Chapter 31
His men were all screaming now, howls and screeches like berserkers of old.
James and Ewen sprang from behind the boulder and ran to join them, a wall of Royalists cascading down upon the Covenanter camp.
James roared to his men to attack, while Ewen shouted over and over the Cameron war cry, “Chlanna nan con thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil.
” A call to his men to come and get flesh.
And all the Royalists responded with renewed fury, barreling down on their enemy from above.
Many of Campbell’s men had a startled, wild-eyed look to them as they struggled in vain to load muskets with cold and sleepy fingers. The whoosh and slash of Royalist blades came too quickly, and the first wave cut through a swath of Covenanters before they could finish loading their weapons.
The sun rose bright that day, and light cut over the edge of the mountains to cast long shadows below. Chaos ruled as the mobs of men drove into each other. The sounds of men fighting for their lives and the noise of swords finding shield and flesh thundered through the valley.
James quickly lost sight of Ewen, his attention focused only on whatever man was unlucky enough to stand in his path.
He didn’t carry a shield like many of the others, relying instead on his agility as its own weapon, and he carved his way forward, ducking and diving away from any sword that sought him.
A surge of screams and guttural cries sounded from the side, and James looked quickly to see his pikemen hacking brutally into the Covenanters’ left flank.
MacColla led the charge. Standing head and shoulders above many of the others, he worked his sword furiously, his thick, black brows furrowed in rage.
They were decimating Campbell’s troops from the front and side now, and what was once a solid block of men shattered like glass into a thousand skittering pieces.
James’s eye flicked to a familiar bit of plaid.
He saw Sibbald from behind, the colonel’s wiry frame and balding head of gray brown hair easily recognizable.
The man stumbled, and James rushed forward to catch him at his side.
He had a lethal gash across his chest and another low on his belly.
Pulling him away from the worst of the melee, James tore off his coat and quickly retrieved the flask from his vest. The colonel nodded eagerly and eased to the ground.
James hoped it hadn’t been the drink that had blunted Sibbald’s wits and opened him to injury. But it’s drink he would have, James thought, as the man breathed his last.
“Graham!”
He heard his name as he knelt to tip the flask to Sibbald’s lips, and looked up to see the bard Iain gesturing wildly.
Then James heard the hum of steel. He thrust the colonel to the ground, and was rolling even before he saw the blade coming at him.
He leapt to his feet, sword in hand, and found himself face-to-face with a young Campbell clansman.
Junior even to Ewen, the boy appeared no older than thirteen.
“Och, lad,” James growled. “You’ve years yet.” He inclined his head to the hills. “Go, and none will be the wiser.”
Confusion and fear warred on the boy’s face. The smears of mud on his cheeks and tangled mop of light blond hair made him seem even younger than his years.
“Come now, lad. Off with you.” James gestured with his sword away from the battle. “You’re young yet. You’ve years of lassies and adventure ahead of you. There will be time enough for fighting.”
The boy bared his teeth into a scowl and rushed at James, his broadsword flailing wildly.
“Och, you lads.” James grimaced, dodging the boy’s thrusts, holding his own sword still in his hand. “It’s not cowardice. Go now, boy, into the hills, and none will know.”
The sword teetered heavily in the boy’s grip, and he waved and twirled it, terror making him blind.
The youngster managed to nick him, and James looked down to see his calf bleeding. His face darkened. “I beg you, lad.” James feinted, and then slapped the flat of his blade onto the boy’s thigh. “I’ll not fight you.”
The boy redoubled his efforts, swinging with abandon.
James hopped forward as if to thrust. “I’m sure you’ve a mother who’d rather see some bonny new grandbabes borne home than your lifeless body.
” He hopped forward again, edging the young Campbell backward toward the mountains.
“So off with you now.” He swooped his blade overhead to slap at the boy’s shoulder.
“The hills beckon. Truly. I don’t find the killing of lads to be an honor-able pursuit. ”
The boy pressed again and managed to get close, striking awkwardly at James’s belly.
He wrenched his sword down just in time to stop the boy’s blade.
The clash of metal reverberated up his arm as the young Campbell’s sword grazed along his, stopping short with a clang at the steel basket of James’s sword.
“I beg you, lad. We can pass the day right here, but I’ll not fight you in earnest.”
The boy swung his arm down at an angle, and James brought his blade up hard to block the blow.
But the boy had feinted. His sword doubled back to strike at James from the other side, and the only thing left to stop James’s blade was the boy’s torso.
James tried to pull back at the last moment, but it was too late to stop his momentum. The boy let out a wordless gasp.
“No!” James cried.
The young Campbell’s sword clattered to the ground, and he looked at his waist, momentarily confused.
“Oh no, lad.” James quickly resheathed his sword and caught the adolescent as he fell. “Oh, lad, I begged you.”
James knew at once the wound was fatal, and painful as well.
“You’re a braw fighter.” James held him tightly, as if he could staunch the wound with his grip alone. “A braw fighter. You’ve brought great honor to—”
A long, wheezy exhale deflated the boy’s body. “Forgive me.” Tears spilled down James’s cheeks. “Oh lad, forgive me.”
By the time he returned to Sibbald, the old colonel also lay dead, spilt flask clenched in his hand, the snow around it stained deep amber.
He dropped to sit, looking around at the echoes of a battle run its course.
They’d had a commanding victory. Royalists filled the Covenanter camp now, turning bodies, gathering stray weapons, or just standing dazedly, waiting for their minds to make sense of things and assure their pounding hearts that the threat was well and truly over.
James merely put his head in his hand and allowed himself to weep.
Campbell glowered from the deck of his galley, standing despite the agony in his injured shoulder.
The vessel was a stout seagoing birlinn, twelve-oars strong with a single sail.
He rode at the bow and absentmindedly stroked the honey-colored wood.
He’d always treasured the boat, such an obvious emblem of his wealth, but he’d thought he’d be using it to parade his triumph along the Highland waterway, not be subjected to this despicable flight.
The boat bobbed unevenly, and agony shot up his arm.
Campbell fisted his hands, digging nails into his palms to take his mind off the pain.
The Cameron had come at him like a bull, and he’d heard the bone snap like a dried branch.
One look at the mayhem outside his tent and Campbell had backtracked to his craft, docked just where Loch Eil fed into Loch Linnhe.
Then, when he’d caught sight of the Royalists cavorting along the hillside and rummaging through his tents, he’d taken to the water.
If the Cameron had been a bull, then the Marquis of Montrose had been a lion, clawing and gutting Clan Campbell of its men, killing sons enough to have repercussions for generations to come. Campbell’s power was decimated, whole families wiped out, not to mention almost half his forces killed.
He looked to his oarsmen, rowing two men short. Those who remained pulled frantically, powered by their fear, as the triumphant whoops and cries of Royalist soldiers echoed along Loch Linnhe to sound the Covenanters’ escape.
Lips twitching, he studied the Campbell crest and motto stitched onto his sail. A boar’s head, and the words Ne Obliviscaris. Do Not Forget.