Until You (48 page)

The mist, the smoke and the heat of battle rose from the field below the hill known as Flodden Edge. On the west side of the hill they found the trees had been cut down and a fort constructed. And it was before that fortress that Logan stood, watching in horror as the battle was coming to its dreadful end. He could see the king’s banner in the mud, which meant the king was dead, for while he lived that banner would remain flying no matter what. His gaze moved over the field, but he saw no Hepburn flag aloft either. The ground was muddy, and many of the men had fought in their stocking feet because leather boots would have slipped easily on the treacherous ground. The Scots had lost the battle now coming to its close. That was painfully clear to Logan and his companions. The stench of death was everywhere. The laird of Claven’s Carn put his horn to his lips and blew it. The distinctive note the horn sounded would tell any of his own people still alive to follow the sound and come to him. He waited and then blew his horn twice more. Finally, three of his clansmen struggled from Flodden Field and up the hill to where he waited.

“Any more?” he asked curtly. The smell of death surrounded them.

They shook their heads.

“My brothers?”

“Slain, my lord, with the Earl of Bothwell,” one of the men reported, adding, “The English forces are also to the west, my lord.”

“We’ll go north and east then,” Logan said grimly. “Quickly now, lads, before the English start looking about for living prisoners. Take whatever horses and boots you can find for yourselves.” He waited briefly while the trio found mounts and footwear. Then, with a wave of his hand, they cantered off, leaving the battlefield behind. They rode straight for the border. It was imperative they not be caught in England. Their timely exit gave them more chance at survival than those left alive behind them had had. They rode until there was no more light left to see the ground beneath their horses’ feet.

That first night, they made camp beneath the overhanging rocks in a narrow ravine. They lit a small fire beneath the rocks where it was unlikely to be seen. The formation where they sheltered was almost a cave. They had eighteen oatcakes among them. Broken in two, one cake could serve as a day’s rations. Thirty-six pieces divided among the nine men would last them four days. They would be well into Scotland by then and might beg a meal from a local clansman. They would be welcome into any hall with the news they brought. That night, those with whiskey left in their flasks shared it with their companions. They would refill those flasks with water come the morrow.

Around their little fire that first night the three Hepburn clansmen told their laird the story of the battle. Their spokesman was Claven’s Carn’s blacksmith. His name was Alan Hepburn, and he stood six feet, six inches in his stocking feet. His brow furrowed as he remembered.

“The king were a brave laddie,” he began. “He led us all himself, although the Earl of Hume did give a lot of orders. At one point our own earl said loudly that he saw no crown on Hume’s head and he should shut his mouth and let the king command us, for he did it better than any.”

The men listening laughed quietly, those who had not been there picturing it, for they knew their earl very well.

“The battle was fierce,” Alan Hepburn continued. “The English were led by the Earl of Surrey, I was told. The king did not mean to fight in the field. He meant the English to have to come to us on the height, but their wily old commander sent troops around us to the west. The king feared they might get over the border, and none left to defend the farms but old men, women, and very young laddies. Ah, he were a good man, our Jamie was!” Alan Hepburn said, and he wiped the tears forming in his gray eyes. “ ’Twas he who told us to remove our boots, for the ground was slick with mud and we would be in less danger of sliding and falling in our stocking feet.”

“What happened?” the laird asked his blacksmith. “We were well matched, and we should have won the day. Something had to have happened. Did any of the earls withdraw their men?”

The blacksmith shook his head. “Nay. Half the men were down the hill, and then the phalanx was broken, my lord. They began to slip and slide. One grouping fell or tumbled into the other. The mud was treacherous, and many could not arise. The English swooped in on them, and it was slaughter. Your brothers, however, were already with our earl in the midst of the field with the young archbishop of St. Andrews, who was fighting with his father, the king. Much of the clergy avoided direct combat, instead firing the canons, for then they could be said not to have been fighting.”

“You saw my brothers go down?”

“Colm, Finn, and I were battling nearby. The Earl of Bothwell was surrounded, and your brothers rushed to his defense. They were slaughtered,” Alan said. “Hume, the young archbishop, and the king were then slain. The word began to spread that the king had been killed. It took the heart out of the men, my lord, and then we heard your horn. At first we were not certain it was you, but the call came twice again, and so we fought our way from the battlefield to find you,” Alan finished.

“I am ashamed I was not with you,” Logan said.

“Thank God you were not, my lord, for this day we have lost our good king and the flower of Scottish nobility,” Alan told him. “Claven’s Carn needs you, especially as your lad is so young.”

“The new king is not much older,” Logan replied. “God help Scotland now. What of the Earl of Angus? Was he also killed?”

“Nay, my lord,” Alan said excitedly. “The king left old ‘Bell-the-Cat’ Douglas behind, for the queen begged it. She and Bishop Elpinstone do not get along it is said.”

Logan nodded. It had been a wise thing to do.

They had ridden for the next few days, making their way back to Claven’s Carn. When their oatcakes had run out they stopped at a farm, begging a night’s shelter in the warm, dry barn. Both the men and the horses were grateful.

“Can you feed us?” Logan asked the farmer. “We have eaten the last of our oatcakes last night and have had naught this day. I can give you news of the king.”

The farmer nodded. “We’ve not much, but we’ll share,” he said.

“When my men are cared for I will come in and tell you everything I know,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.

The farmer’s wife delegated Alan, who was the largest of the laird’s men, to carry a cauldron of rabbit stew into the barn. She followed, her apron filled with several loaves of bread. The men called their thanks to her as she returned to her cottage and then set about tearing chunks of bread off the loaves, and dipping them into the stew to eat. Their knives speared what tender pieces of meat they could find. Inside the farmer’s dwelling, the laird of Claven’s Carn told of the disaster at Flodden while he ate a bowl of the stew, thinking it was the best he had ever tasted. The farmer placed a small mug of beer before him, and he nodded his thanks.

“So, our Jamie is dead,” the farmer said. “God assoil his good soul.” He crossed himself, as did his wife. “The battle was terrible, then. I could not go. My bairns are not old enough to help, and my wife is again with child.” He hung his head.

“ ’Twas better you remained than became canon fodder,” the laird replied. “My wife is also with child and grew frightened when she knew I must go. I sent my brothers, now slain, and twenty men with the king. When I had calmed Jeannie, I followed, only to reach Flodden at the end. I saw no fighting. Three of my clansmen survived the battle. The others were with me. I am ashamed, for I knew the king. The Earl of Bothwell, the Hepburn of Hailes, was my kinsman. I was married in the royal chapel at Stirling.”

“What was meant to be has come to pass,” the farmer’s wife said softly. “If it was meant that you die at Flodden, you would have. It was not.”

“You have the
lang eey
, mistress?” Logan asked her.

“Sometimes I see things,” the farmer’s wife said quietly.

He nodded. “The king had the
lang eey
.”

“I know,” she answered him. And then she said, “I will feed you and your men again in the morning, my lord of Claven’s Carn. And I will give you what oatcakes I can spare. The harvest was good despite the rains, and I can make more for the winter.”

Logan thanked the woman and left the cottage, joining his men in the warm barn. Most were already sleeping soundly in the sweet-smelling hay. Dry for the first time in days, he joined them. Two days later they arrived at Claven’s Carn, where Logan learned that his wife, Jeannie, had died in childbirth, his second son with her. They had already been buried in the family grave site on the hillside. His sisters-in-law sat gossiping in his hall, oblivious and uninterested in Flodden.

“Do you not wish to know of your husbands?” he asked them.

“Had they survived,” Katie, his brother Ian’s wife, said, “they would be with you.”

“Will you not at least weep for them, then?” he inquired of the pair.

“Would it bring them back?” Colin’s wife, Maggie said.

Astounded by their hard hearts, the laird sought out his old nursemaid, who lived in his keep and knew everything that happened within. He found her in her chamber at her loom, weaving and humming as she worked. “What happened, Flora?” he asked her as he sat down on a stool by her side. “How did my wife die and the lad with her?”

Flora turned her face to him, her hazel eyes sorrowful. “The bairn was just a wee bit early according to my calculations, but bairns will come when they will, Logan laddie. The young mistress was frightened with your going. She wept all the time after you left us. She was certain you would be killed and voiced her fears to any and all who would listen. You would die, and she would be left a widow with two children to manage Claven’s Carn for your son, John. She would be the prey of wicked men and robbers who would know she was alone and helpless.”

“Jesu!” he swore softly. “I did not realize she was that frightened.”

“You had to go, Logan laddie,” Flora said. “The lass was convent bred and afraid of her own shadow, though she hid it well from you. She did not wish to shame you. The wee bairn came feet first, but in his struggle to escape his mother’s womb, he became entangled in the cord and strangled. I could not turn him, though I might have been able to if either of your sisters-in-law had helped me. I needed them to aid me, but they would not. They said you would blame them if anything happened, and they could not afford your ill will for they had their own bairns to consider. The women servants were all in their own cottages, as their men were gone. I had no one. The lad was stillborn, and I am sorry. He was a big bairn for all he came early. As for your poor wife, she bled to death. There was nothing I could do, Logan laddie. You know I would have saved her if I could. I am so sorry,” Flora concluded.

He nodded slowly. “Who buried her?”

“Several of the old men dug the grave. I bathed her and sewed her into her shroud,” Flora told him. There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.

“And Maggie and Katie?” he asked.

“They are bad wenches, both of them,” Flora said in a hard voice. “They would not even accompany your wife to her last resting place. It was raining that day, and they said they did not want to get wet, but all those others left here did follow the bier. Your lady was well liked for all she came from the north,” Flora finished.

Logan stood up. Then, bending slightly, he kissed the old lady’s soft cheek. “Thank you, Flora,” was all he said, and he departed her little chamber. In the hall again, he went to where his sisters-in-law sat together. “Get up! Pack your belongings. You will leave here with your children first thing in the morning,” he told them. “I do not want to ever see either of you again.”

“You have been talking to the old woman,” Maggie said. “She hates us.”

“When I sent you to your own cottages you told me Jeannie hated you,” he said scathingly. “My brothers are dead in the defense of our land, yet you shed not a single tear. You wantonly let my young wife perish for you would not help Flora, who might have at least saved Jeannie if she could not save my son.”

“It was Maggie’s idea!” Katie cried to him. “She said we would have our own back on Jeannie for sending us to those poky cottages, Logan. I wanted to help.”

“I think you lie,” he returned. “If you had wanted to help her, you would have helped no matter what Maggie said to you. Now, hear me, both of you. The cottages in which you reside are yours. I shall see you and your bairns fed and clothed. I will train the three lads you have between you in the use of arms. I will dower your two lassies one day, and I shall make matches for them. But I do not ever want to see your faces in my hall again. What I do, I do for my brothers’ sakes. They were good brothers, and their children will not suffer because their mothers are hard-hearted trulls. You will not be permitted to remarry, for if you do I will send you from Claven’s Carn without a moment’s hesitation.”

Katie began to weep, but Maggie said boldly, “I cannot believe you mean to do this to us, Logan. We were good wives to Colin and Ian.”

“Which is why I do not take your bairns from you and put you out upon the high road,” he told her in a hard voice. “Now, get out of my sight, both of you!”

“You never loved her!” Maggie said. “And she knew it, Logan.”

“Nay, I did not love her,” he admitted freely. “But I liked her well, and I respected her position as my wife and the chatelaine of this household. Aye, she knew I did not love her, but I might have, given time.”

Maggie laughed bitterly. “How could you love anyone when it is Rosamund Bolton who has always filled your heart, Logan?” Then, turning, the sniveling Katie behind her, Maggie departed the hall.

He poured himself a large goblet of wine, draining the goblet where he stood. Then, turning, he went outside and up the hill to where his wife and son lay buried. He stared down at the fresh earth mound, just beginning to green over. “Jeannie,” he said, “I am sorry, but I thank you for wee Johnnie. And whatever happens, he will know you were his mam and that you loved him. He will know you were a good wife to me and that I respected you. But still, I am sorry that I didn’t love you.” He remained where he was for many minutes, while the sun set and the stars began to come out above him. Finally he swung about and returned to his hall, where the servants, so well trained by his wife, had his supper waiting. And after he had eaten, he went to the nursery where his son and heir lay sleeping, his thumb in his mouth. Poor bairn, Logan thought, without a mother. And the little king without a father. What was going to happen to Scotland with an infant king whose powerful uncle, namely Henry Tudor, was now just beginning to flex his muscles?