Scottish Siege of Edinburgh Castle, 1314

Morning, 14 March

         Thomas looked up from the map he and the others were studying as Rory pulled back the tent flap. A gust of March wind stole in, bringing with it the scent of rain. But rain was nothing new, nor was it the reason for this meeting. Motioning for tall, redheaded Rory to join them, Thomas turned his gaze back to the map. It showed much of the surrounding countryside and, more importantly, Edinburgh castle dominated its center. Edinburgh was in the possession of the English; it had been for eighteen years. It was one of few Scottish strongholds still held by them, and Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, planned to change that.

         “How many have we lost, Rory?” Thomas asked.

         “More than two score—poor lads. Another left us not an hour ago,” answered the archer.

         Randolph and his men had laid siege to the castle two days before, and still had not taken it. Because of the high rock the castle stood upon, they were only able to attack from a few points, which added to their previous disadvantage of having fewer soldiers.

         On first arriving, the Scottish army had surrounded all the gates, ensuring that the English could not escape, and then asked for their surrender. The commander of the garrison had refused, and so Randolph gave the order to attack. First they tried breaking through the gates with fire, but failed to gain entrance into the outer wall. The second morning they’d raised ladders to climb onto the wall, and several managed to gain the ramparts, but were quickly repulsed in close combat. They were mercilessly slaughtered, and their bodies flung down to knock others from the ladders. Eventually, the Scots were forced into a full retreat when the English poured buckets of oil down and set the ladders afire—along with a few unfortunate men who could not escape the flames quickly enough.

         Now the Scottish soldiers camped just out of bowshot from the outer wall, tending to the wounded and burying the dead. Thomas Randolph had called a meeting of his commanders to discuss what to do next.

         Old, grey-haired Lorne Sutherland pounded the map with a clenched fist, producing a loud thud from the wooden table beneath it. “We simply haven’t enough men! The blasted thing is too well built!” he growled irritably.

         Thomas looked to the other three of his four commanders: Finlay Borthwick, a short, stocky highlander in charge of the spearmen and pike-men, Coll MacLellan, a battle-hardened young Scot, and Rory MacGowen, leader of the archers. They were not convinced.

         “I say if we attack them again today they’ll be flying a white flag,” declared MacLellan.

         “Nah.” MacGowen shook his head. “We need to get inside the walls.”

         “Och, aye?” retorted Borthwick through an extremely thick highland accent. “Y’ken we can just gae oop to the wall and they’ll lower a rope doon to us? This ain’t a basket o bairns we’re oop aginst, laddie. An that’s nae a bonny wee brae the castle’s oop on.”

         “We have to wait for them to run out of supplies and surrender.”

         “Aye, and we’ll be starved near death by the time they do.”

         “If we could draw them out of Edinburgh, we could take them on man-to-man. At least they wouldn’t have the advantage of the high wall.”

         “But they still have better weapons, and better armor than us, lad.”

         Thomas listened as the four Scotsmen argued on, occasionally he commented on this plan or that. None of them were very promising.

         The tent flap was drawn back again and this time it was tawny-haired Alan Pennycook who entered. Alan was a fierce fighter—despite his young age and beardless chin—who had joined Robert de Brus’s cause after English soldiers slaughtered his family. Since Thomas met Alan, setting out for Edinburgh, he had become something of an older brother to the boy. Randoph admired Alan’s determination and quick mind, as well as his capacity for compassion. The two had formed a firm bond in a very short time.

         Now behind Alan stood a dark-haired, solemn-faced man that Thomas didn’t recognize. “He has a message for you, Sir. From the King,” explained young Pennycook.

         The Earl nodded for the courier to deliver his message. The man reported: “King Robert wishes you to be informed that Roxburgh Castle was successfully taken by Sir James Douglas and his men.”

         Thomas seethed inwardly at the news. After his being taken prisoner by the English at the disaster of Methven seven years before, and forced to swear fealty to Edward Longshanks or be hung, Thomas had been captured by his own countrymen two years after. He’d been taken before his uncle, Robert de Brus, who brought him back to the Scottish side and made him Earl of Moray. Sir James Douglas was the Scotsman who caught him, and now he and Thomas were friendly rivals. Douglas had been sent to take Roxburgh Castle not long before Thomas was sent to Edinburgh, both castles being the strongest Scottish fortresses still held by the English.

         “When did he take the castle?” Thomas asked the messenger.

         “Nearly a month ago.”

         “How?”

         Here the man’s sober countenance was threatened by a laugh barely held in check. “He and his men disguised themselves in cowhides and approached the wall unnoticed. They used rope ladders and took Edward’s men by surprise.”

         “Cowhides?” sputtered Borthwick, aghast. “Doon’t Douglas ever go aboot anythin’ w’out usin’ trick’ry?”

         “It did help that the entire garrison was drunk,” added the messenger absently.

         “Longshank’s boys never can say no to a dram any time of the day,” murmured Sutherland with a half-smile.

         “Neither can ye,” chuckled MacGowen quietly, elbowing the old swordsman playfully.

         Ignoring his commanders’ banter, Thomas dismissed the messenger. His determination to take Edinburgh had been bolstered by the news. And Douglas’s escapade had given him an idea. Seeing that Alan was about to follow the messenger out, Thomas halted him with a request. “Alan, could you look about the camp and find William Francis and send him here?”

         With a quick, “Yes, Sir,” Alan left and the tent flap fell closed once more.
All four pairs of eyes turned to Thomas Randolph. “Wha have ye got in yer head to do, Thomas?” asked Borthwick.

Noon, 14 March

         “Ye asked for me, Sir?” William Francis entered Randolph’s pavilion, and Alan followed inside. They were the only men there now, the four commanders having long since returned to their own tents.

         “Aye,” answered Thomas. “You grew up near here, yes? I want to know where exactly you lived, and if you know anything about Edinburgh that the rest of us do not.”

         “Actually, Sir, my father was Governor in the castle for a time,” he answered.

         “And you didn’t tell me this before?” asked the Earl. Then he shook his head, “Never mind. I would like to know if there is some secret way into the castle, or a weak place in the wall.”

         William smiled. “As it happens, Sir, there’s a path up Castle Rock…”

         “A path?” cried Alan with wide eyes. “A way to climb up? That’s not possible.”

         “Why was I not informed of this at once?” questioned Thomas suspiciously.

         “I used to sneak out of the castle to visit a friend at night, Sir, without my father knowing,” he admitted. Alan sniggered, and a withering look from Thomas silenced him, although he continued to grin. “There’s a way up and down the north face,” William continued. “All I used was a rope ladder.”

         “Is the path still there? Would you, for instance, be able to lead a party of soldiers up there?”

         William nodded. “Yes, that would not be a great challenge.” He pointed to a section of the north wall on the map still lying upon the table. “It leads up to approximately this point of the wall.”

         “Thank you. You may go,” said Thomas in dismissal to the former Governor’s son. “Be ready to lead me up there tonight.” He bent over the map as the man left.

         “He visited a friend, eh?” chuckled Alan. “I wonder if she was pretty.”

         “She’s likely not anymore. It has been at least a score of years since then. Probably the only good to come of their relationship was William’s discovery of the path.”

         “What is your plan?” asked the boy eagerly.

         Thomas pointed to areas of the map. “A group of us wait until night and then climb up William’s secret path on the north face. At the same time the main force attacks Edinburgh from the south and draws all their attention there. We should be able to get to the East gate and open it to let our men in. Then we’ll have them completely by surprise.”

         “Just like Douglas!”

         With a wry smile, Thomas concurred. “Yes, only our plan doesn’t involve cowhides.”

         The pair shared a laugh at that.

         “Come.” Thomas led the way out of the tent, where the rain heralded by the morning’s wind was coming down lightly. “We have a lot to do before tonight.”

Sunset, 14 March

         The rain had not lasted long, but the clouds remained, of which Thomas was thankful, for there would be no moonlight to give away the band climbing the north wall.

         The Scots made their battle preparations no secret; sharpening weapons, polishing what little armor they possessed, fletching arrows, testing bowstrings, and making spears—all in full view of the castle sentries. Meanwhile, Thomas walked among the men, assessing them silently, and handpicking the group he would lead over the wall. Few of the men wore any armor or helm or steel boots. Most wore only a tunic and trews and gambeson under a shirt of mail, with cuarans for footwear, or only simple brogs. Every soldier had a targe—the round, layered, wooden shields favored by the Scots, as they each had a metal spike in the center and could be both a defense and a weapon—and a dirk, which could be used when all other weapons failed.

         Coming to Edinburgh they had been around two hundred fighters strong: a hundred swordsmen, less than fifty spearmen and pike men, about fifty archers, and of course two bagpipers and a drummer. Now more than two score of men were missing—mostly swordsmen killed in the rout the previous day.

         When Randolph had chosen thirty—including William Francis and himself—he led them a little way off from the main body of the army to give the details of his plan. But he noticed Alan Pennycook following his group, and turned back to speak with the boy. He had not chosen Alan, and for good reason. If any of a dozen things went wrong with the plan, every man scaling the north wall could easily end up dead.

         “I’m coming with you tonight,” declared Alan when Thomas reached him.

         “No you’re not. You’re to stay with the main force and attack the castle.” The Earl called to Sutherland, who hurried over. Thomas pointed to Alan. “Make sure Pennycook stays with you tonight. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

         That was the end of it, and with a sullen expression, Alan followed Lorne Sutherland back toward where battle preparations were being made.

Midnight, 14 March

         The chosen thirty began to group on the edge of camp behind the main body of the army, which was forming into ranks, preparing to attack. Several large fires had been lit among the men, and some soldiers were carrying torches. The flames served a double purpose, as they would keep English eyes blind to all else that moved in the blackness, while giving light to the Scots.

         Willie Duncan and his brother Kyle tuned their pipes. There was tension in every movement and in the voices of each man. Even the breath that rose in damp clouds from each mouth was rank with apprehension.

         Thomas waited in grim silence beside William Francis, counting the men as they appeared out of the gloom, arriving at the prearranged meeting place. He’d given each one of them a choice. They could come and follow him and William Francis, or they could take their places among the other men, and attack with the main force. Andrew Darroch had been the first to come, which was no surprise to Randolph. Andrew was a large, strong man with a ready smile, who loved anything amusing or adventurous; he considered this escapade to be both. Men drifted one by one into the group, some laughed and joked to mask the feeling of foreboding that permeated the air; others mirrored it openly on their faces.


         Not one hour ago, Thomas had given final instructions to Lorne, who would be leading the attack, and would be commander of all forces should Thomas be killed. Then he had spotted Alan—dutifully nearby—and strode over to where the boy was feeding more wood to one of the fires. “You can never know, before a battle, who you’ll see again afterward,” Thomas had said.

         “I know,” Alan had replied, no stranger to death. Then he’d added: “As a child my mother told me that when a Scotsman dies bravely, he can hear pipes calling him home. She said that’s why  some people smile when they die. Do you think it’s true?”

         Randolph had clapped a hand on Alan’s shoulder, replying “I don’t know, but either one of us could find out tonight.”


         “Sir.” William’s voice brought Thomas back to the present. “Everyone’s here.”

         Randolph looked about, quickly counting heads. Thirty in all. None of the men he had asked were absent. Thomas felt a burning pride fill his chest. He was proud that his men had so readily agreed to risk their lives in this manner, and proud to be among them tonight, on this daring undertaking to reclaim part of their homeland.

         With a swift glance up at the battlements where the faces of English troops could be seen faintly in the flickering light, Thomas gave the signal for William to lead the way. Everything was set. Lorne would give them enough time to scale Castle Rock before beginning the assault. The sound of Willie and Kyle’s bagpipes would be the signal for Thomas’s party to start climbing up the wall.

         Each of the thirty men carried only a targe and a dirk, excepting a few who bore longer swords, and one or two with a spear or a bow. In addition, William had a long rope coiled about one shoulder, and another man carried the rope ladder strapped to his back. All had wrapped cloth around their shoes or boots to muffle the sounds of their footfalls.

         William led the men swiftly around the base of Castle Rock, stepping as surely as if he was still the young man living in Edinburgh and sneaking out at night; as if no years had passed since then. In the pitch dark, each man could see only the soldier directly in front of him. They traveled in this manner for some long minutes until William stopped, turned, and began half-walking and half-crawling up a steep path running diagonally up the rock face. After a short space it turned back upon itself and led up the rock in the other direction. The path continued to switchback onward for a while, until they reached a portion of it where they were forced to climb straight up a steep incline of loose rocks. As the party neared the base of the wall they could hear the clicking of steel sentries’ boots above. Soon they could even hear the sentries’ voices.

         “There’s an army about to attack from the south and we still have to parade up and down the north wall. It’s not as if there’s any way for them to get up here,” complained one sentry.

         “The rock is far too steep. It’s not possible for anyone to attack this castle from the north,” agreed the second.

         A piece of rock shifted under someone’s boot and skittered down, clacking all the way.

         “Quiet, did you hear that?” asked the first sentry. The sounds of boots on the wall halted. The Scots all automatically froze as still as statues, no one even drew breath.

         “It’s only your imagination,” the second assured the first, and kept walking. After a moment the other followed him. A collective sigh of relief ran very quietly through the attackers, and they began following William once more.

         A short while later the sentries halted their patrol again, resting against the battlements and looking northward. “I tell you, I heard another sound from down there,” said one.

         “Quit your worrying. Here, I’ll prove it to you.”

         The Scottish soldiers tensed, looking up to the source of the voices, even though they couldn’t see the sentries for the darkness. After a moment there was a grunt from above and a stone whizzed by a mere meter from them, thumping loudly as it bounced down. “Aha! I see you!” cried the sentry.

         None of the Scots moved, knowing that the sentry couldn’t see them any more than they could him. “See? I told you there was nothing,” the one who threw the rock said smugly after a moment. Then they began their patrol again, and the Scots continued their climb.

         As William Francis reached the thin strip of flat ground beside the wall, Thomas heard the sound of bagpipes some distance away. That was the signal. The sentries had noticed it too, and Thomas could hear their boots clanking swiftly eastward along the wall. “There won’t be anything happening here, let’s go watch,” said one to the other as the sound of their footsteps faded away.

         Francis inspected the wall, running his fingers along the stones until they found a metal spike protruding at waist height. “Oh, good. It’s still in place.”

         Everything was going according to plan.

         William uncoiled the rope he’d carried, and threaded the metal loop end of a grapnel to the middle, and then, holding to both rope ends, twirled it to gain momentum, and let fly. The clank of the grapnel catching on the battlements was audible, and William waited a moment to be sure the sentries hadn’t been alerted, then tested the grapnel’s firmness with a powerful tug. The man who’d carried the rope ladder handed it over and William secured it to one end of the rope, then pulled on the other end, and the ladder rose slowly up the wall, unrolling as it went. When it’d reached the top, William knotted the rope to the metal spike and ascended the ladder with surprising speed. Once on the ramparts, he lashed it tightly to a battlement, and then tossed a pebble down to the others; the signal that the ladder was secure.  He crouched on the ramparts, keeping watch for the sentries’ return.

         One by one the men joined him, Andrew Darroch and Thomas Randolph being the first two.

         “You did this often then?” asked Darroch, greatly amused.

         William smiled a half smile. “My father found out eventually, and began locking my rooms at night. After a week I managed to sneak out again, and learned that she’d already found a new man.”

         Several of the soldiers had to stifle their laughter, lest the sentries hear and return.

         Half a score of Scots were still below when William heard approaching steel boots on the ramparts.  There was no way for the intruders to conceal themselves on such a narrow walkway, and no place to go but back down the wall. Thomas dropped another pebble over the battlements to signal the men to stop moving. As the sentries approached, Thomas gestured to Andrew. Both men readied themselves—Randolph unsheathing his sword, and Darroch nocking an arrow.

         “They’ll retreat soon, we may as well wait at our post,” said one of the unsuspecting sentries.

         Thomas gripped his targe, waited another few seconds, and motioned for Andrew to fire. The archer’s arrow flew true, burying itself in the neck of one Englishman, who fell with a strangled gasp, writhed and coughed, then was still. For an instant the other sentry was frozen with astonishment, and in that instant the Earl of Moray was upon him. The man took the first blow on his shield as he drew his sword. He deflected the second blow, and then stabbed toward Thomas, who parried with the spike on his targe. Darroch drew another arrow back, watching for an opening. Thomas landed a crushing blow upon his opponent’s breastplate, which dented it severely, and hampered the man’s breathing.

         “Attack from the north!” the beleaguered Englishman managed to shriek as he barely blocked another swing of the Earl’s sword. “Atta—” In retreating a step from his attacker the sentry had stumbled over the body of his fallen comrade. Both Thomas and Darroch had seized the opportunity.

         Andrew swore vehemently and drew his dirk, ready for the next opponent, though there was none. “If only the fool had waited another second to yell out!”

         Thomas ignored him and pulled his sword from its bloody sheath. “Get the rest of the men up here quickly,” he ordered. “Someone will have heard that alarm, and it’ll be easier to fight them if we’re not all crammed onto this wall.”

         In moments all thirty of the Scots were hurrying as quietly as possible along the wall, heading for the stone stairway down to ground level. They soon began to hear the shouts of English soldiers who had been alerted by the sentry’s cry, and when Thomas and Andrew reached the head of the stairs, the Englishmen were already running up. In the dark the soldiers, suddenly coming face to face with a group of Scottish warriors—the foremost bearing a bloody sword—had no idea how many they were up against, and immediately sent men off to gather reinforcements.

         The stairs were so narrow that there was only room for two men to walk abreast, and so Thomas and Andrew, taking advantage of their enemies’ hesitation, howled savage war cries and dashed forward, driving the English back. They continued to fight and shove their way downward, while Scottish archers further up the stairs hailed arrows into the English force, until the Scots reached the bottom of the stairs and were all able to fight. By that time more English soldiers had arrived, and the battle should have been going against the Scotsmen, but the English had been caught off guard, and they were panicking.

         Thomas let his senses and reflexes take over, and thought only of getting to the east gate. Englishmen fell before his dripping sword and stained targe. He had hoped to get into Edinburgh without raising the alarm, and take the castle with as little killing as possible. Things were not going according to plan. At the Earl’s side Andrew Darroch was dispatching enemies almost as quickly; taking a blow on his targe, catching the sword blade with the metal spike and shoving it away, then plunging his dirk in for the kill. All around them were the cries of the injured and dying. There was blood everywhere.

         Eventually the Scots were able to break through the melee, and separate their enemies’ force into two. Some of the English soldiers fled, and the rest were quickly defeated. Thomas and his men did not wait for more to come, but hurried toward the east gate. Any English soldier they met who stood to fight was swiftly slain, but most of the confused and panicked men turned tail at the sight of the bloody Scottish warriors. The night was full of the shouts of the bewildered soldiers, some with no idea what was going on, others who thought the castle was already taken, and very few who knew that something should be done to stop the thirty Scots hurtling for the east gate.

         There were a group of those men who got to the gate before the attackers—about forty of them. The shouts and yells and screams from the main battle around to the south could be heard, and it did not sound as though it was going well for the Scottish army. Thomas knew that on the other side of the east gate waited a party of Scots who would help his thirty men to hold the entrance while the larger force was alerted and came around to get in. All he had to do was get the thing open.

         Thomas called for the leader of the forty English soldiers to surrender. The answer came in the form of a hail of arrows, some of which missed the Scots completely, others thudded into prudently raised targes, but it sounded like at least one had hit its target.

         The Scottish warriors charged toward the gate, and everything was once more a chaotic mess of blood and screams and death. But it was over as soon as Thomas and Andrew reached the wooden east gate and heaved it open. All the remaining English fled as about twenty Scots poured inside, brandishing swords and dirks and firing arrows. Several runners were sent to alert the main force that the gate was open and in only a few minutes, large quantities of men were entering the castle. Most of the English garrison realized what was happening and rushed toward the breach. They were far too late to close the opening.

         It was a scene of terrible carnage. Men were falling left, right, and center. Thomas saw Alan for a brief moment amid the melee. The boy was wielding sword and targe in a mad frenzy, while tears cascaded down both his cheeks. The sight made the Earl’s heart cold with grief for his young friend’s lost childhood and hot with anger at the Englishmen who had killed Alan’s family and turned his mind to such self-destroying revenge.

         The tide of battle was with the Scottish force, as many English soldiers began to flee. Groups of Scots pursued them, and the fighting was soon spread through the whole castle. Slowly the news that the Governor of Edinburgh had been killed in the battle spread through the English troops, and they lost all hope. Most of them simply surrendered, but there were some who, in a terrified attempt to escape, leapt from the battlements, only to die when they hit the ground.

         Ragged cheers erupted from the Scotsmen, but Thomas knew very well that they were not shouts of victory, but simply cheers of being alive.

Dawn, 15 March

         Bodies lay everywhere—equal numbers of Scottish and English, strewn across the grounds and around the castle walls. Thomas walked among them, looking for any who were still alive. Other Scots were doing the same. Several men were found who had merely fainted, or who had been left with a grave injury for dead, and they were carried out of the castle to be cared for.

         Thomas had been amazed to learn that all thirty of the original attack party had survived. A few had sustained major wounds, and almost all were bleeding in a dozen places—the Earl among them—but each was alive. The main force had not fared so well. More than a third of them had been killed in attacking the south gate, and almost a whole quarter during the fighting inside.

         All the English who surrendered had been spared and were at the moment being held in one of the larger halls of Edinburgh. They would later be sent south to rejoin their countrymen. Edinburgh itself was to be destroyed; King Robert had ordered it so. No English force would ever hold the castle again.

         The aftermath of the slaughter was terrible to view. Even the survivors seemed mostly dead. There was no celebration; no revelers boasted their victory to the sky; no great ballads were being written. There was only death and a terrible quiet. Thomas was too familiar with battle to have expected anything different.

         A soft noise reached his ears, and he followed the fading sound. Thomas came upon a pile of slaughtered English soldiers, from under which the sound issued. As he wearily shoved away the dead, Thomas could see who was underneath.

         “Alan!” he cried, slinging aside the last two bodies. Thomas had assumed the boy was guarding the prisoners, or caring for the wounded, but here he found him!

         The wound in Alan’s side was terrible, one of his arms was broken, there was a long gash across his forehead, and his breath was dangerously shallow. Pennycook’s half-closed eyes flicked open. He did not seem to recognize Thomas. “Did we win?”

         “Yes, Alan,” the Earl answered. He started to pick the boy up to take him to the healers, but Alan cried out in pain and Thomas immediately set him down again.

         Tears streamed down Alan’s dirty and bloody face. “I’m going to die, Sir. You might as well leave me here.”

         Thomas felt so guilty. He should’ve let the boy come over the wall with him. All thirty men had survived. “This is my fault, Alan,” he said. “I’m going to take you to the healers and you’re going to live.” He started to lift his friend again.

         “No. It’s too late. I can hear them already.”

         “Hear what?” asked Thomas in worry and confusion. Alan was in shock and obviously delirious. He wouldn’t last much longer; he needed the healers.

         More tears rolled down Alan’s face as he smiled. His voice was barely a whisper. “I can hear the pipes calling me.”

         Thomas set him down, recalling their conversation from the night before. “Alan. No, stay here,” he begged, grasping his hand firmly, as though doing so would anchor him to the earth.

         The boy seemed to recognize his friend at last. “I’m sorry, Thomas, but I have to go home,” he said. Then, still smiling, Alan let out a ragged sigh and breathed no more.

         Thomas Randolph’s fingers trembled as he closed Alan’s eyes. Still holding the boy’s hand, he let the tears come, and listened to the terrible quiet. There was no victory today.

         Thomas was too familiar with battle to have expected anything different.

* * * * * * * * * * *


History vs. Fiction: What's True About this Story

         Thomas Randolph was the Earl of Moray, and all the rest of his background that I put in was true as far as I know. Sir James Douglas was the Scotsman who caught him, and he and Thomas did have a rivalry of sorts (though according to one source this rivalry did not begin until after Roxburg and Edinburgh were both recaptured). Douglas had been sent to take Roxburgh Castle not long before Thomas was sent to Edinburgh, both castles being the strongest (I assumed the strongest, I could be wrong) Scottish fortresses still held by the English.

         I invented all four of his commanders: Rory MacGowen, Lorne Sutherland, Finlay Borthwick, and Coll MacLellan, as well as Andrew Darroch. I also made up Willie and Kyle Duncan—the bagpipers, but it’s very likely that they did have pipers with them in the fighting force.

         William Francis (though my sources argued as to what his surname really was: Frank, Francis, or Francois) I did not invent. He was the son of a former governor of Edinburgh, and he did used to sneak out of the castle at night to visit a lady by means of a secret path and a rope ladder. The method of getting the ladder attached to the battlements using the metal spike I came up with though, since I didn’t know how he actually did it.

         There were exactly thirty men that went over the wall at night, and Thomas (according to one source) was the third guy up there. And even the sentry throwing the rock at them I didn’t make up. I found it while researching!

         But the other numbers of men I estimated. I have no idea how many Scots Thomas really brought to Edinburgh. I did try to be realistic though. Their gear I had to guess too, but I knew that they didn’t have much fancy stuff. Targes and dirks were used a lot. And they did like the targes a lot because they could be used as defense or offense.

         All the siege tactics they tried before sneaking over the wall I made up, as well as how the fighting went on inside. What I didn’t invent was that they opened the east gate and let in soldiers and caught the English by surprise. Also, I didn’t make up that the battle pretty much ended when the Governor was killed. But I don’t know that all the soldiers who surrendered were spared and sent back to their countrymen—I just assumed so, because it would be rather awful of the Scots to simply slaughter them all.

         And that Robert de Brus ordered Edinburgh destroyed was true. It was so that the English couldn’t take it again. The only part of the castle that they left alone was St. Margaret’s Chapel.

         Now, the big question: Was there an Alan Pennycook?
No. Or at least nobody wrote anything down about him if there was. I made Alan up.

Ah, and some vocabulary--
         Bairn: an infant
         Brae: a hill or mountain
         Dram: a measure of whiskey
         Trews: a kind of trousers
         Gambeson: a quilted garment worn as padding under chain mail
         Cuarans (coo-urr-ahns): boots
         Brogs (brogues): shoes