Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  His uncle gripped and ungripped a fist as he went to stand beside the window looking out, tall and muscular, as unpriestly a priest as ever Andrew had known, though he'd risen high. "Everyone who wasn't in a dungeon swore fealty to the English king. They had no choice--it was that or join Comyn, Atholl, your father and all the others."

  Sir Waltir stood studying his feet.

  "What of you?" Andrew asked him.

  Sir Waltir shrugged. "I'm a hireling knight, not important enough for them to hunt down for my fealty. I've stayed well out of sight, kept the few men I had left in hiding. Though it's hard to watch. They've seized all the wool stores. They're merciless in collecting the taxes for the English king's French war--seizing food, animals, burning villages, some that resist and some just for sport. Now they're demanding that we join him in fighting. But I am waiting."

  "Waiting--for what?"

  "Your uncle has ordered a ship though the ports are closed. I'll not swear fealty to the English. Not now. Not ever. Nor will your father's men. So they'll follow me to France. The French king pays well."

  "I owe your father's men my help." His uncle turned to him. "You'll go with them. For the English most certainty will hunt you down. That you escaped is an insult the English king will not ignore."

  Andrew went cold. Flee--leaving their people and lands to the mercy of the English? He slammed his fist as he sat straight up. A paroxysm of pain twisted him in the bed. "There must be some way," he gasped. "I can't run away."

  "Drink this." Father Filan had a cup to his lips. Andrew swallowed.

  "I must think of a way," he said, but the men around him began to blur into wisps of smoke. The room filled with haze. "Who else can fight them? Who else will?"

  His uncle said something he couldn't make out before dreams took him. He was home at Avoch Castle on the rampart, looking down the hill to the rippling turquoise of the firth stretching beyond the horizon. A mewling gull sailed overhead. His father's blue banner with a triangle of stars cracked in the wind. Nothing else moved. Andrew turned in a slow circle, searching. He yelled, "Where is everyone?" His voice echoed. He took the stone steps to the empty bailey, leaping two and three at a time. His leg was whole. Running pell-mell, he dashed to the door of the keep. Threw it open. "Father!"

  Sunlight barely cut into the dark shadows; the torches were gutted. The great hall was empty, stone floor bare except for piles of bones in the corners. Heart thumping, he started across the long vaulted room. His footsteps rang on the floor, making his skin creep on his flesh. The door crashed closed behind him.

  Brian's voice was a whisper in the air, "They spat on our graves..."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When he awoke, pale morning sunlight gleamed through the window. The cathedral. Even here, his dreams were bitter. How could his uncle say he should flee? They spat on our graves. He shivered.

  David who could swing a sword with the best knight in the kingdom even though a priest. He should tell him what his father had commanded. Make him understand what they'd done. Surely, David had seen the burnt villages. Scotland would starve with their wool stolen, taxed into poverty to pay for England's wars of greed, for enriching men like Cressingham. They'd die stripped of honor and freedom.

  As he tried to puzzle it out, a trumpet blew. The cathedral used bells and not horns, he thought. He shook his head, still muzzy from the poppy potions. Someone shouted a ringing command. Soldiers.

  Andrew sat, throwing back the blanket. His thigh hammered with pain through his numbness. The door opened and his uncle slipped through, closing it softly behind him. "We have to get you out of here." He unfastened his belt and began stripping his black robe over his head.

  Father Filan scurried in. "He isn't fit to move yet."

  His uncle thrust the robe into Andrew's hands. "Put that on. Be quick."

  Andrew shoved his arms into the loose sleeves, still warm from his uncle's body, and pulled it on. "You think they'll take me for a priest?" He hadn't even shaved yet, much less did he have a tonsure.

  "Cressingham would recognize you anyway." David put Andrew's arm over his shoulder and helped him up. It hurt like hell and Andrew groaned when he put his weight on the leg. "Filan, you get him out the back. There's a hay wagon. Hide him and start for the leprosarium. I'll catch up with you." He transferred Andrew's weight to the younger priest. "No time to conceal that there's been someone here. They must find only an injured priest." His uncle sat on the edge of the bed and used the knife from the worktable to slash his arm. He was wrapping it in linen as Andrew limped through the door. He looked up. "Hurry. The bishop cannot delay them long."

  Angry voices carried from the cathedral. His uncle covered his legs as they limped their way to the doorway. As they hurried through, Andrew took in a room hung with bunches of herbs and a long table piled with scrolls and jars and pestles and mortars. A rear door opened onto an enclosed garden sweet with the scent of greenery, much of it yellowing, and vines that climbed a brick wall. The path led to a narrow back gate.

  Father Filan fastened the gate behind them, frowning, and nodded to a hay wain hitched and piled high, its horses cropping at some stubble beside an empty field. The priest hurried him to it, as Andrew looked over his shoulder.

  Filan shoved aside the pile of hay and, one handed holding onto the side, Andrew helped him. When they had a deep hole in it, Andrew sat on the edge and worked his way back.

  "Careful. You tear that open..." The priest gave him what was meant to be a stern look, but they both knew it was the least of their worries. He curled up in the middle of the hay and Father Filan pulled and tucked it over him until he was covered. Andrew smothered a cough from the dust. He used a finger to poke a tiny hole so he could breathe. He heard the priest muttering to himself as he patted and rearranged the prickly hay into place. The wagon lurched as Filan climbed onto the front.

  "Here they come," he said softly.

  Andrew heard the squeak and rattle of harness and the thud of hooves as armed men neared, but he couldn't see them.

  "You, there," said a smooth voice. Cressingham. "What are you about?"

  Andrew shook with fury at the sound the voice. It was a good thing he wore no sword or he would have ripped the blade out. Cressingham's men most surely would have killed him, but not before he cut out the Englishman's black heart. He clenched his fists against the tremors of hatred.

  "Carrying out my duties, my lord. Part of the hay harvest is to go to the leprosarium."

  "Check the wain," Cressingham ordered.

  A blade poked into the hay near Andrew's head. Another thrust nicked his hand. He made no sound. Another poke further away.

  "'Tis hay, my lord," Father Filan said. "We've no quarrel with the king's grace here."

  "Nothing," a harsh voice said.

  Blood welled in the cut on his hand.

  "Very well. You may go, priest," The voice moved further away. "I'll join the Bishop for wine and cakes. Finish the search for the miscreant and report to me. If there is any wool, be sure it's seized."

  The wain groaned and lurched. Father Filian clucked to the horses. The floor tilted, load shifting, as the wheels turned. The reins snapped. With another bone-jarring rattle, they were on the rutted path. The harness clattered. "Get you on now," Father Filan called to the horses. After a moment, he began to sing, his voice a bit flat.

  "By the joyful saints in Heaven

  Walls of living stone erected..."

  He paused and whispered, "One is watching us go... but he's not following." Then he took up his song again.

  "By the Prince of Joy protected

  Where the light, that God is

  Endless spring and peace are

  Perfume, every breeze is bearing..."

  Andrew winced at the jostling and sucked the line of blood off his hand as they bumped their way down the dirt road.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The hay wain groaned as it climbed up a rise.

  "Father Filan,"
someone called, "we were nay expecting you to come this day."

  "We have callers at the cathedral so I brought the hay." The harness rattled from shaken reins. "Hoi. Pull now." The wheels thudded as the wagon lurched over a rise. Lads hooted, playing chase nearby. After more creaking and jerking, the wagon stopped. "Stay still for now," the priest said softly. The wain tilted as the priest climbed down and his footsteps shuffled past.

  "Did you bring more salves? What I have is almost used."

  Father Filan's voice grew faint. "I'll bring some on the morrow."

  Wood creaked... a gate? Andrew inched a hand up to wipe sweat out of his eyes. The thick pile of hay was warmer than ten woolen blankets and his arm itched where a midge had bitten. A spider crawled across his cheek.

  A woman's voice called to the children. There were protests and then it grew quiet. A flock of plovers began to give their haunting, whistled call. Andrew cushioned his head on a bent arm. A long time passed during which he licked his lips and wished he'd had time to drink something when he'd awakened. Where had they gone? If the soldiers had come, he would have heard them. About the time he began to think Father Filan had forgotten him, there was a creak and the hay was pushed back. He sat up, thrusting the cover away and shaking shreds out of his hair. He was sure he was coated with the scratchy stems.

  Father Filan grasped his arm, urging him the edge of the wagon. "The English are braver than most if they'll search a leprosarium. Come."

  Andrew worked his way to his feet and stood grasping the edge of the wagon. He looked at the little wooden building uneasily and turned his eyes to the priest. "I'm not..." He licked his lips. "I'm not sure I'm that brave."

  The priests round face broke into a reassuring smile. "Brother Cyrus has worked here for ten years with no ill effect. But the lepers are without. They'll beg for alms should we..." He made a wry face. "...should we have company. And Brother Cyrus is watching the road."

  A flush run up from Andrew's neck, shamed at the thought. Protected by lepers... Reluctantly, he nodded.

  Father Filan took Andrew's arm over his shoulder. He was short but seemed sturdy when Andrew leaned his weight on him. They had been too rushed before for Andrew to notice. The gate creaked when they went through it into a yard where a couple of sheep grazed. "Some of the women can still weave. It gives them a bit of what life was like before." The small windows were shuttered and narrow bars of light cut the darkness. A fire burnt on a small hearth with a pot simmering above and cots lined the walls. Andrew's stomach growled at the smell of onions and herbs wafting from pot.

  Filan motioned to a stool by the fire. "It's Cyrus's so you needn't worry." He picked up a cup from the mantle and dipped up broth. "You must regain your strength." He held the steaming cup out.

  Andrew knew his face must be aflame. He shook his head. "I can't take food from the mouths of the poor--much less from lepers. What do you think I am?"

  "Nonsense. They'll not go hungry for it. They pay their purgatory now instead of after their deaths. They'll happily share a cup of broth with an injured man."

  For the first time Andrew was hungry. His stomach gurgled. He smiled, feeling foolish, and drank the broth down, dipping a thick slice of bread in it. Closing his eyes, he savored the best feast he had ever eaten. Had broth always tasted so good and he'd never noticed?

  Eventually, he rubbed his stomach, still hollow but comfortably full anyway. Strength was returning to his body, flowing through him like water after a drought. The pain in his thigh had subsided to a constant throb. Andrew rubbed it thoughtfully. He looked up at Father Filan. "It feels like it's starting to heal. But... will it be strong again? Strong enough?"

  The priest made an apologetic motion with his hands. "The corruption was deep. There is no reason it can't grow strong again. But..." He sat on the edge of one of the cots. "How strong, I can not say. A limp..."

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  Andrew sat, staring at his hands as he flexed them, thin and pale. Even his uninjured leg was wobbly if he put weight on it. He had been too long in an English dungeon. Too long... And lame...

  The door banged open and a lad, face blotched with red, running sores and panting for breath, stood outwith. "Riders coming... two of them." He sucked in breath. "Father Cyrus said one is a priest."

  "My uncle."

  Father Filan frowned. "But a second rider?" He went to the door and rested a hand on the leper lad's shoulder. "Stay inside, Sir Andrew. Lad, sit you on the doorstep to beg." He raised his voice. "Come, lad, you also on the doorstep." He closed the door behind him.

  If it wasn't his uncle? Cressingham was a priest. He'd not be taken. On the mantle shelf laid the knife Father Filan had used to cut bread. Andrew stood and picked it up. A horse nickered and a voice gave a blessing of greeting--his uncle. He let a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. A laugh forced its way out.

  "We can not take the chance," his uncle said, pushing open the door.

  Andrew cut a slice of bread, feeling foolish. "Take what chance?"

  "I always said you would have made a priest had you not been your father's heir." His uncle looked him up and down with a half smile. "Though that beard must go, heir or no."

  "That I won't mind when there's time." It was a wiry bush, a mismatched brown to his blond hair. His eyes narrowed as Sir Waltir shut the door after Father Filan. "What chance?"

  His uncle said, "That Cressingham will be back to search again. Where else would you have come for aid?"

  "You think he'll be that determined to find me?"

  David walked to a rear window and opened a shutter to let in a breeze sweet with heather and pine. He stood looking bleakly out. "He..." His low voice came through gritted teeth. "He shames the church and any who serve it. A greedy, lascivious scandal. But he serves King Edward with all the faith he shows nothing else. His master wants you so he will tear Scotland apart to find you."

  "My men and I have taken shelter in a cave on the cliffs east of Finechty. You'll be safe enough there while we await a ship."

  Silence descended on the room like a storm cloud. Andrew looked from on to the other. He had to make this calm and cold, but his heart was hammering. "I'm taking no ship." He slammed the point of the knife into the mantle as he struggled for words. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Make it cold. "Scotland is where I belong. These are my people. They... they deserve more. They've been faithful to our family and to the king." He looked from his uncle to Sir Waltir and back again. "They deserve my faith... whatever it costs."

  Sir Waltir crossed his arms and made a clicking noise against his teeth. "Against the whole English army?"

  "The whole army surely isn't still in Scotland. Where is Edward Longshanks now?"

  His uncle turned from the window. "He returned to England and thence to Guyenne. The fighting there has resumed, they say."

  "So we'd be fighting... who? Cressingham? Warrenne? Not such fearsome foes and with less than the whole English army since much of it will be with the king. Nor do they have his skill."

  Sir Waltir gave him a level look. "De Warrenne did well enough at Dunbar. More than well enough."

  Andrew's leg was throbbing again from standing and he wanted badly to sit down. But he had to do his best to convince them. If he couldn't, then, devil take it, he'd stand alone, because he would not flee.

  "So we must learn the lessons of that battle. I must learn what you have to teach me from the French wars. I've had time to think on it--much time in a dungeon alone in the dark. We do have a chance."

  "Perhaps, there is," Sir Waltir said. "A slim one. When your father asked me to return, we knew grim times lay ahead. I gave him my oath." He gave a sharp nod. "The duty I owe to him goes to you."

  "I need something more than your duty," Andrew said as much to himself as to Waltir. "I need your loyalty... to me and to Scotland."

  Waltir made a choking sound. "And King John?"

  "For now." No point in saying the English would never let Kin
g John return, even if the Scots would have him. However, perhaps they would. He was the king, crowned, their own however weak he was. But did it matter now? "Why worry about a king when the kingdom's been stolen?"

  Sir Waltir loosed a sharp bark of laughter. "You have the truth of that. I gave my oath to your father--of free will. I won't betray it. Or you. I'll follow you if you'll have me."

  Andrew looked at his uncle whose face was still and stiff. "Uncle?"

  David de Moray looked past him through a wall to Andrew knew not what. Andrew began to believe he would say no, but eventually he gave a sharp nod. "You have my aid and through me the bishop's--which will count for a great deal." His mouth thinned to a grim line, white against his tan face. "But God and all the saints help me if I send my brother's only son to his death."

  After a long, painful silence, Father Filan said, "A poppy salve will help until the wound is healed. I'll not promise it won't break open, but if I wrap it tight and pad it, perhaps." He shook his head and muttered to himself as he went to a corner where a couple of gnarled wooden crutches leaned. He picked up the tallest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sir Waltir led the way toward Bin Hill, lingering in the distance, a recumbent giant covered with a blanket of hazy lavender heather dotted with golden gorse. A breeze carried a spicy scent. Plovers and larks called and the Cullen Burn splashed beside them. Gray feathery clouds slashed with rose covered the horizon. His leg had begun to send twinges up his side. The priest's salve was wearing off, but the relief of being alive and with an ally made that seem less than nothing. Nonetheless, he shifted sideways in the saddle to ease the pressure on his wound.

  "Paining?"

  Andrew shrugged. "Throbs now and again. I'll get nowhere paying heed to it."

  Sir Waltir pointed to a stand of shady oaks all clothed in red and gold near the burn. "Looks like a good place. Best we make a cold camp."

  "Mmmm..." He considered insisting they ride further, but breaking open his wound wouldn't do their cause any good. "Perhaps an early camp wouldn't do me any harm."