But the ultimate decision rested with Bruce. He didn’t say anything right away, but stared at Alex until he felt like a bug under a rock.

“Well, Seton, you are either the messenger of destiny or the messenger of death. I guess we shall find out which.”

Alex released the breath that he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He’d done it. He’d convinced the king, and in doing so, hopefully put an end to this war.

Dismissed, the men started to file out to find their pallets. But Alex did not think anyone would be sleeping much this night.

“What about him?” Boyd asked the king, indicating Alex. “Should I tie him up with the others?”

Bruce considered him for a moment, and then surprisingly one corner of his mouth lifted. “Give him back his weapons. Let him fight tomorrow. It’s his life on the line.”

They all knew there was far more than Alex’s life on the line, but Alex had his second chance—from the king, at least—and he intended to do what he could to ensure Bruce did not regret it. Ever.

The Nativity of St. John the Baptist,

Midsummer’s Day, June 24, 1314

Midsummer’s Day, which also happened to be St. John’s Day, dawned sunny and hot. As the English woke from their uncomfortable and restless night, they stumbled out of tents to an inconceivable sight. The Scots were mustering for battle!

As Alex had foretold, the English were not prepared to face Bruce—and certainly not for a Scot offensive in broad daylight. The Earl of Gloucester was so hastily awakened he didn’t even have time to don the surcoat that bore his arms. It would spell his doom, as when the Scot army of moving schiltrons attacked—led by Edward Bruce with Randolph and Douglas on either side—Gloucester, undoubtedly with the king’s accusation of “coward” still ringing in his ears, mounted a quick charge against Edward Bruce and was cut down from his horse and killed rather than be held for ransom.

Alex watched it all unfold from his position fighting in the king’s division, slightly behind Edward Bruce’s. But to the English cavalry, which had little room to maneuver in the narrow ground between the two rivers, the Scot army must have seemed like one dense, moving wall of spears that they could not penetrate. The Scots kept pressing forward and the English kept falling beneath their pikes, men and beast skewered by the deadly points of steel.

It went on for hours, a fierce melee of pikes and horsemen. What was nearly the entire force of the Scot army was now pitted against the English front.

Only once did Alex come close to death. Ironically, it wasn’t at the hands of the English, but at the hand of the man he’d hoped would one day be his father-in-law.