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Nouallie, south of Poitiers, September 1356

Doogle was right. The King of France did not agree with the English terms that were quite generous. The English had offered to return all of the stolen booty they had taken during their warpath and offered a seven-year peace treaty to boot. The French king had flatly refused and demanded that the Black Prince surrender his army.

“They flee the field,” yelled Bruce, looking ahead and pointing.

The cry was taken up by more and more of the Scots until their French allies joined in the hullabaloo.

Doogle squinted into the distance. Something did not feel right. As a lad, he was always impulsive. His youngest brother, Callum, who was now an English lord due to their mother’s English heritage, had always advised caution in battle. Callum was the smartest of the three brothers. His good sense and wariness had finally rubbed off on Doogle, tempering his more impulsive nature.

“They are not retreating,” said Douglas.

“It’s but the English baggage train. They aim to place it behind their army for safety,” said Doogle, realizing the enemy’s intent. “They will hold their ground. We should wait and see what they do next.”

“It’s too late. The king is about to commit his forces.”

Doogle’s regard followed the Scottish earl’s outstretched arm. Already, the King of France had ordered his German knights to advance. Promptly, these meticulously equipped troops began their approach on the English forces. Like a patient spider, the English waited.

“This does not bode well. I ken it.” Doogle shifted his weight on his feet.

“Aye, the English are waiting to use their longbowmen,” said Douglas. “Those men will be at their mercy.”

The marching knights appeared to take forever to reach the center of the field that separated the two armies. Their commander, Jean de Clermont, made sure they remained in formation, making their progress even more cumbersome, and them, as targets, all the more inviting.

“They are huddled together too closely. When the English start shooting their arrows, they will pick them off one by one.”

Alick was right. The waving of colorful flags behind the enemy ranks heralded the arrival of the bowmen. Like when the sea switches to high tide, more than two thousand archers stepped from behind the large hedge. They swooped forward like one being.

“So, that’s where they have been hiding the buggers.” Bruce snarled.

“Aye, if our comrades don’t get a move on, they’ll be butchered,” said Douglas.

“Their armor is too heavy for them to go any faster. And the incline of the hill is already tiring them out.” Doogle turned to his commanding officer. “We must do something.”

“Apart from sending in the cavalry, there is nothing we can do,” lamented Douglas. He looked behind him to see the French king dressed in the finest glinting armor that shone when the sun’s rays caught it. He remained stoic in the face of the threat.

“A shock charge might break them up and force them back,” said Doogle, hope lacing his voice.

“It’s too late.”

Bruce spoke almost simultaneously with the release of the first salvo of English arrows. The projectiles erupted into the sky like a black swarm of insects. They rose and rose until they reached their apex and gradually began their fall to earth. Despite the distance that separated the two armies, Doogle swore that he could hear the missiles’ procession toward the helpless knights below. It sounded like an increasing wind that eventually turned into a storm.

In a series of clinks and meaty thuds, the arrows landed on the German knights. There was no reprieve. In moments, the archers had knocked the next arrows to their strings and released them. This was repeated until part of the men fled back in the direction of the French lines and back out of range. The waiting English men-at-arms hacked down the German soldiers that continued the advance irrespectively. It was a slaughter.

In the meantime, the next wave of French soldiers, led by the Dauphin, moved forward. It was too late. The longbowmen now directed their attention to this new threat. Like before, the distance was too great. By the time the French got to the English lines, they would be exhausted. The bloodbath began. For two hours the English and French would jostle it out.

“I am certain the English are gaining the upper hand,” said Doogle after having spent what seemed like a lifetime watching the skirmish.

“Aye, laddie. I will have to persuade the king to send in the next wave before we are repulsed yet again,” said Douglas.

“But what happens if the advancing men run into the retreating soldiers?” asked Bruce.

“It’ll be a bloody melee,” answered Doogle.

“There is nothing else for us to do,” said Douglas, looking increasingly worried. He knew of English tenacity. Once they smelt victory, they were almost impossible to stop.

“It appears the decision has already been made,” said Alick, pointing to the next advancing French ranks.

“The Duke of Orléans leads his men into the fray,” said Douglas. “May God help them.”

“It will be a massacre.” Doogle scratched his beard for the umpteenth time that day.

And he was right. The Duke of Orléans led his men right into the vanguard of the fleeing French soldiers. The confusion on the battlefield was total. Seeing his opportunity, the Black Prince sent his English men-at-arms and Gascon forces into the rear of the retreating Frenchmen.

“He can’t be serious,” said Douglas.

“We are to advance,” said Doogle, seeing the signalman waving a flag commanding all remaining troops, which included the king, to move forward.

“May God be with us,” said Douglas. He turned on his heel. “LADDIES, ADVANCE!” he yelled to the over five hundred Scotsmen under his command.

A loud roar came in response, and the remainder of the allied French army moved forward. At first, all appeared to be well. However, it would be almost impossible for the reinforcements to make it to the fighting in the front lines. All they did was prevent the exhausted men moving before them from withdrawing, leaving them at the English’s mercy. By now, the French army was one large grouping of men without any coherence or structure.

“Move to the side, ye craven scum.” Doogle stepped ahead like a behemoth. He had no time for the soldiers attempting to escape the field of battle. He brushed them aside with his trunk-like arms.

“Cavalry!” yelled Bruce who stood to his right.

Doogle slowly turned his leonine head in the direction of the threat. As he stood taller than most, he could see over the heads of the jostling men all around him.

“By God, the Black Prince has committed his horse. They will outflank us and provide the coup de grace,” said Doogle.

“Nothing for it, boys. We fight until the end,” said Douglas, pushing himself a path to the front of the melee.

Doogle nodded. He received a feral grin from Alick. Bruce did not look quite as convinced as his fellow clansmen, but he showed no fear. The three men of the clan Macleod pushed after the earl.

The men-at-arms fighting on the fringes of the confusion of men began to break up and run for their lives. The English remorselessly followed thrusting and hacking in their wake.

Doogle finally faced the first English soldier that day. Due to his size and brutish appearance, he had created a small island among the writhing bodies that moved like one organism. Around him lay the corpses of the enemy he had already dispatched. But despite their numerical inferiority, the English outmatched the French and Scots in skill and morale.

A hellish bellow erupted from beyond the fighting.

“We must get out of here,” cried Bruce, pointing ahead.

“I dinnae believe it.” Alick almost got himself cut down because of his stunned scrutiny.

“The Black Prince has committed his archers. They fight like men-at-arms,” said Douglas.

“We must save the king.”

Doogle pointed to the side. The English surrounded King Jean and his son. They fought like lions, but it was not sufficient. Gradually, the men that protected them fell to the sword.

“No, Doogle, you will not make it,” shouted Alick.

Doogle ignored his friend. “Yer father would never abandon a king,” he said, dispatching an enemy soldier as he moved.

“He would if he was French,” said Bruce.

Before Doogle could go any further, he was pushed along with the tide of men starting their retreat. Not even his large bulk was enough to withstand the tide of fear. It did not take him away fast enough. A longbowman managed to strike him with his sword, running the blade into his body.

Doogle saw a flash of light pierce his gaze and the agony of cold steel in his flesh soon followed. Instinctively, he struck back, knocking the Englishman off his feet; he was almost trampled under the heavy boots belonging to the retreating men.

Shouting out in pain, he looked for Bruce and Alick, but they were nowhere to be seen. Weakness gradually overcame him. It was only thanks to the support of the fleeing army that he managed to stay upright and move along with the tide of ignominious flight.

He did not know for how long the host of men carried him. It felt like an excruciating eternity. Thoughts of home, his English mother, Mary, his father, and brothers clouded his confused mind. Screaming was everywhere around him. Doogle did not know whether he would ever see the shimmering blue of Loch Torridon and home again.

He no longer held his claymore. He held on to the man running before him until he was gone. In the next instant, Doogle felt the grass on his knees. He continued to crawl on all fours, the stones scratching and bloodying the skin.

He did this until he had no more recollection of where he was. The light seemed to fade as darkness was soon upon him. There were no more cries of anguish, no more fictional sights of his family – all that remained was the gentle sound of water traveling in the way nature intended. It was all he had left until that too was gone.