Page 75 of The Pirate Laird's Hostage

‘There,’ he shouted, pointing to trees fringing the green fields below, where men were pouring through the bridge over the River Swale and fanning out onto the open fields. They marched singly and in groups, sloshing through the wet ground. They were not well-armed as far as he could see.

‘This is good. No battle formation and not many men at arms as far as I can see, unless they are held in reserve’ said Cormac to his Lord.

‘A militia force, or so our scout would have it, raised in haste by William Melton, the Archbishop of York, and I don’t think he is that clever,’ said Lyall. ‘This is all they have and this lot will be disorganised and rushed.’

‘We cannot rely on that, Buchanan,’ growled Lord Douglas. ‘There are a lot of them, more than I expected. How many do you think?’

Lyall stood up in his saddle for a better look. ‘Fifteen to twenty thousand at a guess. They outnumber us by a good deal.’

‘Why are they so scattered, so spread out?’ said Will.

‘Perhaps the fools thought to take us by surprise, to move quickly, to cut us off and block our path back to Scotland,’ said Lord Douglas. ‘Too bad for them, we are forewarned. They have had to feed through the bridge to get across the river, they cannot stay in formation to do that, so we have them at a disadvantage. I think the time is ripe to attack. Cormac, Lyall, you know what to do.’ He wheeled his horse and rode off along the edge of the huge schiltron at their back, packed tight with Scots in full battle dress, spears clenched and shields locked.

‘So it has come to this - a pitched battle?’ said Will.

‘Aye, not what we do best,’ sighed Cormac. ‘These raids south were supposed to be a quick in and out, to split their forces, a diversion, nothing more.’

‘Well now, it is something else entirely. Why are we not just fleeing north, back across the border to attack the English where we can choose the ground to our advantage?’

‘And have them march north unimpeded, Bain, to swell the numbers besieging Berwick. I think not. We have an enemy down there that has to be faced and overcome. We cannot allow them to get around and come behind us. So there is no going back, not for anyone,’ said Cormac giving him a hard look.

Will felt the wind, sweeping over the low ground from the sea, buffet his back. How he wished he were at sea now, instead of facing this blood bath. ‘My men, Cormac?’

‘They stay in the rear-guard with the Earl of Moray to keep the horses in reserve should we need them. You will be with me so that I can test your loyalty.’

Will ignored the barb. ‘So, Cormac, it is Bannockburn all over again.’

‘No, not like Bannockburn. There are no clever plans here and no chance to choose our ground. We hammer them hard and try and drive them into the soft ground along the river. With any luck, we will put the fear of God into them. Are you afraid, Bain?’

‘No, just eager to get this over with.’

‘Good, and at least this time you are on the right side,’ said Cormac, the blood lust rising in his eyes. ‘Bain, you will be in the vanguard with me, alongside Lyall.’

Will heard Lord Douglas shout and watched as men set fire to some hay bales nearby. They took light quickly, and soon, thick plumes of smoke started to drift down the field towards the Archbishop’s men. The Scots had given away their position, but the smoke served to obscure their movements, and it mattered not anyway, for, in the confusion of raised English voices and men now running to come together on the open ground of the meadow, the Scots schiltron began to advance down the slight incline in a clatter of spears and shields. The fight was on.

With a hammering heart, shaking hands and bowels turned to jelly, Will put one foot in front of the other and forced himself to keep pace with the other men around him. The acrid smoke stung the back of his throat, shoulders barged into his own, he was shoved from side to side as the men moved as one. It was suffocating. He had to keep his feet or be trampled, for they were not stopping. Will was about to march headlong into a mass of men bent on killing him, with no control over his destiny and no room for manoeuvre in the tight-packed formation.

Will sucked in a breath and braced himself for the fight of his life.

Chapter Thirty-One

Through wreaths of smoke stinging his eyes, Will saw men rushing at him. They had rallied, the English, and were trying to concentrate an attack on the front line. Will stumbled forward over tussocks of grass and muddy potholes, praying he would not turn an ankle. He raised his shield as they hit.

England met Scotland in a crash of shields and weapons. Suddenly, everything became one unending blur of hacking and yelling and pushing, blood spurting, feet slipping and sliding in the wet grass. Will tried to dig his heels into the ground and counter-act the pressure applied to the front line of men. The edge of a shield caught him in the side of the head in the melee and sparked his temper. His face was wet. How badly was he bleeding? He had no time to find out as he dodged blades sweeping down from above and between the shield wall, again and again. They were gaining ground on the English.

Will roared in anger and pushed back with all his might as the schiltron took a step forward. He felt the English side give a little, and pressed home his attack, slicing into the face of a man in front of him and getting another in the neck on the backswing of his sword.

Step by step, they advanced on their foe and, slowly, Will began to feel a softening of the English line. Some of the faces he saw before him, twisted in fear, were wizened with age, or young, with barely enough hair on their faces to be called men. Those faces were an agony of fear and shock.

The smoke began to clear a little and, up ahead, he could see men breaking from the English line and running. The schiltron began to loosen slightly as the threat before them dissolved.

Will felt a hand grab hold of him. Cormac’s bloodied face was barely recognisable.

‘They are running. Bain, go now. Get behind our line and find a horse and your men. Cut off the English retreat over the bridge.’

‘Aye,’ wheezed Will, his throat raw from smoke and shouting.

Pushing through to the back of the schiltron was hard, but eventually, he made it, and, grimacing through a stitch in his side, ran headlong back up the meadow to grab the first horse he could find.

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