On a Sword’s Edge
by J R Tomlin
Scotland. 1263. The scent of rain mingles with the smoke of campfires as word spreads: the Norse are coming…
As tempers rise between King Alexander and the Norse King Haakon, at the center of it all is sixteen-year-old William Douglas, a squire in service to Sir John Stewart, Lord High Steward of Scotland.
When Haakon’s fearsome fleet is espied approaching Scotland’s shores, carrying the greatest invasion force the Norse have ever mustered, the dread of battle settles over the land. Summoned to Ayr Castle, William joins the Scottish forces in a desperate defense. Now tasked with serving his newly knighted brother, Hugh, William has little time to dwell on the fear – or thrill – of his first real taste of war.
And once the Norse’s menacing line of ships finally touches shore, Scotland’s fate may rest on more than noble titles and knightly deeds— it’ll take the mettle of every soul on the ground for them to triumph.
Set against the wind-swept coast of medieval Scotland, On a Sword’s Edge takes you right into the center of The Battle of Largs alongside a mere – yet fearless – squire.
Please enjoy an excerpt:
Day had not yet broken when I awoke. Something prodded me in the ribs. I pulled my blanket over my face but was prodded harder, so I opened my bleary eyes to see that it was Nigell. He was already in his tunic and hose. We had to prepare for the departure in just a few hours. Thankfully, when I looked toward the bed, the curtains were still drawn, and Sir John was snoring. So I disentangled myself from my blankets and dragged my pallet to stack on Nigell’s.
Near the door, Brian snuffled in his sleep and, as usual, Gilbert was dead to the world. While Nigell went to kick them both awake, I scurried to take His Lordship’s traveling clothes from the kist, linen shirt, wool tunic, hose, and mantle, as the weather was quickly turning cold. I fetched water for washing. Elayne rose from her pallet close by Lady Jean’s side of the bed to dress her mistress.
Once Sir John and Lady Jean were ready, we followed them downstairs and into the bailey to the castle church for morning prayers. It was still dark, but outside, all around was noise and commotion, servants, grooms, squires, knights, and men-at-arms all abustle. The castellan stood in the middle, shouting orders. Horses were being harnessed to wains, and bundles of weapons and supplies were carried out. Packs were loaded on sumpters.
Dawn was spilling pewter light over the hills to the east by the time we were ready to depart. Horses snorted and pawed amid the clatter of tack and creak of wagons joining the line of march. Behind us, grooms and horse boys herded our spare mounts.
Sir John accepted his horse’s reins from the groom. Carefully carrying a silver cup, Lady Jean walked to him and handed him the deoch an dorais. He hurriedly swallowed the parting drink of wine, kissed her cheek, and mounted. Behind him, we wended our way through the gate and down the castle mound onto a road through wooded hills.
Autumn had turned the leaves orange and brown. A rising wind made branches writhe, pulling the leaves loose to whirl in waves on the dirt road. The yellow Stewart banner with its blue and white checky fess flapped, and dense clouds scudded overhead. A loose formation of graylag geese flew toward the south, their raucous cries blending with the noise of our passing.
We soon left the wooded hills, and took the coastal road that looked down on the Firth of Clyde, where waves washed softly on white sands. I had never been to Ayr, so I only had a hazy idea that it was a day’s ride south. Would my father and brother be there already? I would at last have the chance to make jests to Hugh about his recent marriage, and I chuckled in anticipation.
We skirted Prestwick, stopping briefly to rest and water the horses while we ate cold bannocks, stale from being cooked the day before, and dried beef. Nigell and I exchanged grimaces, but much chewing allowed us to wash it down with water from the burn.
Finally, as the temperature dropped and the afternoon wore on toward sunset, the land flattened and, in the distance, we sighted the Ayr Castle. It hulked on its mound like a massive guardian glowering down to challenge any passerby approaching the nearby castle town. Its sandstone curtain walls were drenched in the golden light of sunset. Archers moved behind the merlons on the ramparts. Above them streamed the royal lion rampant banner of the King of Scots, so he must have arrived. The large encampment of our army spread out at the base of the mound.
J. R. Tomlin is the author of more than twenty historical novels, set for the most part in Scotland. Her love of that nation is traced from the stories of King Robert the Bruce and the Good Sir James her grandmother read to her when she was small to hillwalking through the Cairngorms where the granite hills have a gorgeous red glow under the setting sun. Later, her writing was influenced by the work of authors such as Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo, and of course, Sir Walter Scott. When JR isn’t writing, she enjoys spending time hiking, playing with her Westie, and killing monsters in computer games. In addition to having lived in Scotland, she has traveled in the US, Europe and the Pacific Rim. She now lives in Oregon in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
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