Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  When he dared look over his shoulder again, his heart leapt. Two guards ran toward him. The gate was still a hundred yards away.

  "Stop him." Faintly, it echoed behind him off the buildings.

  He flicked the reins and set to a canter. The guards would hear the shouts soon. One of them straightened. Andrew bent over the horse's neck and jammed his heels into its flanks. It took off with an arm-wrenching lunge. The guard ran into the open gate. Before he could raise his pike, the horse bowled into him. It reared, terrified. It lashed with it hooves. The sword was in Andrew's hand. A guard grabbed his reins and he slashed down on a face. There was a splash of blood. The horse bolted through the gate.

  The road was ahead. A man jumped out of the way, tumbling into a ditch. An arrow whished by his ear. Behind him, there were curses, shouts.

  Then they ran. He let the horse go, not even trying to guide it. It was all he could do to stay on as they thundered over the stone bridge and up a slow rise. If the horse stumbles, they'll run me down. They galloped through some trees. A branch whipped his face. But the saints were with him and the horse jumped a low hedge, never faltering. The shouts dwindled behind him. They ran on through the gloaming.

  He drew the horse up and bent over its neck, lungs seared for breath, alone in a sea of dark grass under the dome of the gray sky. His thigh pulsed with pain. He ran his hand down it and, to his surprise, found it pierced through by an arrow. He grimaced, thinking back to the chaos as he fled the gate. All he could remember was the horse between his legs and the dash for freedom. It was a lucky thing the arrow went in his leg. If the horse had gone down, he would have been a dead man.

  Andrew touched the arrowhead where it poked out from the front of his thigh. It gave a jolt of pain. His stomach cramped, and he heaved up a mouthful of burning bile. He bent, spat, and spat again. He sucked in a lungful of sweet, cool air. He couldn't stop yet, not so close to Chester. Clucking to the horse, they turned to the east. Not the fastest route to Scotland, but Lacey would look north first. The gelding took a plodding step, head lowered, weary from the run. He nudged it to a slow walk as he grunted and grimaced. It hurt, but he had to keep going.

  Long hours later, in the hazy light of dawn, the ground gradually sloped down to a slow moving stream. He rode into a stand of tall ash trees. Leaves rustled in a morning breeze. Would they search this way? Had he gone far enough? He shook his head. It was too hard to think with the pain pulsing in his leg.

  He slid from the saddle. His leg gave. Grabbing a rough barked tree trunk, he swallowed a moan. Blood had dried in streaks down his leg and still leaked, red and sticky. The arrow had to come out. Hands clumsy and trembling, he wrapped the reins around a branch and sank down. He took a deep breath. It had to be done. Grasping the fletching, he jerked, gritting his back teeth. The fletching snapped off. He cursed and doubled over from the pain. Oh, God in heaven, it hurts. But there was nothing for it. He took the front behind the arrowhead and pulled. Panting, he had to stop, hands shaking. He gagged. The pain was too much. But it had to be done, so he pulled again. He couldn't stop the scream as he drew the shaft slowly out of his leg. A rush of blood followed.

  He leaned against the tree trunk after, panting and his whole body shaking, too weak and exhausted to move. The gelding was straining toward the water, out of reach. Oh, God, after the long ride it needed to drink. So did he if he was going to have the strength to go on. He strained upwards to jerk loose the reins and then crawled to the river. At first, he lay with his cheek in the water letting it wash into his beard and hair, soaking up the moisture. Strength trickled into him until he could scoop water over his head and up into his mouth. After a while, with one hand, he stripped off the leather armor and scrubbed the dirt off his body as well as he could, shuddering as the filth and blood ran off. Clumsily, he bound his thigh in a strip cut from his cloak. He didn't dare turn loose of the horse's reins since with a bad leg he'd never be able to catch it.

  He hobbled back into the trees and unsaddled and tied the gelding where it could graze. The sunlight warmed him so he stretched out, his head nestled on his crossed arms. If he rode in the daytime, he was likely to be seen. It was better to travel at night. He would rest. The splash of the stream over rocks and a jay scolding him from a tree was the only sound. At first, the pain and a prickly feeling that someone might find him any moment kept him awake. Yet his eyelids grew heavy.

  Naked and alone he stood, surrounded by dark forest. He didn't recognize it yet he knew he was home--in Scotland. In the forest. Was it the Torwood? The giant pines made a barrier around him, the shadows so black he couldn't penetrate them. Something moved. The sound of hooves thudded in a carpet of needles. He peered into the gloom trying to make it out...

  A man on a horse. No, two. On dark horses, both armored. Yet another rode out of black mist. English? Not in the depths of the Torwood. There were more. Coming from all sides, all riding dark horses. Armored, men and horse. Streaming cloaks of black shadow, eyes burning.

  All around him... He pressed his back against the tree trunk. They'd been his father's men. Aonghus, a knight who'd served his family as long as he'd been alive. Brian mac Domhnaill. Lochloinn mac Rauri. More whose faces he couldn't see under their helms.

  They surrounded him and he didn't know which way to face. His heart was pounding. "What do you want?" he called.

  "You led us and let us die." Aonghus said sadly. "Why?"

  Andrew shook his head. "I didn't. It was the..." He looked from one empty face to another. How could he tell them it wasn't his fault? That it was the Comyn. "I didn't mean to."

  "We cheered you when you swore to the king. You let us die." When they drew their swords, it was like cracking ice. "They spat on our graves."

  They swooped down on him, and he threw up his arms. "No!"

  He jerked upright, gasping for breath, and found himself sitting in fading light amidst the stand of ash trees. He was shivering and his leg throbbed, hot and swollen. He stared around him, confused for a moment until he remembered where he was. Somewhere in England--pursued. I once rode through the Torwood, but there were no dead. His stomach cramped with hunger and his head pounded.

  Nothing but a fever dream. He grabbed a low branch to pull himself to his feet. There was still an hour until full dark, but if he rested again, he would find himself back in that dark forest. Just a dream. He wiped sweat from his face. He couldn't change what had happened. Though what he did now... Beans spread on the floor of a dungeon weren't living men. Could he defeat their enemies? With pikes against the best knights in the world? He laughed in his throat. He couldn't even get home.

  He had to find food soon. For now, water would have to do. He drank his fill and, beneath darkening skies that threatened rain, saddled, and rode on through the country of his enemies.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The gelding picked its way through the dark. When fingers of dawn lightened the sky, Andrew stopped for a while to let it graze. His leg was paining, stiff as a log. He let out a sigh. Tomorrow perhaps he would risk riding in daylight to make better time and pray he'd gotten far enough from Chester Castle that he'd missed the search, but he was an escaped prisoner of the king. They'd send messages to castles and towns to the north to be on the watch for him. He'd have to skirt them all.

  When he crested a rise and saw the brown rutted road north, he patted the gelding's neck. "We can't take it, boy. Too risky." He turned to the side and followed along beyond a thicket of tangled bushes. A couple of handfuls of berries this morning hadn't really stilled the rumbling in his belly, but he kept going.

  He was about to turn back nearer the road when from over the rise came a rumble of hoofbeats. It sounded near, but he couldn't be sure. His blood thrummed in his ears. He dismounted and led his horse down the slope, catching his feet in a tangled vine. Calm down. If he panicked, he was done for.

  Tying the reins, he worried a lip. He crouched and worked his way under the thorny brambles to watch the riders
pass. His skin crept on his flesh as he waited to hear a shout. He held his breath. A knight, lightly armored, and a squire followed by a tail of a dozen men-at-arms on fast palfreys cantered past. The knight's red and gold tabard and a fluttering banner told the story--de Lacey's men. The warning was well out. As soon as they were out of sight, Andrew slithered down the slope. Sliding had torn his wound open; he pressed it hard with a hand. The spear of pain was somehow a comfort.

  In the distance, thunder crashed, but above the sky was clear. The throb in his leg made him wince as he swung into the saddle. He didn't dare follow so close to the road. The westering sun shone, a brief red glare between gray rain clouds as he turned the horse's head straight north for Scotland. I am going home. He shivered.

  It rained what was left of the day, a thin, cold drizzle. The land was gently rolling, each rise a little higher than the last. Dusk crept out of the hollows as light faded from the sky. An owl hooted somewhere and a rabbit screamed as it was taken. "I'll see if I can find us somewhere to sleep, boy." He patted the horse's neck. It was flagging, its steps slower with each rise. He nudged it down into a dip. He could barely see a horse's length ahead, and almost rode into a couple of oak trees that made a clump, with thick vines climbing the trunks. It would have to do. The gelding started cropping at the vines and a nearby broom bush.

  In the morning, the towers of a castle loomed on a distant hill and he took a long route around it. He dodged from hedge to hedge to thicket, leading the horse to keep low from the skyline. As the day wore on, he worried more about crofters. Lacey would do much to keep from taking this tale to King Edward. Lacey would have offered a rich reward for his recapture, so even a villein would be an enemy. But by late afternoon, all he could think about was the gnawing hunger in his belly.

  Sleeping with no watch made him twitch. He was sure he couldn't do it, too keyed up from sighting the men from Lacey and nightmares, but when the horse's muzzle nudged his back, it roused him with a start to a damp, gray daybreak. He rubbed his face hard to wake up. No trouble so far, but how long could it last? He'd dropped a few berries into his purse. As he popped them into his mouth, his stomach twisted so hard he winced. He looked up as the last stars winked out. It was light enough now that he could see the trees where he'd made his cold camp. The light gave no color yet, and the land was a cool gray. He threw the saddle on the horse and rode north. Mid-day he rode through a grove of apple trees. Most were still green but a few had reddened in the early autumn. He stood in the saddle to pull four from the branches. He crunched into them though he could only eat two. The long months of hunger seemed to have done something to his stomach. The rest went into his purse. Thirst was more of a problem now with no flask for water. He stopped and filled his belly at a shallow stream and the horse sucked up as much as he dared let it drink. He frowned, worried that it might take too much but he couldn't be sure how far they'd have to travel before either of them drank again.

  With a sigh, he went on, trying not to wonder if he would indeed reach home.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The sun was at its zenith as Andrew rode through a small wood. He spotted a scattering of thatch-roofed cots. Wisps of smoke rose. He leaned forward and his heart jumped. Beyond were the peaks of mountains stabbing the horizon--dark gray and purple in the distance--the crest of Ben Dorain and Ben an Dothaidh crowned with clouds. Scotland. Home. If he could reach it.

  He frowned, searching his memory. Just on the English side of the border lay the River Orchy. He tried to recall the name of the village that lay next to the bridge but shrugged it away. Whatever its name, he would ride well around it. He'd find a crossing somewhere. No doubt, the bridge was watched.

  He made his way through thick dappled shadows in a stand of oaks. Suddenly, a drift of swine boiled a few feet ahead, squealing in alarm, and the horse snorted and skittered. He hauled on his reins and backed up a step. A full-grown boar could gut a horse, and a sword was useless against the animal's savage tusks. The boar swung its head with a grunting snort. Its lower tusks gleamed ivory where they thrust up from its jaws as it glared at him with golden eyes. Andrew backed the gelding up another step. The boar was covered with brown bristles, and its erect ears twitched as it watched him. A sow dashed out of the underbrush, squealed and scampered away. Another followed, four half-grown piglets at her heels. The boar snorted and turned its head to watch its drift fleeing along a narrow path. It backed up a step but still eyed him, suspicions glowing in its deep-set eyes.

  The underbrush crashed and a lad, dressed in rough tunic and breeches, burst through the brambles, a long stave in his hands. "There you've got to." He stopped, blue eyes widening. He braced both feet wide, raising the stave in his hands. "They're mine. You can't have 'em."

  Andrew sat back slightly, resting a hand on his searing thigh. He judged the lad to be near grown, perhaps fourteen, thin and wiry. "I'm not after your swine."

  The lad narrowed his eyes, as he looked Andrew over. "What you want then?"

  "I'm just passing through. Looking for a ford across the river."

  The lad eased his grip on the stave. "And not wanting to take the bridge?" He cocked his head to the side. "A reiver..."

  Andrew managed a thin smile. "Nay, but the lord whose service I left seemed to think I shouldn't keep my horse. So I'm not eager to meet up with his men."

  "Aye, well. I know of a ford. And you can get food there if you're a mind. But it'll cost a few farthings, crossing and food both."

  Andrew patted his purse at his belt and let the few coins jingle. "I'm hungry right enough."

  The lad thought about it a moment and then gestured north with his stave. "'Tis not what you'd rightly call a ford, not being on the road, but serves people hereabouts what don't want to be seen. My auntie will have a fowl on the hearth and a cup of ale. And..." He looked Andrew up and down. "...you might spare a coin so no one mentions a rider going past."

  Andrew was already reaching for a farthing piece. "As to that, I'm thinking this might keep your eyes on those swine." He held out the coin and dropped it into the lad's hand.

  The lad winked. "I'd not see anybody when I was looking for me boar." He began to whistle softly as he turned and followed the path the swine had taken.

  Andrew ran his hand up and down his leg. It was hot and pulsing with pain. It was getting worse, not better. He had to find a way across the river, had to have food, had to find a way home--and soon. Or he'd not make it. That lad would most likely sell the news about seeing a rider the first chance he got, so Andrew had best get out of reach of anyone finding him. He might have told the truth about there being a ford though. He sucked on his teeth for a moment. He'd risk it.

  He flicked his reins and started down the slope. As the trees thinned, he could see the gleam of water lined by willows. Next to the riverbank stood a wattle cot, smoke rising from a hole in the thatch. Beyond the cot, a narrow trail led down to the bank. It must go to the crossing.

  He rode to the middle of the stinking, mucky yard, his hand on his hilt. The door opened a crack as he pulled up. A woman, as thin as the boy and as wiry but tall and rawboned, stepped into the doorway.

  "Good day to you." Andrew rubbed his chin with his left hand. He caught a flicker of movement at the corner, he wasn't sure what or how many. "A lad said you might have a roast fowl to sell and show me to a ford."

  "Aye, I have a fowl and a loaf of bread from my baking. And I'll show you the ford and all for six farthings." She looked him over. "You look to be hurt. I'll bandage that leg for you and no extra coins."

  A shadow moved at the corner. Andrew didn't even shift his eyes as he smiled. "I'm in no fit shape to grace your home."

  "Why I'm no fine lady to worry about a man smelling of sweat and horse, but suit yourself," the woman said. "Where you be heading? It's risky traveling alone these days."

  "That it is what with lords claiming a man's horse, but I'm going home whatever any lord might say on it. My pa needs me to help with th
e croft and my lass won't wait much longer, I'm thinking."

  "Aye, I thought you looked like one to have a lass waiting." She grinned. "Then we best get you on your way." She withdrew into the byrne and the door slammed behind her. There was a thump at the corner, but nothing moved for several minutes. The door opened with a bang and the thin woman held a bag, just out of reach, with her other hand stretched out for coin. "Here you be, lad. And I threw in a mite of cheese."

  Eyes darting, Andrew sidled his horse closer. The woman took a step backwards out of reach.

  Two men rushed him, one from each side. One shouted and hacked with a notched sword. The gelding reared, slashing with its hooves, frightened by the sudden attack. Andrew's sword was in his hand. He swung at the man's neck; the steel bit to the bone. He dodged a slice from the other side. The backswing nearly caught him as the gelding bucked, but he leaned back. His opponent switched his weight to swing again. Andrew turned and cut the man down. Through the madness, he heard the woman screeching. She swung the bag and it slammed into his wound. Red spun in front of his eyes. His stomach heaved. Bending, he grabbed the woman's throat with one hand. "Drop that," he said through gritted teeth. He lifted her off her feet and gave her a shake. The sack dropped to the ground with a thump.

  Andrew gave her another shake before he tossed her down. He hauled in his dancing, snorting horse and patted its neck. "Calm down, boy," he said softly.

  The woman sat on her arse glaring up at him. "Murderer," she grated.

  The horse was snorting, so he gave it another pat before he slid from the saddle. He kicked the sack--rocks from the feel. He backed away a few halting steps and looped the reins to a stubby pine sapling. He swallowed the bile in his throat.

  Damn. She had burst the wound open.

  "I'll just see what you do have on that hearth of yours."

  Her eyes darted towards the closed door and back to him. "Just don't take everything." A change of expression flickered over her face. Her voice turned to a whine. "I've got to feed my weans and no man to help now. Leave us a bit."