Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The sun was half-way up the morning sky when Waltir had a list of all who would serve as men. Andrew stood aside with Robbie and Hamish to watch his master-at-arms do his job. As Walter pointed, the new men shuffled into four lines of thirty-five each. He walked around and through the group, shifting one or another a bit this way or that.

  He drew in a lungful of air and shouted: "Men of Moray... MARCH!"

  Andrew lips twitched as they started up the rutted road to the castle, its turrets visible beyond the treetops, scuffing puffs of dirt with their feet and stumbling to try to stay aligned. They had to learn to work together and not skewer each other with their pikes but none looked best pleased at the discipline. With a glance at Robbie and Hamish, Andrew jerked his head toward their horses, tied at the side of the square.

  As Andrew unlooped his reins from a post, Old Hew hmmmphed and scratched his beard. Andrew raised an eyebrow.

  "There is someone here you might should talk to. We..." Hew shrugged. "No reason to keep it secret from you but she was afeart. We've had someone hidden with our own women."

  "Who?"

  "Well, three of them hidden to speak the truth. Éua ingen Garnait of Edirdovar Castle of Lunan and her two lasses. She held the castle for her lord husband when the Sassenach came."

  "Merciful God." Her husband, Waltir de Berkely, had been in his father's following at the battle--one of those who'd died for their king. "She didn't try to hold it against them?"

  "Only for two days, but..." Hew wrinkled his face in distress. "The Sassenach priest... He abused the older lass and turned them out. Gave the castle to one of his men."

  Andrew rubbed a hand roughly over his face and took a deep breath. Waltir de Berkely had been his father's friend, big and bald with smile lines around his eyes. The tightness in Andrew's chest was a familiar one, one that was there far too often. Though a few times, Andrew had dined at their table, he'd never really known the man and now never would. He nodded and handed his reins to Robbie. "Where are they?"

  Hew pointed along the narrow road that went through the village. Andrew followed as the man stamped his way to the largest cot at the end of the dirt pathway. It loomed over a ledge of jutting rocks and scattered with spiny gorse covered in yellow flowers, their spicy scent mixed with the tang of the sea.

  The door opened as they neared. They had been awaited. A woman stepped into the sunlight, Éua ingen Garnait, Waltir de Berkely's tall, dignified wife. Past her shoulder, one of her daughters, almost as tall as her mother, kept her head bent, gaze fixed on the ground, under a faded tartan veil. Lady Éua, her yellow braids bound with thread and not jeweled rings as when he'd last been a guest in their hall, had grown thin in these many months, cheekbones jutting, but she raised her chin and greeted him. "Ceud mìle fàilte."

  He gave a nod of thanks and spread his arms in a pleading gesture. "What can I say?"

  "It is true then? My husband died in the battle?"

  His stomach tightened. How did he deal with a woman's grief? "I'm sorry. So many... He was amongst them." Andrew softened his voice. "I'll give you shelter at Avoch. You and your daughters will be safe there. My oath on it."

  "Safe?" She spread her fingers outstretched as though to attack an invisible foe. "They took the castle. Ravaged my..." She shook her head as she bit off her words. "The monster--Cressingham--had his men turn us out with the clothes that we wore when he was finished." Her face grew taut with a savage memory. "I thought we would die but we fled here. They took us in."

  Andrew took her hand and patted it, helplessly. "You're safe now." He looked around for the other lass, her younger one if he remembered aright. "Where is your other daughter?"

  Lady Éua's lips drew into a thin line. "The lass is wild as a colt. I meant to send her to the sisters at Elgin and give them the taming of her." She pulled her hand free and turned to the daughter behind her who'd made not a sound the whole time. "Isobail, where is your sister?"

  Isobail kept her gaze fixed on her feet. After a pause, she answered in a soft voice. "I told her not to. She went hunting winkles."

  When Lady Éua made an exasperated sound in her throat, he gave her a reassuring smile. "Gather your things and join my men." He nodded to where Robbie and Hamish stood, holding the horses. "I'll find the lass for you."

  He strolled around the house. The cool sea wind felt good in his face as he scrambled over the rocks and down to the dark rocky shore. When he reached it, the white surf washed, whispering, around his feet. Sea birds circled above a fishing boat that made its way across the turquoise firth. Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and sucked in the scent of brine and seaweeds. God in heaven, how he had missed it. He smiled that some said it stank but to him it sang of home.

  Where would the lass have gone? Well, they would have to wait while he found her. Clambering over the rocky beach, Andrew took his time, stopping to toss a stone at a swooping tern. He rounded a finger of the cliff that jutted into the tide and saw her. Skirt kilted, legs bare, the lass knelt at the edge of the surf and picked up a brown-shelled winkle to drop in her bag.

  He didn't want to frighten her so he called softly, "Madainn mhath."

  She looked up to give him a searching look from wide, blue eyes. She was a wisp of a thing with a tangle of red curls down her back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Caitrina stood up and watched Andrew de Moray walk to towards her, a slight limp in his step. He was tougher looking than when she'd seen him last, riding away from their castle with his father and their men. He was tall. She would barely come to his shoulder. And thin. His cheekbones were sharp under the skin, but his eyes still a striking light blue.

  She let out a breath. She had known that someone would come for her, and she flinched thinking of the last time when she'd only wanted a last few hours of freedom. But they couldn't send her to a convent yet. So perhaps it wasn't really her last few hours. She could hope. She gave a lingering glance at the waves splashing their white spume onto the rocks. Ducking her head, she walked to meet him, the stony shore wet and cold under her bare feet. The sharp edge of a shell dug into her sole.

  Of course, he'd give them the protection of his castle. But was that protection? Or a sentence? Her chest hurt. She should be glad he had returned. She was glad.

  He held out a hand. "Your mother sent me for you," he said in the same voice you'd use to a nervous filly. She couldn't help her mouth twitching with a smile. A laugh tickled in her chest and she looked up.

  He had a nice face. She'd remembered that but it wasn't as arrogant as she remembered. His hair was a tumble in tawny shades of honey, and his brows were the same. A deep crescent scar marked his cheek.

  She took her lip between her teeth. After all these months, she'd almost forgotten how a lady was supposed to speak to a knight. Her throat tightened. She gave him her hand. "I'm glad you've returned safely." That sounded stupid, but it was the best she could do.

  A smile crinkled around his eyes. "We'll take our time walking back." He sucked in an audible breath. "I'm glad to be home. I don't think I'll ever get enough of just the scent of the air. But Avoch isn't very different from Edirdovar Castle so it's almost like being home for you."

  He started ambling along the edge of the waves and stooped to pick up a rock that he pitched far into the water.

  "Home." She swallowed. Grief welled at the word. The three of them, her sister, mother and she never mentioned it. "I was away from the castle when they attacked." Her cheeks got hot but she didn't have to tell him why. "So a friend helped me get away and they hid me here." She cleared her throat.

  "You'll be safe now."

  She shook her head. "Is anywhere safe? They--they outraged Isobail and then threw her and my mother out of the castle. Some of the fishermen brought them here to hide. They were afraid... They might..." She looked at him helpless. He had to know what men did to women in a war. She hadn't known. She wished she didn't still. "But they'll come back."


  "Don't think about it." He touched her chin with a rough thumb. "They hid you and now that's all over. I'll protect you." He smiled a little. "This is home now."

  "It is. But when I leave--for the convent I mean..." She paused, frowning. "That will be hard."

  He looked at her and some thought passed over his face, making his eyelids tighten. "I'd never thought of nuns like that. Never going home again."

  She picked up her skirt and stepped into the froth of a wave, letting the cold water wash over her feet and ankles. "I try not to think about it." She looked over her shoulder at him and half-smiled. "Maybe it will be a while yet. Is that terrible? To be glad they can't send me?"

  "You're too young anyway."

  She shook her head and gave a kick, splashing the water, before she came out. "I'm not so young. I'm just skinny. And freckled."

  He laughed at that and he motioned with his head towards the thatch roofs just over a rise. He started that way and she followed. "You can't be so old. How many years do you have? Twelve?"

  Perhaps she should be insulted, but everyone took her for a child because of her small breasts and slender hips. Would she want breasts if it meant what her sister had gone through? Or would they Englishman have done that to her anyway? She shivered. "I'll have my fifteenth birthday come Martinmas."

  "No insult intended." He smiled again, a little absently, as though he was thinking of something else. "A castle preparing for war is no a place for women, but we have little choice."

  Two knights were standing with her mother and sister under a big pine. Andrew motioned for her to precede him. Caitrina squared her shoulders and walked towards them. Her mother would not be best pleased, as usual.

  Andrew introduced them: Sir Robert who gave her a sardonic smile and Sir Hamish who made a quick courtesy with a bow. To her surprise, although her mother gave her a sharp look with thinned lips, all she said was, "So he found you at last."

  Andrew boosted her up behind Sir Robert. His wry smile made her nervous but she tried not to show it as she put her arms around his waist to hold on. With her mother behind Andrew and her sister behind Sir Hamish, they rode at a slow walk along the cliff edge road and up a slope to Avoch Castle.

  She was sure she should make small talk but he mind froze on any words to say to the knight in front of her. She was shaking with relief when they rode through the gate into the castle bailey. It was noisy with a smith pounding and a man shouting commands. The smell of horses, dung and hay made her sniffle. A chicken squawked as it dodged a horse's hoof. She slid down off the horse before anyone could offer her and hand and dropped Sir Robert a quick curtsy. She supposed this was their home, at least for a while, but only the sweet Lord Jesu could know what they'd do here.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Andrew bade the women to go into the keep, promising to join them shortly. He rubbed his throbbing forehead. Three women were a complication he didn't need, but he couldn't leave them unprotected. Sir Waltir strode towards him across the bailey yard as the stablemaster led the horses away.

  There was so much to be done. He studied Robbie and Hamish for a moment. "We need to know what supplies we have. Food, armor, weapons. Everything. I need you two to make lists for me until I can find a castellan."

  "God in heaven," Hamish protested with an appalled look. "Do you think I'm a cleric?"

  Sir Waltir crossed his arms over his chest and waited a turn to speak.

  "No. But since I don't have one, you'll have to do." He sounded sharp but he had no time and no patience for argument.

  Hamish shook his head with a set, mulish look to his mouth.

  Andrew gripped his shoulder. "There will be sword work aplenty and I'll need you to spend time in the practice yard with me later. I'm weak as a lass yet. But for now, start on lists." He looked at Robbie. "We'll need all the supplies we can get."

  Robbie nodded. "Come on, dunderhead. If you count, I'll write lists. There must be parchment about the keep somewhere. Let's get started." He gave Andrew a sly wink as he turned and sauntered towards the doors of the keep.

  Andrew let out a pent-up breath. He had to do this whether he was ready or not, but it frightened him even to think about how much he might overlook.

  "Sir Andrew," Waltir said and Andrew raised his eyebrows at the formal title. "Would you walk through the barracks with me? I have the men settling in."

  Andrew opened his mouth but Waltir's steady look made him pause.

  "You're the commander of an army now. Or building to be one." Waltir nodded toward the direction Robbie and Hamish had gone. "You've made a start on it, but remember that these men have to take your commands. You are the kind of man they'll follow so make sure you're treated like it."

  That took him aback. He rubbed his lips with a finger. "I can't command that. It seems to me--I have to earn it."

  "You think you haven't?" Waltir's voice lowered half a pitch. "Who else has done what you've done? Escaped from Chester Castle? Crossed England and Scotland wounded near to death? Raised our flag? And gotten men to rise for him?"

  "I didn't have much choice." Andrew's lips twitched in a smile. "So show me the barracks and we'll get on with it. Seems to me I'm a poor excuse for a commander but I'm what we have." He followed Waltir across the yard to the long stone barracks, one of two that lined the inside of the castle walls. Inside, men were stuffing straw into long pallets and hauling them onto wooden bunks. A tall stack of plaids in differing checks of green and yellow and brown sat next to the door. They would serve as blankets and even cloaks for men who didn't have them. A fug of sweat already hung in the air.

  Andrew slapped Donnchadh's shoulder as they walked through the narrow aisle between the bunks. He nodded to other of the men. Waltir muttered under his breath. When they reached the far door, Waltir turned. "Get a move on if you want to be fed. Get those bunks ready for the night and take not one step out of the door until you have my word."

  Andrew paused outwith the door and rubbed his leg. "We need sergeants."

  "Aye, that we do. I'll keep a close eye to see who will serve. Not an experienced man amongst them, but what can we do?"

  "What we can." Andrew shrugged. "Keep an eye on Donnchadh. He seems the boldest and I promised him he'd carry my banner."

  "Mmmmm... Not whom I would have chosen but it drew them so I'll not argue. He'll need training to guard your back."

  "And all must have armor. We don't have enough even for this many." Andrew started for the next barracks. "And God knows we'll need more than these. Boiled leather jacks at the least. Gloves. Helms." He blew out a breath and shook his head. He would manage somehow. The question was how.

  "They aren't ready yet anyrood." Waltir snorted and repeated his warning that if the men wanted to eat, they'd best get their bunks prepared. "Tomorrow I'll have them cut staves. They'll practice for pike work."

  Andrew put his hand on Waltir's shoulder and drew him toward the keep. Shadows were creeping across the bailey as twilight approached and an evening wind cooled Andrew's face. He lowered his voice because he wasn't ready to share his plans with anyone else. "Get them to the point they can carry a pike without stabbing each other instead of the Sassenach and I plan on attacking Edirdovar Castle. We haven't much time."

  "So soon?"

  "I have my reasons."

  Waltir gave him a nod.

  Standing on the dais, his three guests stood awaiting him. He nodded in approval that the English banners had been stripped from the walls although it left them bare stone. A fire roared in the hearth and a row of torches burnt smokily from iron sconces. Underfoot the reeds sent up a faint musty stink.

  "I'll get our herd of beasties in for the meal." Waltir headed for the door.

  The carved lord's chair sat at the head of the dais. Walking toward it to sit in his father's place made his skin creep, but he had no choice. A scent of bread came from the kitchen and he called for the cooks to begin serving since they had no pages or squires. Sprawling in the c
hair trying to look as though he belonged there, he waved the three women towards places beside him.

  Hamish and Robbie took seats between the two lasses as Waltir watched the men tramping in to take places at the long trestle tables.

  Andrew accepted a bowl of stew, a thick piece of oat bread, and a cup of wine. Lady Éua sat down on his right hand and picked up her spoon. She took a delicate bite of her stew. She frowned and took another. "Neeps, carrots, onions and barley." She put her spoon down softly and took a sip of wine.

  Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Is something amiss, my lady?"

  Her face colored. "I don't mean to grumble, Sir Andrew, but perhaps someone might tell your cooks that mutton should go in mutton stew."

  Andrew sniffed suspiciously at the bowl and took a bite. He sighed. She was right. Perhaps a leg of mutton had been waved in the air over the stew pot. "I'll have a word with them." He wasn't sure what word he would have. Sweet Jesu, he knew nothing about ordering cooks.

  Lady Éua's mouth made a thin line. She raised her chin to an imperious tilt and said, "I doubt your training was in the ordering of kitchens." A blush rose up from her neck but her voice was as haughty as her expression. "If it please you, Sir Andrew, I will act as your chatelaine with my daughters' aid. For a time."

  Andrew looked across the long vaulted hall filled with the mutter of a hundred conversations over the scrap of spoon against bowl. To have guests, women under his protection, work for their keep was unheard of, but he needed all the help he could get.

  "Lady, if you'd so aid me, I would be grateful. I'll give you the ordering of the keep if you would." He frowned. "It's an arduous duty in a keep not your own, but I'll return yours to you as soon as may be."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Robbie Boyd was a long, wiry knight with remarkable endurance and swordsmanship. Andrew came away from their sessions each night stiff and sore and awoke the next morning covered with bruises. Last night he'd had Hamish join them to fight them two to one. He would never recover his strength going up against Robbie alone and Waltir was too old.