Vox Meditantis

Alnwick Castle, Northumberland, England – 13th July 1174

The morning mist clung to the battlements of Alnwick Castle like the ghosts of fallen warriors, and Sir Duncan MacLeod could taste defeat in the air as surely as he could taste the copper tang of blood on his lips. From his position crouched behind a crumbling section of wall, he watched the English soldiers drag his king—William the Lion, King of Scotland—across the bailey in iron shackles.

The sight struck him like a physical blow. William’s golden hair, matted with blood and dirt, caught the pale morning light as he stumbled between his captors. The lion of Scotland, reduced to this. Duncan’s hand instinctively moved to the pommel of his sword, fingers tightening around the worn leather grip that had seen him through countless battles in service to the crown.

“Christ’s bones,” whispered Hamish, Duncan’s sergeant-at-arms, who had somehow managed to reach the same sheltered position. “They’ve taken him.”

Duncan said nothing, his grey eyes fixed on the tableau below. The English knight Sir Robert de Vaux, resplendent in his mail hauberk despite the early hour, was issuing orders to his men. Even from this distance, Duncan could see the conflict written across the English knight’s face—duty warring with honour, perhaps. De Vaux had fought with distinction, but there was no joy in his victory.

The plan had been sound enough. Strike hard and fast at the English positions, reclaim the territories that rightfully belonged to Scotland, and send a message to Henry II that the Scots would not be cowed. But plans, Duncan reflected bitterly, rarely survived contact with the enemy. The English had been waiting, prepared, and what should have been a swift victory had turned into a rout.

“Sir Duncan.” The voice belonged to young Alasdair, barely more than a boy, who had crawled through the rubble to reach them. His face was pale beneath the grime, and his hands shook as he spoke. “The lads are gathering in the ruins of the old chapel. They’re… they’re asking what we should do.”

Duncan closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of command settle upon his shoulders like a mantle of lead. With William captured, the responsibility for the surviving Scottish forces fell to him. He had perhaps thirty men left from the two hundred who had ridden south with such high hopes. Thirty men who looked to him for leadership, for salvation, for hope.

“How many of us made it clear?” he asked quietly.

“Mayhap thirty-five, sir. Some are wounded, but they can ride.”

Thirty-five men. Against how many English? Duncan peered over the wall again, counting the standards and banners that fluttered in the morning breeze. Too many. Far too many.

He thought of his wife, Moira, waiting in their tower house north of the border. She had kissed him farewell six days ago, her dark eyes bright with unshed tears. “Come home to me,” she had whispered against his lips. “Come home safe.”

Security, then. The smart choice, the safe choice. Gather his men, negotiate terms with de Vaux—who seemed an honourable knight—and return to Scotland with their lives intact. Live to fight another day, as the saying went. Moira would have her husband, and their unborn child would have a father.

But then he looked at William again, and remembered the oaths he had sworn. The sacred bonds of loyalty that tied him to his king, bonds that could not be broken by defeat or capture or even death itself. William had been more than a king to Duncan; he had been a friend, a mentor, a man who had lifted him from obscurity and given him purpose.

“Sir Duncan?” Alasdair’s voice was barely a whisper. “What are your orders?”

Duncan’s mind raced. A rescue attempt would be madness—thirty-five men against hundreds, with no knowledge of the castle’s defences or the strength of the English garrison. It would be suicide, and he would be leading good men to their deaths for the sake of a gesture. Yet the alternative—abandoning his king to English captivity—felt like a betrayal of everything he held sacred.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats made them all freeze. A party of English soldiers was making its way around the castle walls, searching for survivors. Duncan motioned for silence, pressing himself lower against the cold stone.

As the riders passed, Duncan caught a glimpse of a familiar figure among them—Lady Margaret, William’s sister, her hands bound before her, her face a mask of barely controlled fury. She had been in the castle when the battle began, seeking to negotiate terms for a peaceful resolution. Now she was as much a prisoner as her brother.

The sight of her kindled something in Duncan’s chest. Margaret had always been the voice of reason in William’s council, the one who advocated for careful diplomacy over rash action. If she were free, she might be able to arrange terms for William’s release, negotiate a settlement that would preserve Scottish honour whilst acknowledging English strength.

But she was not free. She was bound and guarded, another piece on Henry II’s chess board.

“Sir Duncan,” Hamish breathed, his weather-beaten face creased with worry. “The English are getting closer. We need to move soon, one way or another.”

Duncan nodded, his mind crystallising around a decision that surprised him with its clarity. He had been thinking like a knight, bound by codes of honour and loyalty. But perhaps it was time to think like a soldier, like a man who understood that sometimes the greatest victory came from choosing the right defeat.

“Gather the men,” he said quietly. “Tell them to prepare for a fighting withdrawal. We’ll make for the border.”

Alasdair’s face fell. “Sir, what of the king? Are we to abandon him?”

Duncan turned to look at the young man, seeing his own doubts reflected in those earnest eyes. “We are not abandoning him, lad. We are preserving what remains of his kingdom. Dead men cannot serve their king, and martyrs cannot raise ransoms.”

It was a practical answer, a safe answer. But as the words left his lips, Duncan felt something cold settle in his stomach. He thought of the stories the bards would tell, of the songs that would be sung in the halls of Scotland. Would they sing of Sir Duncan MacLeod, the knight who saved his men? Or would they sing of Sir Duncan MacLeod, the knight who left his king in chains?

“But sir,” Alasdair persisted, “surely we could—”

“Could what?” Duncan’s voice was sharper than he intended. “Storm the castle? Fight our way through a thousand English soldiers? Die gloriously in the mud whilst our king watches from his cell?”

The boy flinched at the rebuke, but Duncan saw the spark of something else in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or the first stirrings of doubt about the man he had followed into battle.

Duncan rose from his crouch, his decision made. Security over adventure. Prudence over glory. Life over death. It was the choice any sensible man would make, and he told himself that William would understand. A king needed living knights, not dead heroes.

But as he prepared to give the order to withdraw, a commotion erupted from the castle bailey. Shouts echoed off the stone walls, and Duncan saw English soldiers running towards the main keep. Something was happening.

“What is it?” Hamish asked, straining to see over the wall.

Duncan peered through a gap in the stones and felt his heart leap. A group of Scottish prisoners was being marched across the bailey, but they were not going quietly. One of them—a big man with a red beard whom Duncan recognised as Fergus MacBride—had somehow slipped his bonds and was wrestling with his guard. Other prisoners were following his lead, turning what should have been a simple transfer into a chaotic brawl.

“By the saints,” Hamish whispered. “They’re fighting.”

Duncan watched, transfixed, as the melee spread. English soldiers were pouring into the bailey from all directions, but the Scottish prisoners were giving a good account of themselves. In the confusion, he caught sight of William himself, still shackled but very much alive, his blue eyes blazing with defiance even in defeat.

“Sir Duncan,” Alasdair said urgently, “this is our chance. If we strike now, whilst they’re distracted—”

“No.” Duncan’s voice was firm. “It’s suicide. Even if we reached the king, we’d never get him out alive.”

But even as he spoke the words, Duncan felt something stirring in his chest. The same feeling that had driven him to take the cross years ago, the same restless energy that had made him leave his father’s lands to seek his fortune in service to the crown. The call of adventure, of glorious impossibility, of deeds that would echo through the ages.

He thought of Moira again, of the child growing in her womb, of the life they could build together if he chose the path of caution. A good life, a peaceful life, a life worth living. But then he thought of William, who had given him that life, who had raised him from obscurity and trusted him with command.

“How many men do we have who can still fight?” he asked quietly.

Hamish looked at him sharply. “Sir, you can’t be considering—”

“How many?”

“Perhaps twenty-five who are fit for battle. The rest are wounded or have lost their weapons.”

Twenty-five men. Against hundreds. It was madness, but sometimes madness was the only rational response to an impossible situation.

“Sir Duncan,” Alasdair said, his voice bright with sudden hope, “you mean to try it?”

Duncan looked at the young man, seeing his own younger self reflected there. The same hunger for glory, the same willingness to risk everything for the chance to be part of something greater than himself. When had he lost that? When had he become so concerned with survival that he had forgotten how to live?

“Aye,” he said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. “We’ll try it. But not as you think.”

He turned to face his men, who had gathered in the ruins of the chapel as ordered. Their faces were grim, marked by defeat and uncertainty, but they were still his men. They would follow him into hell itself if he asked it of them.

“Listen well,” he said, his voice carrying clearly in the still air. “Our king is taken, our army scattered, and we are few against many. By all rights, we should withdraw, preserve what remains, and live to fight another day.”

He saw some of them nod, relieved that their commander was being sensible.

“But I will not leave William the Lion to rot in an English dungeon whilst I have breath in my body and strength in my sword arm.” His voice grew stronger, more certain. “Not whilst there is still a chance, however slim, to win him free.”

The relief in their faces was replaced by something else—fear, excitement, the wild gleam of men who had accepted their fate.

“Those who wish to go home, go now with my blessing. You have served your king well, and no man will call you craven for choosing life over death.”

None of them moved. Duncan felt a surge of pride that nearly overwhelmed him.

“Then hear me well. We will not charge blindly into the bailey like berserkers. We will be clever, we will be quick, and we will trust in God and our own skill to see us through. The English are many, but they are not expecting us. Surprise will be our greatest weapon.”

He outlined his plan quickly, watching their faces as he spoke. It was desperate, dangerous, and likely to end in failure, but it was not impossible. And sometimes, the impossible was the only choice worth making.

As his men dispersed to take their positions, Duncan remained in the chapel ruins for a moment longer. The morning sun was climbing higher, burning away the mist that had shrouded the battlefield. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the continuing skirmish in the bailey—Scottish voices raised in defiance, English shouts of command, the ring of steel on steel.

He thought of Moira one last time, of the letter he had written to her but never sent, of the words he would never have the chance to speak. Then he drew his sword, kissed the crossguard as he had been taught as a boy, and stepped out into the light.

Security or adventure? The question that had tormented him all morning suddenly seemed simple. There was no security in a world where kings could be taken in chains, where honour could be bought and sold, where good men died for the ambitions of others. There was only the choice between living on your knees or dying on your feet.

Sir Duncan MacLeod, knight of Scotland, chose to stand.

The battle cry that rose from his throat was answered by twenty-four others, and together they charged into legend, seeking not security but something far more precious—the chance to be worthy of the oaths they had sworn and the king they served.

Whether they succeeded or failed, whether they lived or died, they would meet their fate as free men, and that, Duncan thought as he ran towards the gates of Alnwick Castle, was adventure enough for any man.

The End

On 13th July 1174, the Battle of Alnwick concluded with the capture of William I of Scotland, known as “William the Lion,” marking a decisive moment in medieval Anglo-Scottish relations. This defeat occurred during the broader Revolt of 1173-74, where William had allied with rebellious English barons against Henry II of England in an attempt to reclaim Scottish territories. The capture forced Scotland into temporary English overlordship through the Treaty of Falaise, which remained in effect until its annulment in 1189—a fifteen-year period that fundamentally altered the political landscape of medieval Britain. This pivotal event established patterns of conflict and negotiation between England and Scotland that would persist for centuries, ultimately contributing to the complex constitutional relationship between the two nations that continues to shape British politics and identity today.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.