The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(22)

Eoin MacLean, or Striker as he was called, was the master of the bold strategies and daring tactics for which the Highland Guard had become known. But this plan was bold and daring even for him.

MacLean’s plan was calculated for maximum impact, taking advantage of the light and mist to mount a quick, fierce surprise attack to unsettle the enemy, to take away the advantage of superior numbers, weaponry, and armor, and most of all, instill fear in the enemy heart. It had worked before—albeit never with so few against so many.

In the cloak of heavy mist that blanketed the valley of the River Dee, the black-helmed, dark-cloaked members of the Highland Guard would appear out of the misty dawn suddenly and undetected, their numbers shrouded, like the phantom band of marauders some proclaimed them to be. In the ensuing chaos and panic, they hoped to create enough of a break for Edward and his men to escape.

They followed the river south for about an hour before reaching a small woodland in a bend on the northern bank just opposite the island. From here, MacSorley and MacRuairi would make use of their water skills by swimming across the murky black waters of the river to sneak into Edward Bruce’s camp and prepare them for the plan. Assuming they could sneak past Edward’s guards first.

“Wait for the signal,” MacLeod said.

“Aye, Chief,” MacSorley said, and then turned to Gregor MacGregor with a grin. “Just make sure you don’t miss.” The famed archer would light a fiery arrow to send over the causeway when it was clear.

“I’ll aim for your head,” MacGregor said. “That’s a big target.”

MacSorley smiled. “If you want a big target, aim for my cock.”

The men laughed.

“This smells like shite,” MacRuairi said, smearing the black seal grease over his naked skin. They’d bundled their armor and weapons in a pack to keep them dry when they crossed the river. The seal grease would not only help them blend into the darkness, it protected them from the cold December waters.

“You’ll be grateful for it in a few minutes.” MacSorley grinned. “The water will freeze your bollocks off.”

“Which shouldn’t be a problem for you anymore,” MacRuairi said dryly.

“Damn, cousin, was that a joke?” MacSorley shook his head. “It does snow in hell.”

MacRuairi muttered something under his breath as he finished applying the grease.

When it was time to go, MacLeod gave a few further instructions before giving their traditional parting: “Bàs roimh Gèill.” Death before surrender. To Highlander warriors there was no other choice. They would succeed or die trying. Death held no fear for them. To Highlanders there was no greater glory than dying on a battlefield.

Leaving the two warriors to their icy swim, the rest of the party rode east, skirting the sleeping English army camped along the eastern bank of the river to block the causeway. When they reached a small wooded hill—the site of an ancient ring fort—MacLeod gave the signal to stop. From here they would launch their attack.

Stretched out between them and the river-bound castle lay a wide expanse of boggy marshland, the ground hardened and grasses browned by the cold breath of winter. Though darkness and mist shrouded the English army from view, their presence—sleeping or nay—was evident in the sounds and smells that carried through the night. Piss and shite from fifteen hundred men left its mark.

The enemy was close. No more than a furlong away. But every man there knew the importance of silence. For their plan to have any chance of succeeding, they must have surprise on their side.

For nearly a half-hour no one said a word as they waited for dawn to break and MacLeod to give the signal. Like a horse chomping at the bit, Magnus could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his blood surging as every instinct clamored to begin.

At last it came. When the first rays of dawn pierced the darkness, MacLeod raised his hand and motioned forward. Magnus and the other members of the Highland Guard took their positions in the front and slowly made their way downhill, using the thick curtain of mist to shield their approach.

The English were rousing. Magnus could hear the sounds of voices, punctuated by the clamor of mail and men moving about. He felt the familiar dead calm come over him. His mind cleared, his pulse slowed, and everything seemed to move at half the speed of normal.

MacLeod signaled for them to stop. Again they waited. More anxiously this time, as every minute the cold light of day strengthened all around them. Worse—disastrously worse—the mist that had seemed so thick only moments before, the mist that could be counted on to stay till midmorning, started to lift. The shield that would hide their presence and their numbers was about to disappear. In a few minutes they would be exposed.

Their dangerous plan had been shot to hell. They were about to become target practice for thousands of English soldiers.

Magnus could see from the look exchanged by MacLeod and MacLean that they were thinking the same thing: how much longer could they wait to see whether MacSorley and MacRuairi had succeeded?

Finally, they heard the surprised shouts from the English as Edward Bruce’s army began to fire arrows on them, engaging them from the front.

MacSorley and MacRuairi had done it! They had their distraction. As the English rushed to get into position, the Highland Guard attacked. But without the mist to hide them, they had to rely on the one thing that they had left: terror.

With a battle cry to chill the blood of any mortal man, they drove into the flank of the English army with a savage ferocity, cutting down everything in their path. The startled cries reverberated through the icy morning. Before the English could mount a defense, the Highland Guard, with Douglas’s men behind them, had turned around to charge again. They sent the knights reeling and bored through the foot soldiers like a stake, splintering the carefully positioned army into chaos. The English army had broken.