Chapter Twenty-Seven
MacLean’s’ face was one of fury, and terrible excitement as the horse bore down, and for that split second, Kyle thought everything was over, but then the horsemen widened their formation at the last moment, some of the column sweeping out to the sides. There was no time for anyone to react to this change with anything but a sharp glance and sheer shock, and MacLean’s’ face fell as he turned his head toward the sound of the impending cavalry.
His snarl fell away, and his eyes went wide, but that was all he could muster before Sir Simon’s horse took him full-on, buckling his body beneath the steed’s charging chest and thrusting him down beneath the hooves like a loosely tied sack of produce that had fallen off of a merchant’s cart.
The horsemen struck every Scotsman in their path, both rebels and McGowans alike, running them down and through with their lances and their wide breasted mounts, sending them down to the ground in turbulent waves of destruction and cries of surprise, shock, and pain.
Kyle saw Sir Simon coming at him, his horse fresh with MacLean’s blood, and he readied himself for the collision. There was no time to get out of the way, and with the wagon behind him, he had nowhere to go.
Time slowed as Kyle watched the armored villain and his war horse coming closer and closer. Kyle’s grip on his sword was tighter than it had ever been, and he tensed his muscles as he hunkered down a bit further into his defensive stance. Sir Simon was angling to the left to skate beside the wagon after his lance struck home, so Kyle sprung to the right.
With a mighty bellow, he swung his sword as he went, glancing its blade down the shaft of the lance as he shot himself out of the way, and the lance broke against the side of the wagon as Sir Simon peeled off toward the left side. Kyle came sliding to a halt in the muddy road, huffing for air, with no time to process how close he had just come to an immediate and terrible death, for there was a fight still to be had.
“Bring them down!” Kyle screamed, bringing his sword back up into an aggressive stance. “Take them from their saddles!” he shouted while he briefly glanced around and took stock of the scene.
The English horse had run through the crowd with vicious efficiency, and now they were split in their positioning. Some had plowed all the way through the mass of men to the other side and were now wheeling about, taking up positions for another pass, while others had come to a screeching halt amidst the madness, halted by either a body or the mud, and had dropped their lances for their maces, axes, and swords.
“Ready again!” he heard Sir Simon shout as the knight drew forth his frightening blade and waved it above his head. “To me! To me!”
“Bring them down!” Kyle called out once more among the din. “Bring them down!”
Some of the rebels were fleeing, scurrying as quick as they could back up the banks they had come charging down, but others, thrust into confusing and terrible combat, had made the split-second decision to stand their ground. No more was this a battle between Scotsmen. Now it was a battle with the English intruders.
“Send them back tae England!” Kyle cried, dashing toward the closest horseman whose advance had been halted. “Form ranks! Bring them down!”
He met the Englishman and reached up with his free hand, and two others, one rebel and one McGowan, joined him. They took hold of him hard, and the knight twisted about in terror, flailing out with his mace, putting a terrific dent in the McGowan soldier’s kettle helm, but it was not enough, and the three of them dragged the knight from his seat, thrusting him down to the mud, where the rebel Scot fell upon him and ended his time in Scotland once and for all.
“Ready!” Sir Simon commanded, raising up his sword. The rest of the horsemen that had gotten clear were formed in ranks once more, pawing at the earth, preparing for another devastating pass.
“Ranks!” MacNear commanded, turning his horse about. “Ranks!” The few remaining Englishmen among the melee were likewise stripped from their saddles and dispatched as the motley band of Scotsmen formed up together in the pouring rain, raising their spears as best they could to ward off the charge. “Steady men! Steady!”
“Charge!” Sir Simon called, and once more they came, this time their swords and morning stars held aloft rather than lances.
“Steady!” Kyle commanded, filing into the loose formation. “Steady!” The horses were coming closer and closer, splashing up mud in the rain and shaking the dirt track of a road. “Thrust!”
The formation all thrust out with their spears on his command, and the horses reared back, some too late, and those unlucky beasts tumbled into the hedge wall, crashing down on a handful of unfortunate Scotsmen. The rest of the knights tried frantically to control their steeds as the animals bucked in fear.
“Take them!” Kyle screamed, his throat a raspy mess from all the shouting, his hair completely soaked by the storm, and his face a mud and blood covered Picasso painting. A cry went up from all the remaining Scotsmen, and they sprung from their formation, stabbing up with their spears, taking men from their saddles, and the true melee began.
A knight struggled to his feet in front of Kyle, having just been thrown from his horse, and he came at Kyle with his longsword, but Kyle’s years of tireless practice outmatched the poor Englishman. In three moves, he sent the man back down to the mud, the clanging of metal against metal punctuation the roar of thunder above. Kyle whirled about, looking for Sir Simon, intent on cutting the man down and routing the rest of his men. Then he saw him.
Sir Simon and MacNear were locked in horseback combat, smashing their swords together while their mounts circled each other in the rain. The fight was even matched only for a moment until Sir Simon’s skill won out, and with a tremendous thrust, he pierced MacNear’s rudimentary highland armor, and the Scotsman slouched over in the saddle, sliding to his left, and then down to the ground.
“No!” Kyle roared out like a lion, and he charged Sir Simon on foot. The Englishman turned, a look of eagerness upon his brow and Scottish blood upon his sword, and he spurred his horse forwards to meet Kyle among the thick of the fighting.
They met with anger and ferociousness, Kyle spinning out wide to counter Sir Simon’s high blows, ducking beneath his horse’s swiveling head, striking from one side and then the other, trying desperately to find a hole in Sir Simon’s defenses, but the knight was well trained and battle-hardened, and their duel became exaggerated and drawn out, the ringing of sword on sword coming again and again while men fell to the ground all around them, English and Scottish alike.
On it went until Kyle saw his moment, and he took a running slide through the mud, diving beneath Sir Simon’s horse on his knees so quickly the Englishman did not have the time to twist around, and Kyle swung upwards, his weapon connecting with Sir Simon’s right leg. Though clad in mail, it was not enough to protect Sir Simon from Kyle’s brute strength, and Kyle felt the blow cracking into Sir Simon’s leg, breaking bone, and Sir Simon turned his head to the sky with a shriek, quickly wheeling his horse away from the combat.
“Back!” Sir Simon yelled out. “Back to the inn! Withdraw!” he was rattled from the strike, not used to losing, and in terrible shock from the exploding pain. “Back!”
“Route them!” Kyle called, perusing Sir Simon as he began withdrawing. “Chase them down!”
The knights were confused, caught between the heat of battle Sir Simon’s sudden order to retreat, and in their confusion, more fell to the Scotsmen, who, seeing victory within their grasp, surged forward with an intense battle cry, pulling more men down as the horsemen began their hasty, unorganized retreat.
When they were clear of the fighting, at last, the horsemen broke into a gallop, charging after Sir Simon down the road, back the way they had come from. The Scotsmen broke out into a victorious cheer, the adrenaline of the moment and the exuberance of survival washing over them as they shook their weapons into the storming sky.
Kyle stood victorious over the field, covered from head to toe in mud and gore, his sword slaked with his foes, his hair half tied and half disorganized, dripping the stormwater down across his chest and chin. All around him lay men, both Scottish and English, in sorry heaps and patches of mud. Riderless horses milled about on the outskirts of what had been the mosh pit, and weapons covered the interspersing ground between corpses. It was over, and against all odds, they had emerged the victors.
“Who can ride?” Kyle asked, looking around at the remaining Scotsmen. There were not that many of them still standing, between the fallen and the few that had run for the trees at the first sight of the English charge. There were perhaps six men who were able to venture further, and the rest he tasked to care for the wounded, loading up the cart with them and delivering them back to McGowan castle.
There was no time for him to mourn the fallen or care for the injured. His men could attend to that. For Laila was still out there, and while their distraction had clearly worked, he worried about Laila and her brothers. He did not even know if they had succeeded in their covert rescue mission or if they would cross paths with Sir Simon, returning defeated. Either way, he was not going to wait around for news to reach him.
“Come on then!” Kyle called out, fueled by the burning fire of Laila within him. “We ride! Ha!” and after mounting upon his steed, he surged onward as the rain began to slacken, his small band of pursuers behind him, on the warpath to find Laila and to put an end to these troublesome Englishmen once and for all.
