Page 70 of Summer Warrior

“Aye,” said the spy with a chuckle. “I imagine it will appear just so.”

“Who leads them into battle?” asked Somerled. “Surely not the old archbishop?”

“Nay,” said the spy, accepting a cup of water offered by David’s servant. “From what I could tell, ’tis likely to be William d’Aumale but Walter l’Espec, Sheriff of York and a Norman warrior of great experience, was ever present.”

“What of this standard you referred to?” asked King David.

“’Twas Thurstan’s idea, apparently. It’s to be a ship’s mast mounted on a wheeled cart with a silver pyx at the top, holding consecrated bread of the Eucharist. From the yard, banners will hang representing the saints of York, Beverley and Ripon.”

Somerled inhaled sharply, greatly concerned, for he knew how the English revered their Roman saints and being promised Heaven, they would believe it and fight all the harder. He cast a glance at David, wondering what effect this would have on the Scots king who also gave allegiance to the Church of Rome.

“Holy Jesus!” David exclaimed. “That conniving Thurstan.”

“Where are the English now?” Somerled asked.

“Near York and advancing north,” said the spy.

“Several days away,” muttered David. “Time enough.” He rose then and told the spy to eat and rest, that his king may have another assignment for him in the morning.

When the spy had gone, David turned to Somerled. “You came to see me?”

“Aye, though it seems a lesser concern at this point. I wanted to lodge my objection to the way the Galwegians have been pillaging the countryside as we marched south.”

The king heaved a sigh, looking fatigued. “You are not the first to bring me news of their crimes. Alas, I like it not, however, Fergus will take no action to stop them and, at this point, I want the wild men of Galloway ready to set upon the English.”

“You will not hear of my men doing such despicable things. Having been slaves to the Norsemen, they would not prey upon another people in like manner. They are fierce in battle but they will not rape or murder the innocent. Moreover, I have strongly admonished my chiefs that I will hold them responsible should their men disobey me in this respect.”

David’s mouth formed a small smile. “This from the man who tore out his enemy’s heart?”

“’Tis not the same, Your Grace.”

“You speak truth, yet my own Scots burn villages and take plunder. ’Tis the way of war. Your stance is rare.” He reached out and touched Somerled’s shoulder, an older man to a younger leader. “I dislike war but I must hold the English accountable for their oaths and their charters to my family. Northumberland is my son’s inheritance and my niece was robbed of a crown. If the unruly Galwegians can help me secure both, so be it.”

Somerled left, disheartened. He had not wanted to be a part of England’s war any more than King Olaf and he vowed if he survived this one there would be no more. The gnawing in his stomach was accompanied by a foreboding that told him this Scots ship of war had a torn sail with a crew not pulling oars together. It might shatter in rough seas, which the battlefield, for certes, would readily provide.

Two miles from Northallerton, England, 22 August 1138 A.D.

WHEN THE DAWN CAME, a heavy mist covered the ground like a veil drawn over the land. Through the wavering mist, Somerled glimpsed the blooming heather, a reminder of home. He pulled the emerald silk riband from his waist and thought of the princess he might never see again.

Closing his eyes, he imagined her face and remembered her promise to pray. Mayhap her prayers would carry him and his men through this day. It was his fervent hope.

The night before, he had conveyed the king’s battle alignment to his close companions and his chiefs and they, in turn, to the men. “Harken to my orders as I will likely have to shout above the fray. Listen for my horn. Given so strange a mixture of warriors, I cannot say what may happen or what I may command. I seek but to save the lives of our men wherever I can. Remind them to keep out of range of the English arrows, which may be fired from longbows.”

Once Somerled’s men were roused from sleep and ready to march, weapons to hand, they followed the rest of David’s army south down the Great North Road and crossed the River Tees.

The standard borne by the Scots was a simple affair, a long lance affixed with a wreath of blooming heather.

Before they reached York, in the heavy mist, they came to a sudden halt when they blundered into the English army. Somerled turned to see King David sitting atop his bay horse, his face a mask of shock. He had planned a surprise attack but surprise was no longer an option.

With quickly shouted orders, both forces fell into battle order on two low hills about six hundred feet apart. Somerled ordered his best archers and the Lothian Scots on his left to stand ready. Behind them, he stood with the rest of his men, carrying shields, swords, axes and spears.

The Galwegians took their agreed upon place in the front of the army, Prince Henry, his knights and the Saxon archers behind them and to the right.

Once David’s army was aligned in the agreed upon ranks, Somerled gazed ahead to the English commander, whose name, William d’Aumale, was whispered among the Scots. A Norman with lands in both England and France. D’Aumale ordered the wagon carrying the archbishop’s standard to be placed in the center of the English forces.

Somerled stared at the banners of the saints waving in the early morning breeze. The standard would be a conspicuous rallying point.

With the standard in place, most of the English knights and retainers were ordered by d’Aumale to dismount and their horses sent to the rear with a small contingent of mounted knights.