This story is based on the 1297 Battle of Stirling Bridge, a decisive Scottish victory against the English in the First War of Scottish Independence.
Dawn had not yet broken and Andrew de Moray peered into the darkness from the cliffs of Abbey Craig. The smouldering remains of a thousand campfires glowed in the distance. Nothing moved; the only sound was the deep rushing of the Forth as it snaked its way across the meadowland below. Andrew tightened his cloak about his shoulders and looked over the edge. The cliff fell 360 feet to the ground where its jagged, scarred face was choked by thick trees. The same trees expanded up the hillside, covering most of Abbey Craig in heavy thicket. The large rock upon which he stood was naked, untouched by green, a cold slab of immovable stone. Scottish stone. Andrew felt its unyielding strength through his boots. He hoped his men were as unyielding today.
It was lighter now and he could clearly see the English camp on the other side of the river about a mile and half distant. A forest of tents and horse pickets sprawled out across the plain below Castle Hill; above, Stirling Castle rose from the ridge, the banners of St George and the Earl of Surrey flying from the turrets. The two monstrous crags, Stirling Castle and Abbey Craig, eyed each other across the distance, the river driving a wedge between them. A wedge between England and Scotland.
