The brave Highlander stood atop the crag surrounded by the early day’s mist. O glorious morning! For victory over the enemies of Scotland was nigh! The regent of regents did not hold thoughts of earlier victories in his breast; for those battles in which God had made his brave league victorious were but the just and divine recourse, what was due and righteous for the English invaders holding his great and proud country hostage.
Though he had refused the attempted coronation by his loyal nobles, he knew purple flowed in his veins. But how could a mere round of gold draw him nearer to his land?! How, even in as worthy and holy a cause as this could he rise to take what only God bequeaths and arrogant men insist?! Was he not but a man? Had not the beloved of his soul perished under the governor’s loathsome and cowardly sword, would he not have been among the many people living to toil day after day? Alas! Would he not have drawn arms to ensnare his country’s sovereignty? On this matter his beating heart was clear. As tears streamed his cheek, staining tears of sorrow on his plaid, resolution stiffened in his mind and breast. The vile, English scourge would be obliged today to submit the rightly sum for the taking of sweet Heather, and therefore of all the innocence and beauty they foully murdered.
From the midst of the rocky crags below, a single trumpet sounded the call to arms, the call for the brave legion to rise! Rise! Prepare the armor, helmets and shields! Prepare for the victory that is righteous and surely to be made from God in heaven!
The harkening trumpet, sweet music falling upon the willing and eager ears of Sir Robert stirs his lingering and noble soul to sure footed descension from the rocky place. Victory awaits! His true countrymen rise as the good knight approaches. With swords raised, shouts of, “Robert! Our Savior! Our Sovereign! To our death may we fight for you!”
“What you pledge to me, let almighty God hear as a pledge to Scotland! To Scotland!” A voice as one filled the high ground. “To Scotland!”
Plaids of every measure adorned the vast sea of soldiers. Earl, Lord and Knight side by side with all able bodied men from far and near, for the tales of Sir Robert’s victories traveled by messenger and whisper of the wind so that no corner of abode, no treetop, no bellowing river was deaf to the God-sent accomplishments.
Riding his charge along the front line of his faithful, the good knight’s helmet reflected the sunlight of the day that would surely be grand and historic. A day to spawn song and joy that would ring from citadel to peasant farm. The appearance of his league of brave Scots affected Sir Robert and caused him great agitation, for his emotions were great on this glorious day!
With a final trumpeting and no further ceremony, general and soldiers set forth to The Cheviots, once well peopled and benevolent to all who would enter. Now, at the hour of battle, the south end swelled with those unfortunate to swear their allegiance to the egregious King Edward. Heralds and banners made the horizon sway and billow under their weight and stature. Upon sight of this specter, brave Robert did not waver, nor did the fire burning within his breast fade, as this was to be a battle for his country, yet his only mistress he had known since the brutal taking of his one true love, the other part of his soul which had swelled with his only offspring.
As the Scots amassed and spread far and away across the forlorn amber fields of The Cheviots a single, bannered herald rode to meet the good and Knightly Robert. “Rebel! Hear me now, for my voice is that of my liege, my lord, my master. His Majesty Edward, Rightful King of all of Britain commands you to lay down your sword at this very spot! Upon the laying down your weapons of treason, good Sir Knight, all who would swear their allegiance to the rightful King of England shall be spared the pointed swords and daggers of an army that even now awaits to defeat you!’
The arrogance of such words drew an anger from a well deep within Sir Robert. His eyes sent a look to bore through the young messenger and a countenance of such anger, courage and righteousness the English soldier had not been witness to in his young life shook him to his very existence. The regent for all of Scotland countered, “Young Herald! Your King has made the most grievous of errors this day if he is to believe that even one Scotsman here will lay down their sword while they still have a life in them to lift it against the harsh and murderous invaders of our sovereign land! At days end, all Scots will breathe air that is clear and free of English oppression!
Pale and stricken as if by sword, the Herald withdrew to bring the response back to whence he came.
With a mighty blast from the trumpet, the Scots raised swords and lunged into battle as a lioness lunges to defend her young.
Bloody and long, the battle raged.
Sir Robert was to not see the glorious and virtuous result of his brave brethren. The wayward and dismal arrow struck him in the neck, in a manner no surgeon could suffer.
Heather comes to him and he fears his heart will burst with joy. An aura of the purest light draws soft edges to his betrothed, his one, his only. Her slender arms open to receive, even as his open to embrace.