Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  Andrew raised the sword. She yelped. He slammed the hilt down on her head, and she slumped like a sack of turnips. He prodded her with a foot and gave a breath of relief when she moaned. At least, he wasn't yet reduced to killing women.

  He ducked around the corner, limped past the windowless side of the byrne, and came to a back door. He shot another glance at around the side but nothing moved. Taking a deep breath, he crashed the door open.

  As he hoped, the remaining defenders were at the front door, one on each side. A pockmarked lad spun and rushed him, swinging a club. Andrew hacked his arm. Blood gushed on the wall. The lad screamed and dropped the club, staggering into an older man who was dodging around him. The man knocked the lad to the floor and rushed Andrew. He thrust a notched blade. Andrew dodged, knocking a table. His leg gave with a shrieking pain. He went to one knee. The man lifted the blade high with both hands. Andrew ducked under the wild slash and thrust up to the hilt beneath the man's breastbone. When he jerked his blade loose, the man gave a gurgle and sank onto the floor.

  The lad lay whimpering, blood leaking between his fingers where he grasped his arm. Andrew shivered, panting, and sweat dripping down his face. His hands were red and sticky, and a red-hot poker was thrust into his thigh. Slowly, he got to his feet. He kicked the club out of the lad's reach, the red pool widening under his arm. Too bad if he died, but Andrew wouldn't finish him. More mercy than they would have shown him. How many had they killed? "Move and you're dead."

  Hams and flitches of bacon hung from a beam. On a shelf above the hearth sat loaves of dark bread. Half a round of cheese was on the table. Andrew went to the front door. The woman was sitting up, her fingers thrust into her hair. A thread of blood ran down her forehead.

  "You stay still if you don't want another clout." He gave her a hard stare as he dumped rocks out of the sack. "After I'm gone you can tend the lad."

  He cut a slice of the cheese and forced down a few bites. It made him gag, but he needed the strength. How had he lifted even a woman as weak as he was? He dropped the cheese, a small flitch of bacon and a couple of loaves of bread into the bag. A flask hung near the door. He grabbed that and shoved it in along with flint and a knife. He found a strip of linen to wind around his thigh, the best he could. The noise and screams might bring company. He had to cross the river and be gone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "We have a long way yet to go." Andrew patted the gelding's neck as he gazed across the sullen immensity of the Moor of Rannoch, of rock-ribbed, grass-covered bog and peat-pocketed emptiness, towards the white-tipped blue mountains standing like a prize in the distance. Black Mount lowered to the west, the Glen Coe giants to the north, and beyond those Glen Lyon and the vast complex of the Mamlorn. On his mount, he crawled across the desolate moor--no more than a limping insect, an irrelevance in this colossal landscape. But he must get across.

  Summer had waned into early autumn, yet the sun shone down from a hard blue sky. A chill wind shook the reeds. It made a nervous whistling noise as it quivered its way through twisted trees. His nose twitched at the rot smell that the black ooze gave up at each hoof fall. A grouse flew, fluttering and squawking.

  For hours, first at a canter then a walk, he had followed a thin brown ribbon path to leave his attackers far behind. A throb of pain in his thigh made him wince with each jolt. He needed somewhere to stop for the night, to eat and rest the gelding. If he kept up at this pace, it would soon be blown, and his own strength was leaking out like wine from a cracked cup.

  At the edge of a pool of still green water, he found a stand of scraggly oaks rising from a jumble of rocks. Together they formed a sort of citadel where he could shelter. He dismounted and caught himself on a tree limb to keep from pitching onto his face. Sucking breath through his teeth, he flexed his stiff, throbbing leg. After a moment, he managed the strength to water the horse and gather some deadwood off the ground for a fire.

  When he got the flames going, he propped the flask near it to warm. He collapsed back against a rock, wishing he never had to move again. Holy Virgin Mary, what I wouldn't give for a skin of wine. When he pulled the flask away from the heat, the fire scorched his fingertips and he cursed. He held the heated water over his leg, gritting his teeth. He had to do it, but he'd done few harder things in his life. Tipping it, he poured half the hot liquid over the crusted bandage. He moaned. There. That wasn't so bad. With a shaking hand, he wiped the sweat off his face. He gave it a minute to soak and peeled the bandage off. He had to jerk where it had stuck. It ripped off the crusted blood and pus oozed out. He jerked it again.

  When he had it free, he gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the red, raised flesh. Green pus squirted. He gasped and hammered a fist on the ground. Squeezing his eyes shut and groaning, he pressed again. It oozed and then more pus came. He poured the rest of the hot water over the open wound. This time he screamed. He flopped back and was thankful when waves of nothing sucked him down.

  His own moan roused him. He rolled over on his side and opened his eyes. Murk had settled over the moor. Billows of mist drifted off the water wrapping the trees in tattered shrouds. He was cold. Hurting. Nausea washed over him with a rush. He heaved and retched. All that came up was a thin string of yellow.

  He rested his head on his folded arms and took a deep breath. Hazily, he realized that his sickness had eased. Probably it came as much from hunger as his wound. He should eat and get some water down.

  Half a loaf of bread and a few sips and he was more alive. He slept and when the pale light of dawn came filtering through the trees, he wrapped the linens around his leg again, saddled the horse and rode north. His leg grew ever more painful, but he dared not rest longer.

  The roads were strangely empty of merchants. A few byrnes came and went as he rode. Of the folk who lived in them, Andrew saw no sign. Perhaps they had fled. A burnt orchard had put out green shoots. Birds cried out, flying overhead.

  He heard the rattle of armor. A line of a dozen English men at arms came into view. He led his horse off the road and let them pass, his gaze fixed on his feet. Their eyes crawled like lice over his skin, but they didn't stop.

  The gelding's ribs showed under its coat, but Andrew couldn't let up their pace. He swung well around Stirling town, crossing the narrow wood bridge. He passed Perth in the distance, walls dyed red in the sunset. Before him opened wave after wave of sweeping glen with grass and heather turning autumn colors of yellow and red under seas of dark pines. He slept in the saddle now, stopping only to water the gelding and let him graze while cooking a rasher of the bacon over a fire. He tore open the wound afresh every time he mounted. There was nothing to do but groan in pain and ride on.

  Soon Moray. He pictured his father's men drinking in the great hall of Avoch Castle. One of the gray-haired knights was telling a story of the last battle with Norway twenty years before; Cathal hammered at his forge; Adam brought news that one of the greyhound bitches had whelped. He shook his head. An English banner flew over the castle now. Would any of his father's men be there? Sir Waltir? Iain? Malcolm the Red? Robbie Boyd? He was afraid to hope any had escaped the battle and capture. Yet his Uncle David would surely be at Elgin Cathedral. Even the English dare not attack it and his uncle was Dean there, a power in the church to be reckoned with.

  Cresting a rise gold with autumn-colored broom and spiced with the smell of gorse, he drew up with a sigh of relief. Ahead a brown rutted road wended its way through braes topped with breech, oak and pine. "All we have to do is follow the road." The screaming pain in his leg went from waist to toes. He couldn't think straight. Didn't want to. Once he realized he was riding in the wrong direction and turned the horse's head.

  He came to the River Spey and looked at the cold frothing water. He sighed and rode in. It splashed and foamed around its hooves, then its hocks. Icy, it splashed over Andrew's feet in the stirrups, tugging and surging as it rose up his legs. The gelding snorted and plunged, its hooves slipping. They were half way across-
-then two thirds. Then they were climbing the bank.

  Beyond the next rise topped by a line of pine, a thick column of smoke rose, twisted and curled. Chest tight, Andrew rode towards it. From the heights, he made out the smoldering skeleton of a motte and bailey keep. Crows flocked over dark shapes on the ground, rising in masses as they quarreled over their dinner. He sucked in a gulp of air. He rode closer. The birds rose shrieking from bodies dangling from a broken gate. God in heaven, he hadn't the strength to bury them. He swallowed back a gag as he turned his horse and went on.

  He was long since out of food but it didn't matter. He was close and he rode steadily north and east, gritting his teeth at the pain in his leg, alternating the horse between a walk and a canter.

  At last, nightfall turned the eastern sky purple, and against it rose the towering spires of Elgin Cathedral. Sunset, a sheet of rose, dappled like sea-washed sand, tinted its gold-colored stone. Slumping over the horse's neck, his eyes stung. He sucked down the tears. He had made it.

  Shuddering with pain, he urged the gelding on, following the muddy track until above him the Lantern of the North rose in all its grandeur, spires worked in whorls that dizzied the eyes, great oaken doors carved with the saints, brilliant stained glass that broke the light into a hundred colors.

  A breeze scented by the sea blew from distant Moray Firth ruffling his tangled hair. Night birds sang. He threw back his head to let the last light of day bathe his face.

  A bell tolled for prayers. A dray piled high with hay creaked past to the menes behind. In a field of waving grain, two black-robed brothers walked, scythes over their shoulders.

  As Andrew rode past the nave, soft chanting came from within. The brownstone walls of the menes came within sight. A canon, on his knees pulling weeds from between the paving stones, jumped to his feet. "A rider," he called.

  There was a wisp of smoke rising from a chimney inside the walls. The gate was closed. Andrew dismounted and hobbled towards it. It opened. Two canons hurried out, black robes churning around their legs.

  "My uncle..." Andrew said. Light whirled about them, confusing his eyes.

  One grabbed his arm and held him up. "Quick. Get him in."

  In spite of it all, fever, wound, exhaustion, his father chained in the Tower of London, and so many dead, in spite of it all, Andrew smiled as he grasped the canon's shoulder. It was a wonder to smell the air of Moray, to hear a Scottish voice and the bells of the Cathedral. He couldn't feel his feet on the ground. The light spun in a golden areola. "An English arrow." Even to his own ears, his voice was faint.

  "He's burning hot," a faint voice said. "Get him to the infirmary. Hurry before he's seen."

  An arm was under his, supporting him. "My uncle..."

  "Who's that you're looking for?" One on each side, they half-carried him through the wooden gate.

  "David de Moray..." he said as they crossed the yard.

  One of the canons stopped and Andrew lurched in his grasp. The man pulled Andrew to look into his face. "Andrew de Moray?" the priest gasped.

  A laugh bubbled up. "None other."

  "Holy Mary, Mother of God..." They shuffled through a garden redolent of herbs to a door. The canon shoved it open. "Father Filan!"

  Half-a-dozen cots lined the room, one occupied by someone whose breath was a harsh rasp. Wooden shelves on a wall held clay pots. After a moment, a round-faced man, brown hair curling around his tonsure, came from a rear room. His eyes widened. "Put him there."

  A cauldron bubbled on the hearth, and the damp heat made Andrew dizzy. He closed his eyes to still the spinning as they eased him onto his back.

  "I'll find the dean." One of the men hurried out, as the youngish round-faced man sawed a blade up the stinking, blood-soaked leather of his pants leg.

  "The English?" Andrew spoke through gritted teeth. "What has happened?"

  The priest cut away the linen that wrapped Andrew's wound. "They were here with their army. Left a man as a new canon to spy on us." The man's fingers poked and pulled at the wound. He made a sound in his throat at a gush of pus.

  "How bad is it?" The light was spinning again. "Will I die?"

  "No." The man bent his head close to the wound and sniffed. "There is corruption but I can cut it away."

  Andrew struggled to rise. "Cut it?"

  "Lie still." The strong voice might have been his father's. Panting, Andrew looked up at his uncle, David de Moray, Dean of Elgin Cathedral, blond, broad shouldered and strong in his black robes. His uncle strode across the room to shove him back with no more trouble than if he'd still been a bairn. "Let him do what he needs."

  Father Filan took a crock from a shelf and stirred something into a cup. "I'll cut away the corruption. You'll still have the leg." He came back with the cup in his hand. "Drink this."

  Andrew sucked in a deep breath, trembling. "You swear."

  David squeezed his shoulder. "I'll see to it, Andrew. You trust me."

  The cup smelled sweetly of honey but when Andrew choked down the thick potion there was a bitter, acrid taste at the back of his mouth. He gagged and almost brought it back up. The room spun. He had to keep talking. "What of our men? Did any return?"

  Father Filan swabbed at his leg with warm water. Andrew stared up at his uncle, trying not to scream.

  "Sir Waltir escaped the battle. He led back a handful of your father's men. They're still in hiding."

  "The English have been here."

  A muscle in his uncle's jaw worked. "Oh, yes. Cressingham led them, but they dared not sack the cathedral. One of the orchards was burnt. They seized all the wool we had stored. They left for where they could find safer pickings that didn't mean angering the Pope."

  "Safer pickings..." Andrew said. He worked to form with words with clumsy lips and tongue. "I passed a keep--burnt. The bodies..." Why hadn't he buried them? He tried to remember. "Someone must bury them."

  Father Filan paused, bloody cloth in his hand. "The two of you hold him down. I must do some cutting."

  Andrew tried to hold back the screams. His uncle and the other priest held him down while Father Filan cut into the wound. But he did scream and pound on the cot with his fist over and over. He screamed again when the priest put a blade glowing red to the wound. Waves of crimson pain engulfed him and he was small and helpless inside them. He choked on the stench of burning flesh. The pain eased for a moment.

  "Hold tight."

  Then the searing blade touched him again and he fainted.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The world crept back, bit by bit. Torchlight flickered. Andrew was covered with something soft and warm. He licked his dry lips.

  Father Filan bent over him, hand on his forehead. "It's all over," he said. Arm behind Andrew's shoulder, the priest lifted him.

  Andrew turned his head. "My leg?" He tried to move it and that hurt, so his worst fears weren't realized. It was still there. He sighed with relief.

  The priest put a cup to his lips. "Drink this. You'll feel better soon. You'll see."

  Thirsty, he took a drink. By the time he swallowed the thick potion, he was sinking into sleep.

  The next waking was harsh. Light streamed through the windows, but under the blanket, the pain was a hot, burning coal. When he moved, he had to smother a groan.

  "Andrew?" A well-remembered thin face appeared, smiling down at him. "Father Filan said you weren't to move."

  "Robbie!" Andrew reached up and the young knight clasped his hand. "I thought you'd..."

  "Died? Sir Waltir got some of us away. He's here, too."

  "Aye, I'm here." Sir Waltir stood from a stool next to the hearth and stepped to the other side of the cot. "How are you, lad?"

  Andrew tried to work spit into his parched mouth. "Water." Robbie got a cup and held it to Andrew's lips. He took a long swallow and sighed with relief. "I saw the bodies. Thousands of them. The dead horses, the crows feeding." He took another long swallow. "Brian didn't make it?"

  Robbie looked away.
"There was no time..." Robbie sounded wretched. "We were cut off...a score of us still ahorse. They were fighting all around us, cutting men down. Men afoot were slashed to pieces. Sir Waltir shouted to form into a wedge. We fought free and rode hard for the north."

  How could you leave us, he almost said. You were my companion-in-arms. He bit it back. Would he have them both dead?

  "You came back alive." Robbie was trying to sound cheerful, Andrew could tell. "Others might come riding back too tomorrow."

  Andrew threw back the blanket and tried to get up. The pain punched him so hard, he cursed.

  "Robbie, go get Father Filan. Andrew needs more of the poppy," Sir Waltir said.

  Andrew lay back wiping sweat off his face. "No, I'm all right. I want to know what's happening."

  The door opened and Father Filan hurried in and his uncle following behind. "Sir Andrew, be still. You must give yourself time. I drained the poison, cut away the corrupted flesh and sealed it with fire. Unless you rest..." He took a jar from the shelf.

  Andrew closed his eyes for a moment. "I'll be still. No more poppy though. Not yet." Andrew ignored the pain and pushed himself to sit up, resting back against the wall. "Tell me the rest."

  "He'll rest better for knowing," his uncle said. Few ever argued with that voice of authority and Andrew almost smiled.

  Father Filan looked at Andrew, eyes narrowed, before he nodded in agreement. "A short time and then he'll have a potion. He must have rest to recover."

  David stood beside the bed, his mouth thinned. "You must have guessed they've taken Avoch Castle. Cressingham's men hold it. The English or those who have sworn to them hold every stronghold. We're under their heel, well and truly."

  "Every castle? Even the royal castles? Stirling? Roxburgh?"

  "Yes," Sir Waltir said.

  Andrew looked from one to another, their blank faces telling a story without words. "No one holds out against them."