Page 76 of The Pirate Laird's Hostage

He mounted up and, rallying with the other mounted men, his own included, he headed around the east flank of the schiltron at full pelt, and onwards, to Myton Bridge, overtaking English soldiers as they fled south in a panic.

His force of men reached the bridge in no time, to be confronted by the English, scattered and running for their lives, all trying to get across the narrow bridge to sanctuary. Will drove his horse into them again and again, cutting down man after man with ease. Many had dropped their weapons in their urge to flee quickly or were too old to get to the bridge in time. Some collapsed with fear and exhaustion, and they seemed without leadership.

Some few stood and fought bravely, with Scots at their front and Scots advancing behind them. Most were cut down where they stood, or flung themselves into the river in desperation. Those weighed down with any kind of armour sank quickly into the swirling green depths, sucked down by the current. Others struggled longer, and Will watched many flailing helplessly as they were swept downstream. Only a few made it across to stumble off over the fields to relative safety.

Will’s jaw ached with clenching it, and he wanted to sob his heart out at the butchery all around him. Whatever he had done, whatever he was, this was a nightmare that would stain his soul for years to come.

As the sun lowered in the crisp autumn sky, the slaughter just went on and on.

***

Will stared at the pink bell-like flowers dotting the banks of the river. How delicate and pretty they were. In a distracted way, he tried to remember what they were called but, for the life of him, he could not. Why could his mind not grasp the memory? Ah, lupins, that was it. His mother had told him once, long ago, when he was but a lad.

He tore his eyes away and watched the River Swale gliding past, now heavy with corpses of English dead, snagging on dead branches overhanging the water, bumping gently against one another up against the banks. Every now and then, to the noise of screams and groans from the dying out on the field, one would break off and slide into the current, to bob its way downstream and onward, to the sea.

He must press on with his task of harrying the remaining English militia as they fled back towards York. Darkness was creeping in and soon that task would be an impossible one. In some ways, it would be a blessed relief, as he was sick in his gut with it. Will took out his knife and scrambled down the bank.

The boy could not have been more than fifteen and clung to the slim branches of a willow leaning over the river. He had no value as a prisoner, a peasant by the looks of him, and obviously, he did not have the strength to swim for it. Any minute now, those fronds would snap, and the boy would be swept away. It would save him a task at least. It would be God who took the boy, and he would not have another death on his conscience.

Will tried not to look into the boy’s eyes as he got within reach of him, but the pitiful, stick-thin arms, blue-white with cold, gave him pause. Blood had dried to a brown crust down one side of the boy’s face. Will knelt down and tugged on the branches, sweeping the boy in close to the shallows. When Will was within striking distance, the boy closed his eyes in a face tight with fear and resignation.

Will gripped his blade hard and stuck it in its scabbard. For a moment he thought he might vomit, but instead, he reached out a bloody hand.

‘Boy, grab my hand if you wish to live. Do it, now, before I let the river take you.’

The boy’s eyes sprang open.

‘I am not playing with you, lad, I swear. You can either trust me, or you can die.’

The boy did not hesitate. He stretched out his hand, and Will took it. His fingers were like little sticks of ice as Will dragged him out onto the bank. The boy seemed unable to stand, so Will took hold of him and wrenched him to his feet.

‘You’ve nothing to fear from me. Go, walk south and keep walking until you are well away from this fight. Quickly, before others less merciful find you.’

The boy stumbled off, slipping and sliding up the bank on legs as weak as a newborn foal’s. Will prayed to God no one else would find him and that he would be a long way south by dawn.

‘My brother would say that in a time of war, mercy is a weakness,’ said Lyall, emerging from the trees up river, and staring at the boy’s retreating back, ‘but I would not, for I know to my cost that there is little enough of it in this world.’

‘You will let him go, Buchanan?’

‘Aye, I’ve had a belly full of killing, as have you it would seem. Here, give me your hand.’

Once Lyall had pulled him up the bank, they regarded each other warily.

‘Tell me, Buchanan, what honour is there in all this?’ said Will wearily.

‘Only a fool goes looking for honour on a battlefield.’

‘This was no army, these were boys, scarcely old enough to raise a sword, old men, farmers’ sons, many were just priests, for God’s sake and we just cut them down like wheat.’

‘Tis not our fault they send innocents into battle. That is the nature of King Edward, he cares not for his own men, his own people. He cares only for his pride before his nobles and the kings of Europe. He is like a dog with a bone, he cannot give up gnawing on his defeat and wasting life after life trying to pretend he is not losing this war. This massacre today is on his conscience, not yours.’

‘And King Robert, truly Lyall, is he any different?’

‘Aye, he is. He kills, he burns, but he does it for freedom. Every bloody battlefield, every corpse he has to step over, brings Scotland one step closer to that freedom. I refuse to regret any of this as long as those I love are safe.’

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment in the half-light. ‘Why did you come here, Bain?’ said Lyall, narrowing his eyes.

‘Shame,’ he replied.

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