Conquer the Night (44 page)

And still, looking down at the vast array of the English was daunting.

The English were confident.

The Scots were ready. If they knew it or not, they had been preparing for this all summer. Andrew de Moray's revolt had given courage to others. The whole country, from the Beauly to the Tay, had taken up arms. And they had come to this moment.

“We'll not back down, men; we'll not back down! Remember Hawk's Cairn,” he shouted to his troops, growing anxious on the hill.

“Remember Berwick!” someone else cried, and throughout the lines of men, shouts and warlike keenings began to fill the air.

Did the English hear? They must.

They waited, for as was custom, all armies were given a chance to back down, to surrender. James Stewart and Earl Malcolm of Lennox and several other barons had gone to de Warenne the previous night and told him that they would negotiate with Wallace for them; they had promised him men, and said that they would desert to his cause. But they had gone back to him, saying that they could not dissuade Wallace from battle. The two noblemen had pledged themselves to Wallace and de Moray and their cause as well, and though others seemed uncertain of their motives—perhaps they were buying time for Wallace to improve his tactics and position?—Arryn was certain that they were keeping their options open, and would decide their loyalty when the battle had commenced.

Wallace sent back the answer that they had not come for peace—but for Scotland.

Two friars then came forward, suggesting they surrender—and all past remissions of the rebels would be forgiven.

They, too, were sent back.

“We fight!” Arryn roared.

And then the command was given to hold.

When she opened her eyes again, it was morning, and there was light.

Her jaw hurt; indeed, her whole head seemed ready to explode.

She stared at the sun-dappled side of a tent, and she realized then that she was in agony—and in an English camp.

She started to move. Her arms ached.

Her wrists were tied behind her back.

“Ah, Kyra, my lady! You're awake!” It was Kinsey's voice, coming from behind her. Had Ingrid, Katherine, and Thomas made good their escape? Was there any prayer that Arryn might know where she was?

And where was she? Behind the English lines at the battle about to take place near Stirling?

Oh, God, she was awake; what would happen now?

He walked around in front of her. He was in full mail, a fresh, clean tunic in his colors over his armor. He grabbed her by the shoulders, drawing her up. “Your face is bruised and swollen, your hair is wild, and still, my lady, do you know, you have an uncanny beauty! Ah, treacherous beauty—you are a traitor! We all know what happens to traitors, but first … well, I think that you should see the Scottish die. Come along now; I've managed to inveigle a position in the rear of the vanguard. True, all the Scots may be dead before I take my troops over the bridge, but, alas … I must give up something. I'll give up killing the barbarians for the pleasure of watching you see them all slaughtered.”

He wrenched her to her feet.

Pain exploded in her limbs, in her head. She staggered. He swept her up, keeping her from falling. She didn't know what he saw in her eyes as he looked down at her, but it drew out an ever fiercer fury. “Ah, my lady, fear not! You can offend my feelings no more. I promise, this is not a touch of affection—I just want to make sure that we don't miss any of the battle. I've arranged to set you on your own mare. You must be grateful, of course.”

“They will kill you, Kinsey,” she said.

“Dead men kill no one, dear Kyra. And they will all be dead. And you will get to see it—right before sentence is pronounced on you.”

“Who is in command here?” she demanded.

He smiled slowly. “Who is in command? You think that you will escape me by throwing yourself on a greater lord? I don't think that will happen. John de Warenne is feeling ill, and Cressingham is a fool. An annoying fool, an idiot. But he has less patience with the rebels than any other man. I don't think he'll be eager to help you. Come along, my lady; it's time to watch the battle.” He seized her arm once again, dragging her from his tent.

Many of the men had already moved into position, Kyra saw, and still, soldiers, knights, and servants were scurrying everywhere. Weapons were being honed; harnesses were being repaired; banners and insignias were carried high. Horsemen went by, foot soldiers, priests, camp followers. Kinsey ignored them all, shouting for Richard, who came forward with her mare. Kinsey set her quickly upon the animal. He smiled up at her. “There's still going to be a wedding, my dear.”

Set precariously atop her mare, her hands still tied at her back, she tossed her hair back to be able to see him.

“I'll never marry you, Kinsey. I've always hated you. There's little difference now, except that I hate you more.”

“Ah, yes! The high and mighty lady! Did you think I meant to keep you as a wife?” he queried, his words soft.

“You can't marry me if I won't play the game.”

“You're mistaken. There are ways to make you do anything, my love.”

“What if I die before we're married? That won't fit your plans, will it, Kinsey?”

“If you think you're going to be afforded a chance to nobly kill yourself—”

“I won't need to kill myself. My mare is no war-horse. If she bolts when I'm tied so, I am dead. It's that simple.”

He hesitated. There was a flash of uncertainty in his dark eyes.

“Don't listen to her,” Richard said. “She is just waiting for any chance to escape—back to her outlaw lover.”

“How can she escape?” Kinsey demanded irritably.

“Indeed, how?” she asked Sir Richard sweetly. “I mean, you are quite certain that your might and power far exceed that of the rebels!”

Kinsey came closer to the horse. He drew a knife from the sheath at his calf.

For a moment she thought he meant to plunge it into her heart, to end things there and then, but he severed the ropes that tied her wrists together. She rubbed them, looking down at him.

“You might thank me,” he told her.

She watched him wordlessly, still rubbing her wrists. He smiled.

“You make a single move in the wrong direction, and I'll flay you alive. And I mean it,” Kinsey said pleasantly. “Richard, my horse! Call the men to order; it's time to wage battle.”

Arryn knew that Richard de Lundy was with the English now; de Lundy should have been able to warn them not to travel across the bridge to the marsh where cavalry would bog down.

Perhaps he warned the English; perhaps he did not.

Perhaps the English commanders were too confident, too enraged that a rabble army should defy them, or both. Because de Lundy had just come over from the Scottish side, the English might have been hesitant about trusting him.

Maybe neither of the main commanders of these forces was at his best; de Warenne had asked Edward to relieve him of command in Scotland, as his health was failing, but the king had refused him.

Cressingham, Edward's tax collector, was so hated and detested that his own men had trouble abiding him—he was surely ready to squash the patriots who would dare rise against him.

And so the Scots watched….

And the English came.

It was a narrow wooden bridge that spanned the Forth. Two by two, the English cavalry came.

“Do we ride, fight?” came hushed whispers.

But the signal had not been given.

“We hold!” Arryn commanded. Aye, and they were holding, all of this army, under different knights, noblemen and farmers. The discipline they had practiced was now in use. They waited, waited, waited….

And the English came.

A half hour passed. More and more came.

Crossing the bridge two by two.

The Scots held.

“Arryn?” Patrick said nervously, riding up behind him.

“We hold.”

Hold, aye, discipline, patience. A horsefly buzzed around Pict. He whipped his tail, stamped his foot.

“Easy,” Arryn told the horse softly. “Easy.”

Death could come so quickly today. And if it did not …?

Would this vengeance be enough? He'd spent a year bowed down in guilt, using his fury to combat the pain. If he lived today, if he survived …

Another half hour.

If he survived today's battle, maybe he could bury the dead at last. He could let go of the past and become an independent man, as Scotland again became an independent nation.

He hadn't wanted to cloud his mind; he didn't want to think about Kyra. But time was passing here, with life and death in the balance. And he could not help but remember her in the copse in the forest, and the way that he had left her. He would never marry her, he had told her. He would not love her.

But he had come to love her, and to need her. And far too many times, his arguments against her had been with himself, and not with her. He had felt himself so deeply in debt to those who had died. To Alesandra. Gentle, sweet, the love of his childhood, the woman of his heart and soul, who dreamed Scotland's destiny, because it was his dream. She had died in the nightmare of that would-be honor!

He remained in debt.

He would pay that debt today, and it would be with his own life, if need be.

Another half hour's time gone by.

The English kept coming and coming. He didn't want to think about the past, and he was suddenly afraid to pray for a future.

The Scots held.

Arryn looked toward Abbey Craig. Wallace was there, upon his mount, looking down at both armies. Waiting. Calculating …

Nearly two hours now. The Scottish army had stood—and held.

The English came on, crossing the bridge two by two, noblemen, cavalrymen, knights with their squires, carrying their banners and crests high.

Horses prancing.

Harnesses jingling and jangling.

Colors flying …

Then the blast of a horn was heard.

The signal. A cry went up among the men. “On them, on them!”

“To battle!”

“Pikemen! To the flank, to the bridge. Hold the bridge; hold the crossing!”

Arryn raised his sword high. All around him, battle cries went up, bloodcurdling clan cries. Mounted, with his cavalry and infantry falling in behind him, Arryn charged down into the melee. Strategy and discipline ruled; the Scots seized the end of the bridge, creating a bottleneck.

The English cavalry who had crossed over were cut off from the rest of the army. With the weight of their armor and trappings, they began to flounder in the bog. Some foot soldiers had made it across, and some bowmen.

Now all they wanted was to return, to cross that river again.

The Scots were like locusts, falling on the English.

One English commander made a determined rush for the bridge, carrying a wounded man. A few of the English made it with him.

Then there were too many; they were pushed and crushed over the bridge.

Hand-to-hand combat ensued, a cacophony of steel against steel, shouting, screaming, crying, shrieking, horses dying, men falling, dying, not dying….

The fighting was bitter and vicious. Foot soldiers pulled armored men from their horses; armored men slashed, axed, and crushed the men who would pull them down. Having been among the first to enter the fray, Arryn fought from the saddle at first, using sword and shield, meeting the English upon the horses.

Men he wounded were unhorsed. He went on to meet new opponents, while the foot soldiers fell on those who had fallen. He saw, a small distance away, that Cressingham, the hated English commander who had surely expected his enemy to fold and surrender, had been dragged down.

Dozens of men slashed him, crushed him, beat upon him.

Hated, he was killed with passion, and yet, perhaps, that was an unintended mercy.

He died quickly.

The slash of a sword from behind was deflected by his mail. Arryn gave no more thought to Cressingham; he turned his attention to the desperately fighting enemies who meant to take him down.

He searched for Kinsey Darrow as he fought; he didn't find the man. Every man he fought became Darrow. And he was not the only Scotsman to fight with vengeance tearing at his heart. By his side he heard men cry out, “For Berwick!”

“Dunbar!”

“My father!”

“My brother!”

My wife!

“Scotland! For the glory of God—and Scotland!”

Men and horses slipped in the mire. Hand to hand, it was now the English struggling desperately for their lives. The fighting was fierce and close; it was difficult at times to draw his weapon.

John was at his rear, Jay to his left. Thane fought before him. Patrick was to his right. The sword-wielding priest, Father Michael Corrigan, blessed men as he killed them. Brendan, a lad too young for such battle, was to the right, engaged heavily on the one hand with a helmeted, armored knight, down from his wounded horse, while a second man, still mounted, bore down on him with a raised sword.

“Brendan!” he roared in warning, unable to reach the lad himself.

Patrick heard his cry; he turned, shouting to Brendan. Brendan ducked; the horseman was unseated.

Brendan rose swinging, catching his armored combatant in the throat.

Arryn heard a whir in the air. He spun in time, deflecting the blow of a horseman. His counterattack brought the man down backward. Arryn prepared to step forward to finish the fight.

The fellow's horse, panicked, smelling blood, backed up. The knight screamed; then his scream was silenced as he was crushed by his own horse.

Arryn's sword dripped blood, and the marsh grew deep with blood and the fallen. English soldiers were cut down, or fell from the bridge and into the chilly waters. Armor dragged them down, and the soldiers who survived the weapons of war drowned in their haste to escape. Horses screamed and whinnied, swords clashed and clanged, the dying cried out.