The mist, the smoke and the heat of battle rose from the field below the hill known as Flodden Edge. On the west side of the hill they found the trees had been cut down and a fort constructed. And it was before that fortress that Logan stood, watching in horror as the battle was coming to its dreadful end. He could see the king’s banner in the mud, which meant the king was dead, for while he lived that banner would remain flying no matter what. His gaze moved over the field, but he saw no Hepburn flag aloft either. The ground was muddy, and many of the men had fought in their stocking feet because leather boots would have slipped easily on the treacherous ground. The Scots had lost the battle now coming to its close. That was painfully clear to Logan and his companions. The stench of death was everywhere. The laird of Claven’s Carn put his horn to his lips and blew it. The distinctive note the horn sounded would tell any of his own people still alive to follow the sound and come to him. He waited and then blew his horn twice more. Finally, three of his clansmen struggled from Flodden Field and up the hill to where he waited.
“Any more?” he asked curtly. The smell of death surrounded them.
They shook their heads.
“My brothers?”
“Slain, my lord, with the Earl of Bothwell,” one of the men reported, adding, “The English forces are also to the west, my lord.”
“We’ll go north and east then,” Logan said grimly. “Quickly now, lads, before the English start looking about for living prisoners. Take whatever horses and boots you can find for yourselves.” He waited briefly while the trio found mounts and footwear. Then, with a wave of his hand, they cantered off, leaving the battlefield behind. They rode straight for the border. It was imperative they not be caught in England. Their timely exit gave them more chance at survival than those left alive behind them had had. They rode until there was no more light left to see the ground beneath their horses’ feet.
That first night, they made camp beneath the overhanging rocks in a narrow ravine. They lit a small fire beneath the rocks where it was unlikely to be seen. The formation where they sheltered was almost a cave. They had eighteen oatcakes among them. Broken in two, one cake could serve as a day’s rations. Thirty-six pieces divided among the nine men would last them four days. They would be well into Scotland by then and might beg a meal from a local clansman. They would be welcome into any hall with the news they brought. That night, those with whiskey left in their flasks shared it with their companions. They would refill those flasks with water come the morrow.
Around their little fire that first night the three Hepburn clansmen told their laird the story of the battle. Their spokesman was Claven’s Carn’s blacksmith. His name was Alan Hepburn, and he stood six feet, six inches in his stocking feet. His brow furrowed as he remembered.
“The king were a brave laddie,” he began. “He led us all himself, although the Earl of Hume did give a lot of orders. At one point our own earl said loudly that he saw no crown on Hume’s head and he should shut his mouth and let the king command us, for he did it better than any.”
The men listening laughed quietly, those who had not been there picturing it, for they knew their earl very well.
“The battle was fierce,” Alan Hepburn continued. “The English were led by the Earl of Surrey, I was told. The king did not mean to fight in the field. He meant the English to have to come to us on the height, but their wily old commander sent troops around us to the west. The king feared they might get over the border, and none left to defend the farms but old men, women, and very young laddies. Ah, he were a good man, our Jamie was!” Alan Hepburn said, and he wiped the tears forming in his gray eyes. “ ’Twas he who told us to remove our boots, for the ground was slick with mud and we would be in less danger of sliding and falling in our stocking feet.”
“What happened?” the laird asked his blacksmith. “We were well matched, and we should have won the day. Something had to have happened. Did any of the earls withdraw their men?”
The blacksmith shook his head. “Nay. Half the men were down the hill, and then the phalanx was broken, my lord. They began to slip and slide. One grouping fell or tumbled into the other. The mud was treacherous, and many could not arise. The English swooped in on them, and it was slaughter. Your brothers, however, were already with our earl in the midst of the field with the young archbishop of St. Andrews, who was fighting with his father, the king. Much of the clergy avoided direct combat, instead firing the canons, for then they could be said not to have been fighting.”
“You saw my brothers go down?”
“Colm, Finn, and I were battling nearby. The Earl of Bothwell was surrounded, and your brothers rushed to his defense. They were slaughtered,” Alan said. “Hume, the young archbishop, and the king were then slain. The word began to spread that the king had been killed. It took the heart out of the men, my lord, and then we heard your horn. At first we were not certain it was you, but the call came twice again, and so we fought our way from the battlefield to find you,” Alan finished.
“I am ashamed I was not with you,” Logan said.
“Thank God you were not, my lord, for this day we have lost our good king and the flower of Scottish nobility,” Alan told him. “Claven’s Carn needs you, especially as your lad is so young.”
“The new king is not much older,” Logan replied. “God help Scotland now. What of the Earl of Angus? Was he also killed?”
“Nay, my lord,” Alan said excitedly. “The king left old ‘Bell-the-Cat’ Douglas behind, for the queen begged it. She and Bishop Elpinstone do not get along it is said.”
Logan nodded. It had been a wise thing to do.
They had ridden for the next few days, making their way back to Claven’s Carn. When their oatcakes had run out they stopped at a farm, begging a night’s shelter in the warm, dry barn. Both the men and the horses were grateful.
“Can you feed us?” Logan asked the farmer. “We have eaten the last of our oatcakes last night and have had naught this day. I can give you news of the king.”
The farmer nodded. “We’ve not much, but we’ll share,” he said.
“When my men are cared for I will come in and tell you everything I know,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.
The farmer’s wife delegated Alan, who was the largest of the laird’s men, to carry a cauldron of rabbit stew into the barn. She followed, her apron filled with several loaves of bread. The men called their thanks to her as she returned to her cottage and then set about tearing chunks of bread off the loaves, and dipping them into the stew to eat. Their knives speared what tender pieces of meat they could find. Inside the farmer’s dwelling, the laird of Claven’s Carn told of the disaster at Flodden while he ate a bowl of the stew, thinking it was the best he had ever tasted. The farmer placed a small mug of beer before him, and he nodded his thanks.
“So, our Jamie is dead,” the farmer said. “God assoil his good soul.” He crossed himself, as did his wife. “The battle was terrible, then. I could not go. My bairns are not old enough to help, and my wife is again with child.” He hung his head.
“ ’Twas better you remained than became canon fodder,” the laird replied. “My wife is also with child and grew frightened when she knew I must go. I sent my brothers, now slain, and twenty men with the king. When I had calmed Jeannie, I followed, only to reach Flodden at the end. I saw no fighting. Three of my clansmen survived the battle. The others were with me. I am ashamed, for I knew the king. The Earl of Bothwell, the Hepburn of Hailes, was my kinsman. I was married in the royal chapel at Stirling.”