Scotland,
July 22, 1298
Battle of Falkirk
On the battlefield at Falkirk, Lachlan MacLeod sat at the head of his Highland army, mounted on his warhorse, a strong, black Friesian named Dionysus. Rain spit down on them in what most men would consider bad luck. But rain from the heavens was a blessing, a sign of fruitfulness. He only prayed that the blessing was for his men and not those of the wretched English and their equally wretched king, Longshanks.
Swords and armor clanked and leather creaked as the men shifted in their saddles.
Lachlan pointed his face toward the sky, closing his eyes to feel the rain on his skin. And then it stopped. He glanced into the gray, to see that in fact, the rain had ceased and the sun was shining, a rare moment in time. The clouds had parted as if the sky itself and the heavens above were peering down to see who would dare battle on the gods’ earth.
Dionysus shifted his feet, his flank bumping the horse beside him who grunted and chewed around his bit.
Neither the rain, nor the sun were the blessings that Lachlan had hoped for. The reinforcements they’d been waiting to arrive, had still not been seen by any of the scouts.
Much of the cavalry they’d relied on to fight the English seemed to have evaporated with the sudden stopping of the rain. And one of the clans he’d thought would be fighting beside his own was absent. There’d been no warning, no missive, unless the messenger had been captured.
Lachlan’s gut churned. Instinct bade him to acknowledge that they had been betrayed somehow. And he always followed his gut. Tugging on Dionysus’s reins, he pulled out of line and searched the battlefield for the two men he trusted most on this earth. Callum MacDonald and Ewan Grant. He’d known them both since childhood when they’d met at a tournament. They’d been wee lads then, trying their best to fight with wooden swords.
It seemed the leaders of the MacDonald and Grant clans were looking for him, too, for they both appeared down the line of men, riding side by side toward him.
“Lads,” Lachlan grunted.
Callum nodded, whipping his dark, rain-soaked hair from his eyes, and Ewan grimaced a half smile, as much as the scar on his cheek from some bastard’s sword allowed. Both of them took in the grave expression on Lachlan’s face, no doubt.
“We are down men,” Lachlan said.
“Do ye think they are running behind?” asked Ewan, also called the Black Stag. The twelve-point Black Stag he was named for was painted prominently on his targe.
“Hardly,” said Callum, he touched his hand to the blood-soaked hilt of his claymore, where he got his own moniker, the Red Blade. “It appears that they may have abandoned us.”
There had been rumors of betrayal that Lachlan ignored. Rumors were rubbish, and he had only time for facts. He’d refused to believe that anyone would want the English to win this battle. But war did things to men, and he was not immune to that himself. But he knew what was right and wrong. And he knew that they needed this country to be independent. And now, lacking the men he needed, he was aware of his error in not paying greater heed to the warnings.
The men were growing weary, shifting from foot to foot, hungry after a year of war. Eager for this battle to be over so they could finally return to their families. Warm beds. Cozy fires. Stew with plenty of meat. Fresh warm bread. Lachlan too wanted all of those things.
Just a year ago they had won the Battle of Stirling Bridge, William Wallace the first titled Guardian of Scotland having led their charge. But the English had fought back, refusing to relinquish control of Scotland. Bloody bastards, the lot of them.
The rain started up again, a loud thunderous crack in the sky. Followed by a flash of lightning that lit up the tips of his men’s spears which stood high, ready to be thrown into the enemy’s ranks.
William Wallace rode his horse toward them, Robert the Bruce, helmet momentarily removed, on horseback beside him. Wallace was nearly a head taller than the Bruce who was no small man. As the Scottish leaders of this battle approached, Lachlan and his found brothers nodded with respect.
“We canna wait much longer,” Robert the Bruce said.
“We should take them by surprise,” William Wallace added. “Show them what true warriors are made of.”
Lachlan watched Wallace who appeared agitated. After several losses, he appeared to be losing his grit. There was no surprising anyone on a battlefield once a man stepped forward. It was obvious what was about to happen. The signal to begin. Still, none of them wanted to argue, because Wallace was a brilliant strategist, and perhaps he had found a way to do just that.
“My men will have no trouble going first.” The MacLeod warriors were feared among many. Champions at every tourney—unless Callum or Ewan’s men were there, then the competition was steeper. He prided himself on the strength and skills of his warriors. On their bravery and courage and fearlessness. Perhaps that was what made them the most frightening to their enemies, their lack of fear. “They have trained well and have been superior in all battles that we’ve come across.”
And it was true. In the last few years, not one of his men had been lost in battle. A few fingers, teeth, a toe, but no lives.
Callum stepped forward, pounding his fist against his chest, and flinging water from his brow with a flick of his head. “We will fight beside them.”
“An honor, brother,” Lachlan said.
Ewan stepped forward with a fist to his chest. “Let the honor also be ours.”
“It is our three formations that will go first,” Lachlan declared.
