Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (60 page)

"Sire." Shawn swallowed, bowed his head, closed his eyes, and touched the strings. He began one of the concert pieces.

Free from tyrant’s dark control

Free as waves of ocean roll

Free as thoughts of minstrel’s soul,

Still roam the sons of Scotia.

Down each green-wood skirted vale,

Guardian spirits lingering, hail

Hugh's men nodded, their faces shadowed in the dancing flames of the night, becoming serious with thoughts of home and the coming battle. Leaves rustled in the breeze. All around hung the heavy scent of burning twigs and peat. Fire glinted soft burnished glows off swords and helmets. Shawn fiercely wanted these men to live, forever, as they lived here, tonight. His heart and throat ached, knowing history said they would die tomorrow! All of them. He sang the second verse, his fingers strong on the chords.

Many a minstrel’s melting tale

As told of ancient Scotia.

Wake, my hillharp! Wildly wake!

Sound by lee and lonely lake,

Never shall this heart forsake,

The bonnie wilds of Scotia!

He ran his fingers up a chord, and finished, his head bowed, falling in love with the country and vowing to save it, no matter what history said.

"Beautiful," said Robert. "A finer tribute to my brave men I've never heard. Give us another."

Shawn nodded, smiled to himself at the irony, and started his father's favorite, a tribute and lament to Bruce himself. His father had changed the words to reflect a battle won. It was unthinkable to sing any others, now. These men would fight bravely, and if he couldn't change history, at least they would die with hope roaring like forest fires in their hearts.

O King of Scots

The like we’ve never seen

That raised his people far and wide,

And stood against the English might,

And sent them fleeing home.

Men nodded, grunting their agreement.

The English came in storming droves,

And took our land and took our lives

But we are strong and we will rise.

As he returned to the chorus, men joined, a solid wall of confidence. Chills shot up Shawn's arms. Was he feeding them lies, or giving them the morale that would change their futures? It didn't matter. He sang with the rest, louder and stronger, and heard the words taken up at the next campfire, rich with tenors and basses.

And stood against the English might,

And sent them fleeing home.

And louder still, from more campfires, the treble voices of boys who should be in school, the creaky voices of men who should be fishing at their cabins, and the forceful voices of Hugh and dozens of powerful men who would ride their garrons or carry mighty lances in tight schiltrons tomorrow, against charging warhorses:

And stood against the English might,

And sent them fleeing home.

The song ended. Voices stilled, till only the chitter of insects remained, humming in the night. It was like the moment when Conrad stood frozen, arms suspended in midair; the moment when the orchestra finished, but the last notes reverberated invisibly, and no one was yet willing to break the magic. Hope crackled all around them.

The Bruce raised his head. "A man who sees the future, as I thought." He spoke gravely, softly. Then he raised his voice and shouted for all the army to hear: "We will indeed send them fleeing home." A mighty roar rose from the men, and spread to neighboring campfires.

"We'll send them fleeing home!" echoed up and down the ridge.

Robert the Bruce looked along the furlongs of his army, nodding in satisfaction. "I thank thee, Niall Campbell." He slid a ring from his finger. The gold and garnet glittered in the dancing flames: a garnet, like he'd taken from Amy. Bruce tossed it to Shawn. Shawn bowed deeply in thanks. When the king had gone, he slid it onto his own finger, stunned.

And somewhere in the camp, he heard a harp still playing.

* * *

With quiet falling, Shawn lay down, wrapped in his cloak. He was powerfully aware of the bog to the east, where he would fight and die. Unless his plan succeeded. Unless history could be changed.

Gentle night sounds drifted over him, a restless snort from a horse, the crackle of a fire, the shuffling of men, and, he swore, the sound of his name. He sat up and listened and knew he heard it, whispers of
Shawn, Shawn...Shawn?

A chill shot down his spine.

Shawn Kleiner—the faintest whisper on the breeze, rustling in the leaves above. His breathing came hard. Fires flickered blood-red shadows over sleeping men.

The sounds drifted away, like a balloon floating over a hill. Though he listened for some time, they did not come again. He pulled his cloak tightly around him, the hair on his arms standing straight, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Niall woke early. Birds trilled and chirped in the gray pre-dawn. He knew instantly this was no real battle. Not a man stirred. Not a man prayed. For all they prided themselves on authenticity, they couldn't duplicate the fear and adrenaline that prodded men early on the morning of battle. Indeed, they only came awake, with good-natured grumbling at the early hour, long after the first red rays of dawn stretched dainty fingers across the daisy-covered field that would see battle, after he'd been praying on his knees for half an hour.

Disappointment consumed him. He'd hoped it would happen, as it had before, on its own, while he slept. He felt foolish, a boy believing in fairy knowes. What was he to look for here? How was he to tell a Highland soldier of the fourteenth century from a reenactor of the twenty-first?

The speech, he reminded himself. Their speech would be different. He wandered through thick knots of men in tunics, trews, hose, gambesons. He studied the men examining one another's weapons.

"Found this Shawn you're lookin' for?" asked a burly, bearded man in a flowing cloak. He handed Niall bread and a water skin. These men might lack the sense of impending battle that would make their playacting real, but Niall felt a sense of coming home, in the humble meal. "I haven't," he said. "Might ye know where the Bruce is, or Sir Keith?"

"The commander of the cavalry?"

"Aye, tha's the one," Niall said.

"The Bruce, you'd most likely find him on the right flank." The man pointed south. "Now, Sir Keith, I think the poor man was mismanaged all along, and you'll find his cavalry unit down south too, where they aren't as helpful as they coulda been. But we go with what history gives us, don't we?"

Niall smiled. "We'll see, tha' we will."

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-One

Stirling, Scotland

The first sight of the English would inspire dread in the bravest troops in Christendom, it was later said. They covered the land like locusts, tens of thousands. Sunlight glinted off helmets, armors, spears. White banners, too many to count, snapped over them. Carnival-colored silken pennants flapped in the summer breeze. The earth shook under their heavy warhorses. Their columns stretched for twenty miles.

The Scots gathered, five thousand, for Mass, on the morning of the battle. They formed their lines with the trees and Stirling Castle behind them, facing the narrow stretch of the Bannock Burn over which the English must flow. The Bruce walked among them, marked as separate only by the thin band of gold circling his auburn hair and the suffering of leadership stamped on his face. "We are hopelessly outnumbered!" His voice rang like a clarion. "Any man who wishes to turn now and go to the aid and protection of his family may do so without consequence! 'Twill be held against no man, should he choose to walk away now!"

His voice carried clear and far.

The men heard.

The men held their ground.

* * *

The priests came before the Highlanders and lowlanders. The Scots fell to their knees as one, imploring Heaven for assistance and strength. From Coxet Hill, they peered down, eager and fearful, to see the production.

Edward of England, across the battlefield, watched the Scots fall, five thousand as a man, to their knees, and cried out, booming his line across the field: "They crave mercy!"

Edward's commanders, more experienced and less arrogant, saw what he did not: the Scots were preparing to attack. "It is of heaven, and not your highness," replied Sir deUmfraville, "for on that field they will be victorious or die."

"So be it, then!" Edward raised his mail-clad arm, tall and strong against the blue summer sky. Trumpets shot up in a straight row. Banners fluttered down from their lengths. Their sound rose, clear and golden across the battlefield, summoning England's chivalry to war. The English, surprised at the early hour, scrambled awake, bleary-eyed after a miserable night attempting to sleep in the soggy carse, and scurried for their armor.

Across the field, the blind old Abbot of Inchaffray, with bare feet and head, shuffled along the ranks of kneeling Scots, crucifix in hand. The bard from Clan Campbell held his hand, confessed his sins, and received absolution, breathing deeply of long-sought peace.

Edward of England paused his troops, staring across at the small band of Scots under the trees. His people thought him less a man than his father, did they? Today would change that.

His knights waited, brilliantly draped warhorses snorting and pawing, men in their matching liveries equally restless, hungry for blood and land. They had marched a long way in the summer heat over many days. But they were eager. Barons and earls clamored to get at the few Scots, to win easy glory and perhaps a fiefdom.

The Scottish skirmish line pulled back into the trees. The English clambered across the stream, leading their men into the narrow space of the boggy carse, between the Pelstream and the Bannock Burns, and up the rise.

One solitary figure remained, facing the might of England. He rode a pony, his back straight, with only the lightest armor, in full view of the English troops. Sunlight flashed off his copper hair. An arrow might fell him at any moment. His open defiance of fear and the Sassenach gave his men courage.

"It's the Bruce," went up the whispers of the Scots at the front.

* * *

The police gathered on the edges of the re-enactment. Crowds of tourists and locals surrounded them in shorts, visors, sunglasses, all the trappings of a summer day. Some soldiers laughed and joked, as Bruce trotted his palfrey before them. Others stood in character, spears stiffly at attention, faces set and hard. Amy, Dana, Rob, Celine, Aaron, and Conrad stood nearby, a tense contrast to the carnival mood. Children dashed by, swinging wooden swords. Pennants fluttered from tents selling crafts and food. Behind them rose the statue of King Edward II of England, astride his warhorse, on the spot he was said to have killed the last Scot, a looming, black silhouette against the blue summer sky. Amy eyed it, her stomach in knots. Shawn and Niall were out there somewhere, sometime.

"We're looking for a man in a tunic and cloak." The police sergeant spoke dryly. He pursed his lips, surveying hundreds of men in tunics and cloaks, waiting for battle. To the south, Sir Keith's cavalry mounted their ponies. Across the field, English trumpets cried to the heavens.

"You have his picture," Conrad snapped.

"Look for clan MacDonald," Amy said. "That's where he'd go."

"Excuse me!" A heavy woman pushed by in a bright flowered dress, clutching a cardboard tray of fish and chips. Two boys with black curls scampered in her wake, lugging a picnic basket and a large blanket.

"Why MacDonald?" Conrad asked irritably.

"We haven't much time before it starts," said the sergeant to his men. "Everyone knows what Shawn Kleiner looks like. Spread out." They dispersed, the sergeant watching them.

Amy spotted him, from a great distance, only seconds before the production was to begin. He stood shoulder to shoulder with dozens of similarly dressed men, lined up and jaws set, looking for all the world as if they were marching into real battle.

"There! There!" She grabbed Conrad's arm, pointing.

"What's he doing?" Dana rose on her toes, straining to see.

"What the hell possessed him to join a re-enactment?" Conrad snarled. The sergeant shouted. Police snaked through the crowd toward Shawn.

Amy and Dana shouted and waved at him, bearded now, in his tunic and long cloak, his eyes locked on the man riding before the troops. Gold circled the man's head, holding down long, fiery hair. He seemed battered for forty years, a man accustomed to rough living. Amy began to push through the spectators, edging toward Shawn—or was it Niall? Suddenly, from the English side, a knight broke ranks.

* * *

Shawn strained to see, clutching his knife and sword. Bruce's crown flashed in the sun. Across the field, a knight rose in his stirrups, kicked his mighty warhorse, lowered his lance, and charged like dark thunder.

Bruce turned, almost casually, toward the powerful destrier. Behind him, his troops drew in breath. Tension snaked through the air like summer lightning. He held steady, making no move to flee, as the rider barreled closer. At the last moment, he twitched his bridle. The pony skipped nimbly to one side. Bruce rose in his stirrups. His ax arced up and smashed back down on the man's head. The blade drove through the metal helmet, cleaving the unfortunate knight's head in two.