Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (61 page)

A mighty roar thundered up and down the Scottish ranks. The ground shook with the stamping of feet. Shawn's ears and insides shook with the sound of it, and he realized a mighty bellow was erupting from deep in his own body.

* * *

The hapless English knight, Henry de Bohun, fell to the ground almost directly before Niall. One of Bruce's generals burst from the trees, remonstrating, "Bethink you, sire! The fate of all Scotland rests upon you!"

"I haif broken the haft of my guid battle-ax," declared Bruce, inspecting the damaged weapon, and expressing his only regret.

The Scots, audience and soldiers, cheered at his answer, and screamed battle cries, and Niall shouted with the rest, raising his fist and shaking it at the English. The roar echoed in his ears. He stared at the men around him, seeing their mouths closed, their eyes fixed like steel on the battlefield. The roaring sounded all around him. He closed his eyes, and opened them again. He heard his name shouted, and knew not whether it was Allene or Amy.

* * *

English trumpets screamed through the blood. Hairs rose on Shawn's arms. Sweat trickled down his chest and back, inside his padded gambeson. England's pennants snapped in the breeze, among the thousands gathered across the carse. His leg wept in pain from the wolf's claws. Back home, he'd be recuperating. Here, every man was needed. Old men with sunken cheeks and long gray beards, and fresh-faced pubescent boys, jaws firm, stood among the strong men of Robert's army.

His heart raced. He glanced back at Coxet Hill. His pulse pounded in his throat. He didn't want to be recuperating. The stitches would hold. They had to! His damp hand slipped on his sword. He wanted to be here, with these men and boys, between the English and Allene.
Thrust, parry.
He squinted against the sun, at the troops facing him, calculating how many he could kill before they felled him.
Feint.
He'd be grateful for three or four. The sun flashed in his eyes, bouncing off armor. The English charged.
Jab.
His heart pulsed furiously in his throat. He felt sick. He wanted to run. He squared his own jaw, awaiting orders.

The English sped, horses frothing and snorting in the summer heat, to the slaughter. Trumpets screamed; war drums pounded. The earth shook as huge Flemish chargers pounded toward him, with faceless visored riders gripping their backs. He braced his legs against the small earthquake, standing firm. Lances dropped, aimed at him. His legs screamed to run; he held fast, breathing hard, grateful now for Bruce's murder holes and caltrops.

They felled the magnificent, deadly beasts, one after another piercing hooves on caltrops. Proud war horses stumbled into the camouflaged, spike-laced pits, or tumbled over horses felled before them. They crashed to their knees, with trumpets still screaming and war drums still pounding, and knights in heavy armor toppled helplessly from their backs, slapping at long tabards that tripped them as they clambered to their feet. Wounded horses screamed, reared, bolted, collapsed. Confusion spread among the English.

They charged again, and found that Wallace's immovable schiltrons had become aggressive, mobile fighting units. They advanced, prickly, impenetrable circles of spears allowing no entrance; slow and steady, unstoppable and deadly, grinding down England's nobility. Dust rose, an eerie haze around skewered stallions and unhorsed knights, from which rose cries of men and screams of horses.

Shawn surged with the Scots, slashing and hacking at downed knights. And the schiltrons marched on, step by bloody step. The English hurled lances and swords, furious and futile. The schiltrons marched on, step by heartless step, a slow moving glacier, grinding everything in their paths.

* * *

When the Scots surged toward the English, two men still chatting about last week's rugby match as they ran, Niall surged with them. He fought against the crowd to reach Robert Keith's standard. Hugh would have added his Highland ponies to Keith's cavalry.

It's not real, he reminded himself. A knight swung a sword at him. He blocked it, clanging and sliding his blade along it till he forced both points into the ground. From inside the visor came heavy, raspy breathing. Niall's biceps strained to keep the man's sword down, as he searched the chaos for Keith's pennant.

"Bloody Scots!" came from inside the helmet, muffled and harsh. "Die, Highland dog!" He yanked his sword from under Niall's, slashing at his knees. Niall leapt. The knight arched forward, a spear shooting through his side. The smell of hot blood washed over Niall. His heart raced with hope. He dodged and bolted.

"Where you going?" shouted a man in an authentic-looking tunic. Niall recognized the drawl as American. He thought painfully of Amy. Another man erupted in front of him, barking, "Get back to your unit!" He had no idea if the wicked-looking dirk in the man's hand was authentically sharpened, or dulled for the reenactors' safety. He shoved his way south, breaking into a run. A schiltron bore down on him, the men scruffy and unbathed. Red stains flowed from their spears. They moved like they meant it.

Elated, he dodged and sprinted for Keith. He recognized his arms on the back of a tabard, and lunged from behind, grabbing the horse's reins. The great beast turned its head, snorting in his face. "Keith! Robert Keith! Stop the archers!" Niall spun to face the great cavalry leader. The horse whinnied in his ear. "Stop Edward's archers!"

Keith yanked his reins and shoved his visor up, revealing small round glasses. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted down. "We don't stop the archers! That's why we lost!" He slapped his visor down and wheeled his horse round.

Niall backed up two quick steps, despair gripping him. He nearly tripped on a Scot, lying on the battlefield moaning in pain. He stared, shaken. He spun and sprinted for the edge of the field, more scared of interfering in a fake battle than he'd ever been of being killed in a real one.

Suddenly, a deep voice called his name. Conrad? Had Amy told them his real name? He scanned a sea of faces, his sword limp in his hand. His heart nearly stopped, then leapt in joy. Iohn burst from the woods, running.

* * *

Across the field, Amy saw him. Saw them! Shawn's eyes met hers, and she knew: this was Shawn, the real Shawn, neither the man she'd known for years, nor the man she'd known for the past week. Niall, in tunic and trews, ran toward him, shouting.

"It's started," the police sergeant snapped. He grabbed Amy's arm as she made to run toward Shawn. She yanked once. "You canna run ou' there!" the man said. "He'll be there still when it's over. Though what the devil he's doin' is beyond me!"

Amy bit her lip. She turned to Conrad. "We have to get him. Now!"

"He'll be there afterward," Dana said. The sun glinted off copper strands of her spiky hair.

Conrad patted her arm. "She's right, Amy. He'll still be there. But what the bloody hell is he up to? And what is that?" He cocked his head, listening.

"Is someone singing?" asked the sergeant. "Why the devil is someone singing?" He squinted, shading his eyes with one hand. "Summat funny's goin' on here." He waved for his men, circling the field, and pointed to Shawn, driving a sword through a man in a long tabard.

Amy's heart pounded. Blood poured down the man's back, surging around the sword. Her skin became clammy with sweat. "How do they make it look so real? Did he just kill a man?"

The sergeant roared for his men. "Get him off that field! What the devil is goin' on?"

* * *

Iohn was a hundred yards away. Surely, Niall thought, he was mistaken again. It wasn't Iohn's brown woolen cloak, after all, but a scarlet one, lifting behind him as he ran. Niall stepped closer. A horse whinnied. Was it a trained reenactor or a real one? A lance pierced its side. It reared, hooves clawing madly at the air and teeth bared in pain. Its knight rolled off in a clatter of metal, thumping on the ground and descended on by angry Scots.

"Niall!" Iohn's voice rang out again. Niall turned back to Iohn, raising a hand. But Iohn was looking beyond him. Niall turned. He gasped. He stared into his own face! He made a weak sign of the cross. It could only be Shawn.

But it wasn't the lying, gambling, womanizing Shawn Niall had come to know; the Shawn who smirked and laughed and left a woman with child, who spit life in the face and took nothing seriously. This man's jaw was set, his eyes fiercely scanning the fight around him. His tunic hung askew. Sweat streaked his dirt-stained face. Blood caked one leg; a long and ugly wound showed through the gaps in a ragged bandage. His feet locked in combat stance. He lifted a sword menacingly toward an English soldier.

Then Niall and Shawn both heard it. Over the clash of metal, the cries of wounded men, the shouts of commanders, rose a beautiful baritone voice in the words of his and Iohn's greeting.
The Laird's own bard to war is gone!
Those near him turned. Shawn slashed at the soldier,
jab, thrust
, and a lucky kill. Shawn raised his head, lifted a hand in greeting, and strode forward.

It hit Niall hard. "NO!" he roared.

His harp and sword at hand!

Niall charged. He dropped his body low, yanking a sword from the fallen knight as he ran. The knight clung to it, but Niall was faster, stronger.

To the fields of death he goes.

And he had seen the future.

He knew what would happen: he'd heard it in a song. The English near Iohn would gather. Advance on Shawn. Niall's leather boots tore up the field, speeding toward his best friend and mortal enemy. His face twisted in fury at the betrayal. Iohn started toward Shawn. His sword rose.

"No!" Niall bellowed. He'd promised Amy! He'd promised to send Shawn back.

Iohn spun; the cloak—the cloak immortalized in song as crimson—swirled out around him, a shimmering aurora borealis, hanging for a moment in time. His eyes met Niall's.

Niall ran, screaming, "Get back, Shawn! He's betraying us!"

Iohn stared from Niall to Shawn. The song dropped from his lips; lips that now formed a silent no. He shook his head in disbelief. He tried to lift the sword, but shock slowed him.

Niall skewered him.

Blood sprayed Niall's white shirt, warming his skin. Its scent filled his nostrils. Their eyes held, Iohn's in mortal shock, Niall's in grief. "Why?" Niall whispered, his voice hoarse. "You were my friend."

Iohn's mouth moved, but no words came out. Shawn skidded to a stop beside them, breathing hard. Iohn gripped his side. Blood spurted from his mouth.

"What the hell is going on?" Shawn demanded.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Niall whispered. He made the sign of the cross on the dying man's forehead, and yanked his sword. The tug of Iohn's body against his blade, before it suddenly fell and crumpled to the ground, sickened him. Tears stung his eyes. He clenched his jaw and barked at Shawn. "Get Hugh!"

"Aye!" Shawn sped, an arrow from a bow.

Niall dropped to his knee beside Iohn on the ground, cradling his head. "Why?" he whispered again. "I loved you like a brother."

Iohn tried, but no words came out. Another trickle of blood crawled from his mouth like an evil worm. His face turned chalky. Niall brushed at his eyes. Iohn stared at the sky. Niall yanked the crimson cloak over his face, and swiped the back of his wrist under his nose. Steel clashed all around him. Horses whinnied; men screamed.

One of the tough Highland ponies burst through the haze of battle, with Hugh gripping its flanks. Niall scrambled to his feet, waving his arms, yelling. Hugh threw himself off the pony, knocking Niall to the ground.

Niall's heart thundered. Not Hugh, too! He rolled, ready for action, as Hugh dispatched the English soldier behind him. Niall's pulse raced.

"How the devil did ye get afore me, lad!" Hugh roared. "You were behind me!" He turned, saw Shawn sliding off a pony, and spun back to Niall, gaping.

"Later," Niall snapped.

Hugh crossed himself, muttering, "Mary, Joseph, and Jesus!" He looked from one to the other, and stepped back.

Niall grabbed his arm, pointing wildly toward the carse's northern edge. "Archers!" Already, they were marching, wraiths in the haze, in long files toward the northern ridge. Their longbows rose, slender and deadly, above their heads.

"How dae...?"

"They'll destroy our schiltrons. Stop them!"

Hugh looked again at Shawn. "Do it," Shawn said. "That's Niall."

"Who are...?"

Niall yanked Hugh's arm roughly. "Now! Send for your cavalry and Keith's, ere Scotland is lost!"

Hugh shook himself, nodded, and leapt back on the hardy pony. He dug his heels in, screaming, "Hiya!" The frothing animal snorted and bolted, kicking up dirt.

Dust and cries swirled around Shawn and Niall. They stared at each other.

Niall laughed, suddenly, and clasped Shawn's hand, pulling him into a hug, slapping his back.

"Niall Campbell, I presume," Shawn said. A wide grin spread across his face. "I've heard about you." A horse draped in blue and white charged past them. The first row of archers was in place.

"Aye." Niall grinned, too. Before he could say more, an arrow whined. Shawn grabbed for Niall, the two of them rolling for shelter behind a fallen horse. The animal's chest heaved in sharp strokes under its green and gold trappings; foam flecked its side, its eyes rolled.

Niall lifted his head carefully over the animal's side. North of the carse, hot noon sun glinted off the archers' helmets. The second row filed in behind the first.

Shawn raised his head, too. "Men of Galloway, men of Inverness, men of the Highlands!" Edward Bruce roared above the fray from under his banner. "For your families, for your country, go now!" The English cavalry, those who had escaped the murder holes and caltrops, thundered across the field in a swirl of colorful trappings, horses decked in greens, reds, blues, and golds. Keith's cavalry pranced at the southern edge of the fray, straining for action. They didn't stand a chance against the larger warhorses.

The third row of bowmen locked in position. "Like a bloody high school choir!" Shawn muttered. The first row reached into their quivers, a deadly ballet.