  “Tales have reached me of your men ravaging the countryside, burning, raping and pillaging. Such actions bring dishonor to the Scots king and are beneath those of us from the western shores. Innocents are not our enemies; they are not even King David’s enemies.”

  Fergus pursed his lips and stared at his goblet. “Aye, mayhap ’tis something your Islesmen disdain, but my Galwegians are not of your ilk. That is why they make good warriors. They even drink blood when they think it improves their ability to conquer.”

  Somerled realized he would get nowhere with such a man. “I see.” He would waste no further words. Inclining his head, he said, “Then I will ask no more of your time.” As he slipped through the
tent’s opening, the sound of Fergus’ laughter rang in his ears.

  In David’s tent, he found a worried king, for his spies had returned with sour news. “Sit, Somerled,” said David. “You might as well hear this, too. Soon, the entire camp will know of it.”

  The spy, a Norman from the look of him, was bedraggled and dirt-covered but no less eager to convey his news. “The English morale, being low and some unwilling to fight, Thurstan, Archbishop of York, who has the defense of the north in the absence of Stephen who is engaged in the south, has devised a clever plan.”

  David’s eyes narrowed. “Say on.”

  “He has assured the northern barons of victory and offers absolution and Heaven to all who fight. To rally the men, he has designed a standard the Normans will carry into battle with the clergy in every parish appearing in procession with their crosses, banners and relics.”

  “It sounds like a crusade,” remarked David.

  “Aye,” said the spy with a chuckle. “I imagine it will appear just so.”

  “Who leads them into battle?” asked Somerled. “Surely not the old archbishop?”

  “Nay,” said the spy, accepting a cup of water offered by David’s servant. “From what I could tell, ’tis likely to be William d’Aumale but Walter l’Espec, Sheriff of York and a Norman warrior of great experience, was ever present.”

  “What of this standard you referred to?” asked King David.

  “’Twas Thurstan’s idea, apparently. It’s to be a ship’s mast mounted on a wheeled cart with a silver pyx at the top, holding consecrated bread of the Eucharist. From the yard, banners will hang representing the saints of York, Beverley and Ripon.”

  Somerled inhaled sharply, greatly concerned, for he knew how the English revered their Roman saints and being promised Heaven, they would believe it and fight all the harder. He cast a glance at David, wondering what effect this would have on the Scots king who also gave allegiance to the Church of Rome.

  “Holy Jesus!” David exclaimed. “That conniving Thurstan.”

  “Where are the English now?” Somerled asked.

  “Near York and advancing north,” said the spy.

  “Several days away,” muttered David. “Time enough.” He rose then and told the spy to eat and rest, that his king may have another assignment for him in the morning.

  When the spy had gone, David turned to Somerled. “You came to see me?”

  “Aye, though it seems a lesser concern at this point. I wanted to lodge my objection to the way the Galwegians have been pillaging the countryside as we marched south.”

  The king heaved a sigh, looking fatigued. “You are not the first to bring me news of their crimes. Alas, I like it not, however, Fergus will take no action to stop them and, at this point, I want the wild men of Galloway ready to set upon the English.”

  “You will not hear of my men doing such despicable things. Having been slaves to the Norsemen, they would not prey upon another people in like manner. They are fierce in battle but they will not rape or murder the innocent. Moreover, I have strongly admonished my chiefs that I will hold them responsible should their men disobey me in this respect.”

  David’s mouth formed a small smile. “This from the man who tore out his enemy’s heart?”

  “’Tis not the same, Your Grace.”

  “You speak truth, yet my own Scots burn villages and take plunder. ’Tis the way of war. Your stance is rare.” He reached out and touched Somerled’s shoulder, an older man to a younger leader. “I dislike war but I must hold the English accountable for their oaths and their charters to my family. Northumberland is my son’s inheritance and my niece was robbed of a crown. If the unruly Galwegians can help me secure both, so be it.”

  Somerled left, disheartened. He had not wanted to be a part of England’s war any more than King Olaf and he vowed if he survived this one there would be no more. The gnawing in his stomach was accompanied by a foreboding that told him this Scots ship of war had a torn sail with a crew not pulling oars together. It might shatter in rough seas, which the battlefield, for certes, would readily provide.

  Two miles from Northallerton, England, 22 August 1138 A.D.

  WHEN THE DAWN CAME, a heavy mist covered the ground like a veil drawn over the land. Through the wavering mist, Somerled glimpsed the blooming heather, a reminder of home. He pulled the emerald silk riband from his waist and thought of the princess he might never see again.

  Closing his eyes, he imagined her face and remembered her promise to pray. Mayhap her prayers would carry him and his men through this day. It was his fervent hope.

  The night before, he had conveyed the king’s battle alignment to his close companions and his chiefs and they, in turn, to the men. “Harken to my orders as I will likely have to shout above the fray. Listen for my horn. Given so strange a mixture of warriors, I cannot say what may happen or what I may command. I seek but to save the lives of our men wherever I can. Remind them to keep out of range of the English arrows, which may be fired from longbows.”

  Once Somerled’s men were roused from sleep and ready to march, weapons to hand, they followed the rest of David’s army south down the Great North Road and crossed the River Tees.

  The standard borne by the Scots was a simple affair, a long lance affixed with a wreath of blooming heather.

  Before they reached York, in the heavy mist, they came to a sudden halt when they blundered into the English army. Somerled turned to see King David sitting atop his bay horse, his face a mask of shock. He had planned a surprise attack but surprise was no longer an option.

  With quickly shouted orders, both forces fell into battle order on two low hills about six hundred feet apart. Somerled ordered his best archers and the Lothian Scots on his left to stand ready. Behind them, he stood with the rest of his men, carrying shields, swords, axes and spears.

  The Galwegians took their agreed upon place in the front of the army, Prince Henry, his knights and the Saxon archers behind them and to the right.

  Once David’s army was aligned in the agreed upon ranks, Somerled gazed ahead to the English commander, whose name, William d’Aumale, was whispered among the Scots. A Norman with lands in both England and France. D’Aumale ordered the wagon carrying the archbishop’s standard to be placed in the center of the English forces.

  Somerled stared at the banners of the saints waving in the early morning breeze. The standard would be a conspicuous rallying point.

  With the standard in place, most of the English knights and retainers were ordered by d’Aumale to dismount and their horses sent to the rear with a small contingent of mounted knights.

  Somerled wondered why they had done so. Was it for fear the horses would be panicked in the face of the fierce Galwegians? For certes, the roar of the Scots army would have struck fear in the hearts of the Norman knights as they peered into the fog. Or did d’Aumale wish to prevent his knights from a hasty retreat? Whatever the reason, they were now on foot behind the English archers and clustered tightly around the standard.

  Behind Somerled, David dismounted and ordered his horse and those belonging to his guards sent to the rear of the Scots lines.

  Before the battle began, two Norman knights in silvered helms and mail came to the Scottish lines, bearing a white flag.

  King David came forward to hear what the Normans had to say.

  The Normans’ stated purpose was to parlay a peace. It was all so civilized. Somerled knew it was the custom of war but he could not imagine trying with the Norse pirates he and his men fought. The pirates would only laugh.

  He strode to where Prince Henry sat atop his horse with his mounted knights. “Who are they?”

  Never taking his eyes from the two, Henry said, “Robert Bruce, Earl of Annandale, and Bernard de Baliol, a baron. Both are Norman nobles who hold estates in both England and Scotland.”

  “On behalf of King Stephen,” said Bruce, “we offer you a grant of the earldom of Northumberland in favor of Prince Henry if you
give your word to take your army back to Scotland.”

  King David frowned his displeasure. “Northumberland is my son’s inheritance; it is his as a matter of right. Yet there is more I would have. Stephen stole a crown from my niece, the Empress Maud. We want it back.”

  “You know we cannot give you that,” said Baliol.

  With bitter words, the two Normans renounced their allegiance to the Scottish Crown they had earlier given and, without another word, turned to go.

  David’s warlike nephew, William MacDonoquhy, still flushed with pride from his victory at Clitheroe, shouted to Bruce’s back, “You are a false traitor, Bruce!”

  An aged Norman warrior, who Somerled was told was Walter l’Espec, appeared in front of the English army and delivered a speech, at the end of which he said to the commander, “I pledge my troth to conquer or to die!”

  One of the English clerics said in a booming voice, “Illustrious chiefs of England, by blood and race Normans, before whom France trembles, here are the Scots, who fear you, undertaking to drive you from your own estates!”

  The English, Normans and peasants kneeled while the priests gave them absolution, telling them that were they to make the ultimate sacrifice, their sins would be forgiven in the afterlife.

  Somerled shook his head at so grand a promise made by mere mortal men. To Somerled, the strategy behind the spectacle was clear: men would fight for family and country but they would fight even harder if they believed that their deaths would assure entrance to Heaven.

  The priests’ words were followed by a loud chorus of “Amen!” and the English quickly stood.

  As if David’s forces had been waiting for this spectacle to finish, the Scots king gave the command to attack and the battle began. A sudden rush and cries of “Albion!” rose in the air as thousands of fierce Galwegians, daggers and spears to hand, charged toward the English army and their Norman knights.

  Somerled cringed at what happened next for it could have been foreseen. The air resounded with the hiss of arrows as the English archers fired. The Galwegians blocked the arrows with their shields and continued to run toward the Normans, screaming like the wild men they were. The Norman knights, clinging to their standard, did not move.