The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (46 page)

Perfect.

He ignored everyone but the king, who if his icy expression was an indication, was just as happy to see him as the rest.

“Sire,” Alex said with a bow.

“You are either extremely brave or extremely foolish.” Or maybe a little of both, Alex thought. “Say what it is you come to say, and then leave. As you can see, I’m busy.”

Alex faced the man he’d always believed in—even when he’d turned his back on him. It was more difficult than he thought it would be. No matter what his reasons, he’d given Bruce his loyalty—his oath—and he’d broken it. Whether he had good intentions couldn’t seem to stem all the shame.

Alex cleared his throat. “I made you a pledge nine years ago to help see you on the throne, and tonight I have come to fulfill that pledge.”

“Is this the same pledge that you conveniently forgot about for two years?” The look the king gave him could have cut through stone. “I would never have believed that Chris’s brother would have turned traitor.”

Though the blow wasn’t unexpected, it was powerful. It was also deserved. His brother had loved Robert Bruce like a brother; he would never have understood what Alex had done. But Alex did, and he realized that was enough.

He drew himself up, meeting the derision in the king’s gaze directly. “Traitor for what I thought were good reasons,” he said simply. “Which is the same reason I am here now. I bring you my sword and information.” He didn’t pause long enough to let the king comment. “The English army is disheartened, has lost faith, and is in disarray. Whatever authority Edward once had is gone. There is no one in charge, his leaders are too busy vying for position or squabbling. They do not expect you to really fight and have no battle plan if you do. You are not likely to get a better choice of terrain and know the benefits of the ground upon which they are camped.”

He moved over to the crude map that was set out upon the table, not surprised when Boyd stepped in front of him. The two men eyed one another.

“Let him pass, Raider,” the king said.

Boyd gave Alex a long, hard look meant to intimidate, which it might have years ago, and then reluctantly did as the king commanded.

Alex pointed to the spot between the Bannock Burn and the Pelstream Burn where the ground narrowed. “If you attack them with your schiltrons here in the morning, you will win.” Schiltrons typically stayed fixed in one position, but what Alex was proposing was that they be dynamic—that they move—which he knew Bruce had trained them to do. “Most of the infantry are camped on the other side of the Bannock Burn. By engaging the first column of cavalry in this narrow area with your schiltrons, the second will be hemmed in by the burns and won’t be able to reach them—you will take away their advantage of number. Nor will their archers be much help. In such close quarters, there will be too much risk of hitting their own men. The morale of the soldiers is so low they will scatter like frightened mice.”

“And how do I know that you are telling me the truth?”

“I pledge my life on it, sire. Feed me to the wolves,” he said, motioning to his former brethren, “if what I say is not the God’s honest truth.”

The king looked at MacLeod in silent question. The fierce Island chief and leader of the Highland Guard shrugged and looked to Boyd.

His former partner eyed him for a long moment. “He’s too bloody noble to lie.”

It wasn’t a compliment—at least to Boyd—but it seemed to satisfy Bruce enough to let Alex continue.

“You have better leadership,” Alex said. “Your men are better trained, and more important, they are fighting for something.” He took a deep breath, knowing the king wasn’t going to like what he had to say next. “I know you have had many reasons to avoid pitched battle to this point, but there are some who will never recognize you as king until you defeat the English army to army. This is the battle people want, my lord. Give it to them. You may never have a better chance.”

The room was silent for a long moment.

It was Edward Bruce who was the first to speak. As Alex had never gotten along particularly well with the king’s only remaining brother, he was surprised to hear his support.

“He is right, brother. We have them where we want them. And if it is half as bad in the English camp as Seton suggests, we can put an end to this. Victory will be seen as God’s judgment and prove to everyone that you are the rightful king.”

As Alex had been saying for years, a pitched battle was the only way of doing that. Bruce had to show he had a right to the throne, and in this case it had to be shown by right of battle.

One by one Bruce went around the room asking each man his opinion, and each—some with more reluctance than others—gave an affirming nod.

But the ultimate decision rested with Bruce. He didn’t say anything right away, but stared at Alex until he felt like a bug under a rock.

“Well, Seton, you are either the messenger of destiny or the messenger of death. I guess we shall find out which.”

Alex released the breath that he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He’d done it. He’d convinced the king, and in doing so, hopefully put an end to this war.

Dismissed, the men started to file out to find their pallets. But Alex did not think anyone would be sleeping much this night.

“What about him?” Boyd asked the king, indicating Alex. “Should I tie him up with the others?”

Bruce considered him for a moment, and then surprisingly one corner of his mouth lifted. “Give him back his weapons. Let him fight tomorrow. It’s his life on the line.”

They all knew there was far more than Alex’s life on the line, but Alex had his second chance—from the king, at least—and he intended to do what he could to ensure Bruce did not regret it. Ever.

The Nativity of St. John the Baptist,

Midsummer’s Day, June 24, 1314

Midsummer’s Day, which also happened to be St. John’s Day, dawned sunny and hot. As the English woke from their uncomfortable and restless night, they stumbled out of tents to an inconceivable sight. The Scots were mustering for battle!

As Alex had foretold, the English were not prepared to face Bruce—and certainly not for a Scot offensive in broad daylight. The Earl of Gloucester was so hastily awakened he didn’t even have time to don the surcoat that bore his arms. It would spell his doom, as when the Scot army of moving schiltrons attacked—led by Edward Bruce with Randolph and Douglas on either side—Gloucester, undoubtedly with the king’s accusation of “coward” still ringing in his ears, mounted a quick charge against Edward Bruce and was cut down from his horse and killed rather than be held for ransom.

Alex watched it all unfold from his position fighting in the king’s division, slightly behind Edward Bruce’s. But to the English cavalry, which had little room to maneuver in the narrow ground between the two rivers, the Scot army must have seemed like one dense, moving wall of spears that they could not penetrate. The Scots kept pressing forward and the English kept falling beneath their pikes, men and beast skewered by the deadly points of steel.

It went on for hours, a fierce melee of pikes and horsemen. What was nearly the entire force of the Scot army was now pitted against the English front.

Only once did Alex come close to death. Ironically, it wasn’t at the hands of the English, but at the hand of the man he’d hoped would one day be his father-in-law.

A small opening between the schiltrons had appeared, enabling a handful of English to penetrate. One of those men was Sir Edmund Mauley, King Edward’s seneschal, who had lost his horse and was locked in a fierce battle with Boyd. Suddenly, another knight shot through the opening on a horse, intent on driving his lance into Boyd.

Alex shouted a warning. But Boyd didn’t have a chance to react. Alex didn’t think. He reached for his dagger and threw.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex sensed the threat moving toward him even as he watched the horseman, now with a dagger in his neck, falter and drop his lance. Alex spun and lifted his sword, but only managed to block the blow from one of MacRuairi’s swords. The other penetrated his mail and sank into his side—fortunately not in his gut where it had been aimed.

By this point, MacRuairi must have realized Alex hadn’t meant to kill Boyd but to save him.

“Fuck, Seton. I didn’t see . . . are you all right?”

Alex removed the hand that had gone instinctively to the hole in his side. Noticing only a small patch of blood, he nodded. “It’s just a scratch.”

MacRuairi didn’t look like he believed him, but there wasn’t time to say anything more. Another wave of men had appeared and they lifted their swords to fight them off.

The next time he looked over to Boyd, Sir Edmund was down. His former partner caught his eye and nodded in silent thanks. But Alex knew it didn’t change anything.

The battle raged on, and Alex fought like a man possessed—or perhaps like a man with something to prove. Shoulder to shoulder with his former brethren they surged forward against the faltering English line.

He read the surprise, and then the hatred, on more than one face as his former English compatriots realized what he’d done. Despenser shouted something at him from across the battlefield—with an almost gleeful sneer—but his words were lost in the roar of the fighting. As Alex was only too anxious to meet him knight to knight, he was disappointed that was the last he saw of him.

It was mid-morning when Alex knew his faith would be rewarded. The fabled English archers, whose arrows might have penetrated the schiltrons of pikemen and made a difference in the battle, were deployed despite the close fighting and threat of hitting their own men. Bruce, however, was prepared. He ordered Robert Keith, the Marischal of Scotland, to attack with his cavalry that had been held in reserve for just this purpose.

The threat—and the only hope for an English victory—was eradicated.

The final blow came when Bruce brought forward his own archers, who sent a hail of arrows down on the rear of the enemy. The English resistance crumbled, and the army was in full retreat.

The melee became a bloodbath as the very ground that had constrained the English forces hampered their escape. The Bannock Burn, which stood in their way, became a giant burial pit as it filled to the top with bodies of men and horses. The Scots took to plunder—not only the bodies of the dead but the rich baggage train that Edward had laboriously brought with them.

And it seemed the biggest prize of all just might be in Bruce’s reach. Surprised by the aggressiveness of the Scot attack, and the inability of his cavalry to penetrate, King Edward had been caught unawares. Only thanks to the insistence of Pembroke and the famed Gascon knight Sir Giles d’Argentan was he forced from the battlefield, Despenser and de Beaumont fleeing alongside him.

Douglas was sent after them.

But with or without a royal hostage, Robert the Bruce had his great victory on the battlefield. The one that would finally ensure Scotland’s independence and give God’s validation to his claim to the throne.

Along the boggy carse of the battlefield, the grass and peaty pols now turned red with blood as the English fled and the Scots put down the last pockets of resistance, a great cheer went up. It was the cheer of a country that had fought for eighteen years for this moment—since Edward I of England had decimated Berwick in 1296, provoking the risings of William Wallace and Andrew Murray a year later. Scotland had its freedom.

Alex, who’d fought during the battle alongside his former compatriots but had hardly been welcomed, joined in, but perhaps without the enthusiasm of back slaps, happy embraces, and arm pumping.

He stood apart with his men who had joined Bruce at the start of the battle as he’d planned and started to take inventory of their injuries—his own would wait—when he sensed a familiar shadow move up behind him.

He stiffened—defensively—and turned.

“You saved my life,” Boyd said, his expression stony. “I owe you my thanks.”

Alex shook his head. “You don’t owe me shite. Forget about it.”

Boyd stood there staring at him, almost as if he knew what Alex was thinking. He didn’t want gratitude, but forgiveness was about the last thing he could ever expect from his former partner.

“What made you decide to come back? Not that it wasn’t impeccably timed, riding into the rescue at the last minute. Bruce was ready to call for the retreat when you arrived with your information and persuaded him to fight.”

“Does it really matter?”

Boyd held his stare and shrugged. “I guess not.”

He started to walk away, and Alex felt the anger rise up inside him. “You were right, is that what you want to hear? I judged you for things that I shouldn’t have. I tried to straddle both sides of the line, but just like you said, I had to choose. So I did. This is where I belong.”

Boyd paused and looked at him as if he were an idiot. “It took you two years to figure that out?”

“Aye, well I was busy trying to do some good. And I guess you aren’t the only one who is hardheaded and can hold a grudge.”

Boyd’s mouth might have actually quirked. “You always were too much of a damned idealist.”