Scotland. 1263. The scent of rain mingles with the smoke of campfires as word spreads: the Norse are comingâŚ
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.
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 â or thrill â 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 deedsâ 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 â yet fearless â squire.
Scotland. 1263. The scent of rain mingles with the smoke of campfires as word spreads: the Norse are comingâŚ
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.
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 â or thrill â 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 deedsâ 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 â yet fearless â squire.
In the flickering lamplight of the armory, I held up my lordâs hauberk. I had used sand to scrub off two spots of rust. After rubbing the links with walnut oil, I held it up to inspect. It was perfect, and the polished links gleamed, so I wrapped it in oiled cloth and stored it in the kist with the rest of his armor. Â
I blinked in the bright light as I emerged and pushed my black hair back from my face, thinking it needed a trim. The lord I served, Sir John Stewart, High Lord Steward of Scotland, stood talking with the master mason. My lordâs weathered, fair skin and reddish-brown hair shot with gray showed his fifty years. His piercing blue eyes scanned the courtyard, a testament to his years of experience. The mason was pointing at a sketch on a parchment and speaking intensely, but when Sir John caught sight of me, he summoned me with a motion. âWilliam, is my hauberk cleaned and ready?â On learning that it was, he patted me on the shoulder. âGood lad.â He sighed and glanced at the mason. âI am too occupied to find you another task, so you may have some time for yourself until you serve at the table.â
So, I hummed as I crossed the inner bailey. I had reason to be cheerful since my lord believed we squires should not be allowed to be idle. The September air was still warm. The sun was shining as it began its downward journey to the west. And I was surrounded by a pleasantly familiar bustle, a servant carrying buckets of water to the kitchen, shouts of the masonâs workers for more stone, some men-at-arms in a corner of the yard throwing dice, and the porter at the inner gate recounting a tale of the Norse raid years ago when his father had been killed.
I dodged around two of the masonâs men, pushing a barrow piled high with cut stones. They shouted for the load to be hauled up. I stopped and watched it being raised. Flecks of stone from their pounding floated in the air.
The gray keep towering over me had risen during my years serving Sir John. Four stories high, workmen were now building the battlement around the top. When it was finished, I was sure Scotland would have no finer or more impressive castle. It was being built to replace the old wooden keep and peel that had been here beyond memory. Or so Father Hamish had told me in one of his lectures about history. Sir John had brought a master mason from France to design it. Building the new keep and the stone curtain walls began years ago, soon after I came to Dundonald Castle as a page.
What was the cost of so much stone and workers to complete such a fortress? Thinking of so much gold made me dizzy, though I would never have the money or such a grand castle. My fatherâs Douglas Castle was small in comparison, and my older brother would inherit that. Â
Craning my neck to see the top, I took a step back and yelped when I received a painful pinch and twist of my earlobe. That twist was familiar to me. Lady Jean, our lordâs wife, had given me many such when I was a page and under her tutelage. Many years his junior, she seems fond of him if not of his squires.
âWatch where you are stepping,â she said sharply. âYou nearly trod on me.â
As I apologized, she sniffed and swept past me without another word, as usual, considering the discipline and training of squires not her affair except when we served at the table. Then, she still had words enough. Her maid, Elayne, winked at me, her blue eyes sparkling as she scurried after her ladyship. Elayne always seemed cheerful and happy, even under the thumb of such a strict mistress. Her ready smiles were what I liked about her.
Looking after them as they disappeared through the doorway of the buttery, I wondered if she would let me steal a kiss or a snuggle. But no, I should stop that line of thought straightaway. Sir John would have my guts for garters if I interfered with one of his lady wifeâs servants. Even so, Elayne was tempting, and I was rarely given free time to look further afield for a lassie. Perhaps Sir Alan might need a squire to accompany him to help the next time he went to the weekly market for supplies. Nigell Boyd claimed he had even taken a doxy upstairs in the tavern when he went. Nigell had been known to fib about his adventures, but he was two years older than I, so it might be true.
But standing around the bailey in the lengthening shadows looking idle was a sure way to be given yet another chore, so I headed toward the gate. Finding Nigell. Now, there was a good idea. He might have some news about the negotiations with the Norse and if they had turned their ships back around to sail home. As the senior squire for our lord, he often heard the news before anyone else and sometimes would share it. Besides, he might have an idea of how to convince my lord that I should help on the next trip to the market. But where might Nigell be?
I stopped at the gate and interrupted the porter in his full flow of some story to ask if he had seen Nigell Boyd. He shrugged his ignorance, but the groom said he had seen him at the stable looking over our lordâs new courser. So, waving my thanks, I headed through the gate and across the outer bailey.
At the smithy, the blacksmith pounded on horseshoes at the anvil, and the priest napped on a bench outside the church door. At one side, not far from the towering barbican, was the long wooden stable with a fenced paddock beside it. A light gray courser circled proudly, stepping high on a leading rein held by another groom. Sir John preferred a gray, the lighter, the better. And this one was almost white. This was a fine mount that filled the eye. His lordship deserved such a mount: John Stewart, Baron of Dundonald, Lord High Steward of Scotland, who had crusaded with Franceâs King Louis in his youth and now was a trusted advisor to our own King Alexander.
I stopped to take in the sight of the animal. Sir John provided my dark bay rouncey, a well-trained mount. I had learned to joust riding it, but what I would not give for a beauty like that. A courser was fast, nimble, and strong, which any knight would want in a warhorse.
âDinnae stand there staring like a dunderheid!â Nigell shouted.
I laughed and strode toward the two men who were watching the horse being worked. The second, Sir Alan Wallace was a head taller and stockier than Nigellâs spare build. But I was taller than either. As I neared them, they turned and smiled to greet me. I crossed my arms on the top rail of the paddock. The horse had graceful form and goodly stature, with quivering ears, a high, arched neck, and well-placed, large eyes. The groom had it circling at a gentle, ambling pace.
After a brief silence, I started to ask if either had news of the Norse fleet and whether the negotiators King Alexander had sent to them in the Isles had convinced them to turn back. But Sir Alan called out for the groom to bring the mount to a trot, so I forgot. It stretched out as it sped up, its body seeming to float on top of its legs.
âEnvy is a terrible sin,â I muttered. But that did not keep me from imagining riding such a courser, lance couched, charging into battle. My heart pounded at even the thought. One day, it would happen. I had spent my life training and dreaming of it.
Nigell scratched at the stubble he was trying to grow into a beard. âAye, we can only hope ever to own a warhorse so fine.â He called out to the groom that he had seen enough and to stable the animal.       âSir John will be waiting for my report. I can tell him this is as fine as the trader had claimed. For once.â He wiggled his eyebrows because everyone knew that horse traders were terrible liars.
Sir Alan scowled. âDinnae be suggesting I would bring His Lordship anything less.â
Nigell raised his hands. âIt was a jest.â
âWell, hie you to your lord and dinnae make jests about my horse sense.â He shook his head as he watched Nigell stride across the bailey, then grinned. âSquires. Have to keep you lot in line. Now, come help me look over the rest of the string I bought. Sir John wanted more rounceys besides the courser, and if youâre lucky, you might be given the one of the better of the lot.â
The inside of the stable was dim but had a smell that was pleasant in its familiarity, an earthy scent of sweaty horses, dust and dirt and hay and grain overlaying the smell of leather, cold iron, and a whiff of horse piss. When I was a page, grooming had often been one of my chores, and it had been a welcome escape from carping because I had not run fast enough with a message to her ladyship or needed to work harder at my studies being taught to read by Father Filan.
We strolled in companionable silence for a while, patting noses thrust over the stall door at us. They were a handsome lot, solid and sturdy, but one I noticed was remarkably handsome, bay coat aglisten and wide-spaced, intelligent eyes bright as it watched us.
Wondering if I might be given that one, I said, âDo youââ A signal horn blew.
Sir Alan strode to the stable door and stepped outside. I followed, and from there, we could see the barbican and the portcullis being raised.
A score of men as dusty and weary-looking as their mounts rode through and dismounted. The royal lion rampant on the knightâs surcoat caused my eyes to widen. He demanded to be taken to Sir John.
âI am Willliam Douglas, His Lordshipâs squire,â I said. âI will take you to him.â
My lord always retired to the solar to relax with Lady Jean before returning to the great hall for supper, so I knew where to find him. I knocked on the door and received gruff permission to enter, but Sir John stood when I ushered the dust-covered messenger in. He led his lady to the door with tight, controlled movements and promised to rejoin her in the great hall for supper.
Sir John sat as he briskly told me to pour the man a cup of wine. Then he nodded for the messenger to proceed.
The man took a gulp from the cup and cleared his throat, apologizing for it being clogged with dust. As Sir John listened, he rested an elbow on the arm of his chair and grasped his chin in his hand, a finger across his lips. His head tilted, he never said a word, but his eyebrows scrunched together as he listened, wrinkling his forehead. His lips pressed into a hard line.
I stood stock still, my back to the wall as my lord expected of a squire. The Norse fleet had sailed out of the Orkney Isles toward Scotland. My heart was pounding. Would I be allowed to follow Sir John into battle, even though not his senior squire? Please, please let it be so, I silently pleaded, unsure who I was pleading to.
The messenger ended his message, saying, âHis Grace will bring his army to muster with the levies at his own Ayr Castle. It is war.â
With well-researched detail, Tomlin depicts daily life in a medieval Scottish castle through the eyes of young William Douglas. He has many duties as a squire: from maintaining armor to serving at the banquet table or running any errands his liege lord requires. However, he will not fight in a battle until his friend Nigel is knighted.
William will get his chance when Norse King Haakon's long boats are spotted off the western coast and Scottish King Alexander calls his clans to defend his kingdom near the western coast of the highlands.
The different layers of diplomacy are another highlight of the story. I hadn't realized the skills required of a squire were so varied. The attention given to setting up camp before and after the battles is in sharp contrast to the ferocity of the fighting scenes. It underscores the level of skill and commitment required of clan chiefs.
Young William's desire to fight conflicts with his main duty as a squire which is to protect the knight he serves from being attacked behind. A chance for glory is not as important as upholding your obligations in the field.
In the last battle, facing the Irish mercenary soldiers called the Gallowglass on the shore was unexpectedly chilling. William's triumph against such lethal, and experienced soldiers was exhilarating.
The chapters leading up to the battle on the Isle of Islay were outstanding as there was such much to learn; showing how the Scots waged war from the sea when they were the aggressors. From naming the type of boats used, to how the horses were brought on shore was fascinating. The birlinn scout ships were so intriguing, I read up on them. They are a clinker-built boat based on the Norse longboat.
The use of Gaelic throughout the book was a help in understanding Highland culture, while the glossary and author notes helped explain obscure words.