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FRESH BLOOD ON ANCIENT SOIL
A Saga of the Scottish Kings of Aquitaine
PROLOGUE
Chapter II: First Blood
November 28, 1199
Kenneth’s heartbeat reverberated in his ears as he looked to his father for the signal. Thirteen years of tutelage under the old king had led up to this moment. Today he would either become a warrior or a corpse. There was no middle ground. Frightened though he was, he would not flee. The shame would be an unbearable hell. He was resolved to win or to die.
Magnus turned and met his son’s gaze. With a slight nod and a firm gesture, he gave the signal to advance. Kenneth understood, and relayed the signal to his own men. He spurred his horse on, flanked by a small force of knights, his personal retinue of bodyguards—some thirty men. Many of his soldiers were poor infantry, equipped with whatever they could find. A core of heavy infantry and pikemen added strength to the unit, and a band of archers provided support.
Fogartach had remained with the archers. He raised his right arm as he cried out, “Archers! Nock arrows! Ready!” Some two hundred men drew back their bows and prepared to unleash the deadly instruments upon their foes. At the precise moment, Fogartach brought his arm downward in a swift motion as he shouted, “Loose!” Two hundred shafts soared toward the enemy flank. Most were deflected by shields, but a few found their homes in the feet, arms, eyes, and throats of Zachary’s levies.
Now the enemy’s bows spoke, and in greater numbers. Over five hundred whistling shafts flew at Kenneth’s advancing flank. As loud as he could, the future king shouted, “Shields!” His men, those that were able, raised their shields. For many of the common footsloggers, this was little help. Bucklers and small wooden shields did not cover a large area. Many of his men fell, dead or wounded, to the arrows. His knights were safe, however. Their shields and armour protected them, though one lost his mount. A quick glance from Kenneth and he knew what to do. The man sank back into the ranks of the infantry, leaving his twenty nine comrades to protect their lord.
Another volley was launched by each side; the screams of the wounded and the dying filled the air. For a moment, Kenneth’s mortality confronted him, and he was tempted to flee. No. Never. He spat at the ground, as much in defiance as to clear his throat. He looked to his father again. The signal was given. Kenneth raised his sword on high, for all the men to see. After inhaling as deeply as he could, he let out the cry, “St. Martial!” His knights immediately echoed the call, followed by the infantry. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the charge began. The small band of knights drove headlong into the enemy lines, knowing their own infantry were right behind them. The commander of the enemy flank called for a counter-charge, and the two sides rushed at each other, colliding with terrible force.
The man directly in front of Kenneth stood no chance. The sheer force of the cavalry charge knocked him back, his death coming swiftly yet painfully as he was trampled thrice over. The prince and his front rank of knights hacked to and fro at their foes, mostly peasant levies. His father’s troops were facing the
Condottieri, the professional mercenaries who protected the Papacy. He had to break these commoners quickly in order to flank the core of Zachary’s army.
Louder and louder grew the sounds of battle as the ranks of Kenneth’s infantry slammed into the enemy lines. His soul ached for every man that fell, on both sides. Yet none would have known it from the look on his face, so intent was he on his mission. Suddenly, his horse was run through by a pike, or perhaps a pitch-fork. He never saw the implement. All he knew was that he had been thrown from his mount. Within moments, a muddy peasant with a pitch-fork was towering over him, ready to deliver the killing blow. Kenneth reached for his sword and was ready to fight back, but there was no need. A sword plunged through the man’s chest, and in a whoosh of colour, the body was discarded by its killer, who held out a helping hand to the prince.
Kenneth smiled as he saw the face of his rescuer: Duke Alpin of Overn. But as he reached up to take hold of Alpin’s hand, a spray of blood spattered his face. Alpin was launched sideways, his helmet dented by the force of a club. With a loud cry of disbelief, Kenneth leapt to his feet and slew the man who had done this. He cried for his men to rally to him; as they formed a schiltron around him, he knelt down to look at the wounded Duke. Bending his ear down to Alpin’s face, he dared to smile for a moment as faint but steady breaths gently blew his hair. Kenneth exulted, “He’s alive! He’s alive!”
Pointing to six men, the prince commanded, “You there, take him up and get him back to the camp!” Then, turning to the captain of his personal guard, “Take my guard and escort these fine men! Make sure they get safely to the camp!” The captain began to object, but Kenneth insisted, “Do not argue with me! Go, now! I will be fine!”
As the men carried Alpin, protected by Kenneth’s own guard, the prince rushed back into the fray. Led by Duke Uc, the Aquitanians had held the line. Now they saw their young king-to-be attack the enemy with ferocity. The Scots on that flank fought with incredible vigour. Alpin had been their duke, for they had settled in Overn a decade ago at the request of King Magnus, because that region had been heavily depopulated by the Abbesid conquest. Now they fought to avenge the harm done to their duke. The Occitans under Uc, and the Gascons under Kenneth and Fogartach, also fought bravely, mostly led by the examples of Kenneth and Uc.
The ferocity of the Aquitanian assault proved too much for their peasant foes. The enemy lines broke and fled. Caught up in the frenzy, Duke Uc cried out, “Pursue and slay!” But Kenneth countered, “Hold, men! Hold! To me! To me! We must strike the centre!” Uc said nothing, ashamed that he had let bloodlust cloud his judgment. The men followed young Kenneth and slammed into the
Condottieri.
This foe proved more difficult. Well armoured and highly disciplined, these mercenaries were among the best of the best. Despite being attacked on two flanks, the
Condottieri held firm. Worse, they actually seemed to be winning. Kenneth’s lines began to buckle, but Magnus’s veterans held firm. Many of the Scots in the centre flank had fought with him in the Crusade to liberate Aquitaine. They had personally seen the king lead them to victories none had thought possible. There was no doubt in their minds that the day would yet be theirs. God had always fought for Magnus, and they knew He would do so today, as well.
Kenneth cried out for his men to look to Magnus and draw strength. But as the
Condottieri slew more and more of the Aquitanians, the morale of the prince’s flank began to waver. They were losing ground. In desperation, Kenneth looked up to heaven and cried out, “Lord God, deliver us!”
- - -
Jean could not believe his eyes. As he and the other archers watched, the left flank broke and fled, while Prince Kenneth’s right flank struggled. Only the centre held firm, unflinching in the presence of the Hammer of God. The enemy right flank had many cavalrymen, and these pursued the fleeing Scottish left, riding down the routers like grass. It was a horrible sight to behold.
Suddenly, he heard Duke Fogartach’s command, “Aim for the left! Aim for the left! Archers, nock!” Quickly Jean readied an arrow. “Draw!” At this command he drew his bow, but as he did so, his foot slipped, and he released his arrow early and high. He knew it would miss. The other archers released at the command, “Loose!” Their arrows sailed toward the enemy cavalry, while Jean’s face turned red with embarrassment. Had he known the fate of his arrow, he might have reacted differently…
- - -
Pope Zachary II sat atop his horse, his face beaming with pride. His forces had routed the enemy left, and the
Condottieri were on the verge of breaking the enemy right, as well. His cavalry would swoop in from behind, surround Magnus, and take the Scottish King as a prisoner. He smiled to himself at the thought of watching that heretic burn at the stake in Rome. Yes, all was going according to plan. He opened his mouth to give the order that he wanted Magnus alive, but never got the chance to speak. A stray arrow caught him right in the eye, and his lifeless body was thrown from its mount. Pope Zachary was dead.
- - -
As the cry rang out, “Pope Zachary is dead! Pope Zachary is dead!” His army began to crumble. The
Condottieri performed a fighting withdrawal, and Magnus opted to let them go rather than suffer more casualties. The day was his. Zachary was dead. God-willing, the war was over now. Finished in a single battle.
He knew that the Curia had accompanied Zachary to Orvieto, so confident were they in his victory. That meant that he now had them trapped like rats. They would have to capitulate and accept Urban III as Pope. He sent a messenger to Orvieto, demanding they acknowledge Urban. He gave them one day to decide…
- - -
November 29, 1199
It was about noon when Magnus, accompanied by Kenneth, Uc, and Fogartach, went for a walk through the camp of his army. “What is the condition of Duke Alpin?” he asked.
Fogartach replied, “He will live, but the wound to his head did something to his brain. He’s completely unresponsive. He’s…”
“…a vegetable,” said Uc. “He’s a damned vegetable. No good to anyone anymore.”
Magnus called for a squire and commanded him, “Find me twelve men of Overn and have them take Duke Alpin back to his wife. No doubt she will wish to care for him, and can do so better than we who are in this camp.” The squire nodded and left immediately.
Fogartach then asked the king, “When do you expect a reply from the Curia?”
“They still have a few hours,” was the answer.
Suddenly Kenneth called out, “Look! There’s smoke coming from Orvieto! What could it mean? A fire in the city?”
Magnus put his hand on the prince’s shoulder, and with a grim face he said, “That’s not a fire, my lad. That’s our answer; and it means this war isn’t over yet. Prepare your men for a siege…”