Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce Chapter 16.12

                                                                                           XII

Scotland

Kildrummy Castle

September 1306

Boulders flung from trebuchets crashed, raising clouds of debris. Beneath their shroud of dust, bodies lay angular and still. Overhead, arrows rained down: murderous, black hail, which blocked out the light. Screams pierced the roar of battle. Sweat dripped from Niall's forehead, stinging his reddened eyes. Muddied rivulets of blood ran down his neck. The deep, sustained thud of weapons upon six thousand iron shields reverberated through every bone of his body, but when the din ceased, the silence held even greater menace. Within his belly, fear and gnawing hunger vied in an endless battle for precedence.

Over the past weeks, Niall had been valiant in his defence of the castle. Now, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Smoke and flames billowed out from the Great Hall wherein lay the castle's jealously hoarded grain stores.

"Guards, to the well!" he screamed, but none heeded his call. Another flurry of arrows was airborne. A terrified child sprinted past him. An arrow caught him midstep. Niall dived for cover.

Tomas saw his beloved chapel on fire. As fast as his old knees could carry him, he hastened to save the precious silver plate and his vestments. He knelt to pray, seeking a few precious moments of peace and an end to the panic and affright which seared his soul. With the intense light from the three tall chancel windows shedding prisms of amber and crimson upon him, he prayed for the safety of all within the castle walls. Smoke billowed around him. His throat felt dry, scorched by the searing heat. Soot and ash rained down, burning holes in his habit. Gulping for air, Tomas glanced up. The licking, flickering flames had taken hold, consuming all before it. With an enormous groan, he realised his prayers were in vain. A plume of smoke and dust rose into the darkened sky as the chapel roof crashed to the ground. Around the bailey, cries of desperation and terror rose above the roar of the fire.

None knew a certain blacksmith had made a deal with the Earl of Pembroke's men. For the safety of his family and a hoard of gold, he created a diversion within the castle and let the soldiers in through the concealed postern gate. Soon, all lay butchered – household and villagers alike – some in the bailey; others, like Nectan, with his head smashed in, quivered in a blood-smeared stairwell. Morag lay sprawled beneath him. Upon her face, a look of fearful bewilderment was frozen in time. Talorc's screams could scarce be heard above the frantic baying of the hounds. In terror, the stallions attacked their stalls with their hooves. None could escape. Osbourne had barred the stable doors.

Down in the kitchen, old Earchann defended Mhairi and Shona with nought but an iron poker, until a blade deftly sliced his belly; pulsating bowels erupted onto the bloody floor in front of them. Shrieking in terror, the fraught women clenched their eyes shut in horror; it was the last thing they would ever see. Meanwhile, Shona's daughters crouched behind barrels in the storeroom. Before long, their desolate screams echoed around the castle.

Deep in the ravine in their prearranged place of safety, Osbourne moaned and threw himself upon the rocky ground; his children lay dead by the sword and his wife, legs and clothing askew, stared silent and accusing at the dark swirl of sky. Murderous with rage and blighted by shock, he barrelled over one of the English captains until they were both covered in blood and muck. Later, before the smoking ruins of Kildrummy, burly sergeants held Osbourne. Dust clouds formed around them as he squirmed and kicked.

Nestled within the fire's blue heat, a crucible held the precious reward, now melted into a sinuous golden swirl. The prisoner's eyes glazed in recognition, and his bowels loosened. Soon, his cries rose to the high-pitched squeal of an animal in extremis. As the molten liquid dripped and slid down his gullet, Osbourne's body shuddered and convulsed. A strange, tortured gurgle could be heard, followed by an unearthly silence.

The dung heap was to be his final resting place.

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Burnt, dazed and bloodied, Niall staggered through the towering gates of Berwick Castle. His chains had long since chafed the flesh from his wrists and ankles, and his body shuddered in the grip of a fever. The prisoner knew full well what awaited him – his mind, full of bleak imaginings. Along with many others, he endured an execution so harrowing and precise that even the bravest of them cried for their mothers and begged for release from the butcher's blade.

When the garrison commander gave up the island castle of Loch Doon, Christopher Seton lost his freedom. His execution took place at Dumfries, whilst his brother and fourteen other Bruce adherents met their fate at Newcastle. Much like any vermin, the Scottish rebels were being exterminated.