From the woods that surrounded the burgh came a mass of men. Some rode, others ran. All carried weapons, mainly axes or spears. A few wore mail shirts and cloaks, but most just leather aketons. Among them were a handful of men clad in the short tunics favoured by Highlanders. These men were bare from
thigh to foot, an alarming sight to Ormesby, who had only heard rumour of these wild men of the north. As
they came, they roared a multitude of battle cries. Ormesby caught one name in the din, issuing from a group of mailed riders who followed a burly man on a finely caparisoned horse.
‘For Douglas!’ they howled. ‘For Douglas!’
Below, the townsfolk were scattering. The English soldiers had formed a tight knot outside the hall, blades drawn, but even as Ormesby watched, the forlorn group of beggars he had seen threw off their ragged skins and furs, revealing thickly muscled warriors. They fell upon the soldiers with savage cries,
daggers thrusting.
Footsteps sounded on the hall stairs. The door burst open and two soldiers appeared. ‘We must go, sir!’
The clerks and officials were already hastening across the chamber. Donald was running with them.
Ormesby remained rooted. ‘Who are they?’ he demanded, his voice high as he turned back to the window, seeing the horde rushing into the town. His eyes fixed on a giant of a man running, almost loping
in the front lines. Taller than all those around him, agile in the stride, he wore a simple dark blue tunic
and wide-brimmed kettle hat. The other men seemed to be running in unruly formation around him. But it was the blade in the man’s hands that Ormesby’s eyes were drawn to. He had never seen such a sword, so broad and long the giant had to grasp it in both hands as he came. Another name now became audible in the roar of the mob.
‘Wallace! Wallace!
