From the journal of Marjorie Bruce
10th of September, 1307
“Left! Right! Left! Over! Right! To yer left! Under!” Archie screamed over our heavy grunts.
We were lined up in the open field, each parrying and defending ourselves with our trusty longswords. The grass was just beginning to stain the colour of copper, a sign that the harsh and hot summer days were ending and paving a path for the much more appreciated season of autumn.
As far as I could see, the men of Methven were already beginning to rise, sharpening and polishing their pickaxes and hoes with scavenged curtain cloth and loose rocks found in the bank of a small stream. Noblemen who once would never be seen working as serfs were now ploughing the fields, ragged scraps of clothing clinging to their skin like moths around fire
