Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  From outside came the sound of clanking armor and stamping, snorting horses. The doors were thrown open and a shaft of July sun made a golden carpet across the polished floor.

  A huge bay destrier tossed its head as its rider, gray-haired and heavy jowled, dressed in steel armor etched with gold, rode through the doorway. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks, scoring the granite. Bareheaded, he rode. His helm with its golden coronet hung from his saddle. Hoof falls, clanging, echoed from the narrow walls and high-beamed ceiling as King Edward of England rode up the length of the church to the very altar steps, not glancing once at the prisoners lined up on the side.

  Sweet Jesu... Andrew's heart pounded.

  Behind the horseman strutted a fat man with a ponderous belly in shining half-armor over velvet hose and tunic. Then strode in men in armor covered with emblazoned surcoats, three dozen at least. The crests of Warrenne, Aymer de Valence, the Bishop of Durham, Percy, and Gloucester he recognized. The rest were strange to him, lesser lords and knights of England no doubt.

  At the end of the tail of armored men strolled a blond man, shining armor under a sable cloak, broad shouldered and comely--Robert the Bruce, the younger, who had only months before inherited the earldom of Carrick. Though the Bruce was three years his elder, he'd been a friend once when they'd both been squires. No more. Andrew glared, but the Bruce stared down at his feet.

  The bland-faced king of England pulled the warhorse up and in a half circle. It dropped a steaming plop of shit on the floor. His fleshy companion took a place, straddle-legged, at his stirrup, and the rest ranged on either side of the steps. The Bruce hung back near the doorway, frowning.

  King Edward raised a hand. "Bring him in."

  A chill went through Andrew at more clanking sounds from outside. Now they'd find out why they had been hustled to the church. Nearby, Sir William Douglas gave a low growl, his dark face flushed.

  The first through the door was a man-at-arms, well-turned out in iron-studded leather, a sergeant perhaps. Over his shoulder ran a rope he grasped in both hands.

  The rope led to a noose about King John de Balliol's neck; his shoulders slumped. Andrew dragged in a ragged breath, too horrified to move. His king. Bareheaded, King John was in a red velvet tunic and hose, but the sun shone off his cloth-of-gold tabard with the rampant lion of Scotland worked in rubies, dazzling the eye. On each side walked another guard.

  King John lurched forward as the man-at-arms jerked on the rope. The shackles that bound his feet clamored. He stumbled, grasping something to his chest. One of the guards caught a shoulder and shoved him upright.

  As John de Balliol, King of the Scots, shuffled into the middle of the church, the men around King Edward watched in silence. Andrew's father gave a cry, "Your grace!" No one else spoke. The man at King Edward's stirrup spat on the floor. Well to the side, Robert de Bruce looked once towards King John, his lip lifting into a sneer before he looked down once more.

  King John continued his clanking way towards the mounted Edward of England. In King John's hands were the Royal Regalia of Scotland, the crown and the scepter.

  The great warhorse stamped as the regally clad man stopped a stride away. King John craned his neck to stare upwards. Edward's blue glance swept the watchers before he lowered it to the man in chains before him.

  King John made a choked sound and cleared his throat. "My Lord."

  Edward's teeth bared in a grin. "Past time you remembered it." He glanced at his nearest companion. "Cressingham, see you to it."

  The man at King Edward's stirrup stepped forward, his silver half-armor catching the light. He bowed towards King Edward before turning to the Scots king.

  "John de Balliol, traitor. Miscreant." Cressinghim's rich voice was ragged with unveiled scorn. "I charge you in the name of the dread Lord Edward, King of England, of Wales and of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Guyenne and Lord Paramount of Scotland. I charge you with refusing his commands, renouncing your allegiance to your liege lord and raising arms against him in rebellion."

  The man he addressed continued to stare silently upward at the English king.

  "You have dealt openly with King Edward's enemies and consorted with traitors. In all things, you have failed in the submission due him. You have led astray the realm that our king, in his generosity, granted you."

  At last, John de Balliol, white-faced, turned his head to gaze at Cressingham. "Granted me? A throne that was mine by right?"

  Robert de Bruce coughed. His hot eyes stared at Balliol, and Andrew sucked in a breath. How much has that hatred cost?

  "Continue," King Edward barked.

  Cressingham took an angry step toward Balliol and thrust out a finger, jowls trembling. "You will say these words after me. Before these witnesses who were traitors with you. At your king's command."

  Wildly, Andrew shoved away from the wall. With a shoulder, he rammed into the guard, hurling him out of the way. "No!" He stumbled on the shackles he'd forgotten. "You have no right." He shook off a hand grasping his arm as he stared into John de Balliol's face. "You can't!"

  A shadow moved. He sensed an upswept movement, a weapon swinging. There was barely time for a dodge to the side and a half turn. The smash came on his shoulder with shattering pain and he groaned. Saw another blow coming.

  He ducked under the pike's butt. It caught his head, knocked flat on the cold floor. A kick to the side of his head knocked him dizzy. Thoughts scattered and flew. They used their boots on arms, legs, stomach, and back. He curled up, arms over his head. A warm trickle ran down his face and dripped onto the stone.

  "No, please," his father was begging, but the blows had already stopped.

  He spat out a mouthful of blood. "I'm sworn to him," he said through stiff, bleeding lips. "I have a right."

  "Silence." Cressingham stepped close, drew back his foot, and kicked Andrew hard in the ribs. "Not another word." Cressingham glared back and forth between the guards. "If they open their mouths, feed them your swords."

  Andrew rolled over. He slumped in defeat under the man-at-arm's sneering smile.

  "Stop," John de Balliol said. "No more. I'll say what you want. Leave them be."

  From his saddle, King Edward Plantagenet watched with hooded eyes as he patted the neck of the snorting destrier. "Get on with it."

  Cressingham let out a sigh, his fat, pouty lips drawn into a circle. He strode back and wheeled to face King John. "You will repeat for all to hear and witness: I, John de Balliol, King of Scots by the grace and permission of my liege lord, do admit and abjure my grievous treasons against him." He paused as King John repeated the words in a choked voice.

  "I do, therefore, renounce and resign my kingdom and crown to him. I throw myself, my realm, and my subjects on the mercy of Edward, King of England and Lord Paramount of Scotland."

  Andrew closed his eyes and pressed his head against the cold, hard stone so like the fate they had come to. Sir William Douglas's breath panted where he was backed against the wall by a pike, and his father moaned in protest.

  King John de Balliol repeated the words in a low voice. Only when he got to the words "mercy of Edward" did his voice tremble, but after a pause, he continued until, finished, he stood holding the symbols of his kingship in his hands. For a moment, the church was in silence.

  Cressingham glanced up at King Edward. At the king's nod, he jerked the Crown and Scepter of Scotland from Balliol's hands. He turned to hold them up for his lord.

  The king bent forward slightly in the saddle, looking from one to the other before he shrugged his broad shoulders. "They're pretty trinkets but have no meaning. You may sell them as a reward. We have no use for them."

  Cressingham handed the regalia off to a grinning knight. He wiped a hand over his jowls before he went on. "Kneel, John de Balliol. Kneel and beg your liege lord for forgiveness."

  King John's face was pasty. He stared from Cressingham to the man towering above him. For a moment, he turned an anguished face to Andrew and the o
thers who watched. "No," Andrew mouthed.

  Cressingham shoved Balliol's chest with a meaty hand. "Speak--for your life. For the lives of your followers. The king should use that rope--have your head on a pike as he did the Welsh prince. You and all your beggarly lords."

  Face stiff, his lips gray, King John went to one knee and then the other. "So be it." He took a breath that was almost a sob. "I beg his grace's clemency on me and on mine. I plead that he have mercy on the men who have followed me."

  Cressingham gave a curt nod to the guardsmen. They grabbed Balliol by the arms and dragged him to his feet.

  "John de Balliol, by the command of your liege lord, you are deprived of all titles and lands, you and your heirs. You and these ..." His gaze swept to Andrew and he smirked. "... your followers are traitors and criminals. His grace, King Edward, could hang and disembowel you all, and, by rights, he should. In his mercy, he has decreed otherwise."

  Cressingham grabbed the neck of King John's tabard with both hands. The lion of Scotland seemed to ripple in protest. He ripped the cloth down the front and jerked it from King John's shoulders. After crumpling the shimmering cloth-of-gold with its embroidery and jewels in his hand, he threw it on the floor and ground it with a foot before he turned once more to the mounted king of England.

  "Sire, it is done. The kingdom of Scotland is no more."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sky had grown black, but a wind sighed through the trees, rich and sweet with the scent of pine and hawthorn flowers. It tugged at Andrew's sackcloth tunic as he knelt beside his father. He urged the wooden cup of water to his father's lips. "Drink, my lord."

  His father took a sip before he pushed it away. "Leave me be."

  Andrew touched a finger to the half-scabbed slash on the side of his father's head. He was no healer and if he had been, he had no bandages, no medicines. Half the time, what food his father got down, he spewed back up. Holy Mary, Mother of God, what was he to do? He had asked the guards days ago for bandages and been clouted to the ground for it. Now his father had grown even weaker.

  From the cookfire in the middle of the clearing drifted a scent of lamb roasting. A dozen guards sprawled about, their weapons piled beside the campfire. In the trees, one of the sentries paced his rounds. Another was singing a bawdy ditty about a serving maid and a guardsman. Andrew's stomach grumbled.

  "We won't get any of it," Douglas said.

  The earls of Atholl and Buchan with a few dozen other prisoners crouched glumly silent on the far side of the campfire. Andrew glowered at them. "What think you? The Comyn insisted on leading the army... sent the king away. Yet, now he's prisoner..."

  "No, lad," Douglas said, "I don't think he planned it. I've no love for the Comyns but I think it happened because he's a poor commander. And truth be told, I fear that..." Douglas's face worked in a grimace. "... that King John Empty Jacket is no better."

  King John Toom Tabard... Andrew's head throbbed, and he wasn't sure if it was despair or the beating he'd taken. Yet he couldn't blame his king. He wouldn't. The king who had knighted him. The king to whom he had sworn his life. After a while, he asked, "You think we leave on the morrow?"

  "Aye, we've seen what they meant us to see."

  Andrew set the cup down. The two of them had half carried his father between them back from the church. If they were made to walk to their dungeons, how could he make it? Andrew picked up a piece of bread where it had been tossed to the ground by their guards. "You have to eat," he told his sire.

  "Why?" His father leaned his head back against the pine behind him, his eyes half closed. "To get to a dungeon?"

  He put the bread into his father's hand. "Because if you don't, you'll never get out."

  "If you have sense," a low voice came from the darkness, "and beg Edward's mercy, you'll be home eventually. Perhaps even have your lands and titles restored." Hawthorn leaves rustled as Robert de Bruce stepped closer, barely visible wrapped in a dark cloak.

  Andrew gripped his hands into fists. "Carrick! What do you want? Come to gloat?" He glanced over his shoulder but the guards were gathered around the meat sizzling on a spit, one of them laughing loudly. He would not let his father take another beating for speaking to the Bruce of all men.

  The Bruce squatted close to the big pine, deep in black shadows. "Gloat? I take no pleasure in this, man."

  "Don't you?" Douglas's deep rumble would have sounded dangerous, but his chains clanked as the rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "Did I see Carrick spears with us at Berwick? You could have saved the city. Instead you're with--him."

  Robert Bruce made a stilling gesture. "None of this was my doing. I didn't give the throne to the Balliol usurper. Nor did I swear fealty to him." He gave a brief glare toward John Comyn. "I paid by having my Scottish lands and my earldom seized by the Comyn. But now that is done with."

  Andrew raised his hands so that his shackles were between him and his former friend. "And so are we done with." He couldn't contain a growl. "Look at him! Look at my father! But you'll still be the English king's tame Scot."

  Even in the dim light from the campfire, the Bruce's eyes flashed. "Tame Scot? I'm no more Edward's Scot than any who were forced to give him their oath. What I am not--nor never will be--is a Balliol man. I swore he'd never keep the throne that should have gone to us." The Bruce threw a glance toward the guards around the campfire. Dripping fat sizzled where they dug their knives into the meat and a braying voice began a story about a slattern in a town they'd passed through. "No. We are not done with. I mean to see to that." The Bruce shook his head slowly. "I heard of the slaughter at Berwick. I don't understand why Edward put the city to the sword. He was beside himself with rage, they say. I'll see for myself. We're to go there to give our fealty to him directly."

  Douglas leaned closer, his teeth bared. "You'll see right enough. The streets full of dead. Women butchered. Children. The city put to the torch. Merchants burnt to death in their halls." He shook his fists at Robert de Bruce, chains clanking. "I surrendered the castle on the agreement he would spare my men. He threw me in chains and slaughtered them. All of them. Thanks be to the Virgin, I got my boy away betimes."

  There was a weighty silence as the Bruce stared at the ground.

  Andrew shook his head. "What of the Stewart? Is he in chains as well? What of Bishop Wishart of Glasgow?"

  The Bruce gave him a level look. "You'd best know. They've both made peace with King Edward and been released. They'll give their fealty at Berwick as well. The two of you and those over there are to be made examples."

  Andrew flushed hot and then a cold chill ran through him. His belly crawled. Edward's fury was well known as a fearful thing. All knew the fate that the rebellious Prince of Wales had suffered on the scaffold after he tried to regain the freedom of the Welsh. "And my father... God in heaven, he... He'll not live through it."

  "Listen to me. I need time. Lord Edward will listen but--not yet. He's not himself. Enraged under that smile. I'll make him understand. We will never accept an English king."

  "That's all you care about. The damned crown."

  Bruce glowered. "You want Edward Plantagenet for king then? To be ruled by the English? Is that what you want?"

  Andrew was on his knees, fists raised, not sure how he'd gotten there. Curse the Bruce for the insult.

  Bruce shook his head. "I didn't think so."

  Andrew took a jagged breath.

  The Bruce's look scorched. "I'm a Scot as much as you. More so, since the throne of the Scotland is my father's by right. My sire actually asked Edward to grant it to him. As though he would." Bruce smacked a fist against his thigh. "Mother always had the wisdom in the pair of them, her and my grandsire. Since she died, he's been useless."

  Andrew sat back on his heels and sagged. He had more to worry about than the Bruces and their determination to get the Scottish throne, theirs by right or no. "So you'll play the English king to keep him sweet whilst they grind us under their heel
s."

  "What choice do I have? If I raised every spear in all of Carrick and Annandale, do you think I could stand against Edward's army alone? Any better than your father and Balliol did? But this isn't the end of it."

  A gap-toothed guard shouted, "Who gave you lot leave to speak? Keep your traitorous mouths shut!"

  Over his shoulder, Andrew saw that the brawny, dark-haired sergeant had taken a stride in their direction.

  Robert de Bruce's eyes narrowed but he held still until the man turned back to his fellows and someone handed him a cup of ale drawn from a cask. Bruce dropped a velvet purse that clank of metal upon the ground. "Hide that about you. I'll do what I can... Douglas, I heard that you're to be imprisoned in Berwick. The rest of you are for dungeons in England." The Bruce shoved golden hair from his broad forehead and frowned. "Perhaps your uncle can arrange ransom. But--" He shook his head. "As angry as King Edward is, it won't be easy getting you out."

  Andrew grabbed the purse and drew back his hand to throw it into the Bruce's face but the man was already on his feet. "I don't need your aid."

  "How is your sire?"

  Then Andrew weighed the purse in his hand. Bribes might keep his father alive. He couldn't throw that away. He sighed. "Hurt inside. Confused. I fear..." He bit off the words. This man didn't deserve his trust, purse or no. "For him, I'll take your siller and no other reason."

  "Your father was a loyal Balliol man, Moray. But think on this. Balliol will never rule Scotland again. That is over."

  The Bruce left as silently as he had come and Andrew stared into the darkness after him.

  "Hide that," Douglas said. "Unless you mean for the English to have it."

  Andrew sagged. His father was too hurt for him to turn to. Everything was up to him--but he wasn't ready. He couldn't be ready. Yet what choice did he have? "I'll divide it between the three of us. Though if we try to bribe any of the filthy guards, they'll just take all of it."

  His father opened his eyes. "Was someone here, lad?"