Chapter 1
Scotland,
Battle of Falkirk
On the battlefield at Falkirk, Lachlan MacLeod sat at the head of his Highland army, mounted on his warhorse, a strong, black Friesian named Dionysus.
Rain spit down on them in what most men would consider bad luck.
But rain from the heavens was a blessing, a sign of fruitfulness.
He only prayed that the blessing was for his men and not those of the wretched English and their equally wretched king, Longshanks.
Swords and armor clanked and leather creaked as the men shifted in their saddles.
Lachlan pointed his face toward the sky, closing his eyes to feel the rain on his skin.
And then it stopped. He glanced into the gray, to see that in fact, the rain had ceased and the sun was shining, a rare moment in time.
The clouds had parted as if the sky itself and the heavens above were peering down to see who would dare battle on the gods’ earth.
Dionysus shifted his feet, his flank bumping the horse beside him who grunted and chewed around his bit.
Neither the rain, nor the sun were the blessings that Lachlan had hoped for. The reinforcements they’d been waiting to arrive, had still not been seen by any of the scouts.
Much of the cavalry they’d relied on to fight the English seemed to have evaporated with the sudden stopping of the rain. And one of the clans he’d thought would be fighting beside his own was absent. There’d been no warning, no missive, unless the messenger had been captured.
Lachlan’s gut churned. Instinct bade him to acknowledge that they had been betrayed somehow.
And he always followed his gut. Tugging on Dionysus’s reins, he pulled out of line and searched the battlefield for the two men he trusted most on this earth.
Callum MacDonald and Ewan Grant. He’d known them both since childhood when they’d met at a tournament.
They’d been wee lads then, trying their best to fight with wooden swords.
It seemed the leaders of the MacDonald and Grant clans were looking for him, too, for they both appeared down the line of men, riding side by side toward him.
“Lads,” Lachlan grunted.
Callum nodded, whipping his dark, rain-soaked hair from his eyes, and Ewan grimaced a half smile, as much as the scar on his cheek from some bastard’s sword allowed. Both of them took in the grave expression on Lachlan’s face, no doubt.
“We are down men,” Lachlan said.
“Do ye think they are running behind?” asked Ewan, also called the Black Stag. The twelve-point Black Stag he was named for was painted prominently on his targe.
“Hardly,” said Callum, he touched his hand to the blood-soaked hilt of his claymore, where he got his own moniker, the Red Blade. “It appears that they may have abandoned us.”
There had been rumors of betrayal that Lachlan ignored.
Rumors were rubbish, and he had only time for facts.
He’d refused to believe that anyone would want the English to win this battle.
But war did things to men, and he was not immune to that himself.
But he knew what was right and wrong. And he knew that they needed this country to be independent.
And now, lacking the men he needed, he was aware of his error in not paying greater heed to the warnings.
The men were growing weary, shifting from foot to foot, hungry after a year of war. Eager for this battle to be over so they could finally return to their families. Warm beds. Cozy fires. Stew with plenty of meat. Fresh warm bread. Lachlan too wanted all of those things.
Just a year ago they had won the Battle of Stirling Bridge, William Wallace the first titled Guardian of Scotland having led their charge. But the English had fought back, refusing to relinquish control of Scotland. Bloody bastards, the lot of them.
The rain started up again, a loud thunderous crack in the sky. Followed by a flash of lightning that lit up the tips of his men’s spears which stood high, ready to be thrown into the enemy’s ranks.
William Wallace rode his horse toward them, Robert the Bruce, helmet momentarily removed, on horseback beside him. Wallace was nearly a head taller than the Bruce who was no small man. As the Scottish leaders of this battle approached, Lachlan and his found brothers nodded with respect.
“We canna wait much longer,” Robert the Bruce said.
“We should take them by surprise,” William Wallace added. “Show them what true warriors are made of.”
Lachlan watched Wallace who appeared agitated.
After several losses, he appeared to be losing his grit.
There was no surprising anyone on a battlefield once a man stepped forward.
It was obvious what was about to happen.
The signal to begin. Still, none of them wanted to argue, because Wallace was a brilliant strategist, and perhaps he had found a way to do just that.
“My men will have no trouble going first.” The MacLeod warriors were feared among many.
Champions at every tourney—unless Callum or Ewan’s men were there, then the competition was steeper.
He prided himself on the strength and skills of his warriors.
On their bravery and courage and fearlessness.
Perhaps that was what made them the most frightening to their enemies, their lack of fear.
“They have trained well and have been superior in all battles that we’ve come across. ”
And it was true. In the last few years, not one of his men had been lost in battle. A few fingers, teeth, a toe, but no lives.
Callum stepped forward, pounding his fist against his chest, and flinging water from his brow with a flick of his head. “We will fight beside them.”
“An honor, brother,” Lachlan said.
Ewan stepped forward with a fist to his chest. “Let the honor also be ours.”
“It is our three formations that will go first,” Lachlan declared.
A raven flew overhead, flying swiftly across the sky. A cloud shifted into position, momentarily darkening the field to gray shadows. An omen. One that Lachlan took this time as being good for them, for in addition to the wolf on his crest, there was a raven.
The horses of the Bruce and Wallace shifted impatiently on their hooves, waiting for the command to bolt forward. Interesting that all the animals present seemed to have the same battle lust Lachlan felt flooding his veins.
Lachlan also just wanted to be done with it. He had promised his men a feast after this battle was won. They were wet, their tartans growing heavy. But none would complain; these minor inconveniences would not stop them from fighting until the last horn blew.
Lachlan banged his sword against his shield, the clang resounding and echoing through the air. His men followed suit. The thunder of their thumping outdoing the rolling clouds.
“I will give ye the signal and we will attack,” Wallace shouted.
The line of Highlanders shifted, targes locking edge to edge, Ashwood pikes lowering until they formed a deadly wall of iron points. They’d fought with Wallace more times than they could count, and they knew what to do.
Several hundred feet ahead of them, the English cavalry gathered, awaiting with their own deadly intent.
William Wallace looked from their army gathered to the English across the way.
Longshanks himself had come from England to see that this battle was won, as though his men were not doing the job well enough on their own.
And it was true. The Scots had made enough headway to give hope for a victory soon to come. And with this battle, Lachlan prayed they might finally drive the Englishmen from their country.
Drums beat from the other side of the battlefield, indicating that the English, too, were eager for this battle to be done. The Scots pipers blew, a haunting melody floating down over the glen.
“We begin,” Lachlan bellowed, his gaze fixed briefly on the empty stretch behind them where the cavalry should have been.
Then he started to trot his horse in front of them, shouting words of encouragement.
“The horsemen are late, or lost, but we are no’.
We hold here, for Scotland! We break them here, for our women, our children!
And if there is a gap at our backs, then we become the wall that fills it.
The English will dine no’ on our blood this day, but their own. ”
As he marched back and forth, meeting the eyes of his warriors one by one as he went, they bellowed back at him, eager for the battle.
He had led them for many years, ever since he was a young pup of fourteen, when he’d had to take over his father’s army after his father was killed on the battlefield.
Only a squire at that time and, brazen in his own thoughts as are often those of youth, Lachlan had taken up his father’s sword to continue to fight, howling with grief the entire way.
It was only by the grace of God that he’d been victorious that day.
But that moment had given him a name—the Wolf of Skye—and his father’s men had been eager to follow him ever since.
It had been nearly two decades from when he had first kept his family’s land and clan safe.
And he intended to do so again right now.
There was no room for loss in this war. They must get the English back across the border. They must secure their lands for future generations.
Wallace gave the signal, fist in the air as he bellowed. The Bruce rode back behind the infantry where he would observe from behind until he, too, needed to engage the enemy.
From across the way, the English king had shot up, aware now of the Scots plans.
Lachlan MacLeod raised his fist in the air. Turning once more to his men, he shouted the motto of their clan. “Seasaibh is brisibh iad!” Stand and break them. And break the bastards they would.
There was a coolness that came to his blood then, something that surged through his veins and gave Lachlan energy. His vision became sharper. His ears keen to the sound of an approaching enemy. No man was safe in his vicinity.
“Forward!” Lachlan shouted.
Boots churned the wet ground as they drove ahead, the formation tightening, every man shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield. Their cries carried down the line as they advanced, a wall of steel and muscle pushing toward the enemy.
But then the sky darkened.
“Targes up!” Lachlan ordered.
The first arrows fell in a hushed whisper and then a roar.
They struck hard, thudding into wood and leather and flesh.
Rattling against the iron rims of the targes, a relentless drumbeat as the men kept their shield-covered arms raised overhead.
The sound was deafening, like hail hammering stone, only more deadly and violent.
Lachlan held his ground beneath the strain of the arrow shafts slamming only inches from his face. One iron head managing to pierce through to graze his cheek. When the volley passed, the line stood, prepared to continue forward.
They were lucky with this round; not one of his men went down. But he could see that other clans had not been so fortunate. Men staggered with arrows buried deep in their thighs and chests, some collapsing where they stood. Others were dragged back through the mud as the formation closed ranks.
This kind of death was a brutal thing. The very reason Lachlan himself had not taken a wife or started a family.
Battles were often romanticized by the bards. They could make songs and music about the epic swordsmanship and the victory that followed. In reality, it was a gruesome, deadly business. But it was his business. And he was damn good at what he did.
He was bound by duty and determined to make sure that not one of his men fell on this day.
And with that renewed vigor forced through his skin, he swung his sword toward the enemy.