Legacy (24 page)

Jamie had already decided to stay put on the hill and draw out his enemy. With Huntly covering Branxton Hill and Maxwell on Flodden Edge, the Scots could last until summer without losing a single man. Surrey, the English commander, encamped at Woller Haugh seven miles to the south, would not willingly walk into such a trap. If he failed to show this morning, the ninth of September, the Scots could retreat with honor. This was Jamie’s only hope.

***

John Maxwell looked over his troops from his vantage point on Flodden Edge. Hundreds of peat fires flickered in the predawn darkness. Across the Till he heard the English army readying for battle. The night before, he’d sent a company of men across the border to pillage an English village. This act of destruction, in full view of the English army on English soil, was an attempt to provoke the earl of Surrey into an early battle. It was a masterly move. Had the earl been a less experienced man, the ploy would have worked. As it was, it did nothing more than cement him in his purpose.

Before John’s astonished eyes, the English army now moved out of the range of Scottish cannons, northward into Scotland. For more than an hour he watched until the entire army disappeared behind the hills. A messenger on a lathered horse rode up.

“The king orders you to move your men to Branxton Hill. Burn the camp behind you.”

John frowned. Surrey would hardly be foolish enough to leave the rear of his army open to attack on foreign soil. If Jamie was shortsighted enough to believe such an absurdity, he must be reasoned with. John ignored the order. “Where is the king, lad?” he asked.

“At Branxton Hill.”

John’s heart sank. Only an idiot would move his troops away from the natural fortress of the mountains to engage an army four times the size of his own. Digging his heels into the sides of his mount, John headed for Branxton Hill. Halfway there, he met the king, surrounded by a company of men riding south at a furious pace. They reined in their horses when they saw him.

“The English have doubled back across the Till,” Jamie panted. “’Tis a trap. Secure your positions on the slope. Home and Huntly on the left. Errol, Crawford, 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 her chamber door sounded loud and angry. She was sure one of them belonged to a woman. Kicking the blankets aside, she climbed out of bed and looked up at the window. The light was dim and the air misty. It was early morning, the day following the battle.

The door opened and a woman stepped inside. Jeanne’s eyes widened. It was Jane Hepburn, countess of Bothwell. She had not seen George Gordon’s fiery-tempered sister for years. They had never been friendly, and from the look on Jane’s face, it was clear that her sentiments remained unchanged.

“’Tis over,” she said. “Jamie is dead. All is lost.”

Jeanne nodded.

“I’ve come to ask you a favor.” Jane bit her lip. “My husband and my brother are at Flodden. We’ve had no word, and I cannot leave the queen. She is distraught with grief.”

“What can I do?”

“Ride to Flodden. The English won’t harm a woman. Find out what has become of our men. Send back word with a courier. There is no need to return.”

“I am a prisoner,” Jeanne reminded her.

Jane’s mouth twisted with pain. “You are no longer of any significance,” she said wearily. “We are all prisoners. Go now and Godspeed.”

For Jeanne, lost in her own thoughts, the miles passed swiftly. She stopped only to water her horse and gnaw at the meat and bread she’d remembered to stuff inside her pack. She approached Flodden slowly, up the right bank of the Till, and looked across the river. To the southwest was Monylaws Hill, to the north Branxton, and to the south and southeast, Flodden Hill and Flodden Edge. The green-gold beauty of the borderlands on the cusp of autumn made the sight that greeted her eyes even more heinous than it already was.

Day-old bodies, their limbs severed, their wounds covered with maggots and black with old blood, littered the field. Beggars swarmed over the battleground, claiming their spoils, rifling through pockets, prying jewels from targes and sword hilts, pulling boots and weapons from men who had breathed their last breath. Moans of the wounded echoed among the hills. The stench was nauseating. Jeanne pressed the folds of her cloak against her nose. Her stomach hovered on the brink of rebellion.

Slowly, she crossed the river and slid from her horse. Once again she saw the blood and the flies. She heard the cries of dying men pleading for water, saw the bodies of Lennox and Argyll and Jane Hepburn’s husband, Lord Bothwell. Fighting helplessly against a force she could not control, Jeanne moved on toward Pipers’ Hill, stepping over maimed clansmen, staring anxiously at dark-haired men until again she saw the jeweled sword hilt and the beloved gray-streaked head of Scotland’s hope twisted at an unnatural angle. She had seen it all before, but this time the pain was too great. The lump in her chest made it difficult to breathe. Where was John?

At the bottom of Branxton Hill, she found him. He was alive. Kneeling down in the thick mud, Jeanne pulled his head into her lap.

His eyes opened, and he smiled. “You’re very pale, my love,” he said. “Have you eaten?”

Jeanne sobbed and bit down on her bottom lip. He was nearly dead and still he worried about her health. The tears rolled down her cheeks. “Yes, John. I’ve eaten.”

“’Tis not wise for you to go without food. You must think of the bairn.”

Unable to speak, Jeanne leaned over to kiss his forehead. Her tears wet his skin.

He lifted his hand to touch her face, but the effort was too great. “You’re crying, Jeannie. Don’t cry, love. Maxwells never cry.” A bubble of blood formed at his lips, and his eyes closed.

Jeanne didn’t know how long she sat there holding his lifeless body in her arms. Night fell. She must have slept because all at once it was morning. Sunlight blinded her, and at first she didn’t see the circle of men on horseback surrounding her.

“’Tis Jeanne Maxwell,” a familiar voice spoke. “What are you doing here?”

Mutely, she looked up at the man who would have been her husband.

“Come, lass,” George Gordon said. “Speak. The last I heard you were imprisoned at Linlithgow.”

Jeanne eased the blood-encrusted head from her lap and stood up. “Jane sent me. She wished for news of you and her husband.”

The brown stallion pawed the ground. “Bothwell is dead,” replied George Gordon shortly.

“Aye.” Jeanne’s pain-filled eyes were on his face. “Others share his fate.”

His eyes flickered over her and dismissed the man at her feet. “Scotland has suffered a greater loss than your husband or Jane’s. Where is your mount?”

“I left her at Pipers’ Hill yesterday.”

George Gordon, the earl of Huntly, reached down to lift her to his saddle. “We shall find her, and then I’ll escort you home.”

The men around him murmured angrily. “She is evil, Huntly, a weaver of spells, a witch,” one of them said. “The king would be alive today if she had not cursed the battle.”

George sighed. He had been educated in Italy and spent three years as ambassador to France. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that his fellow Scots were not all enlightened men. “The king would be alive today if he’d listened with his head,” he explained patiently. “Surely you don’t need a witch to tell you that an army of five thousand has little chance of victory against one four times as large?”

Another man spoke. “What of Bannockburn? The odds were greater against Robert the Bruce.”

George’s thin lips twisted contemptuously. “Jamie Stewart was not the Bruce.”

Sir David Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Huntly’s raised hand silenced him. “The flower of Scotland died yesterday, m’lords. Our minds should be occupied with more pressing matters. After I escort Lady Maxwell to her home, I shall ride for Strathbogie and do what I can to save my lands. I suggest you do the same.”

The men looked at one another, nodded, and turned their horses northward. Sir David was not convinced, but now he was alone. At last, he too turned his mount and rode away.

“You might at least have thanked me,” said George wryly as he watched the last survivors of Jamie’s army disappear over the hill.

“For what?” asked Jeanne dully.

“For saving your life. They wanted to hang you.”

“It no longer matters what happens to me.”

After a moment of startled silence, George swore long and fluently. “You little fool,” he said at last. “What of your son, the heir to Traquair, and the child you carry within you?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks, and dripped off the end of her nose. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“Of course I understand. Do you actually believe no one else has suffered? There isn’t a family in Scotland who won’t mourn a loved one this day.” His fingers bit painfully into her shoulder. “Come, Jeanne. Our fight is just beginning. I expected more of you than this.”

“Why?”

“Not so very long ago, we were betrothed,” he reminded her. “’Tis a grave disappointment for a man to learn he was so lacking in judgment as to love a woman who wished for death in times of trouble.”

Jeanne turned to look at him, her eyes wide and troubled. “You’re a good man, George. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

He shrugged. “I survived my pain and so will you.”

“It isn’t the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” she said angrily. “John was my husband, the father of my children. You have a wife. How can you compare what we had to the love you share with her?”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course, you are right,” he said at last.

She knew he didn’t believe anything of the sort, but the argument was over and she was grateful. It made her uncomfortable to be reminded of the disgraceful way she’d treated George. There had been no help for it, but it embarrassed her nonetheless.