The Siege

Chapter 1

My hands tremble as they pull my sword from its sheath. This is it. The day has come. The siege of Stirling Castle. My mouth is as dry as paper, and I'm worried everyone can hear my heart thumping like a drum. My comrades around me look calm, but I can hear heavy breathing, and I glimpse the man on my right sweating heavily. None of us had come here to Scotland to fight willingly, oh no. We are the men who ask too many questions, who would think before swearing blindly to our king's loyalty. But now, the penalty for turning against France or deserting, even hesitating to kill an enemy meant certain death. No, it was better to fight and die by a quick sword blow than a firing squad back at home. Home. Even the word makes me want to curl up in a ball and wish myself back there. My wife, my children. The house that my brother and I had made, brick by brick. The homely village who would accept a man seeking shelter, no questions asked. All are waiting for me, for the day when I would return, an earl of a Scottish castle and several medals on my chest declaring my courage.
The wail of the sergeant's command cuts through my thoughts, splintering my dreams like shattering ice. This is it. My legs already feel like lead from marching up the steep, rocky hill. My shoulders burn from carrying my shield and sword. My breath is foggy in the chilly night air, billowing up in great clouds. My thoughts are jumbled from several long nights lying awake, restless. I shake my head, trying to clear it and focus on the siege ahead.
"Soldiers, advance!" Our commander is vicious, angry. We march, despite our hunger and exhaustion. Left. Right. Left. Right. The rhythm is unyielding, keeping us going at a brisk pace. I'm starting to think that maybe it won't be such a massacre as I thought, when suddenly arrows fly overhead, diving down to impale my platoon. Several men drop with cries of pain. Others are shot in the shoulders and thighs. But they have to keep marching, for to give up is to be left behind in the mud and rocks until they died. And still the arrows keep coming. Still many brave soldiers fall. Yet nobody runs or questions our orders. We have far changed from our rabble of scruffy men. We have developed into a tough, well trained battalion ready to kill.
As we near the tall round walls, we glimpse the whites of men's eyes as they mine under the tower walls. The crescent moon is out and shining dimly, but I only snatch glances of mounds of earth, dirt flicking from the spades of filthy tunnellers. We come closer and closer, our shields now in a phalanx formation to defend ourselves against objects thrown. But it's too late to save nearly 50 men, all dropped dead before we approached closer than 40 yards. The diggers crawl out the hastily made tunnel and stare at us. They had camped under the stone walls for five days now, as constructing took a long time. I watch my comrades slowly entering the passage, until it is my turn. My belly twists at the thought of entering the dark, damp, cramped space, and I look up, desperately trying to find something I can think about whilst crawling in pitch black. There! A star, a shining symbol of peace. Glinting through the clouds, it gives me hope. Then a boot comes at me and I slide. My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick. Underground the peat is boggy, and sharp stones scrape my back and my stomach. I hate small spaces, and this is dark. Not a glimmer of light shows. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, and picture the tiny star. Yes. Now I can reach forward, and find a purchase on the slippery earth. Suddenly I hear a sliding noise. I stop, listen. Behind me, sharp stones and earth rain down on my boots. Panicked, I crawl forwards, gasping for breath. I hear screams as my fellow men choke on dirt. All of a sudden the noise stops. I reach backwards and my fingers come into contact with something limp and cold. An arm. My friends had been buried alive. I howl and blindly wriggle forwards until I feel a draught on my cheek, and strong arms grasping me and pulling me up. Blinking open my eyes, I see around 50 of my soldiers. They all stare at the hole expectantly. I shake my head.
"A-a collapse. I couldn't do anything," I sob. "They're all dead. All of them. We have to do the siege on our own."
The men mutter to each other. Then the officer for our platoon steps up and murmurs, "We have mined under this castle secretly, whilst many courageous soldiers in the other platoon march to the gatehouse as a decoy, and perhaps now are fighting for our lives," he doesn't mention that realistically they are all dead now, a hopeless distraction that guaranteed death. "Many brave men have died in this tunnel, all for us. So come on, soldiers. Advance!" And with these inspiring words, we creep up the stone steps that leads to the kitchens.