James had harbored hopes that the townsfolk would see reason and, greeting the Covenanting troops as protectors, sign their fealty to the cause. But scouts had brought news that the men of Aberdeen had raised a militia, now entrenched in various key points on the outskirts of the town.
The dry food stuck in his throat, and James washed it down with a swig of icy water from the Dee. He was sorely wanting a cup of tea, and he believed it would be one of the first things on his mind at the battle’s conclusion.
Nodding at the general’s words, James looked around at the men in their charge. A few noblemen had come to stand at their side, in their armored kit, second sons the lot of them, he’d wager.
The rest of the men were in various states of traditional clothing. Hardened by their years fighting in Germany, Leslie’s hired mercenaries had forsaken heavy armor, instead donning additional weaponry and clothing that allowed for agility and speed. Most wore close-fitting trews and a leather vest, with a musket on the shoulder and sword at the hip.
A small band of Highlanders had gathered for the cause as well, and James had to smile at the audacious lot of them. He hadn’t seen the men set camp—they’d merely disappeared the night before, reappearing like mist with the dawn. They dressed like true Scotsmen in belted plaids; some bore only tall hooked pikes, others carried dirks and scarred shields, and a few wore claymores strapped at their backs.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your repast, gentlemen.”
James and Leslie looked up at the source of the sarcasm to find Campbell standing over them. A long royal blue waistcoat, knee breeches, and hose announced that he would not be seeing battle that day.
“I see I’ve dressed for our side this morning,” he added snidely. Inspired by the blue talisman James had pinned to his bonnet, dozens of blue ribbons had sprung up in just as many shades, knotted from bonnets, or worn as sashes across chests.
“Aye,” James replied smoothly, “the men are calling it the Covenanting blue.”
Campbell looked in the distance, disdain souring his features. “I see not everybody has been informed of your winsome badge.”
A group of Irish, many no more than boys, had gathered not far from them. James had been surprised to find that Irishmen had come to bear arms with them, and was told merely that they’d come to repay a debt. They had stood out at once from the crowd, having all, inexplicably, donned long yellow shirts for battle.
“Aye,” Leslie answered slowly, picking the oats from his teeth. He studied Campbell’s coat. “We need all the swords we can get today, seeing as not all stand at the ready.”
Ignoring the jibe, Campbell said, “Ah, you remind me.” Pursing his thin lips, he shrieked out a whistle and a young boy appeared with a dog at the end of a cloth leash.
Campbell thrust his hand toward the boy, making him balk. “Come, lad.” he scolded, “I’ve not all day.”
Face crumpled in a mixture of terror and anger, the young boy reluctantly handed the whimpering dog to Campbell.
“I find it auspicious to greet a day of battle having fleshed my maiden sword.”
His blade, a showy broadsword with gilded basket and filigreed base, swept down, catching the mutt at the shoulder, clumsily cleaving his head from his body.
The young boy let out an anguished cry, and James jumped to his feet, hand poised on the sword at his side in outrage and horror. “What are you about, man?”
“Don’t just gape like an idiot, lad,” Campbell chided the young boy. He nudged the limp body with the flat of his blade. “Take this thing away.”
General Leslie merely looked away, bored distaste playing across his features, as he continued to pick at his teeth.
“So guileless, James?” Campbell laughed. “Do you think that title of yours was a reward for noble goodwill? No, Marquis, your wealth was bought with the blood of those who came before you. You’re off to battle today. Now act it.”
James remained standing, jaw set and steel in his eyes.
“Now, Leslie,” Campbell continued as if James were no longer there, “how do you plan to manage today’s affair?”
“We march on the bridge,” the smaller man replied, spitting some bit of food from his mouth. “We use musket fire first. What doesn’t scare off the townsfolk will thin them. We hold fast in the center. Once it gives, we charge in and finish it.”
“The townsfolk shall be offered clemency,” James interjected. “My desire is for order and civility above all. Provisions shall be replaced, and none will suffer needlessly. Once Aberdeen fully understands the king’s folly, I am certain they will accede.”
“Is that how it will be?” Campbell asked, his tone inscrutable.
“Aye,” James replied. “And how else?”
The sound of so many marching feet echoed loudly off the stone bridge, strafing the gently rushing river below. The Dee was in flood, and Leslie had decreed they’d charge on the bridge, forgoing any supplemental attacks from the right or left flanks.
It was a brutal firefight lasting hours, the muskets of the Aberdeen militia having proved unsettlingly tenacious, biting leisurely into the ranks of the Covenant soldiers whenever they attempted an advance.
By day’s end, the town’s spirits ran high. The accidental realization that their militia could hold their defenses intact against a well-funded attack bolstered them with newfound confidence.
