Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  "Why? At your age? In the midst of a war?"

  "That is the point. Who knows whether I'll survive my next such wound?" He rubbed his thigh. "I can't leave it until a convenient time with no heir but myself."

  His uncle gave him a penetrating look. "There is some truth to that. If it's someone your father would approve, I'd have no argument though it's a hard time to negotiate a marriage."

  "Those are complications." Approving a lass intended for a convent was a complication indeed. He threw his arm around his uncle's shoulder. "You're tired from a long, cold ride. The matter will keep."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  His uncle and Pilchie settled and the castle quieted for the night. Andrew prowled the stairs and at last stood in front of the hearth of the great hall warming his hands. Where was the lass? How could he be sure she'd like marriage to him any better than a convent? He had no right to interfere. His uncle would say he was crazed. He would never agree to help. Of a certainty, he would think being given to the church was no bad thing. Of course, it wasn't.

  After a few minutes, he slammed out the doors into the bailey to pace the parapet. He nodded brusquely to a guard. The air smelled damp and with all the scent swept clean from the wind but that had dropped. The night was still. When he climbed the steps to the top of the east tower, someone gave a low gasp. "Who is it?"

  "It's me," he said and smiled that he thought she would know whom he meant. He crossed to the merlons and one of his hands brushed her arm. "I looked for you."

  She put her hand on his and it was icy cold. "There are so few places where I can be alone. I like it up here, looking out." She shivered.

  "You're freezing." He pulled her under his arm and wrapped his cloak around her.

  "Why did you look for me?"

  "Because I wanted you." He ran a hand up and down her arm to warm her. "And besides, we should talk."

  She relaxed, leaning against his chest a little. "You were talking to your uncle and the other man and your soldiers. I didn't know that you'd want me."

  "Pilchie, yes. We were planning." He kissed her forehead very softly afraid he might frighten her. He'd never kissed her and she was so young. "But I want to talk... about the convent. You said you don't want to go."

  She tilted her head back, looking up at him, and he shivered. How long had it been since he'd had a woman? He swallowed.

  "No, but it isn't my choice."

  "Perhaps it could be. But you'd have to marry me, you see. I wasn't sure if you'd like that any better." He held her closer, thinking that how he could convince them she had to marry him would be pleasant enough. "If they want a daughter in the church, why not your sister? You could stay here. With me."

  She began slowly, cautiously. "You mean you..." She clipped off the word with a hand against her mouth.

  He ran a hand comfortably down her back. "I mean that we would marry." He kissed her on the mouth. She ran her hand up his chest, but her kiss was trembling and unpracticed. It made him smile in satisfaction. He could feel the forced steadiness of her breathing. Underneath, her heart was racing.

  "I would..." She took a little gasp of breath. "I would like that."

  He tilted her chin back with his thumb and kissed her again, coaxing her to open her lips. His blood pounded in his ears like a high tide. He pulled back and took a deep gulp of air. "You'll have to trust me. Do you? Can you trust me?"

  She touched his cheek. "How not?"

  "There is one way I can be sure we can force them. If we tried and they said no, we'd never have another chance."

  She was still, looking up at him for a long moment. In the distance, an owl hooted. There was a gravelly sounding step of a guard below.

  "One way?"

  "Yes, you know what I mean. But you would have to trust me. Do you?"

  She stretched up to kiss him, soft and quick. "I do."

  "When I return then."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Andrew crouched in the sand as the base of the rise the wind, smelling of seaweed and dead fish, wrapping him in wet tendrils. Edirdovar Castle loomed black against the lesser black of the sky. He tapped Robbie Boyd on the shoulder and motioned him ahead.

  Boyd whistled through his teeth, the sound of a sea bird. His sword scraped metallic as he drew it. The fifty men who would follow him did the same. Over the swish of the waves, the noise raised the hair on the back of Andrew's neck.

  No need for words now. Robbie knew that he had to the count of two hundred to get his men within the clump of trees within a dash of the postern gate before Andrew moved.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he counted. He sucked spit into his dry mouth. There was no way his men would get their ladders up and over the wall before the warning. But in the darkest part of the night with drowsy guards...

  Three men carried each of the ten ladders. When he reached two hundred, he drew his sword and tapped Pilchie's shoulder. Drawn swords did not clatter in their sheath. He gave a long whistle and, crouched low, he trotted up the long slope. The postern gate would be faster to open even though, so narrow, it would take longer for Robbie's men to run through.

  "What's that?" a voice called from on the parapet.

  They were up the slope now and ran toward the wall. Andrew panted and his palms were cold.

  "Look!" Another voice yelled. "Blow alarm!"

  The first ladder clattered into place. Andrew shoved the man out of the way to clamber up it.

  "Attackers!"

  On each side of Andrew, ladders smashed onto the wall. A dark shape bent over him. No room to swing, Andrew gathered his legs and pitched himself upwards headfirst.

  "Oooph!" The guard went over backwards.

  He tumbled over the edge on top of the flailing opponent. Cursing, Andrew managed to jerk his sword hand high and slam the hilt into the man's face. He flung himself to his knees, reversed his sword and plunged it down. Dirks, next time. They would be easier to manage going over a wall. There was a gurgling croak as he jerked the blade free and jumped to his feet. Another body was lying a few feet away though he hadn't seen the kill.

  "Lively," he said in an undertone and gave one of their shoulders a shove. Except for Pilchie, the men divided into two and ran in opposite directions to clear the parapet.

  Across the yard from the darkness, "Where? What's up?"

  "Come." He ran for the stairs and took them two and three at a stride.

  "Help!" someone yelled.

  A door slammed across the yard. "What's going on out here?" a different voice shouted. "Guards to the walls!"

  Set in an angle of the wall beneath the tower, he came to the narrow door of stout oak studded with iron nails. "Keep my back." He gripped the bar and heaved it up. He cursed when he realized there was a second bar to lift.

  Light flooded the yard from a watch fire on a tower. Shouting and clanging weapons came from both sides.

  "The gate!" someone yelled.

  Andrew heaved the second bar up and shoved the gate open. Pilchie grunted behind him. Metal screamed on metal as someone cursed.

  "Robbie! Now!" Andrew shouted into the darkness. He whirled but Pilchie had already slammed his mace into an opponent's head.

  Feet pounded. Robbie shoved past him shouting, "Take the yard!" In a double stream, they ran. Robbie dashed toward the keep door, standing open as a dark shape stood in it, looking back and forth. At the sight of the attackers, the man threw down his sword. Robbie shoved him out of the way and led a score of the men inside. Someone screamed.

  Andrew strode into the middle of the bailey yard. Perhaps he should have carried his banner after all. He'd thought best not for a night attack. Too late, to re-think that decision though.

  "The castle is ours," Andrew shouted. "Surrender and you'll be spared."

  A body fell from the parapet with a rattling thud.

  "Throw down your weapons!"

  A weapon clattered to the ground. Then another.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENr />
  Wearily, Caitrina waited on the tower. The western sky was a molten rose, and a thin wavering cry of a gull drifted over the wall. This was the fifth day of waiting. Every night she had lain abed, heart racing as she listened for the English and planned her escape. She twisted her fingers together. Please, please, Sweet Mother of God, let him be alive. Prayers hadn't helped her father.

  Wisps of mist came with the blue dusk and the evening stars. As the dusk darkened and the fog thickened, it grew hard to make out the road. She drew her cloak close in the chill. Soon she would go inside the hall, but as she turned, a column of men came out of the mist. At their head was a knight, bareheaded, and his hair was dyed copper where it caught the last red rays of sunset. The banner of the Morays streamed behind him carried on a pike. He's safe. Thank you, Mother Mary. Perhaps prayers are answered.

  "Open the gate," she called and ran down the stairs, skirts flying around her legs. Once in the bailey she came to a halt. Her stomach turned over. No, she wouldn't meet him like this in front of all his men. She gathered her skirts and while the sound of hooves still echoed from the gate, she dashed around the side of the keep for the kitchen.

  Caitrina slammed the door to the garden. Her mother was sampling something from a bubbling cauldron, a spoon in her hand. "They're riding in."

  "Then the news must be good." Her mother even gave her a smile before motioning to a scullion. "Hollow those trenchers. Fill them with the mutton stew and fill the pitchers of ale."

  "Perhaps..." What did he plan? He'd given her no clue and thinking about it gave her a strange twisting feeling in her stomach. "Perhaps I should be sure they've lit a fire in his chamber."

  "How am I to hold Edirdovar Castle with no men? But surely..."

  Her mother's didn’t even seem to notice her so Caitrina slipped out the door. She could hear the men laughing and shouting in the bailey yard as she scurried up the stairs.

  In the lord's chamber, curtains of crimson and ivory damask draped the ornately carved bed. A servant knelt to light a fire on the hearth. Andrew held with a male keep except for the three of them he'd taken in. A keep at war was no place for women he said.

  "Bring hot water." She looked around the room. "And a flagon of the claret." He would be too weary after the long ride to think about her. She was being foolish but her heart kept fluttering in her chest like a trapped butterfly.

  Loud voices rose from below.

  "A tun of ale to the barracks," Robert Boyd shouted and laughed. "They earned it."

  She had never felt more alone with the celebration going on below. She smiled dutifully at the servants who brought the steaming bucked of water and another with wine. The chamber was fresh and clean, ready for the lord. There was nothing more she could do.

  "You're warriors--all!" Andrew's voice cut through the noise and the noise ceased. "Scots who will show these foreigners they shan't rule us."

  "Aye!" A hundred voices shouted and cheered.

  "Celebrate tonight. For tomorrow we work."

  She closed the door, preparing to hurry away. He mustn't find her here and think... She heard footsteps on the stairs and her face burnt.

  "Caitrina."

  She swallowed hard and turned, lifting her chin. "Welcome home. You must be weary."

  Andrew's light eyes took her in under his straight, fair brows. "It's worth any weariness... to come home."

  On a sudden impulse she said, "I'm glad you're here."

  Andrew smiled at her. It was an odd smile, with a confident charm it was impossible to mistake, yet with something vulnerable in it. Caitrina felt an inexplicable desire to be kind for which she could find no expression.

  "Would you help me, Lady, with my armor?" Andrew opened the door to his chamber.

  Such help any knight had a right to from a lady. Even her mother would not deny that. She walked in ahead of him and he closed the door. But her hands were trembling.

  His swordbelt clattered, tossed onto the table. "Is that flagon filled?" he asked. "Will you pour me a cup?"

  She filled two cups wondering if it would give her courage. She took a long drink of the sweet fruity wine. It made her head swim.

  Andrew watched her over his own cup. "You said that you trust me. Don't you know I won't hurt you?"

  She looked at her reflection wavering in the red wine. "I'll help you with your armor."

  Her hands shook as she began fumbling with his hauberk. All ten of her fingers were stiff as twigs as he helped her pull the hauberk over his head.

  "I stink of horse and blood," he said and went to the basin.

  Her heart galloped so hard she wondered it stayed in her chest as he sponged off. His body was lean and hard-muscled. When he turned to look at her, she stood there trembling. What was she supposed to do?

  Andrew took her hand and kissed her palm. "It will be all right. I promise." He took her lightly under the arms and lifted her, seating her on the bed. Then he sat facing her. He touched her hair, sliding the red strands through his fingers. He began to undress her. Deftly, with tender hands, he removed her cloak and gown and girdle and underdress while she sat silent and unmoving. His eyes crinkled at the corner with a smile. He stood her up then to remove her smallclothes. When he uncovered her breasts, she couldn't help it. She crossed her arms over her chest, but he pulled them away, shaking his head.

  The night air was cool on her bare skin and she shivered, afraid of what would come next. For a while, nothing did. Andrew sat looking at her, drinking her in.

  Then he began to touch her. She could sense the strength in his calloused hands but that he kept it reigned in as he stroked his fingers up her thighs and hips. He stroked her hair from her face and ran them down her back. Then he took one of her hands and kissed her palm, kissing his way up her arm, the inside of her elbow, her shoulder.

  Time seemed to flow like honey. As she watched him from beneath half-lowered lashes, she heard a ragged sound and realized it was his breathing. His mouth went to her breast, stroking it with his tongue. He sucked lightly on the nipple until it tingled. He sucked harder, and her whole body ached and quivered with it.

  He stopped and pulled her into his lap. She leaned against him, flushed and breathless, as he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, and her mouth. She caught his face between her palms, her fingers quavering. She looked into his eyes. The heat she saw in his face dazed her, and she closed her eyes for a moment. When she raised her lashes, she surrendered to the fire sweeping through her.

  He moved his hand down to the wetness between her thighs, "Caitrina," he whispered and slid his finger inside her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Andrew knew he had slept because a glimmer of morning light showed through the window. Twice they had dozed before, but not for long. They had opened their eyes at the faint rattle of falling embers. He'd tossed into the last flames one of the oak logs from the stack. Now he could see across the chamber in the faint light of dawn. He lay for a while, hand buried in her soft hair, sleepily staring at the tumbled clothes on the chair. The air had grown icy but their bodies made a nest of warmth. Her body was a wonder to him, and she had seemed to find an innocent delight in his. The wonder in her face had been almost more than he could stand. If he didn't move, nothing would ever exist except this, and time would stop.

  A brusque knock at the door carried sleep away. He sighed and rolled softly off the edge of the feather mattress, pulled the wolfskin coverlet over her shoulder and dropped the bed curtain.

  He reached for his trewes. This might be easier if he didn't have his balls dangling. "Enter."

  His uncle came in and closed the door behind him, his brow wrinkled in a worried frown. "I put off calling you as long as I could, but Éua ingen Garnait has been frantic. Her youngest daughter--the one to go with me for the convent--she's been missing the night. We've searched the whole castle..."

  "Not quite." He pulled back the curtain to show Caitrina's red tumble of hair, her face nestled in a bent arm.


  David de Moray just stood there, his mouth thinning to a slash. He said, so abruptly he might have been charging Andrew with a crime, "How could you do this?"

  "Rather easily, in point of fact. Have you been a priest so long you've forgotten?"

  His uncle's eyes widened and he looked at Andrew with a kind of incredulity.

  Andrew shook his head. Offending his uncle was stupid. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But done is done. Now we must deal with it." He motioned to the door. "I'll be down shortly. I'm glad you're here to perform the wedding."

  Caitrina had turned onto her side, her face angelic in sleep. Turned by light to the color of molten copper, her hair lay tumbled about her shoulders. A thrill of triumph, none the less strong for being mixed with tenderness, drew him; he reached out and touched it. When he drew back, Caitrina's eyes had opened. They were smiling, and with fear, Andrew saw in what deep a trust she looked at him.

  In the distance, a cock's crow sounded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Andrew pressed his hand to the trunk of the big birch tree. A breeze caught its leaves showering down dampness from an early morning May rain. The smell of wet earth and green leaves permeated the air. He motioned to Pilchie and Robbie Boyd, crouched in the shadows of a pine a short way behind him.

  Rubbing at the thick scar beneath his armor, Andrew narrowed his eyes and squinted towards the hill road winding its way over Craig Dunain where one of his men awaited within sight of the gray heights of Urquhart Castle.

  Pilchie flexed his hands and wiped sweat from his forehead. "My man says Fitzwarine is sure to lead them."

  Andrew nodded. The man was talking from nerves, not used to fighting. "I'll check the men." He patted Pilchie's shoulder. They might not be able to see the signal smoke from the heavy trees where their trap was. He'd depend on the two spotting it.

  Past a sharp turn, huge beech trees joined to form a dark canopy overhead. He squelched along the rutted road examining the branches piled between the trunks to screen the crossbowmen, twenty but all the crossbows they had. Not perfect cover, but they didn't need to withstand close examination. Fitzwarine would have something else to watch. On each side of the road, his pikesmen squatted in groups, one hundred fifty in all, talking in mutters, awaiting his orders.