Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  In the shadow of the trees, Andrew slid from the saddle and untied the crutch he had slung across his back. Sir Waltir set about unsaddling and hobbling the horses as Andrew sank into the soft padding of fallen leaves with a bag of supplies Father Filan had brought from the Cathedral.

  "We won't go hungry." He pulled out a cold roast chicken, some apples and a loaf of bread. "Hurry up or I'm eating without you."

  "Ah, but I have the skin of wine, my lord."

  Andrew frowned as he pulled a leg off the chicken. No one had ever called him 'my lord' for that was his father. That was strange. He turned the leg in his fingers, a wry smile forming from the laugh that welled in his chest. "So you do, Sir Waltir. And I'll thank you to bring it with you." He licked his lips. "But I am no man's lord, not yours or any other man's."

  Sir Waltir slapped Andrew's chestnut on the rump and came with the wineskin to squat next to him. "Lord in your father's stead and name. Surely, men will follow you better if you act as lord and not a mere knight."

  "I hope not, my friend. Because mere knight is what I am whilst my father lives. And it's as a knight I'll lead them--if they'll follow."

  Waltir handed him the wineskin. "Best you get your strength back. Whatever you lead us as, you've taken yourself..." He tore a leg off the chicken. "...an impossible task."

  Andrew grinned. He threw back his head and squirted a long stream of the sweet wine into his mouth. "If it's impossible then there's nothing to worry about, is there? They'll make up songs about my fall. I hope they're good songs." He fed more on the laughter than the food. When their bellies were full, he used his padded crutch to lever himself to his feet.

  "What are you about?" Waltir asked.

  "I'm going to sleep under the sky." Dry leaves rustled around his feet as the hobbled to where he could see the stars spread across the heavens. "I need to sleep under the open sky." Moonlight stained the gorse and heather shades of silver on the hills and turned the autumn leaves to white. Owls sailed, hooting, through the dark. A breeze scented by the sea cooled his skin and whispered through his hair like a woman's fingers. He closed his eyes and sank into the scent and sound of freedom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "It's not much," Sir Waltir said as they rode toward the bleak slope. Below, the water of the firth washed, foaming, on a stony beach. "There are caves beyond where we keep horses and what stores your uncle has sent us."

  Andrew shifted his weight in the saddle. They had ridden for hours, since daybreak but they'd taken it slow to spare his leg. It was cold and a wind whistled around the rocky heights of Bin Hill.

  A plover call shrilled and Andrew frowned. It was oddly off tune. Waltir grinned. "They'll be expecting us."

  Below the rocky ledge, the slope was thickly covered with gorse, bracken, thistle and thorny blackberry bushes. A narrow trail twisted its way through, but there were no horse droppings as though it was never used. By the time Andrew and Walter rode up to the gaping cavern opening, the sun was a sword's breadth above the horizon.

  A young man of middling height lounged against a crag. His long brown hair tumbled over his forehead and he cleaned his fingernails with a dirk. He slid it into his belt and straightened, giving Andrew a curious look.

  The two of them swung from their saddles and Waltir introduced Sir Hamish as they made they led their horses inside.

  Andrew could hear the noise by the time he reached the bottom step, laughing and talking. He stepped into the hall. Five men sat at the rough-hewn tables on benches that were little more than logs.

  Robbie Boyd was the first to see them. He grinned. "Andrew! You're about already."

  The other men rose to their feet. Andrew frowned. He should know these men's names, but his father's force had been large. He'd have to do better about such things. Would men follow a leader who couldn't call them by name?

  "Not much choice about it when Cressingham and his men came to call." His mouth twisted in a smile as he thumped on the crutch across the stony floor. Fading daylight shone in. "My English host seems wroth that I left without his leave."

  Hamish's eyes widened. "How did you get away from the cathedral?"

  "Oh, it was most brave. Hiding in a hay wain and sneaking away." Andrew leaned against the wall. The small fire put out a wisp of smoke that drifted up through cracks in the cave roof. A couple of game birds roasted on a spit. But with winter not far away, this couldn't be a hiding place for long. They'd have to act soon--sooner than he had hoped.

  How to convince them? He scratched at his annoying wiry beard. He should have planned what to say. He looked from one man to another. Seven men to start--and the guard up on the Ben.

  "I have come home..." He moistened his suddenly dry mouth. "I've come home to raise my father's banner. I am not fleeing, not going to France." After a weighty pause, he went on. "Sir Waltir has agreed to join me. I will fight the English--push them out of our country by whatever means it takes."

  Hamish looked at him open-mouthed, but Robert Boyd pushed past.

  "You'll fight the English?"

  "Someone must--or else we deserve what they have done to us. To be trodden under the damned Plantagenet's heel like the shit he called us. No!

  "I have much yet. Allies. My uncle and through him the bishop. A strong sword arm, even if I limp. A mind that I can use and, the most important, ideas on how to defeat them.

  "I've sworn by St. Andrew and the Holy Virgin. I will fight them. I will drive them from our land."

  Hamish's face was creased into a heavy frown. "How?"

  "Taking one step at a time. First, we need a base. I need to put a call to my father's caterans. I believe many of them will follow." He stared past the wall, past the Moray Firth to where Avoch Castle stood atop a green hill, seeing it, lusting for it as a hungry man lusts for bread. How to take a castle with a handful of men and no siegery? "Before the snow flies, we have to make a start. Seize supplies they will bring in for the winter. Before the passes close, we take back Avoch Castle. There I will raise men and we will train. Once the passes close, they'll get no news through. That will give us time.

  "We're no longer green as a summer meadow, no innocents to be led to the slaughter. But we're not ready yet." He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "They will pay for what they've done. And we will get back what is ours."

  Robbie Boyd extended a hand. "If you can help me drive them from my home, Andrew, I'm your man."

  Andrew clasped his forearm.

  "And I," Hamish said. "Who else would we follow?" He looked at the other two. "James? Gil?"

  "I never wanted to go to France anyrood."

  "Aye," the others shouted.

  Andrew let out a long breath. A first step, small, but a step. He eased himself down onto the rough bench. "I don't suppose one of you has a razor? This beard is driving me mad."

  Robbie grinned, rubbing a thumb over his clean-shaved cheek marred with a long scar still red from its taking. "Aye, I might have one to lend."

  Gil went out to lead the horses to the nearby cave where they kept them hobbled while Hamish cleaned away the droppings until no sign led to their hiding place.

  One of the golden, steaming ptarmigans was set in the middle of the table sending up a mouth-watering scent. Andrew tore a piece but stared at it thoughtfully. The months of so little food had done something to his stomach and he had to force himself to eat. Robbie Boyd sat next to him and laid a razor on the table.

  "What are your plans exactly then?" he asked.

  "To move carefully at first as I said. We need supplies, food and weapons, before I start raising my father's men. The fastest way to do that is to ambush a convoy." Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and it wobbled on the uneven cave floor. "Eight of us. That won't be easy. Then I have to reclaim Avoch. If I can raise my men and if we can take the castle... That will give us the start we need. But for that, I want winter set in and the passes closed so word cannot get out. The Black Isle is much cut off in the winter ex
cept for determined men."

  Robbie crooked an eyebrow. "A great number of ifs."

  "Aye. I'm not denying that. Barring those ifs, we'll be homeless outlaws for the winter. It may come to that but not if I can help it." He laughed. Yet another if.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Andrew tucked his hands under his armpits. A bone-numbing chill bit through the Grampians as they waited, even though it was still early October. A thin, icy rain blew off the heights stinging his face. The peaks were already white half way down their slopes. Low gray clouds blanketed the noon sun letting through a pale disk of light. How or why these stone circles had been built no one remembered, but this one overlooked the rutted roadway of the Causey Mounth.

  Andrew's breath fogged. They were well hidden within the bracken and straggling pines around the ancient stones, but the others who joined him and his six companions might be seen. It would soon be noon. Their quarry would not wait.

  He had led them here before daybreak having left their cave two nights before and riding in the dark. Now they crouched within the grass-grown broken stones of the Pictish circle. One huge stone lay stretched like a giant altar. Andrew sat on it for a moment, rubbing his leg. The climb had strained it for this was no place for horses, and they'd tethered them in a hollow below the face of the hill.

  Hamish and Robbie claimed a stone to roll dice to pass the time. Andrew poked Hamish in the ribs when he whooped at a good roll. The man gave him a lop-sided grin before he returned to the game. Sir Waltir was keeping watch beyond a bend in the rutted drover's road. It made Andrew twitch that they didn't have the men for a proper watch. He paced from one rough, lichen-covered stone to another, each taller than he, scanning the horizon and the hills. He started when his uncle walked out of the nearby pines. Andrew had to smile. His uncle had donned his armor and a sword belt hung at his waist. Behind him followed two dozen men, monks and lay brothers in steel jacks, carrying pikes and three with crossbows slung across their backs

  Andrew stepped into the open and waved. David returned the signal and trotted toward their hiding place.

  "No sign yet," Andrew said. "I'm right glad to see you."

  His uncle gave him a brief smile. "You have a watch out?"

  "Waltir wanted to do it himself. None else. I didn't want the men spread though it's less well done than I'd like. He'll try to stop any going back for aid."

  David nodded. "With my men, perhaps you can afford another to help."

  Andrew looked south toward the slope that led upward to the burn of Elsick where the convoy would come from Aberdeen if his uncle's spy had spoken true. He nodded. "Send one of them to beyond the bridge over the burn. He can light a signal fire when he spies them, but with care."

  David nodded to one of the lay brothers who jogged off. Andrew chewed his lip worrying that the man would give them away with too large a signal fire. With so few men, their only chance lay in surprise.

  The icy rain stopped and the clouds thinned. Watery sunshine came out, but it had no heat to it. Andrew resumed his pacing from stone to stone. Had their news that a party would leave Aberdeen with supplies been wrong? Nothing moved but a hawk sailing in lazy circles high overhead. Perhaps they'd taken another route though what he couldn't think. Had their plans somehow gone awry?

  Then he saw a tendril of smoke rising against the gray sky. He pointed. "That's the signal!"

  They were all jumping up from where they'd lounged convinced it had been a waste.

  "They must have been late leaving Aberdeen," David said. "We have just enough time."

  "Boyd, take three of my uncle's men. Lie in the woods and be ready to cut them off if any get past us." He lay a hand on his uncle's arm. "You take half the men on the other side of the Causey. Hamish, you help on that side. Leave me the ones with crossbows. When horses go down, you know what to do."

  As both groups trotted off, Andrew turned to the three with bows. "Come. We'll get in position. When they reach us, you're to bring down the horses in front."

  Andrew and Gil used their swords to whack down some bracken and gorse that they others piled up as cover. Then he and his dozen men crouched to wait. Andrew wiped the nervous sweat from his face, his stomach tight.

  The first horsemen appeared, men-at-arms in steel jacks glinting in the hazy light, two riding side by side, shields hanging on their backs, relaxed as they rode. Their helms rested on their saddlebows. Andrew held his breath as the next pair came into view right behind and then two more. He let out his breath. This was no advance party. The leader hadn't bothered and why would he? The land was cowed and under their heel.

  Two more men-at-arms came and then two more. The Causey was narrow here with room for no more than two abreast. The first of the sumpter animals appeared, each led by a man-at-arms. More would bring up the rear. Fifty men-at-arms and nearly as many sumpter horses. A usual enough plan for a party on the march.

  When the rearguard tried to come to the aid of the front party, they'd find the reason for the Causey. Great stones underlay the way to keep it out of the boggy land. Any horse off the Causey was immediately hock deep and struggling. Let them try to fight their way through that.

  Andrew rose carefully, pressing his back against the largest pine. He mustn't make a fast movement to catch their eyes. They rode at a slow trot, slumped in the saddle, looking tired... bored. The first two were talking, their voices carrying amidst the jingle of harness and clop of hooves. The pennant that one carried still dripped limply, impossible to tell the crest.

  "Hold," Andrew whispered. He held his breath as they trotted past. Let them reach the bend ahead.

  He brought down his hand. "Now!"

  The crossbow made a thrum as the bolt sped. A horse screamed. Another thrum and another. A rider down, a horse rearing as blood gushed from its chest. A crossbow creaked as it was loaded. Thrum.

  "Moray!" Andrew jumped into the road as he ripped his sword from its sheath. "Moray!"

  His leg bent under him from the force of his lunge. He cursed as he gutted a horse.

  "Ware attackers!" A man-at-arms screamed as he galloped toward Gil, sword scything. Thwap. He went down.

  Across the way, his uncle's men were swarming down, screaming. "Moray! Scotland!" They jabbed with their pikes. His uncle swung his sword and hacked a man-at-arms through the belly. Crossbow bolts pelted down.

  Two men-at-arms afoot ran at Andrew. He buried his blade in the first one's belly. The man fell into the other.

  The men-at-arms trapped behind in the chaos were trying to flank them. Their horses floundered, snorting and plunging, trying to get free. The sumpter horses reared and whinnied in terror, the men-at-arms who led them fighting to hold the leads, not able to fight at the same time. Boyd strode down the road, slashing his way back toward them, a man on each side.

  The panicked English hacked about them. One of the monks slipped and went down on this face. A man-at-arms reared his horse to smash in his head.

  Boyd knelt to slash at a horse's legs. A rider on a bay behind him hacked down but Robbie flung himself to the side.

  Andrew dropped to a knee and reversed his dirk, slashing and ripping upward. The horse screamed, pawing desperately. Andrew rolled clear and shook bloody muck out of his face. The horse staggered sideways, but already its rider had kicked his feet free to slide backwards and jump clear. He stumbled when he landed but kept to his feet, blade swinging.

  Andrew caught the sword on his. Steel screeched on steel. The man leaned in hard, their blades locked. Andrew met the man's glare. They broke apart. The man struck, sword whipping around. Andrew blocked the blow. As the man stepped back to try a blow from the other side, Andrew swept his sword across. He laid his chest open, muscle and bone, through his amour. The man screamed as he fell onto his face.

  Andrew spun, blade held low and ready. On all sides, men hacked at each other. The ground was a red bog of blood, men up to their knees in muck and horses worse, rearing and plunging but unable to move. Down
ed horses screamed and thrashed.

  "Uncle!" Andrew ran as an Englishman, a sword in one hand and dagger in the other, leapt over a horse's body toward the priest's back. The attacker whirled to face Andrew. He had the scarred face of an experienced fighter. He thrust, each hand in turn, fast, savage strokes.

  Moving back, his half-healed leg wobbled under him. He couldn't do this much longer. He tightened his two-handed grip on his sword and went in hard. Scarface parried and made an upward riposte. Andrew gritted his teeth and ripped a sideways hack into his chest. His arms flung up in shock. Andrew rammed his blade home in a spray of blood and jerked it free. Scarface collapsed, gurgling.

  Andrew wiped blood out of his eyes to see Gil grab a snorting sumpter horse. He winced as a bolt flew by his ear. "Watch your aim!" he shouted. But he forgave the crossbowman when one of the last of their opponents went to his knees grasping the quarrel through his throat. Robbie Boyd hacked down a struggling man-at-arms. Another threw down his sword. Two more followed suit. Within a moment, the half-score English still alive were standing with hands raised, swords tossed at their feet.

  His uncle panted, leaning on his sword like a staff, and mopped his face, his hair in sweaty strings. "I'm out of practice. Too many years in the Cathedral."

  All around was chaos. Mangled horses and men, bleeding or dead, lay on the ground. The sumpter horses snorted and skittered. A few of them had bolted off the road but came to a stop when they were hock deep in bog.

  Andrew rubbed his aching thigh. He hadn't planned for prisoners. They couldn't take prisoners with them. Besides, survivors were to the good. Let the English know that a Moray had returned to his lands.

  He sheathed his sword and strode to the prisoners. Grabbing an older, hard-faced campaigner by the front of his leather jack, Andrew jerked the man close. He looked into eyes that were rolling with terror. "You tell them. Andrew de Moray. Moray did this. And I'll do more before I'm through. Until you get out of our lands and leave our people in peace."