Page 80 of The Highlander's Alluring Spy
Nathair heard them before he saw them. Their armor clanked, and their feet beat in time as they marched as one body over the hills and glens that would bring them to the battlefield. One of them was playing some sort of instrument, heralding their arrival.
The first wave arrived and lined up around six feet from where Nathair and William stood at the front of the battlefield, protecting their castle, their home.
Fear flooded Nathair’s heart. He did not shy from it but embraced it. Fear would keep him going. Fear not only for himself but for his soldiers, for his friends, for his daughter. For them, for his country, for his people, he would fight until the last breath.
And then something extraordinary happened. It was just one reedy voice, a voice that might have been the young soldier Connor, and he was not yelling or screaming. In fact, very calmly and clearly, he began to sing.
“As I came in by Dunidier, an’ down by Netherha’, there was fifty thousan’ Heilan’ men a-marchin’ to Harlaw.”
Nathair’s men began to mumble behind him. Nathair knew the tune. It was an old war ballad describing a battle that had happened more than a century before.
To his surprise, more of his men took up the chant, stamping their feet and shaking their shields and weapons rhythmically as they sang.
“As I came on, an’ farther on, an’ down and by Balquhain, oh there I met Sir James the Rose, wi’ him Sir John the Gryme.”
A swell of pride filled the Laird’s heart, overcoming the fear and eclipsing it into something new. These old men and boys, very few of whom were of an age for fighting, stood as one in unity. These soldiers, who had watched their fathers and sons taken from them in previous wars, stood there without flinching.
These people,hispeople, knew that they would die, but they would not give the English invaders the satisfaction of going quietly to their deaths. They would stand as one, united in song before the battle came to them.
Nathair and William exchanged glances. Nathair once more saw that familiar glint in his friend’s eye as William, too, began to sing, with more and more of them joining in behind them.
“Oh came ye frae the Heilan’s, man, an’ came ye a' the way? Saw ye Macdonell an’ his men, as they came frae the Skee?”
Nathair nodded and opened his mouth too. The tiny Scots army, only a hundred men strong, could be heard for miles around as they sang together, led by their Laird.
“Yes, me cam frae the Heilan’s, man, an’ me came a' the way, an’ she saw Macdonnel an’ his men, as they came frae the Skee.”
By the time the English army had assembled in full, some four hundred men strong, every one of the Scotsmen was singing his way through the ballad. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, singing the grim tale of battle from their hearts.
The Englishmen, led by a bespectacled man in his mid-thirties, seemed confused about what to do. Nobody moved on the other side as the clan sang together. William unsheathed his claymore and Nathair his own sword, and they held them up, ready to lead.
Some ten minutes passed from the beginning of the ballad to the end, ten minutes where his men seemed to find a spirit he had feared left them all forever.
Perhaps they could not win, but they would not die as cowards. Even if Clan MacFoihl was eradicated today, they would live on.Scotlandwould live on, and there was nothing these sorry Englishmen could do to stop them.
“Gin anybody speer at ye, for them ye took awa’, ye may tell their wives and bairnies, they're sleepin’ at Harlaw.”
The song finished, and a charge seemed to fill the air. Nathair met the eyes of the bespectacled man across the battlefield and saw cold, ready anger.
To death, then. To life.
He nodded at William, and William nodded back.
“Ready, men!” William called at the top of his voice, all Commander now. He held up his hand, counting down. “One, two—we fight!”
Roaring as one unit, the clansmen raced forward while the English soldiers on the other side did the same. Nathair and William led the pack, darting straight for the English leader, their swords glinting in the sunlight.
Four hundred men flowed towards them, as unstoppable as the molten rocks that had destroyed the ancient city near Mount Vesuvius, and just as deadly. The Scotsmen braced for the impact as the armies collided. Then something very unexpected happened that froze everyone where they stood.
“Stop!” a thin voice cried, barely hearable above the clamor. “Stop, stop!”
23
The Viscount
It was like something from a dream, like a scene described in the kirk from the holy book. One moment, Nathair was charging towards certain death, and the next, an angel bore down before him, placing her whole body between him and the attacking Englishman.
But no, it was not an angel, but a woman. She was dirty and exhausted, clad in a blue traveling dress, her blonde hair wild, her eyes wide as she gazed between the two men, her hands held out on either side as though they could somehow stop the blades.
