#battle of Bannockburn

[illustratus]

[scotianostra]

On 24th of June 1314 Scotland rose as a nation to repel the English invaders at The Battle of Bannockburn.

The First War of Scottish Independence had say sporadic fighting since Edward I of England led a force into Scotland in the spring of 1296 to strip King John Balliol of his crown. During the next decade or so the likes of Andrew Moray, William Wallace and Simon Fraser among others had fought a guerrilla war against the English. Some of the nobility, Robert the Bruce and John Comyn included had chosen to fight with Edwards Armies at times, Moray died of his wounds some time after The Battle of Stirling Bridge, Wallace was executed in London after betrayal by he Scottish nobleman Sir John Menteith in the autumn of 1305, Longshanks must have thought the resistance was crushed but a year later The Bruce, after killing John Comyn at Dumfries, seized the Scottish crown, and so began a chain of events that would see a smaller Scottish Army defeat the English Army of Edward II on the fields at Bannockburn near Stirling.

After nearly a decade of fighting, by 1314 Robert the Bruce was in control of most of Scotland. Stirling Castle was the only major castle left in English hands, and so he sent his only surviving brother to Stirling with orders to take the castle.

However, his brother made a deal with the English commander: if the fort wasn’t relieved by mid-summer 1314, the English commander would surrender the castle to the Scots.

So far, Edward II of England had stayed well away from the fighting in Scotland. But even he couldn’t ignore the challenge of relieving Stirling Castle. He marched an army north to Scotland, stopping a couple of miles south of Stirling Castle, near a stream called the Bannockburn.

Meanwhile, Robert the Bruce had gathered together all of his fighting troops, and had arrived at nearby St. Ninian’s before the English. This gave him time to prepare the ground for the mother of all battles.

There are only about four hours of proper darkness at midsummer in Scotland. For the English army crossing the boggy ground beneath the town of Stirling, that was just enough time to feed and water horses and men, clean equipment and wonder what lay ahead of them once the sun rose. Morale was low. The foot soldiers were exhausted, having been forced to march as quickly as they could from Edinburgh 30 miles away in order to meet the midsummer deadline agreed for the relief of the castle.

Yesterday I touched upon the first day of the battle where the English had failed to best their Scottish enemies in a series of encounters including the infamous attempt by Sir Henry de Bohun to kill the Scottish king.

Nevertheless,  Edward II was prepared. What he did not expect was the Scots to fight, for it was their habit to disappear into the hills when confronted by an English army. Preferring to fight on their own terms, the tactics Wallace had used and Bruce also in his battles.

As dawn crept into the sky on June 4th, Edward could see the Scots across the burn, seing them kneel, legend has it that the English KingI, called out “Ha! They kneel for mercy!” misunderstanding their intent. The Scots then stood up and marched in their schiltrons down the hill, straight towards the massing English knights, under cover from their own archers. 

The English archers reacted swiftly, however, and quickly drove the few Scots archers from the field. Beneath a ridge was a line of casualties where the two armies first clashed. The well drilled Scottish lines held at the impact of the poorly organised English cavalry, however, then began driving back the English in a relentless, murderous, crushing slog. The lines were packed so closely together that English support from their archers quickly became impossible.

ThdeEnglish general The Duke of Gloucester had been stung by accusations of cowardice from his own king the day before. Subsequently, upon seeing the Scots’ advance, he hastily formed up the vanguard of the English cavalry and charged without even pausing to don his own surcoat. With great bravery, he charged the Scottish lines but went down under the spears of Edward Bruce’s men. Without his surcoat, he was not recognised as a potentially valuable hostage and was killed by the rampaging Scots.

The English had redeployed their now redundant archers across the Pelstream Burn, on the Scots’ left flank, where they wreaked total havoc amongst the Scotsmen under the command of the Black Douglas and Walter the Steward. But the Bruce had foreseen just such a development and deployed the Scots light cavalry under Sir Robert Keith in a circuitous movement to dispatch them. Unseen by the English, they tracked swiftly through the concealing countryside to take the English archers by surprise and drove them from the field.

 It was at this point that the Bruce deployed his own schiltron, with support from Angus Og MacDonald and his highlanders, who he had previously held in reserve. As they smashed into the thick of the battle, the English began to lose heart. They were being driven back mercilessly and yet most had been unable to reach the front line to strike a blow. They could not manoeuvre effectively in the tight confines and on such broken terrain. Many fell beneath the crush, never to rise again and panic began to surge through their ranks.

English King Edward was persuaded to leave the field by his advisers as order in the English ranks collapsed and he fled for nearby Stirling castle with his escort. Upon seeing the Royal Standard, three golden leopards on a scarlet background, leaving the field, the English collapse became inevitable.

The Scottish archers returned to the field to wreak havoc upon the fleeing English. The “small folk” abandoned their reserve position by Coxet Hill and took to the field. It is unlikely that Robert the Bruce ordered this charge, but its effect was devastating upon the already retreating English forces. Seeing these hundreds of figures rush into battle carrying workmen’s tools as weapons and waving homemade banners, the English mistook them as another Scottish reserve force entering the fray. Subsequently, they totally disintegrated and fled the field, pursued in every direction by vengeful Scots

The English King eventually reached Stirling Castle but was refused entry by the castle commander, Sir Philip Moubray, as this would only have resulted in the King’s ultimate capture. He and his retinue were pursued relentlessly south and east to Dunbar by the Black Douglas, leaving his army to be slaughtered.

[bantarleton]

Bannockburn 1314 - When it became clear that all was lost the Earl of Pembroke and Sir Giles d’Argentan led King Edward II from the field, much against his will, retreating before the rampant Scots. Artwork from CAM 102 Bannockburn 1314: Robert Bruce’s great victory, illustrated by Graham Turner.

[maypoleman1]

6th April

The Arbroath Declaration

Source: S Buwert/ Shutterstock/ The Conversation website

On this day in 1328, the Treaty of Northampton was signed, confirming the independence of Scotland from England, a full fourteen years after the victory of Robert the Bruce’s army of freedom fighters over the forces of Edward II at Bannockburn in 1314. This was followed by the Declaration of Arbroath, drafted by Bernard de Lington, Chancellor of Scotland and Abbot of Arbroath. It is perhaps the first declaration of independence by a country from an imperial power in history. Its ringing tones of national pride and freedom have a distinctly modern feel, particularly given the national consciousness was a barely acknowledged concept in medieval Europe:-

‘It is not for glory, riches or honour that we fight,

it is for liberty alone,

the liberty which no good man loses

except with his life.’

[ayeforscotland]

National Trust of Scotland has lodged a legal challenge after the local Labour/Tory administration approves a *horse racing track* (why???) on the site of the Battle of Bannockburn.

Genuinely outrageous decision, councillors deserve to be crucified over it.

[auspicioustidings]

Bannockburn

Summary: Your boyfriend Johnny has come home in a strange mood, and you are about to get your shit rocked at Bannockburn.

Technically, if you squint, a sequel to Savage set just over 700 years later. Like I will perhaps write a proper sequel at some point, but you can blame Bunny for this one.

Words: 3.6k

CW: CNC, smut, implied character death

You were getting nervous. You were getting really nervous. There were two Johnny’s and you never knew what one you were getting when he came home from a mission. Most of the time you got your Johnny, sweet and loving and tackling you to the bed with a laugh while he showed you how much he missed you. But sometimes whatever happened out on mission got his blood up. Whatever he usually did to get himself settled and out of war mode didn’t take. Sometimes you got the Savage Johnny, the one who heard your English accent and became more animal than man. The one who went into such thick Scots that you hardly understood what he was growling into your ear as he took you. 

Usually you knew what Johnny you had the moment he walked through the door. Not this time. This time he seemed like he was boiling with energy under the surface, but he kissed you nonetheless and ate dinner with you and held you as you slept. When he got you both up and packed into the car the next morning for a trip you had the sense to at least be a little worried. Now, hand held in his as you listened to the guide, you had some inkling that you might be in for it. 

“Now King Edward the second invaded as a result of Bruce’s demand to his people to recognise him as their King. He summoned 25,000 infantry and 2000 horses, the largest ever army to invade Scotland. Bruce only had command of 6000 men.”

You could feel the blood draining from your face as the guide went further into the background of the battle. Around about the time she briefly mentioned how Wallace had been hanged, drawn and quartered, limbs displayed in different cities, just shy of ten years before the Battle of Bannockburn, you absolutely knew what Johnny you had on your hands. And this Johnny? There was nothing you could do to save yourself from this Johnny. This Johnny was taking in every word, ready to punish you for your ancestors' transgressions against his. 

You were trying to pay attention, but your eyes were darting around trying to pinpoint any little nooks that might spell danger if he got you in them. Only that was dangerous in itself, because the first time you felt your attention drift from what was being said Johnny had let go of your hand and moved to instead hold you firm by the back of the neck, fingers massaging a little too hard in warning. That got you to pay rapt attention to all of it, to the whole history of the Scottish wars of Independence as it related to Bannockburn. 

It was strange sometimes, you and Johnny. There were times like now when you would be learning about the history of your countries and it felt like some long forgotten memory. There were times when you met his Lieutenant and swore you knew him from somewhere. Like there was some ancient part of you that trusted them when they fought together to watch each other's backs. No matter what Johnny you got, you held such a deep love for him that it scared you sometimes. Your heart twisted as they described what the battle would have been like for the soldiers, the sights and sounds and weapons. It must have been awful. 

You were stuck on it. Stuck on the image of a Johnny with a sword on the battlefield. That was your mistake, zoning out and just following along when he led you out to the grounds. Only when you had been walking for a while did you realise how far you were getting from the safety of a building full of people.

“Where are we going?”

“Dinae pay any attention at all did ye? Must naw have been interesting tae ye learning about how my people battered yours when they tried tae grind us intae nothing.”

“No, I was paying attention. Of course I was” you said, trying to be meek and quell some of his building fury. 

“Couldnae even hunt a bunny without some English noble claiming it wisnae our right. Punishing us” he ranted before turning to you with a feral look in his eye. “Cannae stop me from hunting one right now though can they? Ye going tae run for me wee bunny?”

Fuck. He looked ready to tear into your throat with his teeth. You felt every bit a prey animal, eyes darting around to find a way out of this. The woods. There were woods here. That was where he had been leading you while you had been busy getting stuck on the idea of him as some ancient warrior fighting to the death. Gillies Hill. The guide had told you about it, how the Scottish had made their camp here. It was where they had attacked from.

And it was where you found yourself sprinting through, heart pounding. Your logical mind knew it was a mistake, you running only meant he could chase. You should have just stayed where you were, tried to talk him down. You were stumbling and tripping, trying to get your bearings as the woods became dense around you. Every snap of a twig or sway of a branch sent you darting away in the other direction until you were shaking from exhaustion and no small amount of mounting terror.

You had never been hunted like this. Johnny had been rough with you before in the warmth of your own home, had fucked you into the bed like he was trying to mould you permanently to him. But this was a different creature entirely. This was the monster under the surface that you only caught glimpses of, that you never thought you would meet face to face. The woods were silent of another human, had you managed to escape him?

“Yer naw even trying little bunny, ye want me tae catch ye is that it? Slut.”

His breath was hot on your ear and you choked on any response you had tried to come up with. How had he gotten right behind you without a sound? You were running again, tripping and scraping your knees but clawing your way back to your feet to keep going. The little summer dress was not suited for this, but at least you were wearing boots. At least Johnny had told you to wear boots this morning. 

It was with a sickening dread that you realised he had planned this. He knew you would be running from him, knew he wanted you in a dress for easy access but boots for fleeing into the woods. At least you knew that your Johnny was still in there somewhere, enough to care about you not breaking an ankle. Not enough to care about breaking you in other ways. 

“Aww wee English princess got her knees all scraped up? All yer kinfolk are going tae ken how ye love getting on them for good Scottish cock when they see the marks. Wee whore down in the dirt fucking gagging on it, crying over how much ye love it.”

You couldn’t properly tell what direction his voice was even coming from. The shame of his words was flooding you with a sickly humiliation that only increased when your body reacted differently to how it should have. When you throbbed with need for him. 

“I’m not! That isn’t what’s happening!”

You were flustered and scared and needy and felt like you were yelling at nothing as you kept catching sight of him on your periphery only to turn and find nobody there. 

“Naw? Slick is practically running down yer plush fucking thighs princess, bet yer clenching down on nothin’. Dinnae even have tae catch ye dae I? Could just wait until ye come crawling tae me, begging me tae claim ye. Fucking pleading for it right here, right where my army celebrated before decimating yours.”

His words sent a shiver up your spine. Out here felt removed from time, it really did feel like you were betraying something by finding yourself drawn to this savage. By imagining that his prediction would prove true, that you’d beg for him. You couldn’t, it would be too much, too shameful. So you kept stumbling through the woods even when the deep tenor of his voice rang through in a mocking little song.

God he had translated this for you once. Told you that brose and butter was a euphemism, that it was about fucking a girl full of cum. It had made you blush and laugh at the time when he playfully sang it over to you now that you understood the meaning, but now? Fuck now it just scared the hell out of you with how the words were tinged with a promise. This was hardly playful, he really meant to hold you down and shove himself inside you out here in the woods where anyone could walk by. 

“We can’t! John please, not here” you pleaded, pausing to try and find where he was. “I… you were gone for months, I’ve not…”

He had made you promise before he left that you’d save yourself for him, wouldn’t even put your own fingers inside yourself while he was gone. And you hadn’t. Fuck you would be so tight now, not ready for him to take you hard. Had he known even then that this was the plan?

“Maiden are ye? Scared it’s going tae hurt, princess? It will, did they naw teach ye that we’re animals? We dinnae treat wee English lassies the way yer own men would. Ye’ll get treated the way ye should, like a fucking whore. And ye’ll take it won’t ye? Ye’ll take it wherever I want tae give it tae ye.”

Fuck, you were starting to slip away to whereever he was. You were starting to feel less like yourself and more like the poor English maiden being hunted by the enemy. The bunny being hunted by the hound. Starting to drift away into pure animal instinct, pure fear and arousal. You could hardly breathe now, feeling tears prick at your eyes.

“Please…” you sobbed quietly, not even sure what you were begging for.

And then he was there, towering over you and wrapping a hand around your throat, thumb beneath your chin to tilt your head and force you to look at him. 

“Wonder whit they’d think of ye begging so pretty for the enemy. Cannae help yerself can ye?” he said, as if fascinated by you, slipping his other hand up your dress and under your panties. “Fucking English slut. Y’er dripping.”

Your reaction to those words was violent and unexplainable. It made your legs shake and your pussy clench painfully hard. It was confusing how much it affected you, causing such a flood of wetness that Johnny noticed, his pupils dilating as he squeezed at your throat and laughed when that made you whimper and claw at his hand. He only kept on squeezing until you were starting to see stars.

“Dinnae fucking move princess.”

The pressure of his hands was gone in an instant and the flood of oxygen made you dizzy. There was no time for you to recover before he was on his knees in the dirt, treating your pussy like it was a mouth and sloppily kissing it over your panties. The press of his tongue was insistent and overwhelming, like he was trying to bully it past the fabric. When he ripped at your waistband with his teeth the lace tore. 

He continued his attack like he truly was a wolf sinking his teeth into a fresh meal, completely ruining your underwear until the mangled scraps fell to the floor and left you bare. Your hands were woven into his mohawk and you tried to pull him away, earning a growl that reverberated into your bones and a heavy handed smack to your ass before he assaulted your clit with tongue and teeth and spit. 

You felt yourself clench so hard that you almost felt nauseous. Fuck. You were trying to keep some sense of self, trying to remember that you were out in public and he was some feral version of the man you loved who was saying horrible things to you and promising he was going to hurt you. But there was a creeping haze taking over, turning you dumb for him. 

It wasn’t even something you had been aware was happening when you came on his tongue. It was just sensation, just the desperate need for more. The primal desperation to be fuller even as he pushed his tongue into your over sensitive hole while your walls fluttered through the pleasure of that high.  

“Please, need you.”

“Aye, that right? Needy wee slut.”

You were too far gone to notice that while he was rough in getting you onto your back in the dirt, one hand was gentle in cradling your head to make sure it landed softly. 

“Use those pretty wee words. Ask me for it the way ye’d ask a good English man.”

Ask me for it the way ye’d ask Simon.

When all you could do was wriggle underneath him and whine he grabbed the neckline of your dress and yanked it down to let your breasts spill out, slapping hard at one and making you howl. 

“They naw teach ye how tae talk proper ye wee slut? Ask fucking nicely.”

“Please, please I want you inside me.”

“Aye, can tell that princess. Whit else?”

“Want you to cum inside me.”

“Good fucking girl, wisnae so hard now was it?”

He didn’t take any of his clothes off, just fished his hard cock from his jeans, hooked your knees on his shoulders and pressed into your wet heat in one fluid motion. You both groaned as he bottomed out. It had been so long, you were so fucking tight around him. 

“M’so full, thank you thank you ,m’yours, need you. Fuck, ah. Made for you, it’s so much” you rambled, incoherent in your bliss. 

“There she is, needed this naw? Needed my cock deep in this tight wee English cunt. Cannae be a person without it, it’s whit ye were made for. Fucking built tae be on yer back with yer legs open for me.”

He stayed like that for what felt like forever, the fullness pushing any coherent thought out of your head. Fuck he was so deep like this, with you nearly folded in half. It felt like you were choking on his dick. You were clawing at the dirt by your sides so hard that you thought your fingers might bleed, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head before they could.

You were so cock drunk that you were only distantly aware of the look in his eyes now, the almost obsessive adoration as he took in how you looked pressed into the earth like this, dress rucked up from the bottom and pulled down from the top, palm print visible from where he had slapped at you, knees by your ears, hands pinned over your head and yet despite it all so blissed out you were salivating and babbling at him how you needed him.

When he pulled all the way out to the tip and then slammed back home you choked on the wind being knocked right out of you. It only encouraged him as he started to fuck you hard and deep, taking him time to make sure every thrust settled him so incredibly deep inside of you that you were floating. 

“Braw wee creature aren’t ye? Feart of me and gagin’ fer it anyway. Dinnae fash bonnie, gettin’ yer hole proper.”

You knew vaguely that he was close because you could hardly understand what he was saying. You were so unable to do anything in this position, no leverage on your arms and legs that you could use to pull him closer. 

“Inside, need it inside. Please, please ah!” you cried, no shame left in so as you begged like a bitch in heat for him to cum inside you. 

He shifted and sped his pace, nailing that spongy spot inside you that was making your vision black out with every thrust. You’d have marks on you from the buttons and zipper of his jeans. You’d have marks on your throat and your wrists, on your tits. He needed more, he needed anyone to take one look at you and know who you belonged to.

“‘at’s it, take it. Fuck. Good lass” he groaned as he sunk his teeth into your throat and your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you came, clamping down on his cock.

He jackhammered into you, forcing his way in while your pussy tried to force him out. The tight heat of it was too much and he growled and stilled after one more brutal thrust had him cumming deep inside you. He collapsed on top of you, the painful stretch from being folded as you were a delicious burn with the extra pressure forcing you to stretch further. 

You stayed like that for a while, both panting. Only when you were slowly coming back to your senses did you feel a sharp pain in your back from what must have been a particularly jagged stone. Ah, you thought you were probably bleeding on it, feeling something sticky. 

“Bannockburn” you breathed out softly.

The pressure was off of you almost immediately and he let go of your wrists and kneeled up, pulling out with a soft sigh leaving both of you at the feeling. He was quick to tuck himself in before his hands were back on you, gentle this time, fixing your dress and rubbing at all the spots he had marked.

“C’mere bonnie, ye did so well. Hurting anywhere I need tae look at?”

He looked at your back when you told him, laying soft kisses of apology on you as he cleaned it up. You used to tease Johnny for the little first aid kit he always had strapped to the back of his jeans whenever you went out, but it was coming in incredibly handy. Your panties were toast and he sheepishly tucked the remnants of them into his pocket before getting you to unsteady feet. 

“Creeping Jesus, I’ve made a right mess out of ye” he said with a bashful sort of grin, doing his best to try and fix your hair. 

“Hmm, s’ok” you replied, still a little hazy. 

He kissed you soundly and then gave you an absolute squeeze of a cuddle before scooping you into his arms in a princess carry.

“Let’s get ye all tucked up in the car then we can have a bath and dinner when we’re home eh?”

You nodded and nuzzled into his chest to get comfortable. He would take care of you, he always did.

–

John MacTavish didn’t know how he got so lucky. Not any woman would be softly dozing off in his arms after what he had just put you through. Fuck you were beautiful all of the time, but when you were like this? Fucked out and marked up but achingly soft for him in the afterglow? Jesus, he loved you. He would love you forever, through lifetimes. 

He’d explain obviously, he should really have warned you how hard he was going to go, that should have been pre-negotiated. But he had been so wound up. Fucking Simon Riley and his little comments about you, winding him up by putting thoughts in his head about how demure an English man could get you. It should have just made him laugh and shove at him, instead it made his blood boil and his cock hard and he had taken it out on you. You had let him, you always did until either of you thought it wasn’t safe. 

He paused on his way out of the woods with you, considering waking you so you could see the little glade he had come upon. It was pretty as anything, almost felt like hallowed ground with a giant stone right in the middle. Something about it called to an ancient longing within him. Fuck. He wanted to marry you out here. Was that ridiculous? Maybe just post orgasm stupidity.

Still as he settled you in the car and took you home so he could love you properly, he thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

–

��Fuck, Johnny.”

Simon Riley was an Englishman through and through. Everytime he stepped into battle it was to strike down those who would oppose his King and country. Yet he had left the battlefield. He had tracked into the woods, to where he knew MacTavish had crawled off to die. He found him leant against the stone that sat in the centre of a glade. Of course this is where he would want to die. Not on the battlefield, but here. The place he had married you. The place they both had.  

“Ye come tae watch it for yerself Si?” Johnny said with a laugh that turned to a hacking cough. 

“Course. Been trying to kill you for years, not about to miss it.”

Simon sat next to him, both of them looking at the sunlight filtering through the trees. It was peaceful here. Maybe in another lifetime they would not have been enemies. Maybe in another lifetime they could have been brothers.

“Ye’ll look after her until I can find her again?”

“Always.”

[olympeline]

Please somebody spare a crumb of kindness and ask me about my scotfruk omegaverse thoughts. I have so many Feelings about the potential dynamics between these three. They are some of my favourite guys to put in situations together. So I’m reworking one of my old posts with a new a/b/o twist:

Gimme a historical human AU where Alasdair, the alpha king of Scotland, was wed to the French prince Francis Bonnefoy to strengthen their nations’ alliance against the English. Everyone assumed Francis - graceful, pretty child he was - would present omega. He might even have been a borderline case who had a “false heat” or two after he hit puberty. So the two royal families were all: “Jackpot!” and married him to Alasdair as soon as they were both of age. Then, disaster! Turns out they’d jumped the gun in the worst way. Against all odds, Francis presented beta. Meaning there could be no children born of his and Alasdair’s union. Disaster for France, much worse disaster for Scotland, opposite of disaster and cause for much laughter, celebrating, and schadenfreude in England. Many jokes made and toasts drunk to royal couple “Alas, no heir” and Francis “Barrenfoy” in the lands Anglo.

Everyone tells Alasdair to set his “useless” husband aside. Annul their marriage and try again. But Alasdair has come to truly love Francis and he refuses. Their wooing was rough at first (ba-dum-tsh!) but opposites attract and they fell for each other in the end. Just in time for all hope to die that Francis could be an omega. Alasdair wouldn’t throw Francis away, though. Fiery, fiercely loving, stubborn man Alasdair is, even Francis himself couldn’t change his mind. Though Francis’s protests are, admittedly, halfhearted as hell. He’s come to love Alasdair just as much. He doesn’t want to lose him or the new life he’s built for himself in Scotland. The guillt still gnaws away at Francis, though. All kings needs progeny as a matter of urgency. If only he hadn’t presented beta. Then everything would be all right.

Meanwhile the English, once they got over their hangovers, decided to take advantage of their neighbour’s political woes and attack the Scottish borderlands. Their forces lead by one Arthur Bloody Kirkland: beta English prince, ready to kick some tartan on his father’s orders. The English aim to seize the lowlands but, unfortunately for them, Alasdair and Francis aren’t so distracted that they’ve forgetten how to fight. It turns into a Battle of Bannockburn style Scottish victory and not only is the English army sent fleeing, but Arthur himself is captured. Though he at least manages to hide his identity and pretend to be an ordinary knight. Swapping armour with a dead comrade just before capture and letting the jubilant Scots believe they’d killed their enemy’s crown prince. The last thing Arthur wants is to be executed or used as a hostage so England is bankrupted getting him back. They’ve lost enough as is with his humiliating defeat. Arthur is taken back to Alasdair’s castle and made into a gift for Francis. Even after such a big victory, Alasdair can see his husband is still depressed and hopes having a sassenach slave to torment will cheer him up. Arthur gave Alasdair plenty of lip while being questioned and afterwards Alasdair decided a life spent on his knees (ahem) as a servant would be just what the doctor ordered for the proud, haughty Englishman.

Francis and Arthur are Francis and Arthur no matter what the universe and sparks fly right from the get-go. Francis does enjoy tormenting Arthur but Arthur gives as good as he gets and Francis…likes it? They both do, actually. Just staring across the room in a: “Grrr, I hate you so much but I want you inside me so badly you bastard fuck you!” way. More guilt for Francis because now he’s attracted to two men on top of everything else and only one of them is his spouse. Alasdair notices and is pissed as hell but then he also can’t help imagining that blonde on blonde Action and ffffuuuuck. He should just get rid of Arthur, who’s a terrible servant anyway, but ffffuuuuck. Seeing him on his knees is…ffffuuuuck. Also, much more importantly, having Arthur around to fight with has rallied Francis’s low spirits at last. So throwing their prisoner in the nearest loch is a big no-no. You played yourself, Alasdair. For Arthur’s part, he knows he should be trying to escape and not thinking so much about Auld Alliance double dickings but it’s like he’s losing his mind around them. Seriously, what is wrong with him? Why is he feeling this way for these sexy husbands he’s meant to hate and also it’s winter so why the fuck is he suddenly so hot all the time?! Scotland is meant to be cold but Arthur is stumbling around flushed and unsteady with a brain full of cotton as if he were drunk. This must be how omegas feel when their heats are close. But that’s not relevant to Arthur, who’s confident he’s 100% a beta and always has been. Which is fortunate because an omega can’t be king in England. Absolutely, totally against the law down there. So it’s a good thing that’s not what Arthur is. That he definitely isn’t one of the 0.01% of omegas who present late for Reasons no one understands yet because it’s the past and advanced medicine still involves covering people in leeches and yelling at stars. No, Arthur is just coming down with something. He definitely isn’t a late bloomer. Definitely. Definitely, definitely. Otherwise his already bad situation would be even worse! And even Arthur Bloody Kirkland isn’t that unlucky. Hahahaha haha…haha…ha

So that’s our pitch, folks! We have Alasdair: the alpha king trying to balance complex political realities with adoration for his spouse. Alongside Francis: the beta king consort torn apart by the guilt of being one of his beloved Alasdair’s Biggest Problems in a way he can’t fix. And finally Arthur: the captured beta (…) secret prince trying to find a way to escape back to his kingdom before anyone discovers his true identity. Oh the drama, oh the angst, oh the romance, oh the everything. Good God, please let me ramble on about these fictional men. I am Like This thinking about them:

[vox-anglosphere]

On 24 June 1314 an outnumbered Scottish army under Robert the Bruce crushed the forces of Edward II at the Battle of Bannockburn.

[une-sanz-pluis]

For a ‘warrior-king’, the fact that [Henry V] took part in only two pitched battles – Shrewsbury and Agincourt – in his military career is cause for reflection. His personal courage, exemplified on both occasions, is not in question. But an aversion to battle in the field, and its enormous risks, was not entirely uncommon among later medieval commanders – the lessons of Courtrai (1302), Bannockburn (1314), Crécy (1346), Poitiers (1356), Najera (1367), Aljubarrota (1385), or Tannenberg/Grünwald (1410) were certainly learnt by some of them. Henry’s attempts to negotiate himself and his army out of the predicament in which they found themselves on the very eve of Agincourt suggest a certain reluctance to put his quarrel to the test of God’s judgment in those adverse conditions. His subsequent war in France was to be one of sieges, economic warfare and attrition, not even punctuated by pitched battles. With the exception of the ill-judged fight at Baugé (1421), for which Clarence paid with his life, the conquests of 1417–22 were gained by the steady and patient reduction of fortified places, generally along the river valleys of Normandy and the Île-de-France. This form of warfare was especially well suited to the king’s abilities and talents. A concern for logistics, for the effective deployment of siege artillery, together with close supervision of military organisation and finance,16 and an insistence on the conduct of war by a disciplined force, backed up by an uncompromising administration of punitive, drumhead justice, all played to his skills and aptitudes. None of these measures was carried out without some concern for the non-combatant and ‘civilian’ population. It was imperative to gain their respect and their acquiescence, if not their loyalty, if any kind of conquest and occupation was ever to succeed. It has recently been argued that ‘the expulsions at Harfleur and the pillaging of Caen were … uncharacteristic of Henry’s actions in Normandy, and his subsequent treatment of Norman towns was marked by conciliation and clemency’. Much the same could be said of his behaviour towards other areas in his French conquest.

Malcolm Vale, Henry V: The Conscience of a King (Yale University Press, 2016)

[authorrmbrown]

The devil is in the details and I'm his pet

The thing that takes me the longest in writing isn't drafting, or revising, or plotting, or characterisation - it's fighting my own urge to make everything mean something.

I'm filling in gaps in my world-building right now in preparation for book 2, part of which involves sussing out an accurate timeline of wider historical events and attaching years to them. It's all well and good being able to say 'This happened 200 years before that happened' but when it comes down to specifics, god forbid I just choose a date and move on.

Song of the Stag takes place in the year 1441 of my world because the Battle of Bannockburn took place in 1314 and the Scottish independence referendum took place in 2014 and 1441 is the number 14 forwards and backwards. The legendary Queen Asha of Afren is crowned in the year 922 because 9 represents the end of a cycle and 2 represents balance, and I thought there ought to be two 2s.

No, but it gets worse. As of the beginning of Song of the Stag, the epoch for the calendar of the Talasaire (a magic-wielding community that lives in nature) happened 7,368 years ago. Why? Because firstly, 7 is a magic number. Secondly, the Groves that the Talasaire live in were based on the vibes of the Stonehenge Festival Campsite. And the first time I went to Stonehenge for the summer solstice was 21st (2+1=3) June (6) 2017 (1+7=8). Ergo, 7,368.

It makes NO sense. No one else knows or cares, but there's a goblin inside me that simply must ascribe meaning to everything. So if you check on me in three months and I'm not any further forward with book 2, this is why.

[yuniemaki]

Mondstadt in its post-Snezhnayan era be like: Freedom must be won by blood.

I've been on a historical battle clownery binge like you wouldn't believe and we've got:

The Battle of the Bucket (Battle of Zappolino)

That Moment When the Scots do Pikes Better Than You (Battle of Bannockburn)

That one battle where the wind blew the spears back at the enemy the instant they were thrown (Battle of the Frigidus)

What that dog doin? (War of the Stray Dog)

I can imagine all of this happening in the war, to be honest.

IM LAUGHING (and crying) this is completely out of the scope of my knowledge, googled all these wars like wtf?!??!

but I can imagine Venti cackling while he blows the spears back and then shutting up real fast when the real deal comes into play

It'd be such a cyclic metaphor if this happens though because the last time Mondstadt rebelled, Venti had been but a wind spirit by a young bard's side. Now he is the bard and their Archon; he has the strength to fight back. Even if he is the weakest of the Seven, he is still a god.

Speaking of that, Venti did share a gift with Dvalin at the end of the Mondstadt AQ, presumably a piece of his power. Zhongli also shared a piece of his power to grant Azhdaha sight. I wonder what it is with this Archons-sharing-power-with-dragons trend? Hmm hmm

[crowborn666-warriors-ramblings]

Warrior Cats in Different Centuries

Since there’s so much you can do with this, I’ll be giving a list of years/centuries and the event that happen in them! I’ll start at 1300s.

Of course, if I miss anything, if something is incorrect, or you think something should be added, don’t be afraid to let me know! I mostly added ones that sounded interesting or could provide for some interesting storytelling within the clans.

Get creative, how would your clan(s) react to these events, would they gain event intel from Kittypets/Rogues/Loners? How would certain events affect them?

1300s Events:

(1314) Battle Bannockburn- Scotland- The Scots, led by Robert the Bruce, routed a larger force led by Edward II, King of England. The two armies met at the Battle of Bannockburn, which took place in central Scotland. The Scottish victory insured Scotland's independence for the next three centuries.

(1314 - 1317) Great European Famine - The worst famine to strike Europe occurred between 1314-1317. It was widespread, affecting all of Northern Europe. Eyewitness accounts tell of the poor and hungry resorting to eating cats and dogs.

(1337) Hundred Year War- The Hundred Years War began when Philip VI contested the English claim to Normandy and other northern provinces. At the same time, Edward III contested Philip's legitimacy based on the fact that his mother was the daughter of Philip IV. He demanded the crown of France. Edward won the support of many Flemish towns. He ravaged the French countryside, but at first fought no decisive battles.

(1347 - 1353) The Black Death- The Black Death (bubonic plague) that spread throughout Europe between 1347 and 1353 was the worse natural disaster in European history. It is estimated that of a population of 75 million people, between 19 to 35 million died. The plague was spread by rats infested by infected fleas. The plague originated in the East. Ships carrying infected vermin came to the island of Sicily. The disease spread northward throughout Europe. It took two hundred years for Europe's population to recover. One of the most bizarre results of the plague was the large-scale outbreak of anti-semitism. Jews were accused of causing the plague. Over 60 Jewish communities were entirely wiped out in Germany alone.

1400s Events:

(1424) France Invades Italy- Charles VIII King of France began the Italian Wars by invading Italy in September 1494. In February 1495 Naples surrendered to Charles. He temporarily became the King of Naples. Alexander VI organizes the Holy League which included Spain to repel the French from Italy. In July 1495 the French lost the Battle of Fornovo and Charles was forced to flee Italy.

(1431) Joan of Arc- Burned Alive- Joan of Arc entered Comiegne outside Paris and was taken prisoner. The British held Joan in prison in a tower in Rouen.Charles VII made no effort to assist her. The English in 1431 turn Joan over to the former bishop of the of Beauvais Pierre Cauchon on the assurance she would be convicted of treason against God. She was convicted and burned to death at the stake on May 30, 1431.

(1492) Christopher Columbus arrives in America.

1500s Events:

(1501) First black slaves in America brought to Spanish colony of Santo Domingo.

1600s Events:

To be added (it is believed that cats arrived to the US by ship in early 1600s, as they were excellent mouse and vermin hunters.)

1700s Events:

To be added

Resources below:

[scotianostra]

On June 23rd 1314 Robert I, King of Scots, killed a young English Knight called Henry de Bohun, it marked the beginning of a two day fight, The Battle of Bannockburn.

I'll cover the battle more in depth tomorrow, today I'm going to cheat a bit by taking the description of the encounter between Sir Henry de Bohun and King Robert directly from John Barbour's epic poem The Brus. The poem is written in ancient Scots, but don't worry I will post a translation too!

Bohun, in full armour, had noticed King Robert out in front of his troops, the king riding on a smaller horse in light armour. The little crown on his helmet clearly identified him. Thinking that he could strike the critical blow by killing the Scottish king, Bohun charged towards him with lance lowered. But King Robert swerved at the crucial moment, stood in his stirrups, and brought his battle axe down through the head of Bohun, killing him instantly.

And quhen the king sua apertly

Saw him cum forouth all his feris

In hy till him the hors he steris.

And quhen Schyr Henry saw the king

Cum on foroutyn abaysing

Till him he raid in full gret hy,

He thocht that he suld weill lychtly

Wyn him and haf him at his will

Sen he him horsyt saw sa ill.

Sprent thai samyn intill a ling,

Schyr Hanry myssit the noble king

And he that in his sterapys stud

With the ax that wes hard and gud

With sua gret mayne raucht him a dynt

That nother hat na helm mycht stynt

The hevy dusche that he him gave

That ner the heid till the harnys clave.

The hand-ax schaft fruschit in twa,

And he doune to the erd gan ga

And flatlynys for him faillit mycht.

That wes perfornyst douchtely,

And quhen the kingis men sa stoutly

Saw him rycht at the first meting

Foroutyn dout or abaysing

Have slayne a knycht sua at a strak

Sic hardyment tharat gan thai tak

That thai come on rycht hardely.

Quhen Inglismen saw thaim sa stoutly

Cum on thai had gret abaysing

And specially for that the king

Sa smartly that gud knycht has slayne

That thai withdrew thaim everilkane

And durst nocht ane abid to fycht

Sa dred thai for the kingis mycht.

And quhen the kingis men thaim saw

Sua in hale bataill thaim withdraw

A gret schout till thaim gan thai mak

And thai in hy tuk all the bak,

And thai that folowit thaim has slane

Sum off thaim that thai haf ourtane

Bot thai war few forsuth to say

Thar hors fete had ner all away.

Bot how-sa quhoyne deyt thar

Rebutyt foulily thai war

And raid thar gait with weill mar schame

Be full fer than thai come fra hame.

This translation largely follows the version rendered by b A.A.M. Duncan (The Bruce, Canongate, 1997) but with some variation intended to represent more modern turns of phrase.

And when the king saw him (Bohun) Moving towards him in sight of his comrades He hastily turned his horse towards him And when Sir Henry saw the king Come on quite unabashed He rode at him full speed He thought to beat him easily And have him at the disadvantage Because the king was lightly horsed So they closed on one another Sir Henry missed the noble king And he (the king) stood in his stirrups With an axe both hard and good Struck him such a great blow That neither hat or helmet could stop The heavy clout he gave So he cleaved the head to the brains The hand-axe shaft broke in two And he (Bohun) fell to the ground Dead and devoid of all strength now This was the first blow of the battle And was done mightily too And when the king’s men saw this At the first encounter Done without any hesitation or fear Kill a knight with a single blow They were so encouraged That they advanced boldly forward When the Englishmen saw them stoutly advance They were left downcast Especially because the king Had so quickly slain such a good knight So they now all of them withdrew And not one dared to fight For fear of the king’s might And when the king’s men saw The (English) formation withdraw The (Scots) made a great shout at them

[liberty1776]

Encounter between Robert the Bruce and Sir Henry de Bohun

[the-casbah-way]

can you please put your fucking penis away for two seconds i’m trying to explain how robert the bruce deployed schiltron formations to win the battle of bannockburn