drew his sword. “Many will die today!”
“And many more of yours, m’lord.”
Kenneth of Carlisle glared and with both hands buried half the blade of the sword into the ground in front of Thomas.
Thomas waited until the sword stopped quivering. “M’lord,” he said, hoping the fear would not be heard in his voice, “I requested a discussion in privacy so you and I could reconsider any such words spoken harshly in the heat of anger.”
Kenneth of Carlisle glared harder but made no further moves.
“Consider this,” Thomas said. “The entrances to the valley are so narrow that to reach one of our men, twenty of yours must fall. Neitheris it possible for your men to fight upward against the slope of these hills. Again, you would lose twenty to the Earl of York’s one.”
“Warfare here in the center of the valley will be more even,” Kenneth of Carlisle stated flatly. “That will decide the battle.”
Thomas shook his head. “The Earl of York has no intention of bringing the battle to you.”
Thomas remembered a quote from one of his ancient books, the one that had given him the idea for this battle plan: “The skilled commander takes up a position from which he cannot be defeated … thus a victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle; an army destined for defeat fights in the hope of winning.”
“The Earl of York is a coward!” Kenneth of Carlisle blustered.
“A coward to wish victory without killing his men or yours? All your supplies are behind at your main camp. His men, however, will be well fed as they wait. In two or three days, any battle of our rested men against your hunger-weakened men will end in your slaughter.”
Kenneth of Carlisle lost any semblance of controlled conversation. He roared indistinguishable sounds of rage. And when he ran out of breath, he panted a declaration of war. “We fight to the bitter end! Now!”
He turned to wave his commanders forward.
“Wait!” The cry from Thomas stopped Kenneth of Carlisle in midstride. “One final plea!”
The Scottish earl turned back, his fiery eyes flashing hatred. “A plea for your life?”
Thomas realized again how close he was to death. And again, he fought to keep his voice steady.
“No, m’lord. A plea to prevent the needless slaughter of many men.” Thomas held out his hands. “If you will permit me to hold a shield.”
The request was so unexpected that curiosity once more replaced fierceness. Kenneth of Carlisle called for a shield from one of his men.
Thomas grasped the bottom edge and held it above his head so that the top of the shield was several feet higher than his hands.
Let them see the signal , Thomas prayed. For if battle is declared, the Scots will too soon discover how badly we are outnumbered .
Moments later, a half-dozen men broke from the line on the hills.
“Behind you, m’lord.” Thomas hoped the relief he felt was not obvious. “See the archers approach.”
Kenneth of Carlisle half-turned and watched in silence.
The archers stopped three hundred yards away, too far for any features to be distinguished.
“So?” Kenneth of Carlisle said. “They hold back. More cowardice.”
“No, m’lord,” Thomas said, still holding the shield high. “They need come no closer.”
The Scottish earl snorted. “My eyes are still sharp. Those men are still a sixth of a mile away.”
Both watched as all six archers fitted arrows to their bows.
“Fools,” Kenneth of Carlisle continued in the same derisive tone. “Fools to waste their efforts as such.”
Thomas said nothing. He wanted to close his eyes but did not. If but one arrow strayed.
The archers brought their bows up, drew back the arrows, and let loose, all in one motion. A flash of shafts headed directly at them, then faded into nothing as the arrows became invisible against the backdrop of green hills.
Whoosh. Whoosh .
The sound arrived with the arrows, and suddenly Thomas was knocked flat on his back.
For a
“And many more of yours, m’lord.”
Kenneth of Carlisle glared and with both hands buried half the blade of the sword into the ground in front of Thomas.
Thomas waited until the sword stopped quivering. “M’lord,” he said, hoping the fear would not be heard in his voice, “I requested a discussion in privacy so you and I could reconsider any such words spoken harshly in the heat of anger.”
Kenneth of Carlisle glared harder but made no further moves.
“Consider this,” Thomas said. “The entrances to the valley are so narrow that to reach one of our men, twenty of yours must fall. Neitheris it possible for your men to fight upward against the slope of these hills. Again, you would lose twenty to the Earl of York’s one.”
“Warfare here in the center of the valley will be more even,” Kenneth of Carlisle stated flatly. “That will decide the battle.”
Thomas shook his head. “The Earl of York has no intention of bringing the battle to you.”
Thomas remembered a quote from one of his ancient books, the one that had given him the idea for this battle plan: “The skilled commander takes up a position from which he cannot be defeated … thus a victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle; an army destined for defeat fights in the hope of winning.”
“The Earl of York is a coward!” Kenneth of Carlisle blustered.
“A coward to wish victory without killing his men or yours? All your supplies are behind at your main camp. His men, however, will be well fed as they wait. In two or three days, any battle of our rested men against your hunger-weakened men will end in your slaughter.”
Kenneth of Carlisle lost any semblance of controlled conversation. He roared indistinguishable sounds of rage. And when he ran out of breath, he panted a declaration of war. “We fight to the bitter end! Now!”
He turned to wave his commanders forward.
“Wait!” The cry from Thomas stopped Kenneth of Carlisle in midstride. “One final plea!”
The Scottish earl turned back, his fiery eyes flashing hatred. “A plea for your life?”
Thomas realized again how close he was to death. And again, he fought to keep his voice steady.
“No, m’lord. A plea to prevent the needless slaughter of many men.” Thomas held out his hands. “If you will permit me to hold a shield.”
The request was so unexpected that curiosity once more replaced fierceness. Kenneth of Carlisle called for a shield from one of his men.
Thomas grasped the bottom edge and held it above his head so that the top of the shield was several feet higher than his hands.
Let them see the signal , Thomas prayed. For if battle is declared, the Scots will too soon discover how badly we are outnumbered .
Moments later, a half-dozen men broke from the line on the hills.
“Behind you, m’lord.” Thomas hoped the relief he felt was not obvious. “See the archers approach.”
Kenneth of Carlisle half-turned and watched in silence.
The archers stopped three hundred yards away, too far for any features to be distinguished.
“So?” Kenneth of Carlisle said. “They hold back. More cowardice.”
“No, m’lord,” Thomas said, still holding the shield high. “They need come no closer.”
The Scottish earl snorted. “My eyes are still sharp. Those men are still a sixth of a mile away.”
Both watched as all six archers fitted arrows to their bows.
“Fools,” Kenneth of Carlisle continued in the same derisive tone. “Fools to waste their efforts as such.”
Thomas said nothing. He wanted to close his eyes but did not. If but one arrow strayed.
The archers brought their bows up, drew back the arrows, and let loose, all in one motion. A flash of shafts headed directly at them, then faded into nothing as the arrows became invisible against the backdrop of green hills.
Whoosh. Whoosh .
The sound arrived with the arrows, and suddenly Thomas was knocked flat on his back.
For a
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