E.L. Daniel

Prologue

June 1314, Scotland

To the north of Falkirk lies a field riddled with salt marshes and bogs, where fragments of sky filter through the clouds to cast their light upon a branch of estuaries that ripple like ribbons. To get there from the south—from England—one must travel along the old Roman road through the Torwood Forest, a dark and twisted convolution of hanging limbs, before reaching the Bannockburn, a stream crossable only by the narrowest ford at its center. This was the route taken by the three thousand mounted English knights and thirteen thousand foot soldiers who’d followed King Edward II into Scotland to end Robert the Bruce’s rebellion once and for all.

As Stephen Warde gazed out across the field after the first day of battle, he thought mayhap the English soldiers could not have chosen a more desolate place to die.

“Their army is only half the size of ours, but they have far more wits about them than those who lead us,” Stephen whispered into the darkness as his father sank onto a log beside him. “Now it is we who look the fools.”

The fighting that day had been cavalry only, for there was little point in sending foot soldiers when the large English warhorses could trample down the enemy easily enough on their own. The infantry had watched from beneath the eaves of the forest, with Stephen and his father among them, as their enemy handed them a humiliating and blood defeat.

The Bruce had been clever. He knew the land and the rivers. When King Edward II sounded the charge and the knights of England squeezed their way across the narrow ford that separated the two forces, the horses landed not on solid ground as expected, but into several pits dug in secret by the Scottish warriors the night before. Men tumbled from their saddles amidst the bloodcurdling screeches of their horses, and then the Scotsmen charged. It happened so quickly, there was no time to warn those who streamed in behind. They had nowhere to go, nowhere to retreat. The Bannockburn River blocked their way.

It was carnage.

But that had only been the beginning. More fighting awaited them with the dawn.

Stephen’s father took a long swig from his wineskin and said, “The men are discouraged. They whisper that this war is unrighteous, that God is against us. How else could a force of our size succumb the way we did this day?”

“Not so.” Stephen’s gaze still probed the darkened fields. “What I mean to say is, it isn’t God alone who hinders us. The marshals saw the terrain upon our arrival, same as us. They knew the footing was slight, yet they still pushed forward. The king still pushed forward.” He shook his head and dropped next to his father, leaving the rest of their thoughts unspoken as they pondered what tomorrow would bring.

Stephen’s father had seen more battles than he could count on both hands. He’d drawn his first blood in Wales long before Stephen was born. Then he made a name for himself across the Channel when the English later tried to win back Gascony from the French. But it was here in Scotland where Stephen’s father had fought the most. He knew this enemy like he knew the slants of his own bed at home. Worse, he feared them. Had he not told Stephen time and again what the Scots were capable of, how they fought with their hearts instead of their heads?

If only the English did likewise, but it was difficult to find inspiration in a king such as Edward II, who shared few commonalities with his renowned predecessor. In the short six years of his reign, his incompetency had nearly provoked a civil war, and even now there were noblemen who refused to follow him. Their absence in the army was conspicuous—Lancaster, Warwick, Arundel, Warenne. Without them, the army’s morale had plummeted, and Stephen felt it keenly.

Unlike the hardened man sitting beside him, this was Stephen’s first true campaign. His talent was unparalleled in the practice fields that sat beside his home town of Abbotsford. He’d even bested his father occasionally. Everyone in the Midlands knew them for their skill with a pike and short-sword. That, along with their uncanny appearance and size, caused their opponents to tremble in fear. They were not tall, but they were broad, with the same dark brown hair and eyes. They were built for war—their chests, arms, and legs forceful enough to drive any enemy back. But more than all of this, it was their shrewdness that set them apart. An innate knowledge of warfare ran in their blood, for though they weren’t knights by any means, Stephen came from a long line of men who’d fought for a free company. His forefathers were routiers…mercenaries. They were part of a distinct band of foot soldiers who fought for pay, rather than for fealty or faith. Moving from contract to contract and country to country, they offered their spears for a living. But in the decades that followed, the need for such men declined. The English nobility began to condemn the rise of mercenary leaders who’d landed themselves a higher office than what they’d been born to. Then England fell into a lull, and for a time there was no need to pay for fighters of their ilk.

Generations later, Stephen and his father were still free men. It was a rarity, but they owed no fealty or labor to the local lords of the region. Their services could be requested and purchased, but it was by choice whether or not they fought. Choice was what had brought them to Scotland now, and Stephen couldn’t help but question whether they’d made the right one.

An enormous crash suddenly caught their attention. Stephen squinted, searching for the source of the disturbance. A cluster of torches had circled one of the supply wagons and shouts pierced the air. A horde of men were ransacking their own wagons, dragging away flasks and food into the darkness. None of the onlookers moved to stop them.

“They’ll drink away their fear this night.” His father’s voice was calm, but Stephen saw the flash of concern as he ducked his head closer to the firelight.

What they’d witnessed from the rearguard that day had disturbed them all. They well understand what had driven this small but symbolic insurrection. The men who pilfered their own camp’s supplies acted out of desperation and fear, praying to find courage in additional drink and sustenance, or else live out their last night in contented gluttony.

They were fools though. A night of drinking and carousing wouldn’t bolster them against what awaited them in the daylight. Nothing would.

Stephen cleared his throat. “The heralds were clear. The king proclaims that our triumph is certain. He means to reform the line at dawn, attacking from the east instead of the south, where we can advance from an arranged formation. If our horses are already across the Bannockburn when the fighting begins, the Scots can’t use the crossing to their advantage.”

Like they did today, was the unspoken thought between them.

His father nodded, envisioning the landscape in his mind. But then his hand jerked, unknowingly seeking the silk swatch of cloth inside his tunic. Stephen recognized what that represented, even if his father didn’t, for the cloth had been a gift from Joan Mortimer, a lady of distinguished birth and the keeper of his father’s heart. How they’d crossed paths all those years ago—and how they’d kept their relationship a secret—was more than Stephen had ever dared to ask. The lady wasn’t Stephen’s mother; he’d never known his mother, dead before he was old enough to walk, and Joan Mortimer was too wellborn to wed a mere foot soldier from a lesser town. All Stephen knew was that she had gotten with child soon after one of their encounters. Her family had smuggled her away for the birthing and sent the bastard child across the border into Wales. Stephen had never met his half-brother, nor even the Lady Joan herself. But his father had never forgotten what they’d shared, and for him to seek comfort from the silk on the eve of battle was a bad omen.

Stephen pulled the wineskin from his father’s hands and drank. Then he whispered, “What do we do, Father? Do we run?” It was dark enough for them to slip away if they wanted to. And why wouldn’t they, knowing that with a futile terrain and a faulty king, they could never win this battle?

It was a coward’s question; he knew it even as he spoke, but he also knew every man in the camp suffered from the same thoughts. He didn’t want his weakness to win out, not before his first true battle, but there was an uncanny connection between the two of them—father and son. It went beyond words, and he somehow knew the idea of running had already entered his father’s mind.

“If we run now, they’ll catch us.” His father glanced at the scouts who patrolled the camp’s perimeter. “We have no choice. We must fight. You’re a man now, a warrior. I’ve trained you as I, myself, was trained, and you’re a better fighter than most. Tomorrow we’ll stand with the others and give no cause for the lords to question us.” He paused, pulling the wine from Stephen’s hands. “Listen well though. The moment the English panic and the battle turns—and believe me, it’ll turn—you must flee. Run hard, as far as you can, and wait not for anyone. Not even me.”

“But what—”

“Nay, listen to me now. When the horsemen retreat, so will you. You turn your back on all of them and you run. The king is weak. He cannot win this war. Even if he could, it matters not, for his own noblemen in England will turn on him in time. They already have, one by one, and we haven’t heard the end of it. I owe no allegiance to any man who cannot show allegiance to us. We’re here because we’re bound to be, because we need the money, not for love of the cause.” He glanced once more at the swatch of silk in his hands, blinking hard. “Promise me you’ll do as I say.”

Stephen drew a shaky breath, his mind twisting in a hundred directions. In the end, he had to concede. “Aye, I will run,” he vowed. But not unless you’re running at my side. Then he averted his face, lest his father read his thoughts, and busied himself by ordering some scattered sticks into a parallel line in the grass, counting them as he went.

His father seemed satisfied enough, for he soon rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, the silk still fluttering through his fingers in the breeze.

“Take some rest,” he grunted over his shoulder. “Dawn isn’t long in the coming, and every moment between now and then must be used to its full.”

***

The heralds woke them at first light to cross the Bannockburn, where they reassembled on a patch of land they’d dubbed the Dryfield, and for good reason. It was, in truth, dry, which the marshals favored after the boggy disaster the day before.

Standing firm against the determined breeze that still carried yesterday’s scent of carnage, Stephen surveyed the landscape. To their backs wound the River Forth. It was the largest of the waterways with a current they’d be hard-pressed to beat, should the need arise. To their right flowed the Pelstream Burn, a small tributary flanked by bogs. To the left was the Bannockburn itself. These streams formed a horseshoe that surrounded the English on three sides. The Scottish army blocked the only other opening.

“We’d better win,” Stephen whispered, for there would be no escape if they were pressed back.

His father spat into the dirt. “Remember what you promised me. You’ll be fine.”

Streams of light glinted off the soldiers’ armor as the sun peeked out from the distant hills behind them. The marshals had positioned the infantry in the back, with the king’s cavalry lined up squarely in front of them. The knights had lost half their number the day before, but Stephen prayed their loss would only enrage those who’d survived, rendering them that much deadlier in the fight to come.

The opposing army had also assembled, albeit with fewer horses—another point in England’s favor. Without the narrow ford and the secretive pits as obstacles, the English knights should tread over their adversaries like ants. Or so Stephen assumed, which was why his eyes widened when the Scottish army dared to charge first.

“They have balls o’ iron,” said a nearby foot soldier. No one replied. They fixed their attention on the movement in front.

In answer to the charge, the first line of English knights advanced. Screams echoed from across the field, but it was difficult to make out the results. The foot soldiers were too far away.

They weren’t the only ones who strained to see whether their knights had come through. The next line of riders, also transfixed on the fate of their comrades, were ill-prepared for the Scottish battalion that attacked suddenly from the left. For a moment, there was chaos. Then a whistle pierced the air, signaling to the Welsh archers, who fought for England, to let their arrows fly. It was enough to force the Scots to pause their onslaught and take cover. But as soon as the last arrow fell, they surged forth with renewed vigor. That was when the remaining horses, who separated the English infantry from the charging Scots, began to back up.

Stephen’s guts churned as the highlanders grew closer. There were Scottish warriors to the front and to the left, and water on all other sides. They were hemmed in. Once again, there was nowhere to run.

The cries grew louder, closer, and the infantry called out to one another in fear. Where was the king? What were their orders? When should they advance? Why weren’t they acting according to the formation they’d planned?

There was no answer. At least, not from their own marshals.

All Stephen heard was, “They fail! On them, on them! They fail.” But the words were guttural, accented, not English as they should’ve been.

Confusion erupted. Horses materialized out of the mist and sprinted past Stephen and the others, some of them riderless. As Stephen leapt out of their way, he realized too late that these were not enemy riders, as he’d first assumed, but Englishmen! His own men, retreating!

Then he blinked and the Scottish warriors were right there before him, grunting and slashing, leaving a pool of bodies in their wake. The English foot soldiers rushed forward to meet them in a clash of metal and blood. Stephen ducked beneath the swipe of a spear and hurled himself onto the body of his attacker, flattening him to the ground and driving his poleax through the man’s throat. He scrambled back to his feet for the next assault. It came at once. They thrusted and parried, Stephen pushing forward from his legs. He won out.

Several rods away, his father grappled with a red-haired giant. Stephen shoved through the fray to get to him, but by the time he arrived, his father had already felled his quarry.

When he caught sight of Stephen, he shoved him back and yelled, “Run, by Christ, boy! Run.” Then he raised his shield to stop the strike of a spear swinging down upon his right, and Stephen had no chance to respond, for he was facing two Scots of his own. He rushed at them and hacked, throwing his body into every stroke. A retreating knight eased his burden by cutting the larger warrior down whilst galloping past, but it took several more thrusts before Stephen brought down the second man.

He wiped his face, expecting sweat, but when he lowered his arm, blood covered his tunic. He ignored it, scanning the field for his father. There!—wrestling with someone on the ground. He needed aid but sweat dripped into Stephen’s eyes and blood poured from his cheekbone, rendering him blind and off-balance. For a moment, blackness clouded his gaze, and he had to shake his head hard to still his vision.

By the time it cleared, everything around him had changed. He could still feel the thundering of hooves and hear the peeling of screams that echoed through his bones, but there was no movement coming from where he’d last seen his father. All was still.

Stephen lurched forward, shoving at the bodies that scattered the ground until he found him. Beneath a heavy highlander flayed from gut to shoulder, a chiseled face with brown hair and dark eyes peered out—the eyes sightless, the body slack.

His father.