One of Scotland's great heroines! Part 2

Agnes Reynolds, Countess of Dunbar, must have watched from the ramparts as William Montague, Earl of Salisbury's huge English army surged into view and formed a camp, cutting her off from aid. A woman of only about thirty who had spent most of her life in the midst of a desperate war, she knew what to expect. Of course, that did not prevent her defiance, but she had to wonder how long even her well-provisioned castle with a deep well within its thick walls could hold out. Her husband, Patrick, Earl of Dunbar, and most of the Scottish army were in the north of Scotland. 

Three years before under the leadership of Andrew Murray, the Scots had destroyed the army of David de Strathbogie, the chief lieutenant of the English in the north. Now even the walled city of Perth and Stirling Castle were in danger of falling if Salisbury did not lead his army to their relief. But first Dunbar Castle had to be taken. 

The construction of trebuchets began. Then they flung massive rocks and even boulders. Day and night, they pounded the castle walls. However, bombarding Dunbar Castle was not an easy task. They could not be brought close enough to do maximum damage despite the size of the stones used. Some of those boulders the canny Agnes ordered saved for her own use. 

The crashes of huge stones against the ramparts were constant. So were the taunts from Agnes as she sent her women to dust the castle's crenellations behind which her archers took potshots at the enemy. At one near miss, Salisbury is said to have quipped, "There comes one of my lady's cloak pins. Agnes's love shafts go straight to the heart."

After weeks of frustration at watching little damage from their bombardment, Salisbury ordered the construction of a battering ram, sometimes referred to as a 'sow'. Out of reach of her archers, his men hung the trunk of an ancient pine by chains from a slanted roof mounted on wheels. Fresh cow hides covered the roof.

As the English soldiers heaved beneath the protection of the roof and pushed it closer and closer to the castle's thick wooden gates, her archers shot fire arrows at it. They all sputtered out when they struck the damp hides. If the English broke through the gate, even her strong castle could not hold out. The sow must be destroyed!

There was still one last hope. That hope had been sent her by the English. Her men dragged and hauled the largest of the boulders that had been flung against her walls onto the ramparts above the gate. Agnes ordered them to hold until the sow was immediately beneath the gate and the first blow resounded. Then they shoved it off. It smashed the sow to splinters. The English attackers not killed fled, many falling to arrows from the walls as they ran.

Salisbury knew that there was more than one way to take a castle. Many castles had fallen to treachery. He managed to get word to one of Agnes's guardsmen that he would be well paid for leaving the gate open the following night. The guardsman agreed. He then revealed the plot to Agnes. When Salisbury led the sneak attack, he was also not stupid. He let his men go first. The portcullis crashed down and the earl barely escaped capture and Agnes called down, "Farewell, Montague, I mean for you to sup with me the night."

Salisbury was frustrated beyond words. No progress had been made, the costs were piling up, and the siege needed to end before Scottish winter set in. As it happened Agnes's brother, Thomas, Earl of Moray, had been taken by the English in an ambush three years previously. He was being held in the dungeon of Nottingham Castle, far to the south as they had wanted to take no chances on his being rescued. But needs must, so a message was sent hundreds of miles south and the prisoner dragged in chains to outside Dunbar. A gallows was constructed, a rope placed around Thomas's neck, and Agnes told that if she did not surrender that her brother would hang.

Agnes sent back the message that as her brother had no children that she was his heir. Hang him if you will, she declared, and I will profit. After a few days, Thomas was returned to Nottingham and his dungeon.

By June Dunbar still had not fallen, but supplies were growing desperately low. The eventual enemy of even the strongest castle was starvation. Agnes sneaked word that she needed aid to the one man who might be able to help. She knew she could count on Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and she was right. He found a few small boats. With twoscore of his men, he sneaked by night past English ships that guarded the sea approach, reached the seaward gate, and brought ashore fresh supplies. The English saw the resupply effort going on and charged. Ramsay and his men chased the English back to their camp.

Shortly after, on June 10, 1338, Walter Montague, Earl of Salisbury, gave up and retreated to England having done nothing but expend a lot of English gold and make 'Black' Agnes Randolph, Countess of Dunbar, into a heroine of legend. As the ballad puts into Salisbury's mouth, "Came I early or came I late, I found Agnes at the gate!"

(Postscript: I find it amusing that two years later Thomas Randolph was exchanged for that same earl of Salisbury who had himself been taken prisoner.)

Just Released: Not for Glory, a Historical Novel of Scotland

 

Book III in The Black Douglas Trilogy

 

 

 

 

James, Lord of Douglas, known to his foes as the Black Douglas, leads a flank of the Scottish army in crushing a vast invading English force at the waters of the Bannockburn. Fresh from battle, James revels in honors heaped on him by the Scots and in the hatred of the enemy. When King Robert the Bruce orders him to push their advantage and force the English to the peace table, they both know the only way he can do so is by fire and the sword--the only language King Edward of England understands.

 

Only $3.99 on Amazon!

 

Through tomorrow, February 21, the first book in The Black Douglas Trilogy--A Kingdom's Cost-- is only 99 Cents.

 

 

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Countenance of War: Sneak Peek

I'm still working on A Countenance of War, the next book in my series of Scottish historical novels. It takes up a few months after the end of A Kingdom's Cost, and I thought it would be fun to share a sneak peek with you.

Enjoy!


***

James de Douglas pushed aside a thick branch, heavy with spring-green leaves, to peer up the long slope. Draped in wisps of mist, Douglas Castle made a hulking shape against the the golden coin of the early morning sun. In the quiet, a lark trilled. James watched as it soared, reached a peak and plummeted towards earth. He breathed in the moist scent of morning. In the dense woods behind him, another lark answered.

He stepped out of the trees and turned in a circle to look over the field. The ground was broken and rolling here; soft and muddy from the spring rains towards the castle road, stony beyond it. A few trees dotted the hill near the castle, but most had been cleared past the forest's edge to permit a watch for approaching enemies.

Cattle lowed, deep and protesting in the distance. They cleared the rise and a man bent over his horse's withers to smack the lead cow, urging it to a faster pace. The herd was a mass of shaggy red hides and wide swinging horns. At the rear, two men waved their arms, shouting.

A horn blew in the castle. Shouts drifted on the sweet morning air.

The herd thundered past the castle. The rumbling mass gained the rocky road. James's heart pounded in his chest in time to the hoofbeats, and under his steel half helm sweat dripped down his brow.

The castle gate thudded open. Horsemen trailed over the drawbridge. Squinting, James counted. Twenty in all, armor glinting where it caught the rays of the sun.

The English had swallowed the bait.

James grabbed his reins and swung into the saddle. He jerked his horses into a turn further to edge into the dense forest. Dew-damp leaves slapped his face as he rode. He brushed them aside. It was dark amongst the trees, but he made out the shapes of his men. “Wat! Get set. They're moving.” He swung his small kite shield from his back, and flexed his shoulder as he set his hand into the leather straps. Thanks to St. Bride, it had been his shield arm that had been injured at the Battle of Loudoun Hill.

A horse snorted. Metal scraped as one of his score of men on small rough-coated horses pulled his sword free.

Wat said, “Steady, men. Let the thieving English get past us.”

James bent to pat one of his archer's shoulder. Beyond the man ten more in the green of Ettrick foresters stood, well screened by the heavy oaks clothed in the light green of spring from the oncoming cattle and their pursuers. “Nock and hold,” James said. “Easy, now.”

He heard a rumble of cattle hooves, still distant but growing closer.

“Hoi! Move you!” a voice shouted.

The rumble grew louder. Shouts came from further behind. James nudged his horse into the dense leafy branches and shoved them aside. The cattle, at a dead run urged by the shouting waving riders, surged past.

James drew his sword. “Hold,” he said softly.

The riders from the castle had strung out in a line. A bareheaded knight, blond hair streaming, galloped on a heavy bay in the front. James grinned. Thirwell.

“A Douglas!” James shouted and brought his sword down. He slapped his spurs to the horse's flank. It surged forward. “A Douglas!” James burst through the leafy branches, his men beside him.

Arrows sighed over his head. The morning erupted with the screams of men and horses. “Ambush!” the knight shouted.

Another flight of arrows arched up from behind James, from where his few archers stood. The English fought their horses into a turn, shouting. Another flight of arrows fell and two more men slumped from their horses and went down.

“Scotland and King Robert!” James screamed as he reached them. A man swung at him. James hacked and caught him full in the chest, shearing leather and bone and muscle. James wrenched his sword free as the man fell.

He stood in his stirrups, looking for the knight. He glimpsed Wat's horse gutted by an unhorsed Englishman, a swarm of their men hard behind him. Wat vaulted free as his horse died under him. He rose, untouched, laying about him with his sword. He caught an Englishman full in the chest as the fool came at him in a full run. A dozen others slashed wildly to fight their way free.

James shouted, “A Douglas! A Douglas! Don't let them get away.” Thirwell, horse rearing and hooves slashing, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. It shattered a man's head in with a kick. He wheeled and raced for the castle.

James lashed his horse and charged, cutting him off. Their horses slammed together. James's light garron went back on its hocks. His quarry met him, sword raised and swiped a blow at James's face. James slammed it aside. The knight was tall and burly, wearing a chainmail hauberk. Blond hair thrashed around his face as he dodged James's blow. “Douglas!” Thirwell screamed. “You're mine.”

James hacked at his head and shoulders. The man grunted, swinging at him, sweat dripping down his face. “Devil take you,” he knight panted, chopping savagely at James. James barely got his shield up in time and pain exploded in his half-healed shoulder from the jolt of the impact. The man bellowed as he raised his sword high for a blow that would have split James's head like a melon. James buried his sword in the knight's belly.

“He'll take you instead,” James told him.

As James jerked his sword free, Wat shouted, “After them, lads. They're getting away.”

A handful of horsemen galloped toward the castle, a good three horse's length ahead of Wat on an English mount. The rest of his men tailed behind. “Hell mend them,” James said through gritted teeth. No one remained here but a dozen bloody corpses. Pain shot through his shoulder when he moved his arm, but he clapped his spurs to his horse's flank. Bending over its neck, he galloped toward the dust of the pursuit.

Shouts drifted from the walls of Douglas Castle. “Ride!” The fleeing horsemen thundered over the drawbridge. Metal grated, iron upon iron. The castle gates slammed shut.

James pulled up and stood in his stirrups, glowering at the castle gate. Two of the towers still showed black stains from when he had burned the castle once in a futile try to keep it out of the hands of the curst English. A crossbow bolt thudded into the ground a yard ahead. He waved his sword over his head and shouted, “Pull back!” His men milled around him at the foot of the walls in a dusty fog. One shouted a curse up at the men on the parapet. A crossbow twanged.  

He'd have to do better. "Now. Move," he ordered and slashed his horse with his reins.

Wat's bellowed, “You heard him. Back.,” harrying the men into order.  They followed James out of crossbow range.

James reined in his mount and glared back at his castle. He flexed his aching shoulder. He'd not planned the ambush aright. If they'd been a little faster...

Wat pulled his shaggy-coated garron up beside James. He scratched at his beard. “Too bad we didn't get it, but that was Thirwell you took down back there. I'm sure of it. Six of his men I saw go down.”

“You have the right of it. I've rid my castle of one interloper.” James twitched a grin. “Once we're through here, lead the men back to camp. After dark, I'm going to make my way to Will's and see if he has gathered more news.”

Harness creaked and weapons clattered as James's men gathered around the two of them. James cast a glance over all of them looking for injuries. “All here? How many did we lose?”

“Johne,” one of the men said from the back of the throng. “Saw a damned Sassenach unhorse him.”

James circled his horse as he looked them over. Dauid leaned over his horse's withers, blood dripping from a slash to his head. James motioned to young Richerd, who had a good hand with wounds. “You see to the bandaging best you can. I think they won't be in a hurry to bother us, but we'll not tarry. Strip the English of armor and weapons. Wat, you see that any coin on them is evenly split.”

“What about your share?” Wat asked.

James thrust his chin towards the castle topped by a yellow banner scattered with starlings, flapping in the morning breeze. “I missed my prize this time. But I'll claim it the next.”

----

A Kingdom's Cost is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords. A Countenance of War will be available January 3.

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.

Coming soon: Freedom's Sword--A Novel of Scotland

I was going to wait until this was available on Amazon to post about it, but I'm so excited about the cover that TJ Lindroos did for me that I can't wait. This novel has involved a huge amount of research and editing. I wanted it to do justice to a subject I take very seriously, Andrew de Moray and his role in the Scottish War of Independence.

I am still working on the blurb. Blurbs are difficult, important and, to be honest, I'm not very good at them. Here is the current version, but it is still up for edit.

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

With Andrew missing and Scotland in smoking ruins, Caitrina de Berkley evades the rampaging English army fleeing into nearby hills.

Soon Andrew makes a desperate escape to save the country he loves. But with Scotland under the heel of a brutal conqueror, can he possibly survive, much less prevail?

Sample Sunday -- Chapter One of Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER ONE

April 1296

"Just beyond the peak, my lord." The outrider's voice was dulled by weariness. Under a clear afternoon sky, the man pointed up a beech-covered knoll.

Andrew de Moray could already make out the rumble of a moving army. He reined in his charger and jumped from the saddle. When he took off his helm to tuck under his arm, sweat dripped from his blond hair. He tossed his head to flick it out of his eyes. His father motioned for the knights in their party, a score in all, to wait as he dismounted. A faint spring wind blew. Over their heads flapped the de Moray banner, six-pointed stars on a field of blue.

With his father, he climbed the knoll and from within the dappled shade of a beech at the crest, he frowned down on the English host. A dark river of mounted men flowed through the middle of the glen below. On and on they flowed, too far for detail, but moving inexorably, columns of heavy horse, light flashing from steel like ripples of waves. There were brief breaks in the procession but only between divisions, and yet another followed.

His father's master-at-arms, newly hired from the war in France, had been instructing him on how best to count the numbers of a foe. "Twenty divisions, my lord," Andrew said. A chill went through him. It was excitement. Of course. A thrill for his first battle. He braced his shaking hand against a rough tree trunk. "Two hundred to a division, I think, so four thousand, all mounted." He looked at his father whose blond hair, streaked with gray, blew around his face in the sweet breeze.

His lord father squinted into the distance. "More than that. Not all have cleared the bend." He pointed towards a black-and-gold checkered banner. "That looks to me like John de Warrenne is leading them. All mounted, as you say, lances with swords and battleaxes for close work."

"Where do you think the English king is then?" Fighting that dreadful old man who had slaughtered all the people in the city of Berwick would be a proud thing for any Scot, surely, and nothing to fear.

"Who knows? But he isn't here and for that we'd best be grateful." The lord of Avoch shook his head. "I make it to be five thousand." Wagons straggled into sight behind the army.

"We can defeat them though. We have four thousand--almost as many." Though a few of the Scots were chivalry on barded destriers, most were men-at-arms on light, unarmored mounts, a fact that he chewed on as he watched the tide of English might flow through the glen before him.

"I've seen enough." His father turned, cloak whirling over his blue tabard with a triangle of stars across the chest, to hurry down the slope. "We'll need to find a position to block them from reaching Castle Dunbar. I'm thinking Spottsmuir..."

A wet wind smelling of pine and fir and moss saw Andrew and his father's tail of knights back to their camp and the awaiting king. Pale mist twisted around the trees as they rode towards the welcoming fires strewn in a wide swath across a long valley. The thousands of fires made a second wavering haze within the entwining fog. Andrew's father had kept a morose silence all the way back and ignored his questioning looks. A stone knocked loose by the hoof of Andrew's horse rattled its way down the slope, and his father started in his saddle as though coming back from far thoughts.

They descended, their silence broken by the clop of horses' hooves and the clank of their armor. Outlined by the westering sun, a peregrine falcon swooped down upon a fleeing lark.

The Scottish camp sprawled for miles. They rode past hundreds of tents and cook fires where dusk turned the banners an anonymous gray. Midges swarmed around them and he scratched a stinging bite on his neck. The scent of meat roasting mixed with the smell of smoke, so tempting his mouth watered.

They passed a pavilion where John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, had set up his camp. From there, voices rose in a bawdy song and loud laughter. Andrew was willing to wager none of the laughter was from the Comyn. The king seemed not to move or speak without the Comyn's solemn say-so.

Next to the king's white pavilion, the great gold-and-crimson lion banner of the king of the Scots waved overhead from a towering staff. The Comyn, a tall man with brown hair and beard heavily salted with white and a long, elegant face, paced under it. His had been an angry voice in that fierce dispute over who was the new king after King Alexander of Scotland died with no son. Andrew's father still cursed the day they'd thought to ask Edward of England to judge between the contenders for the throne of Scotland.

"The outriders spoke true," his father said. Andrew pushed the flap of the pavilion aside for the two men and followed them in. The king's servants had softened the ground with rushes mixed with rosemary to sweeten the dusty air.

King John de Baliol, tall and broad shouldered with brown hair that curled to his shoulders, sat with a greyhound at his feet. His red tunic and hose went ill against his sun-darkened skin. The king nodded to each of the two lords as they entered and smiled at Andrew.

Andrew's father gave a deep bow, but John Comyn's was brusque. "They found the English," he said.

The king raised a silver cup to his lips and drank before he spoke. "How many?"

His father's face was bland. "Five thousand chivalry under Warrenne's banner. They're a two day's march from Dunbar at best."

"God be praised." The king smiled his mild smile. "That gives our army time to move into position."

"I saw no sign of English outriders, but surely de Warrenne must know we'll try to cut them off."

John Comyn frowned even more deeply. "Whether they do or no, Castle Dunbar is the key to Scotland. They must have it and we must stop them."

Andrew's father cleared his throat. "We can cut them off at the water of the Spottsmuir. The burn will force them to that route."

"True enough," Comyn said. "I yet have time to lead our army into position. And I will do so."

Andrew's mouth popped open and he shut it with a snap.

His father stared at the earl. "You, my Lord? What of the king?"

King John raised a hand. "I discussed this matter earlier with Lord Buchan. We agreed. He will lead the main part of the army whilst I ride hard with a smaller force for Stirling Castle."

Deep brackets formed around his father's mouth. "My liege, the army will be disheartened..."

"Nonsense." Comyn's thin nostrils flared. "I will lead the battle and my men will follow me gladly. It had best be the same with yours."

His father's face flushed and the muscles of his jaw worked. "My men will obey, my Lord, as will I. But..."

"I had no doubt, Lord Avoch," the king said. "I expected no less, and you shall be in command after my lord Earls of Buchan and Atholl. To do you honor as such, at first light before I leave, I shall knight your son." He turned his smile upon Andrew. "You'll be a fine knight and serve us well."

Andrew gulped in a breath as his spirit took flight. "Sire..." His heart pounded. "My sword is yours, always."

The king looked to Andrew's father. "The men will see my confidence in all of my commanders, including your good self, and know it's my confidence in you that allows me to leave."

His lord father bowed his obedience, but his hands were tensed into fists as he shoved his way out of the king's pavilion. Andrew was conscious of Lord Buchan's eyes on his back as he followed his father's angry stride towards their own camp.

Night had settled, turning all the banners to black. Sparks flew from campfires like wandering stars. Lord Avoch's master-at-arms, Sir Waltir mac Donchie, awaited them before his father's tent. His scarred face creased into a frown when he heard the king would leave. He was a sturdy man of forty years, muscled and hard. Arms crossed over his chest, he surveyed their men. "We should speak to them, my lord, so his leaving is no surprise."

As they went to make rounds, Andrew sat on a tree stump at the crackling campfire and tossed in a chunk of wood. The flames leaped. He propped his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. He'd make no vigil before an altar as most knights did. The tournament to celebrate his dubbing would be battle.

Battle... He was not afraid. They would surely win.

The camp buzzed with the murmur of men's voices and the scrape of whetstones sharpening steel. Horses at distant picket lines nickered in the murk of evening. Andrew warmed his hands over the heat of the flames and told himself the chill was from the air. A clap on his shoulder made him jump.

Brian punched his shoulder harder. "Want company?" He straddled a log and sat down.

Thin as a whip with lanky brown hair, Robbie Boyd ambled towards them from where a hundred men gathered around Sir Waltir. As Robbie walked past, he gave Brian a shove.

Brian returned the punch and Robbie dodged. "Andrew here won't be the bairn of the castle after tomorrow," Brian said.

"He's grown into being a man, right enough." Robbie looked down with a twitching mouth. "Too bad you'll never grow into those flapping bat wings you have for ears."

"My ears may flap but at least my tongue doesn't."

"Get you gone." With a blow from his shoulder, Robbie tumbled Brian onto the ground and took his place on the log. "Bring over the wineskin."

A snort of amusement came bursting out from Andrew's nose, as Brian jumped up and ran, whooping, to return with wineskin. When Robbie grabbed at it, Brian gave it a squeeze. A thin stream of red squirted Andrew in the face.

Robbie jumped up. "Hoi! Don't waste good wine."

Brian danced away, laughing, but Andrew lunged and grabbed the wineskin. He tilted his head and squeezed a stream into his mouth. God be good, it was sweet. Brian and Robbie would be with him in the battle, and that would be sweet as well.

Battle was what knights were meant for, what he'd spent his life training for. Brian grabbed back the wine. They shared a grin. When the two stumbled away, holding each other up, to wrap themselves in their cloaks, Andrew sat alone until long fingers of dawn lightened the sky and the camp turned morning silver. He realized with a start that around him everyone was in an uproar to be off. Knights shouted for squires. Horses were being saddled and led into lines, as tents were broken. The valley was a fury of noise and motion.

When his father put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, Andrew looked up.

"It's time, lad."

Andrew took a shaky breath and stood. Today he would become a knight. Trying to look serious, biting his lip to hide his grin, he followed his father through the field, squelching through trampled mud and steaming horseshit. They wended through serried lines of mounted men-at-arms that stretched across the valley, horses shaking their mane and stamping to be off. He recognized Brian's voice, "Moray!"

At the front sat a long line of knights, mounted on massive destriers clad in gleaming armor. Andrew wondered if they could hear the thump of his heart, it seemed so loud, beating so hard it might escape his chest.

King John de Baliol stood alone before the tall staff that held his banner, as golden as the sunrise. He was dressed for riding in black silk hose and tunic. A gold and ruby brooch in the shape of a rampant lion held his cloak.

"I have brought you my son, Your Grace." His father held out the hilt of a sword with one hand and its belt in the other.

Beneath his fine brows, the king studied Andrew with eyes like a summer sky. His mouth curved in a smile impossible not to return. Just two days before, Andrew had watched the king bring down two stags with his own bow. He found himself remembering what his father had whispered: He would make a fine huntsman. But the man has no steel in him. He bends before the storm. His father must surely be wrong. This was the king.

Andrew swallowed the stone lodged in his throat and ran a sweaty hand down the blue tabard covering his mail. He dropped to both knees at the king's feet.

King John lifted the sword and gave Andrew a firm tap on first one shoulder and then the other. "I dub you knight. Be you good and faithful and never traffic with traitors until your life's end."

The knights behind him made a din, hammering on their shields. Brian and Robbie whooped, "Moray! Moray!" The rest of their men joined in until the glen rang with it.

Andrew rose, head swimming. He couldn't feel the ground under his feet. Another cheer went up as the king fastened the sword belt around his waist. Hilt over his forearm, the king proffered the sword; Andrew's hand shook as he took it. His father pounded his back, and then dropped to a knee to fasten on his golden spurs. Even John Comyn of Buchan slapped his arm with a laugh. His head was as dizzy as if he were drunk on red wine.

The king looked around at the cheering men and smiled. When the noise died, he nodded.

Andrew knelt and reached up to place his hands between those of his king. His throat was tight; he had to force his breath, but he made the words of the oath strong.

"I, Andrew de Moray, become your man in life and in death, faithful and loyal to you against all men who live, move or die. I declare you to be my king and liege lord--so may God help me and all the Saints."