One of Scotland's great heroines! Part 1

We should not be surprised that Agnes Randolph, Countess of Dunbar, often called Black Agnes because of her black hair and dark complexion, was a heroine. She was after all the daughter of one of Scotland's greatest heroes, Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, companion and nephew of King Robert the Bruce. There were many female heroes in medieval Scotland though, and she was one of them.

There is some doubt when she was born since there is no record of it. Wikipedia says 1314, but I believe that is in error and that she was born four or five years previous to that. At any rate, she was one of four children of Sir Thomas and Isabel Stewart of Bonkyll.

Like all women of noble birth, one of her primary duties was to marry to establish an alliance or increase the family's wealth and power. The Randolphs, whose earldom covered a large swathe of Scotland north of the Firth, did not need more wealth or power. However, Sir Thomas wanted to tie the sometimes-fickle Patrick, 9th Earl of Dunbar more closely to the Scottish cause. After all, while supporting the English, the earl had given shelter to the fleeing King Edward II after the Battle of Bannockburn and aided in his escape to England. Many felt his loyalty was in doubt. Surely Randolph marrying his eldest daughter to him, a man at least three decades her elder, and thus tying him to the royal family would fix his loyalty. 

However, imagine her reaction when on 20 July 1332 her father suddenly died on the way to do battle against invading English-supported pretender to the throne of Scotland. Rumor had it, whether true or false, that her father was poisoned by supporters of the English.

With a child king and only, at best, second-rate or very inexperienced commanders left to protect Scotland from the invaders, it was not long before disaster struck at the Battle of Dupplin Moor at which her older brother was killed. A shocking loss of much of her family in a very short time. 

Thus began the up and down fortunes of Scotland in the Second War of Scottish Independence. The pretender was chased from Scotland and then returned with a larger army, given him in payment for making Scotland his vassal state, a much larger army. A year later after the equally disastrous Battle of Halidon Hill, Earl Patrick surrendered the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed to the English and switched sides. 

No one knows what Lady Agnes thought about this. Her remaining brother was one of the defenders of Scottish independence, after all. However, both her father and King Robert had supported the English in order to live to fight another day. Perhaps she was pragmatic. But her husband attended the Scottish parliament in 1334 which shamefully ceded Berwick, Dunbar, Roxburgh and Edinburgh Castles and all of Scotland's southern counties to England. At the least, it would have been a painful period.

Earl Patrick's reward for switching sides was being forced to rebuilt at his own expense Castle Dunbar, only 20 miles from the English border, which had been slighted (torn down) at the orders of King Robert. It was then garrisoned by the English. Extended by passages onto rocks in the sea, Dunbar Castle had always been a formidable fortress. Now it was even more so. Not surprisingly at first the English garrisoned it and kept it for their but apparently confident that Earl Patrick had truly changed sides, they eventually returned to him. 

Image of Dunbar Castle from a painting by Andrew Spratt

By 1335, when he fought on the Scottish side at the Battle of Boroughmuir along with his brother-in-law, the castle had been returned. He was firmly on the side of the Scots where he remained for the rest of his life. I suspect Agnes always had been. 

By 1338, the fight for independence was going much better for the Scots. North of the Firth, only Cupar Castle, Stirling Castle and the strongly fortified city of Perth remained in English hands. (Most of southern Scotland still was although under pressure from Scottish guerilla tactics.) Dunbar Castle was the southernmost Scottish castle.

The English had no intention of sitting back and allowing their newly conquered nation to be reclaimed by the Scots. In December of 1337 at King Edward's command, William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, raised a large army to take relief to the remaining northern strongholds in English hands. First they must take Dunbar Castle which they dare not leave at their back. So on 13 January 1338, he laid siege.

Perhaps Montagu thought because it was held by a woman that taking Dunbar would be an easy task. If so, he was wrong. He demanded the castle's surrender, assuring her that she would be well treated. She had an unequivocal response. The exact words may be apocryphal. The sentiment is not.

Of Scotland's King I haud my house, 

I pay him meat and fee, 

And I will keep my gude auld house, 

while my house will keep me.

And so began the famous siege of Dunbar Castle.

Did the Normans ever conquer Scotland? Part II

First, I apologise for being a few days late with this post. I misjudged and was overwhelmed with other commitments. I know better, but that does not mean I always do better. 🤦‍♀️

So, back to what is often called the Normanisation of Scotland, which I believe has often been (and still is, at times) exaggerated.

In 1102, King Henry's brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy, disputed Henry's right to the throne of England. They were saved from open war through negotiations by Bishop Flambard. Henry then set out to punish anyone he felt had not been sufficiently loyal during his dispute with his brother and eventually accused his brother of violating their agreement. Normandy slid into chaos. In July 1106, Henry invaded Normandy. At the Battle of Tinchebray, Henry took his brother prisoner and became de facto Duke of Normandy, although he did not use the title. The King of France reacted by raising an army, and Henry was very busy dealing with the threats on the continent.

 All of this would have had little to do with David, except David's older brother, King Edgar, died in 1107. The next older brother, Alexander, took the throne. David's relations with Alexander were pretty obviously bad since now King Alexander refused to allow David to claim his lands in the south of Scotland. Whether it was because Alexander thought it would make David too powerful or for some other reason is unclear. (I would go with a fear that David would be too powerful. What happened between Henry and Robert is a case study of the problems with a powerful brother).

It was not until Henry returned to England in 1113 that David could claim his Scottish lands. Though there was no open aggression on either side, there is no doubt David had to use threats to do so.

David married Matilda of Huntingdon, daughter and heiress of the Earl of Northumberland, in 1113, with King Henry's approval. That brought with it the extremely rich Honour of Huntingdon, making David a very wealthy and powerful man. He even named their son Henry out of gratitude to the English king. David was also now in a position to gift lands and power to his many young Norman followers, which he he began to do. Even after Queen Matilda died in 1118, David and King Henry remained good friends, and he kept the king's favour.

Then in 1124, Scotland's King Alexander died.

Scotland did not use Norman rules of primogeniture. Other claimants to the throne had as good a claim as David, perhaps even better, the main one being Máel Coluim, David's nephew, son of King Alexander. But David's father had been king, and he had every intention of claiming a throne he considered his. So the other claimants had the choice of accepting him or accepting war with him and with his Norman friends. Máel Coluim chose war.

After two battles, the defeated Máel Coluim retreated into the vastness of the Highlands, and in April or May, David was crowned King of Scots on the Moot Hill in Scone. However, Máel Coluim continued to fight for the throne, and in 1130, Máel Coluim led a general uprising against David, a very serious one. It included David's most powerful vassal, the sub-king of Moray.

This was when David called for the full support of all of his Norman friends. King Henry sent a large army and a large fleet to support him in rooting out the rebels. There were four years of all-out war until Máel Coluim was captured and imprisoned in Roxburgh Castle, after which no more was heard of him. Now David had friends to support and owed them a great debt. He repaid this debt by granting them lands and titles.

 This brought Scotland further into a European model of governance. It did not sweep away Scottish and Gaelic customs or noble families as the Norman conquest did in England. The ruling family remained the very Scottish House of Dunkeld. It did not import the Norman custom of serfdom. The lower levels of Scots remained freemen, and the freeholders of Scotland remained a large and potent force, one of the major forces that a century later would fight fiercely against English conquest. Nor did Scotland adopt the legal ownership by the king of all the land. All these factors made the situation in Scotland very different than that in England, where native Anglo-Saxons lost their titles and lands, and the lower classes almost universally were forced into serfdom.

What was adopted with considerable enthusiasm was military feudalism. Castle-building, the use of knights as cavalry, and homage and fealty between king and nobles became the norm. These fit well into existing Scottish attitudes and customs. However, despite the enthusiasm, infantry, wielding spears in schiltrons, remained Scotland's main military tactic, demonstrating how the two cultures came to mix. Along with this, of course, were Norman incomers, not as conquerors but as invited members of the society, who quickly married into existing Scottish nobility so that the upper classes soon became largely Scoto-Normans. As one would expect, this led to a multi-lingual society where most nobility spoke Scots and Norman French and, especially in the Highlands, Gaelic.

Thus, it was that in 1296, when commanded to attack Douglasdale by the English king, Robert the Bruce, Earl of Carrick, of both Scottish and Norman heritage, would proclaim before joining the Scottish rebellion, "No man holds his own flesh and blood in hatred, and I am no exception. I must join my own people and the nation in which I was born."

Free this Weekend: Freedom's Sword, A Historical Novel of Scotland

This weekend only Freedom's Sword with 19 straight rave reviews is free on Amazon in the US and the UK.

Before William Wallace, before Robert the Bruce, there was another Scottish hero...

In 1296, newly knighted by the King of the Scots, Andrew de Moray fights to defend his country against the forces of the ruthless invader, King Edward Longshanks of England. After a bloody defeat in battle, he is dragged in chains to an English dungeon.

Soon the young knight escapes. He returns to find Scotland under the heel of a conqueror and his betrothed sheltering in the hills of the Black Isle. Seizing his own castle from the English, he raises the banner of Scottish freedom. Now he must lead the north of Scotland to rebellion in hope of defeating the English army sent to crush them.

Andrew Discovers the Terrible Price of Defeat: Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER SIX

The morning dawned with a muggy heaviness. Sweat gathered under the iron bracelets on Andrew's wrists, stinging in the open sores they'd rubbed. A length of chain no more than two feet in length ran between the irons on his ankles. His hair, dank and matted, hung in his eyes. At full daylight, with fifty other prisoners, he was herded towards the rutted dirt road by a handful of mounted men-at-arms. His hands got clammy and cold as he wondered where they were being taken through the shadowy pinewoods. He pictured the piles of bodies after the battle and someone dragging Brian by the feet leaving a crimson track in the dirt. His stomach turned and he gagged.

This was the first time he and his father had been moved since they were taken prisoner. His father... the earls of Atholl and Buchan... and two hundred or so of their men... the ones who hadn't died in the fighting.

Back bruised black and stiff from the blow he'd taken, stripped of his armor, clad in a penitent's rough brown sackcloth, Andrew awaited the will of the conquering English king. Until now, the only change had been when Sir William Douglas, taken prisoner after the slaughter of the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed, had been added to their number.

A grassy hill opened before them and in the center stood Strachthro Church. Prodded by the pikes, he tramped toward the gray stone building, exchanging puzzled glances with the other men. Manacles rattling, he climbed the steps. His father stumbled over the chains on his ankles, and Andrew grabbed his arm.

Inside, a man-at-arms used the butt of his pike to jostle Andrew against the cold stone of the wall. As his father was pushed back, he gave Andrew a dazed look. His father had not been clear-headed since the blow that had split open his scalp in the battle. Blackened blood matted his streaky blond hair. None of the prisoners made a sound as they were shoved against the walls.

From outside came the sound of clanking armor and stamping, snorting horses. The doors were thrown open and a shaft of July sun made a golden carpet across the polished floor.

A huge bay destrier tossed its head as its rider, gray-haired and heavy jowled, dressed in steel armor etched with gold, rode through the doorway. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks, scoring the granite. Bareheaded, he rode. His helm with its golden coronet hung from his saddle. Hoof falls, clanging, echoed from the narrow walls and high-beamed ceiling as King Edward of England rode up the length of the church to the very altar steps, not glancing once at the prisoners lined up on the side.

Sweet Jesu... Andrew's heart pounded.

Behind the horseman strutted a fat man with a ponderous belly in shining half-armor over velvet hose and tunic. Then strode in men in armor covered with emblazoned surcoats, three dozen at least. The crests of Warrenne, Aymer de Valence, the Bishop of Durham, Percy, and Gloucester he recognized. The rest were strange to him, lesser lords and knights of England no doubt.

At the end of the tail of armored men strolled a blond man, shining armor under a sable cloak, broad shouldered and comely--Robert the Bruce, the younger, who had only months before inherited the earldom of Carrick. Though the Bruce was three years his elder, he'd been a friend once when they'd both been squires. No more. Andrew glared, but the Bruce stared down at his feet.

The bland-faced king of England pulled the warhorse up and in a half circle. It dropped a steaming plop of shit on the floor. His fleshy companion took a place, straddle-legged, at his stirrup, and the rest ranged on either side of the steps. The Bruce hung back near the doorway, frowning.

King Edward raised a hand. "Bring him in."

A chill went through Andrew at more clanking sounds from outside. Now they'd find out why they had been hustled to the church. Nearby, Sir William Douglas gave a low growl, his dark face flushed.

The first through the door was a man-at-arms, well-turned out in iron-studded leather, a sergeant perhaps. Over his shoulder ran a rope he grasped in both hands.

The rope led to a noose about King John de Balliol's neck; his shoulders slumped. Andrew dragged in a ragged breath, too horrified to move. His king. Bareheaded, King John was in a red velvet tunic and hose, but the sun shone off his cloth-of-gold tabard with the rampant lion of Scotland worked in rubies, dazzling the eye. On each side walked another guard.

King John lurched forward as the man-at-arms jerked on the rope. The shackles that bound his feet clamored. He stumbled, grasping something to his chest. One of the guards caught a shoulder and shoved him upright.

As John de Balliol, King of the Scots, shuffled into the middle of the church, the men around King Edward watched in silence. Andrew's father gave a cry, "Your grace!" No one else spoke. The man at King Edward's stirrup spat on the floor. Well to the side, Robert de Bruce looked once towards King John, his lip lifting into a sneer before he looked down once more.

King John continued his clanking way towards the mounted Edward of England. In King John's hands were the Royal Regalia of Scotland, the crown and the scepter.

The great warhorse stamped as the regally clad man stopped a stride away. King John craned his neck to stare upwards. Edward's blue glance swept the watchers before he lowered it to the man in chains before him.

King John made a choked sound and cleared his throat. "My Lord."

Edward's teeth bared in a grin. "Past time you remembered it." He glanced at his nearest companion. "Cressingham, see you to it."

The man at King Edward's stirrup stepped forward, his silver half-armor catching the light. He bowed towards King Edward before turning to the Scots king.

"John de Balliol, traitor. Miscreant." Cressinghim's rich voice was ragged with unveiled scorn. "I charge you in the name of the dread Lord Edward, King of England, of Wales and of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Guyenne and Lord Paramount of Scotland. I charge you with refusing his commands, renouncing your allegiance to your liege lord and raising arms against him in rebellion."

The man he addressed continued to stare silently upward at the English king.

"You have dealt openly with King Edward's enemies and consorted with traitors. In all things, you have failed in the submission due him. You have led astray the realm that our king, in his generosity, granted you."

At last, John de Balliol, white-faced, turned his head to gaze at Cressingham. "Granted me? A throne that was mine by right?"

Robert de Bruce coughed. His hot eyes stared at Balliol, and Andrew sucked in a breath. How much has that hatred cost?

"Continue," King Edward barked.

Cressingham took an angry step toward Balliol and thrust out a finger, jowls trembling. "You will say these words after me. Before these witnesses who were traitors with you. At your king's command."

Wildly, Andrew shoved away from the wall. With a shoulder, he rammed into the guard, hurling him out of the way. "No!" He stumbled on the shackles he'd forgotten. "You have no right." He shook off a hand grasping his arm as he stared into John de Balliol's face. "You can't!"

A shadow moved. He sensed an upswept movement, a weapon swinging. There was barely time for a dodge to the side and a half turn. The smash came on his shoulder with shattering pain and he groaned. Saw another blow coming.

He ducked under the pike's butt, but it caught his head. He was flat on the cold floor. A kick to the side of his head knocked him dizzy. Thoughts scattered and flew. They used their boots on arms, legs, stomach, and back. He curled up, arms over his head. A warm trickle ran down his face and dripped onto the stone.

------------

Freedom's Sword is available for only $2.99 at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords in eBook form and in paperback for $8.99 on Amazon.

Rule One of Writing Historical Fiction

I'm going to do a short series on my own rules for writing historical fiction. Now these are my rules. I obviously can't and won't try to force them on anyone else. In at least one case, I wish I could.

The one that absolutely infuriates me when it is violated is the first one. If you want to get me to despise you (and yes, I mean you, Mel Gibson), violate this one:

Don't Lie About Real People

If your historical fiction is based on real people, be responsible to the originals and the people who care about them. There are usually gaps in the historical record, often large gaps. Fill those in. Make up reasons why they did things. Make up emotions which they may have had. Make up conversations and encounters they may have had.

All those are fair game. You can even fudge a bit by saying Washington got to the capitol two days before he did for his inauguration. I'll say, it's fiction; you're within bounds. But do not change major events or accuse them of despicable acts they did not commit.

Do not say that Robert Bruce was a coward who only fought the Battle of Bannockburn because he was fiddling around with a piece of cloth. He had for f****** sake had THREE brothers hanged, drawn and quartered by the English, had fought the English for eight years and had planned for that battle. Don't say that the Bruces betrayed Wallace any more than you would say that Washington was a traitor who conspired with the British. And saying that William Wallace was the father of a child born seven years after his death makes you look -- stupid.

This is only one example, admittedly one that particularly irritates me because so many people bought the lies in "that movie", but it shows why you should NOT do it. You will make people angry--who aren't going to buy your your next book if you do. Whether it is William Wallace, George Washington, Robert Bruce, Mary Queen of Scots, or Abraham Lincoln, there are people who care when you twist the facts. Be careful in handling real people in your fiction.

There are certain historians who say you shouldn't do it at all. They're delusional in my opinion. Real people, including national heroes, have always been the stuff of storytelling. That's not going to change. And I'm not saying to treat them as perfect. That would be boring and as much of a lie. If they did something people consider wrong, tell that, too. If they could reasonably have done something wrong--something that isn't contradicted by known facts--you can consider making it up, but I still say take care. (And I mean reasonably, not a seven year pregnancy!)

I am just saying that don't assume that no one will care if you ravage their reputations. Keep your own conscience clean by not slandering them.

My own novel, Freedom's Sword, is based on the life of a true character, Scotland's Andrew de Moray. I worked hard at writing a good story around the facts of his life. You can find the novel at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

Freedom's Sword -- Chapter Two

For Sample Sunday, I'm posting the start of Chapter Two of my new novel, Freedom's Sword, available for Kindle now on Smashwords and still being processed for sale on Amazon.

CHAPTER TWO

Wisps drifted in the vale below and the world turned from gray to azure to green in the morning light. A warm breeze brushed Andrew's face like a lass's kiss. He wondered how he could think of a lass at a time like this. High above, it blew scuttling clouds. Troops behind him shouted angry exclamations mixed with curses. He bent from the saddle to look down the rocky slope dotted with outcrops and yellow-bloomed gorse. A thin trickle of the Spotts Burn ran through the middle of the wide vale dotted with scattered trees, a trickle seeping along the rocky way.

His father's men held the left flank. Sergeants rode beside the men-at-arms shouting orders to form into lines. The slope up was rocky with loose scree and men struggled with their sliding, skittering mounts.

Sir Waltir mac Donchie glared toward the center, half a mile away, where John Comyn's troops were in a writhing mass of disorder. Their own troops were eager for glory, shouting as they ranged themselves into lines. "I've done what I can, my lord," he said, "but they're still green as a spring meadow."

On the opposite ridge, beyond the Spotts Burn, the English were halted. Above them, a gold and black banner flew beside the red cross of St. George.

His lord father nudged his horse a step forward. As they watched, the English army formed in each direction in a triple line so long they spread out of sight. An English trumpet sounded. It was answered by another and another.

"What think you?" his father asked Sir Waltir, raising his voice over the cacophony.

"I'm not sure why Warrenne is delaying. He is not the best commander the English king has. He may still be deciding when to attack."

Andrew jumped from his saddle and led his destrier closer, its blue enameled armor clanking, to squint into the morning's glare. Pennants with devices he couldn't make out in the distance fluttered, white, green, blue, and red, above the gleaming tips of lances. The distance gave the army they faced an odd silence except for the sounding of their trumpets. God save us, look at all of them. That there are so many knights in all the world.

With a clatter of rocks flying from under his horse's hooves, John Comyn joined them. He balanced a hand on the helm in front of his saddle. "We're too many for them. They will retire."

Andrew wanted to ask: without a fight? But it wasn't his place. A flurry of tinny flourishes sounded. Once more, there was movement on the opposite side as more English chivalry moved into position, but still they held their place.

"My lord earl, if I have leave to speak..." Sir Waltir said.

Comyn looked down his thin nose but waved permission.

"De Warrenne won't dare return to his master without a fight. He will not retire without blooding his sword."

Comyn's lip curled. "Know him well, do you?"

"I fought him in Guyenne for the French king, my lord. King Edward Plantagenet is no master to have his commands ignored."

The Comyn thrust his chin toward the arrayed army. "I believe my own eyes. They don't look eager for battle."

A horseman trotted up and gave a brief bow. "My Lord of Atholl has his men on the right flank and says he awaits your decision for the charge."

"Aye," John Comyn said. "Take him word. Charge on my trumpets' sound."

In the center of the opposite line, John de Warrenne rode out, magnificent in silver armor upon a chestnut destrier, his standard-bearers flanking him, banners moving lazily in the warm air. He raised an arm. A distant horn sounded two long thin notes. In the long line, destriers stamping and tossing their heads, knights wheeled their mounts. They began a sliding descent.

Andrew gaped. They were moving away, diagonally to the Scots, toward the east. They were not charging. Behind, more turned and followed. Slowly, like a frozen river unjamming on a sunny day, the glittering host moved.

"I knew it!" Comyn spun his horse in a close circle towards where his own men were still flailing about, horses forcing their way up and lances askew as they tried to avoid running into each other. "We'll attack while they retire. Sound the charge!" He stood in his stirrups, waving a signal.

His trumpeters answered with a long blare.

"Again," he shouted, waving an arm over his head. "At them before they escape."

Brian handed Lord Avoch his helm. He jammed it on and took his lance as well, couching it. Andrew jumped into his saddle and grabbed his shield from his back. Guarding his father was his only job. His heart thudded so hard it rang in his ears.

"God have mercy upon us," his father said before he turned to Sir Waltir. "Sound the charge."

Haaaarooooooo Their trumpets sounded. His father gave Andrew a long look. "Stay close." He stood in his stirrups. "Moray! Moray! For Scotland and King John!" He bent over his horse's neck and kicked it to a canter.

Andrew set his horse into motion and plunged down the slope, shield raised, knee to knee with his father. The drumbeat of galloping horses shook the ground. "De Moray!" he shouted. On its hocks, his horse slid down the slope, rocks and pebbles flying. Their men took up the war cry. They shouted and screamed. Beside him, Brian hunched over his lance with a ululating bellow. His ears rang with the cries. Scotland! Scotland! Scotland!

The English continued their retiral. The shouts and hoofbeats of Comyn's troops seemed to go further away. Andrew glanced over his shoulder. The whole line of Comyn chivalry was split off, climbing the steep slope to hit the English from the rear. When he looked back, the glittering line of English knights whom they pursued had slowed to a walk.

A distant trumpet blew twice. Another. A new line of English horse thundered into sight at the top of the ridge. The hoofbeats were a rumble of drums. The line thundered down on them.

The fleeing line of English knights pulled up, jerked reins, horses reared, pawed the air. They wheeled. The sun caught the points of their lances like a thousand flames.

The trap snapped shut.