A/N: Aaaaand these keep getting longer. I hate having made you all cry during the last chapter. I cried, too.
Unfortunately, this chapter has a similar ending, so…TW for character death. Yes again. Maybe this chapter and the last are my version of season three?
The idea of this chapter has been around for at least a year. I had plans on making it into an actual fic (with a different ending), but other fics and ideas took over. So it's being used here instead.
I don't pretend to be an expert on the English/Scottish wars. Or to know what ordinary people on either side actually thought about it. The events and thoughts expressed below are as historically accurate as this imperfect writer can make them. I started to fall into a rabbit hole of the Hundred Years' War, Scotland/England/France relations in the 1300s, etc. before giving up and just writing this thing.
Thank you all for reviews, reblogs, comments, etc. Please let me know what you think if you have time.
*The burning of the priory at Hexham, as well as the location of St. Cuthbert's bones and former home are all true. I did not make either of those things up. The reference to "Our Lady" is of course to Mary, the mother of Jesus. Which fic did you think you were reading?
17th of October, 1346, Neville's Cross. Near Durham, England
Peter's horse is gone. His helmet has been hewn from his body, nearly taking his head with it.
With tremendous force, he swings his sword. The enemy before him is relieved of an arm. The man screams in pain, sinking forward on his knees into the mud. Peter uses the momentum of his swing to relieve him of his head as well.
Another man comes at him, his sword raised, and he ends him faster than the previous one.
His blood pumps. He feels it pounding at his temple.
Fighting is not something he has done much of, but when the Archbishop of York called for men to defend the north against the Scots, he answered it.
How DARE they! Pouring into our country while our king fights in France! Then they burned the priory at Hexham!*
He joins his fellow Englishmen, pursuing the defeated enemy. Someone finds a fallen standard of the Earl of March. Another finds one belonging to Robert Stewart.
Instead of giving him joy that the Scottish lords abandoned their army, the evidence of their cowardice enrages Peter further.
As foolish as their king may have been, at least HE did not leave his own men behind until the very end.
He slows to help a wounded man to his feet. By the time the two of them make their way across a field, the noise of the battle has moved on.
Peter lifts the man to stand against a tree. For the first time since the day began, he feels tired. He rubs his hand through his hair. Sweat and mud together have stuck his curls to his forehead.
He is still catching his breath when two figures approach. They are brothers of the Church. Benedictines. Peter's heart skips at the familiar sight of one of them.
"Praise God you are with the living," his younger brother, Friar John, smiles at the sight of him. The skin around his eyes crinkle. "Some of the English have fallen, but most of the dead are Scots. Matilda and the children will be overjoyed to have you return home."
"As will I," he says, lifting the wounded man by one arm, as John lifts the other. All he wants is a quiet life with his wife, three sons and five daughters. "And God willing, I will never have to go to war again."
Friar Adam takes the man away. John and Peter continue on, following the path of the armies. They stop to help other wounded men. John prays over the dying, both friend and foe alike.
"They were following their lords, and king," he says quietly, covering the face of a Scottish bearded man. "As you were."
Peter sighs. "Yes. But what reason did they have to invade our lands?"
"If the Archbishop had not given a reason to fight, would you have asked him for one?" John raises his eyebrows at Peter's outraged expression. "Do not be so quick to condemn others. You do not know their story."
They are near to the River Browney when they hear the news that the Scottish king, David II, has been captured. Cheering wildly, Peter goes to join several of his friends. He steps around several unfortunate dead, and sidesteps another on the riverbank, when he hears a cough. He looks down.
One of the Scottish knights, his armor battered, slowly rolls onto his back. He, unlike many of his fellows, is not dead.
Peter kneels quickly and reaches for the man's helmet. Despite his anger towards the Scots, he knows a wounded and dying enemy deserves a peaceful death. If one can be given.
He lifts off the helmet and stares in disbelief at the figure before him. Wavy brown hair, deep blue eyes.
The knight is a woman.
It is not how she thought her life would end. In the mud of England, far from home.
She can barely see out of the eye slits of her helmet.
Well.
It is not her helmet, but her husband's.
The helmet, armor, sword and shield all belong to James. As does the horse. Did. Wherever he ran.
It is not stealing, she thinks to herself during the long march from Dubhghlas, if the man to whom all of these things belong is likely dead. And the boy who will inherit them knows she has them.
She has learned to fight. To defend her home. Her father taught her to shoot a bow, swing a sword, and hold a shield, just as he taught her brother William.
Had she married anyone other than James all of these skills would have been forgotten. He is much older than she, and was a child when Edward Longshanks died. He has fought for Scotland all of his life. The death of his son and then his first wife have broken his heart, but not his will.
He does not mind when she practices with the bow, or visits the armory.
He has never been anything but kind to her. And to her nephew, William's son and namesake, who has lived with them since he was orphaned.
She remembers the day the call came from William Douglas for men to ride to England. She had been sitting next to James as he lay in bed, and saw his pale face lose the little color it had when he read the message.
"Elspeth," he had whispered as she held his hand. "The king has called for men to go with him. Young William is not ready, and I am too weak…if only God had let my Davy live."
She had soothed him, talking of his long-dead son until he fell asleep.
Then she had shown the letter to James's trusted bailie Graeme, William, and James's squire Thomas. As they watched it burn in the fire, she softly kissed her husband for the last time.
"He will not live long," Graeme had said. "Before Douglas's men reach England, he will die."
William, ten years old and growing taller every day, hugs her fiercely. He will pray for her safe return.
Only the three know it is not the master who rides to battle, but the mistress.
None of them try to dissuade her.
Both Thomas and Elspeth are dismayed when the priory at Hexham is burned.
"Our war is not with the church," she mutters to the squire beneath her helmet. He nods.
They try to stop some of the worst deeds; hiding some of the church's stolen articles in a nearby barn, and letting people escape.
She thinks of her family that misty morning when the king finally leads them into battle near Durham, against an English army.
Of steady William. Her nephew who is more like a son. Of James and all the battles he has fought, and the battle with death that he will surely lose long before she ever returns home.
If she does return.
Her grandfather and two uncles fell at what the English call Bannockburn. Her brother fought in Cumberland, and never fully healed from his wounds before his death. Her father died at Halidon Hill.
Now it is she who draws a sword against the English.
If they would stop meddling in our kingdom, we would have no need to go to theirs! They want the kingdom of France, and Scotland as well! When will it end?
The strict formations fall apart as the army march forward. The English bowmen do their work well, drawing them out, forcing them to attack from a weaker position.
She sees early on that the day is lost.
But it is not in her blood to flee like so many do.
In the confusion, she loses sight of Thomas. For the duration of the battle, it is simply a matter of survival.
The armor is heavy, and too big for her, but she knows how to handle the sword and shield well. Her quickness saves her more than once.
She cuts down two knights before they sense her presence. Holding her shield up, she feels the arrows glance off it.
It is only when she finds herself facing three men at once that she finally turns and runs. The king and his standard-bearer are nearby, so she stays with them, turning to fight when someone gets too close.
She is assailed on every side as they near a river. Blows to her back, another on her shoulder. Someone slashes at her legs, and she falls.
Her breath comes in gasps. Each one stabs through her chest, bringing tears to her eyes.
Along with the thought of William. Lad, I would have come back if I could.
Laying on her side, the armor is an impossible weight. Heavy rain over the last several days has churned the ground into a bog of water and mud.
Loud cheering, nearby but sounding distant, erupts. She can feel the feet of men around her. Running, beating the ground further into submission.
Water seeps into her helmet. Despite her pain, she has to move. Otherwise she will drown in her own armor. She turns onto her back.
Before she catches a glimpse of the sky above, her view is further obscured by someone bending over her. Reaching for her helmet.
If he finds a woman here, who knows what he will do!?
But she has no strength to resist him. Her helmet is removed. The air is cold on her face. She blinks, and her eyes clear.
A man gazes down at her in shock. His dark eyebrows are thick and heavy, and furrowed together as one. She sees that he sees who she is.
He kneels in the mud beside her, his face close to hers. He smells of mud, sweat, blood.
"Stay still. I am going to find someone to help carry you…no harm will come to you. I swear it, by Our Lady."
He is an Englishman.
Before she can fully comprehend what he has said, he gets up quickly.
Thoughts race through his mind when he first sees her face.
A woman…she is a woman here, on the battlefield, what is a woman doing here of all places why is she here how did she come here her armor is not from here she is Scottish!? She is a woman, no matter where she is from, if anyone finds out…find John, he will not hurt her I will not hurt her…
He bends over and whispers in her ear. Getting up, he searches for John. Seeing him, he gestures for him to come, all the while turning in a circle to see if anyone else is close.
A woman fighting such a thing is unnatural God did not make women to fight this woman fought from the look of it she must have some skill as she is not dead
John approaches and sees what his brother sees. He runs and grabs a horse. The two men lift the woman onto it. She groans once, and her body goes limp. Peter mounts the horse with his brother's help, propping the woman against him. She is not dead, he tells John. He hears her breathing.
Around them, the English still celebrate their victory. Peter spurs the horse forward. John follows behind him, telling him to go to the priory in Durham Cathedral.
It is a difficult journey. If he rode alone, it would not take so long. But the horse is strange, and skittish. The woman is slumped in front of him. Peter has to wrap his arm around her, holding her to him, just to keep her on the animal. Her hair hangs over her face.
They receive some looks from some folks. But most people are too curious about what has happened, and they ignore them further when he tells them the English have won the battle.
To his relief, John catches up to them before they reach Durham, having borrowed a horse. The two of them carry the woman into the priory. John's superior, the Prior, is not pleased with the arrangement. But he reluctantly agrees to keep her there as long as they find women to care for her.
John finds a local woman who often supplies the brothers with eggs. Peter promises to come back the next day with his oldest daughter, and goes home.
Matilda and the children are relieved to see him well. He goes to bed early, to let himself rest, but his mind will not let him. Images of the men he killed haunt him.
As does the woman who lies near death.
He pulls his wife closer to him, and tries not to think about how blue the other woman's eyes are.
Elspeth wakes up suddenly, not knowing where she is. A strange woman touches her arm. You are in Durham Priory, she says. You are safe here. The woman's voice is rather piercing, but her eyes are kind.
Elspeth's armor is gone, replaced by a simple dress. Food and drink are brought to her, but neither tempt her much.
She is in too much pain.
Time does not matter when every breath feels like a day. The first moment she comprehends anything is when she hears a familiar deep voice.
And sees the man who took off her helmet the day before.
"I have brought my daughter to look after you," he says. The girl is tall like her father. "While you are here."
"Thank you," she whispers, her breath shallow. "I…I am a Scotswoman." She does not think they will force her out, not out of a holy place, but she feels it necessary that they know they harbor an enemy.
He nods, unsurprised. "Does the Scotswoman have a name? My name is Peter."
"Elspeth."
Peter and his daughter smile at each other. "My name is Elizabeth," the young girl says.
"Ah," she whispers, a ghost of a smile on her own face. "Like mine. A good name."
She can tell Peter wants to ask her many questions, but she is glad that he does not. He only asks where she is from, and if she has any family. She tells him and Elizabeth about her home. About James, and William.
Peter promises to find out what happened to Thomas. "He may have escaped," he says. From the look on his face, she knows it is not likely.
They do not tell her about the captured Scottish king, but she hears them whispering about him when they think she sleeps.
Her heart aches.
A kingdom without a king once more…what was it all for?
At least they do not triumph over her.
Sometimes she does not mind Peter sitting there when she wakes.
Sometimes she hates it.
He watches her with an expression she cannot describe.
Is it pity? Is it curiosity? Does he hate me, wondering if I killed any of his friends?
Once, when Elizabeth leaves the room to fetch a poultice, she musters her strength.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
"Like what?" He asks, folding his hands. His attempt at innocence is so dreadful, she is tempted to laugh. If it would not hurt so, she would.
His wife never has to worry about him lying to her.
"Like…like I am someone you have never seen," she croaks. She cannot quite say what she means. "I am a child of God, the same as you."
"Of course." He rolls his thumbs in a circle. "How do you think I look at you?"
"I don't know." A spasm of coughing overcomes her, and she cannot think of anything else for a time. He gives her a little water. She swallows it, nods her thanks. "You…see me as someone strange," she says finally. "Someone who defies the laws of God by wearing armor. Fighting in battle." Her chest tightens as tears fill her eyes. "A woman who should have stayed at home, tending to her house," she whispers. "A broken, dying woman…one who deserves only shame."
Part of her wonders why she cares what he thinks. Why she should care what any Englishman thinks of her.
But he is not just any Englishman.
Only a man of integrity would have helped her, and not simply left her to die alone. Only a man of honor would have protected her – for she is under no illusions, once her helmet was removed, she was at the mercy of anyone who saw her – and carried her to safety.
He gets up, moving his chair closer. She brushes some of her tears away, wincing. Every movement of her arms brings pain.
He reaches across her and catches her hand, laying it down gently at her side. Then he rubs the rest of the tears from her face. His touch is soothing.
"You are strange to me," he says, laying a cloth against her forehead. "You are Scottish. I doubt God will punish you for that, as much as every good Englishman would want Him to." He half-smiles at her. Then he sighs. "I would never think you deserve shame. If I thought you did, I would have left you on the field."
It is a thought that has stayed with him every day since the battle.
"You were where you were supposed to be," he says. He will never fully understand why she left her home, but he knows he speaks the truth. "Even though it was a battle. You took your husband's place. You defended him, your king, and your land. What shame is there in that? God wants us to love all three. You did so…I do not see a broken woman before me," he says, though both he and she know she is one, and that she is dying. "I see a strong, brave woman who fought when others would have stayed behind."
His words bring both comfort and more pain. He does not see her as simply weak. Another defeated enemy. Someone to hate.
But what use is bravery, when it leads only to death? What use is strength, when she cannot use hers to return to her nephew and home, both of whom need her?
Peter continues to sit by her side. He talks to pass the time. He tells Elspeth about Matilda and his family. Of the priory and cathedral, of the bones of St. Cuthbert buried there. Of the island called Lindisfarne, where the saint once lived.
He is glad to tell the Scotswoman that her armor, sword, and shield have been found. He is disappointed not to have any word of Thomas.
He tells her that other than Elizabeth, himself, his brother John, the Prior, and the local woman, everyone else thinks that it is her husband that is here.
The unspoken implication is that she will be buried as James, not as Elspeth.
"William must know," she whispers late one night four days after the battle. It is harder for her to speak, yet she struggles to say the words all the same. "Promise me that someone will take him the armor…it is his."
"I will take it. I promise," he says solemnly. He touches Elizabeth's cheek gently, to wake her. Then he goes and gets the Prior and John. The priests give Mass. During the familiar ritual, his throat tightens.
Why does the death of one more person affect him so? Is it because she is a woman?
Maybe.
She should not be dying, he thinks. Not just because of the battle. She should be living, watching over her home and family, those she loves. But that is not the path she has walked.
If only she had gone another way.
What he said to her, he hopes she remembers. She is brave and strong, and there is nothing shameful in what she has done.
He is ashamed of what he thought of her only a few short days before. Of seeing just another soldier from Scotland to step over on the way to victory.
If Elizabeth found herself in a similar place, he hopes she would be as brave as Elspeth.
He sends his daughter home with John. The Prior nods off in a chair.
It is so quiet Peter hears the fluttering, the burning of the single candle. It flickers.
Something inside him tells him to hold her hand. To let her know she is not alone. He does, his hand swallowing hers.
Her breathing eases.
Dubhghlas, 1347
All of Peter's doubts are put to rest when he finally dismounts his horse at the end of his long journey. William, along with Graeme, waits for him to speak.
Both know what he has to tell before he has ever opened his mouth. He is impressed with William, who listens stoically, with his chin wobbling.
He does not blame the boy for weeping.
Graeme tells him later of James's death, how no one except himself, William, and one trusted girl entered their master's room during his last days. How they told of their mistress's vigil.
How they said it was fever that carried the master away, and how his widow succumbed only days later.
How they buried several sacks of flour in Elspeth's place, next to James.
William restores the armor and wears it when he is grown. Though everyone speaks of it as his uncle's, privately he thinks of it solely as belonging to his aunt.
He never bears the same hatred toward the English as some of his countrymen do.
When Peter returns to Durham, he and Elizabeth sometimes visit Elspeth's grave at the cathedral. They often leave cornflowers.
The blue flowers are bright in the summer sun.
A/N: There is NO MORE DEATH in this fic. I can't promise it will all be unicorns and rainbows, but no more Grim Reaper.