and Montrose to the right, and you, Maxwell, shall ride with me in the center. Lennox and Argyll with the Highland division on the extreme right and Bothwell will command the reserve behind the line.”
“Please, Your Grace,” John interrupted. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Speak,” ordered the king.
“Your person is too valuable to lead a charge. If you should be wounded or, God forbid, killed, there is no victory for Scotland. Stay back with Bothwell and the reserves.”
Jamie straightened in his saddle. “I am the king of Scotland. What kind of king sends his men into battle while he cowers behind the lines?”
John hesitated. By the day’s end, they would all be dead. He had nothing to lose by speaking his mind. “What kind of king risks the future of his kingdom? Should we die today, will there be a Scotland for our sons?”
For a long moment Jamie stared into the icy gray eyes of the man before him. There was nothing the king admired more than courage, and it appeared that John Maxwell had more than his share. “Save your temper for the battlefield, Maxwell, and I’ll bestow an earldom on you.”
John’s lips twitched. “I already have one, Your Grace.”
Jamie threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a right one, John Maxwell. Collect your troops and meet me on the slope.”
John acknowledged defeat. The king was beyond reason. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said flatly. Turning his mount, he returned the way he came.
Much of Flodden Edge was obscured by smoke from the campfires, but high on the ledge, he saw the remnants of the British army. Surrey’s move was masterly. By pretending to invade Scotland, he’d doubled back and cut James’s lines of communication, severing any potential retreat to his own country. The men, however, were in poor condition, tired looking, their feet dragging. When they marched into battle, they would not have the advantage of high ground.
By the time John rallied his troops and marched them to Branxton Hill, the English were filing over by the Pallinsburn Causeway. The blood drummed in his temples. This opportunity was too good to miss. He looked around. Where was Jamie? He saw him farther up on the slope. Urging his stallion to higher ground, John reined in beside the king. He spoke without using the formal address. “We can pick them off with our guns one at a time. Give the order, Your Grace.”
Jamie shook his head. “No. I want no piecemeal methods. They shall be lined up before me in the hollow of my hand before we shoot. Let them come on to their slaughter.”
John watched in horror as the English army swung right and then westward beneath them, to disappear out of sight. Another surge of Englishmen, led by Sir Edmund Howard, advanced over the Pallinsburn to join their brethren. Still Jamie did nothing.
The armies, although invisible to each other, were very close together. A shot was fired, and the Scots’ master gunner fell to the ground. The enemy came from below, a surging wave of disciplined manhood shooting with the executed precision only battle-trained troops in the best of conditions occasionally acquire. They stayed well out of range of Scottish gunfire.
On the brow of the hill, Jamie’s men were shot to pieces. In his rage and panic, he did the only thing possible given his nature and the position in which he found himself. He ordered a descent from the hill to engage the enemy directly, with himself at the head of the attack.
The simmering anger inside John’s head burst into white-hot fury as he watched the king commit his suicidal charge. With short, clipped syllables, he ordered ten of his finest soldiers to his side. Drawing his sword, he raised his targe, gripped his reins, and charged down the hill with grim determination. There was no going back now. No quarter would be given. They must follow their valiant, foolhardy ruler and die.
An unforeseen dip in the ground put them at a disadvantage, forcing them to come up in front of the enemy. The Scots had spears and swords, but the English were armed with deadly billhooks. The king’s standard went down. Reaching to within a spear’s length of Surrey, John Maxwell was stabbed through the chest by a savage sweep of a billhook. He killed five Englishmen before his spear broke in his hands. By nightfall the massacre was complete, and the English general claimed his victory.
***
Jeanne sat up on the bed and listened. The voices outside