It was quite possible that Lord Elcho had done himself an ill service, for a flame of Celtic rage had engulfed the Highland army. Alex found that he had shifted forward an inch or two without knowing it, and the rest of the army with him. Those without weapons had picked up stones. For a moment it seemed that they would all break into a wild charge, but Montrose achieved the minor miracle of holding them back. “Wait!” said his outflung arm. “Wait!” boomed Antrim. “Be patient a wee while, men of my heart, and we soon will be giving them cold steel for it.”
And they waited, only inching forward a toe at a time, as the Covenant army moved closer, until not a hundred paces separated them. A long wait it seemed, long enough for all the army to hear Lord Elcho’s answer to the message of the unfortunate envoy. “The Lord’s Day,” he had said, “is fit for the Lord’s work of exterminating the barbarous Irish and Highlanders.”
“When we charge,” muttered Archie, who had been in battles before, “keep just one thing in mind. Choose your enemy and kill him, and then a second man if you can.”
“Very well so,” agreed Alex mildly. “And what will I do with my third man?” He was pleased that his voice had just the nonchalance he wanted for it.
Ian’s was equally cool. “Just be leaving him to me,” he said. “I’ll have had my three by then.”
Another inch forward, and the Covenanters closer yet, and still no signal to charge. And now came the Covenant battle cry for the day. “Jesus and no quarter!” they yelled, and Ian shuddered at the blasphemy.
And then suddenly came a shrill wild skirl from the gaunt woman at the back of the battle. A voice lifted and pealed savagely. “Wolves of the North! Let the fangs bite!”
And the signal was given, and as they rushed forward Ian’s voice answered with his own clan battle cry. “Sons of the dogs, come hither, come hither, and ye shall have flesh!”
“God and St. Andrew!” answered the Keppoch MacDonalds, and the air was thick with the wailing menace of pipes and clan cries, until the pipers abandoned their pipes for the claymores, and the slogans became scattered and mixed with mere yells.