THE BATTLE OF neville’s cross
The Scottish perspective: A Scottish Warrior's Tale
The Battle of Neville's Cross: A Scottish Warrior's Tale
The chilled wind howled across the Scottish moors as the initial whispers of war began. The Truce of Malestroit was a fleeting relief. The English, in their overbearing pride, dared to challenge France again. I, Lachlan, a warrior of King David's force, had heard stories of King Edward's secret plots and invasions. It was only fitting that our French allies called upon us, invoking the Auld Alliance of old. The drums of war echoed, and I felt a fire rise in my chest. For the honour of Scotland!
As we advanced into northern England, the English countryside appeared almost eerily silent. They believed we'd be deterred by the mere presence of their local defenders. But, we pressed on, resolute, only to be repelled by their vigilant local militias. I felt a sting of humiliation but knew that our King David was wise. We retreated, but only temporarily, to gather our strength in Perth. The English may have had victories, with their so-called 'mighty' force laying siege to Calais and the tales of the French defeat at Crécy, but we would have our reckoning.
When we crossed the English border in October, the land before us felt like a vast chessboard, ripe for conquest. The Peel of Liddell stood, a beacon of English power. We laid siege, with the Knight of Liddesdale leading the charge. After days of intense battling, the tower fell, and we made sure no traitor lived to tell the tale. The thrill of victory ran through my veins.
Lachlan, a warrior of King David's force
The land whispered tales of our advances. From the Augustinian priory to Hexham Abbey, we left our mark. The taste of victory was fresh as we set our sights on Durham. There, awaiting payment from the monks, the English began to close in, unbeknownst to us.
One foggy morning, as the dawn was yet to paint the horizon, a clamour arose. Douglas and his men had stumbled upon the English! The news spread like wildfire. King David, always the tactician, led us to a strategic high ground near the stone of Neville’s Cross. As I took my position, my grip tightened around my spear, my heart beat fiercely. This land would bear witness to our might.
Both armies stood like statues under the pale sun, poised and ready. The landscape was uneven, riddled with ditches and walls. Our divisions were clear: King David leading the centre, Randolph commanding the vanguard, and Dunbar, the rear. The sight of our dismounted knights and the spears of my brothers, rising like a forest behind them, filled me with pride.
As we readied, the English longbowmen began their assault. Arrows rained upon us like a cursed storm. I watched in horror as my comrades fell. But we Scots are not easily deterred. Graham, in a surge of bravery, attempted to cut through their archers. Alas, fate wasn’t on our side.
The Earl of Moray, refusing to stay on the defensive, charged forth, but the treacherous land fractured our formation. As we clashed with the English in brutal hand-to-hand combat, the very earth beneath us seemed to tremble. The clang of metal, the cries of the fallen, the savage dance of battle, it was chaos personified. The English forces kept their distance from King David’s division, letting their accursed arrows do their work. But when we finally met them blade to blade, the carnage was unparalleled.
Despite our ferocity, we began to falter. I watched in disbelief as the mighty Scottish divisions waned. Desperation filled the air. The sight of King David, hit by an arrow, seared my heart.
The aftermath was grim. The ground, now known as the 'Red Hills', bore testimony to our sacrifice. Though we suffered greatly, with many brothers fallen or taken prisoner, our spirit was unbroken. King David, our beacon, though injured, was alive.
In the days that followed, I reflected upon our journey, from the signing of the Truce of Malestroit to the blood-soaked moors of Neville’s Cross. Though fate may not have been on our side that day, the fire of Scotland's spirit would never be quenched. We would rise again, and our enemies would do well to remember that.
The Battle of Neville’s Cross
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