The Broken Shield
There never was a time on the March Parts yet
When Scottish with English met,
But it was marvel if the red blood ran not
As the rain does in the street.
—Sir Walter Scott
Day broke on a noisy commotion in the inner court of Houstoun castle one morning in August, 1513. The clang of weapons on steel armor mingled with shouted orders, neighing of horses and bellow of oxen as the knighted baron of Houstoun equipped himself and his retainers for a march to war.
Details of the day are not recorded but can be fairly well pictured from the customs of the times of King James IV and the situation of the Houstoun family in that period. As the first rays of the sun broke over the plains of the Scottish Lowlands, one may assume that the contingent was ready to move. There would have been a sudden silence as a monk said a prayer and bestowed the blessing of the cross on warriors high and low.
Then the marching orders came.
Down went the drawbridge.
Up rolled the portcullis (great iron gate).
Notes of a trumpet sounded the forward march.
Out through the great arched entrance, over the bridge across the moat rode Sir Peter Houstoun clad in full armor, heavy sword at his side, his shield bearing the family coat-of-arms in colors of sable, silver and gold. Likely from the top of his visored helmet floated a tall black plume, glistening in the early morning sun.
Following the baron rode a group of horsemen in coats-of-mail, armed with long lances. Next marched the foot soldiers wearing helmets and armed with long-handled pikes. Bringing up the rear were oxcarts laden with provisions, supplies and equipment.
As the fully-equipped and well-disciplined column moved out, Lady Houstoun with her daughter, Elizabeth, and son, Pat-