A small opening between the schiltrons had appeared, enabling a handful of English to penetrate. One of those men was Sir Edmund Mauley, King Edward’s seneschal, who had lost his horse and was locked in a fierce battle with Boyd. Suddenly, another knight shot through the opening on a horse, intent on driving his lance into Boyd.

Alex shouted a warning. But Boyd didn’t have a chance to react. Alex didn’t think. He reached for his dagger and threw.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex sensed the threat moving toward him even as he watched the horseman, now with a dagger in his neck, falter and drop his lance. Alex spun and lifted his sword, but only managed to block the blow from one of MacRuairi’s swords. The other penetrated his mail and sank into his side—fortunately not in his gut where it had been aimed.

By this point, MacRuairi must have realized Alex hadn’t meant to kill Boyd but to save him.

“Fuck, Seton. I didn’t see . . . are you all right?”

Alex removed the hand that had gone instinctively to the hole in his side. Noticing only a small patch of blood, he nodded. “It’s just a scratch.”

MacRuairi didn’t look like he believed him, but there wasn’t time to say anything more. Another wave of men had appeared and they lifted their swords to fight them off.

The next time he looked over to Boyd, Sir Edmund was down. His former partner caught his eye and nodded in silent thanks. But Alex knew it didn’t change anything.

The battle raged on, and Alex fought like a man possessed—or perhaps like a man with something to prove. Shoulder to shoulder with his former brethren they surged forward against the faltering English line.

He read the surprise, and then the hatred, on more than one face as his former English compatriots realized what he’d done. Despenser shouted something at him from across the battlefield—with an almost gleeful sneer—but his words were lost in the roar of the fighting. As Alex was only too anxious to meet him knight to knight, he was disappointed that was the last he saw of him.

It was mid-morning when Alex knew his faith would be rewarded. The fabled English archers, whose arrows might have penetrated the schiltrons of pikemen and made a difference in the battle, were deployed despite the close fighting and threat of hitting their own men. Bruce, however, was prepared. He ordered Robert Keith, the Marischal of Scotland, to attack with his cavalry that had been held in reserve for just this purpose.

The threat—and the only hope for an English victory—was eradicated.

The final blow came when Bruce brought forward his own archers, who sent a hail of arrows down on the rear of the enemy. The English resistance crumbled, and the army was in full retreat.