his steed forward, first glancing to the top of the hill and then to Angus. “Another traitor come to take on the greatest army in Christendom. We will be happy to slay ye and your lot of bedraggled miscreants.”
With the slight, laughter resounded from the enemy ranks—laughter that served to make Angus hate them all the more. “Suit yourself but let no one say I did not give ye fair warning.”
Angus signaled to the only archer in sight atop the hill while de Valence gave the order for his cavalry to prepare arms.
“Look at them,” moaned a sentry no more than five paces away. “They outnumber us at least three to one.”
Facing his men, Angus again thrust his sword into the air. “We are the sons of the MacDonald of the Isles, of Somerled, and his clan. The blood of the most powerful men ever to call Scotland home thrums through our blood. I swear by all that is holy, we will make these sassanach bastards tremble in their boots. This is our day and we will not fail!”
The ranks erupted with a tumultuous battle cry while the English cavalry thundered forward.
“Hold!” Angus shouted.
The horses charged head-on into the trap, horses falling into the boggy trenches with nowhere to go. The men atop the hill barraged the English with an onslaught of arrows sailing toward the flailing knights. Only then did Angus slice his sword through the air and lead the charge. “Advance!”
Confused and already bloodied, the English stood knee-deep in mud as the Scots bore down upon them. The heinous sounds of battle swelled around him as pikes pierced through flesh and the clang of swords clattered. Shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying rose louder as Angus pressed forward with Raghnall at his side, both men fighting as if Satan himself were blowing fire up their backsides.
By the time Aymer de Valence gave the order to retreat, the English had suffered countless losses. Angus and his men surrounded a half-dozen well-armored knights, knee-deep in mud, standing back-to-back, so exhausted they were scarcely able to raise their swords.
“Throw down now and we’ll spare ye,” Angus shouted. “I give my word, no harm will befall a one of ye.”
“I’d rather finish them,” growled Raghnall.
“The king needs these bastards alive. Relieve them of their weapons and bind their wrists.” Angus leapt onto the high ground and faced the king’s army. “Sons of Scotland, God has looked upon us with favor this day. Let it be known that Robert the Bruce will hide no more!”
After the battle, the bone-weary Scots camped with the Trinitarian monks at Fail Monastery. By the next day, their energy was once again restored on the march to Turnberry, where they were met with a feast of the king’s venison and casks of ale.
Angus opted not to dine at the high table and made merry with his men. “Ye all proved your worth and instilled the fear of the MacDonald in the hearts of the English.”
They raised their tankards and bellowed their Gaelic war cry, “Fraoch eilean.”
“Let us march on Sterling!” shouted one.
“Aye, afore the bastards have time to regroup!”
“I commend your spirit,” Angus replied, though he knew they did not yet have the numbers for a successful march on the stronghold known as the gateway to the Highlands. Nonetheless, this was no minor victory and, with the news, the king and his nobles were already bringing in fresh recruits. But they needed tens of thousands more to end this war.
Angus swilled his ale and chuckled as he watched his men celebrate. After the loss at Loch Ryan, it felt good to be triumphant at long last. Mayhap he had even redeemed himself with the Bruce. At least he prayed his efforts at Loudoun Hill were enough to regain a modicum of favor.
Raghnall grabbed the ewer and poured himself another pint. “What is next, m’lord?”
Angus released a long breath as he stared into his frothing ale. “I need to right a wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He finished his drink and climbed off the bench.
“Where are ye off to?” asked the man-at-arms.
“Off to cut my own throat, I reckon.”
“Then I’d best go with ye.”
Raghnall started to rise, but Angus grasped his shoulder and urged him to stay put. “I’ve something I must do. Remain here and if the king doesn’t sever my cods, I’ll return anon.”
Though he ought to be inflated with the frenzy of a victor’s mirth, Angus headed for the high table with a heart as heavy