James Stewart had sold off much of his personal wealth in order to purchase the seven great guns he planned to use to chastise the English and make them fully aware of his strength. They were called the Seven Sisters. His brother-in-law, Henry of England, would continue to fight alone, for the pope had received word that the Ottoman ruler was even now planning a large campaign into Western Europe. He sent to James asking him to mediate between the Holy See and King Louis of France. James Stewart chortled with satisfaction, but the English refused to allow his ambassadors through their territory. They would gladly receive his ambassador in London, but he could go no farther, thus rendering him useless. Henry Tudor considered his war against France a holy war, even if the pope no longer saw it that way. Henry Tudor knew what was right, and besides, the pope had written to him saying that he had changed his mind about Scotland acting as an intermediary between him and France. Having been offered no proof of this, James Stewart and his advisers did not believe it.

No more was heard from the pope, and the Scots knew that this was due to the English cardinal who now had his ear. The English were all but at war with the Scots upon the high seas. James Stewart, after many years of devoted service to Christendom, was shunted aside by the pope in favor of a younger man with a great deal of gold, which Henry Tudor was using to buy as much influence as he might. The Venetians were now busy preparing to defend themselves from the Turks, should it prove necessary. King Ferdinand, that wily and dishonest ruler, did nothing but mouth platitudes. France was busy fighting England, and Scotland was alone to fend for itself.

The Earl of Hume went forth to clear the Northumbrian border forts. He did so, but he lost a third of his men to English arrows due to his own neglect in clearing the gorse and bracken from the field where they fought. The English had hidden in this thick undergrowth, rising to ambush the too-confident Scots. Yet despite this, just about every man in Scotland between sixteen and sixty had rallied to the king’s banner. Clansmen from the Isles, clansmen who normally would have fought each other, artisans, merchants, felons who volunteered to serve the king, the sons of the poor, and the sons of the well-to-do all marched side by side with their beloved king.

The king had been visited before he marched down into England by an old crone who demanded to see him and would not be satisfied until she did. Like the king, she had the lang eey.

“Dinna go down into England, Jamie,” she warned him. “Dinna go, for ye shall nae come hame again!” Her glance pierced him. Her finger waggled at him.

But James Stewart knew it. His own second sight had told him this long ago.

The old woman continued with her warning. She grasped his sword hand so tightly he thought she had crushed it at first. His bones, she said, would not return home. And then she made reference to his heirs, who would be desperate to live in a green land, not Scotland, and how two gold rings would make one. That he did not understand, but he thanked her and gave her his royal blessing. At that she stared but a moment into his eyes, and then shaking her head, darted off, leaving the king to ponder what he had not comprehended. Two rings making one? But when the morning came, James IV of Scotland began his final march into history. It was his destiny, and he knew it.

Logan Hepburn was aware of none of this as he rode from his holding in the southwest of Scotland to meet with the king’s forces. The journey was an odd one, for the land seemed to be deserted. Here and there he met up with other men both young and old, and they joined his little band, for their destination was the same. So they traveled through the early autumn rains, moving west and south. They crossed the Tweed River moving into England now, the evidence of the army ahead of them plain to see. They found Ford Castle and its lands about it untouched. The lady of the castle, alone, had been cooperative, and James Stewart had spared her holding, though he had burned her house down as he departed. He remained a few days before moving on to Flodden. And it was there Logan and the men with him found the Scots forces on the ninth day of September.

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.”