Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  His uncle looked thoughtful but nodded. "I can. He's no knight though. Only a squire and little more than a brigand some would say, although Wishart has supported him."

  Andrew shrugged. "He's no friend of the English. Nor does he surrender to them. That's enough for me. I've another message to send, if I am to fight Buchan or convince him he does not want to fight me. It is time."

  He unrolled his map on the long trestle table and traced a line with his finger. Here they would attack... And here... And here...

  * * *

  It was a quiet morning at Avoch Castle. Waltir had led a practice assault on the walls the night before, and the men were being rested. The noises that seeped in from the yard were those of a castle at peace: horses whinnied, chickens clucked in the bailey yard, the smith hammered in his shed, and a tern squalled as it sailed on a wind.

  Caitrina held the dispatch a rider had ridden with and frowned as the castellan listed the wool from the spring shearing while Sir Waltir stood to the side, frowning. She must be alone to read what Andrew said. Iain gave her a nervous look. "It was no a bad spring, my lady."

  "Yes, yes. I realize that. But with all the English seized last year, even a good shearing won't fill our stores." She chewed on a thumbnail for a moment before she made herself stop. "I want to go through the storerooms, Iain. Make a list of all our food stores." With two thousand men to be fed, they'd put little back. If the day came when she had to hold out against a siege... Her stomach went to water. "We must find some way of filling our storerooms. You think on it."

  "My lady," Sir Waltir put in. He looked meaningfully at the dispatch she had clutched in her hand.

  She shook her head at him, hurried up the stairs to their chamber, and closed the door behind her. Seating herself at the table near the hearth, her hands trembling, she broke the seal and opened it.

  My lady wife,

  I look forward to seeing your sweet face. I commanded the messenger to his best speed with good horses to let you know of my coming. If it were my will, I we would have more time together, but I must bow to the will of God or that of our enemies. That day will come. I promise you.

  I will be five days behind my messenger. Give Sir Waltir my command to prepare the entirety of our army to march in seven days time. All are to be armed with the weapons he knows best and armored as well as our stores can allow. We will make a fast march to take fire and sword across certain lands held by our enemies, so food for a march must be readied and horses to carry them. Once I have our full army in my following, we will sweep across Aberdeenshire. Let no one else know of my plans. That is for your eyes alone.

  Our successes have well-pleased me although Castle Urquhart and Inverness were too strongly held for us to take. Elgin and Banff Castles are now in my hands. They fell with little resistance although we got good practice with a night attack taking Bothwell Castle.

  I shan't say how eager I am to see you and hold you. That you know, or if you do not, when I am there, I will give you such demonstration as to convince you of it.

  Your lord husband,

  Andrew de Moray

  A giggle tickled her throat. His words were so unlike him when they were together. But oh, yes, he would convince her of it. She buried her face in her hands. Five days! He would be here in five days! Holy Mary. She'd thought he might never return--all at the same time, known that he would. Her heart sped up like a startled deer. So much to prepare in so little time. And for a few days, at least a very few days, they would be together again. They had had all the past winter, yet the days blended together as though they were one. Even in the cold and snow, he had worked the men preparing for war. She had filled the days with tasks she had thought never to have a chance to do, running her husband's castle. At night, they talked. He didn't want to talk about the future or the war they prepared for. In recompense, he talked and got Caitrina to talk about the past. Much of Caitrina's childhood had been got through believing that no one cared for her. Though there was no useful purpose in telling anyone about it, there was a good deal of satisfaction in feeling that someone now loved her. She held him close as he shared the grim tale he had told no one else of his days suffering in the black depths of a dungeon. After these long confidences, shared in a lazy haze after love-making, the feeling that they were not just married but deeply rooted in each others lives seemed to Caitrina as old and poignant as the memories had been sharing. She'd wept after he left when she knew that she was not yet with child.

  Jumping to her feet, she whirled around the room, hair flying. It wasn't enough. She wanted to leap with joy but instead, she laughed as she dashed to the door and down the stairs. Andrew was on his way home!

  So much to do. She gathered the servants with orders to freshen the rushes in the entire castle and scent them with a scattering of lavender. It was not too soon to begin preparing a welcome feast. Iain shook his head at her orders to empty the storerooms. Replacing the stocks would have to be thought of later.

  Sir Waltir muttered under his breath about the number of pikes and a lack of helms as he hurried to give the men orders. She followed him with her eyes. Was he upset that her husband left him at the castle instead of marching with the army? She bit her lip and thought on the fact that Andrew had not said if Sir Waltir would remain as master-at-arms when they marched.

  With so much to do, she had no time to worry on that. The account books had to be tallied as stores were removed, and more plans made for a feast. The cooks stood about wailing that they didn't have enough fresh meat. Cattle and sheep must be slaughtered, but the men would want game.

  Game abounded with an hour's ride so the next morning, she rode out with Sir Waltir and a dozen guards. The greyhounds leapt and coursed around the horse's legs. She smiled at herself because she was showing off. Many women hunted with a bow for sport, but this was a skill her mother despised. It took more time than she'd thought, two hours because all of the game closer had been taken, but then at the top of a heathery slope she spotted a seven-tined hart with its harem and young.

  She pointed. They were in luck since the wind was with them. The herd grazed, its leader just lifting his head to gaze around occasionally.

  Sir Waltir motioned to two of the men. "Circle with the and drive them this way."

  She dismounted and started to string her bow but Sir Waltir pulled it softly from her hand with a murmur of protest. She almost laughed, but if it made him feel better...

  She took an arrow from the quiver hanging from her saddle and waited to nock it. Golden sunlight warmed her head, and the air eddied with the scent of pine and sweet heather. A whining of curlews drifted on the breeze. Suddenly, her mouth got dry. Showing off was all very well, but she would look stupid if she missed. She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. Too late to worry about that.

  Snarls and growling came from over the hill. The hart leapt forward, snorted a call and broke into a lope. She took another steadying breath, raising her bow. She fastened her eyes on where its heart must be thudding in fear. Another breath. She released. The string rang. The arrow sank to the fletching in the hart's side. Blood gushed down its chest. It ran on--stumbled. Another step. Went to its knees.

  "Fine shot!" Sir Waltir beamed at her in what she looked like pure astonishment and she laughed. He dashed to the animal and gave it a death stroke.

  On the way home, she emptied her quiver and had ten black grouse for pie. Beaming, she nearly danced when she hopped down from her horse. What a horrid thing to have been forced a nunnery, although Isobail had looked happy to go in her place. She was meant for this life.

  The great hall already was scented with lavender and servants scrubbed the trestle tables. As large as the hall was, it wouldn't hold all of their thousands of men. "Iain," she called. "Have sheep slaughtered for roast mutton. Prepare rich stew, bread, cheese and plenty of ale for the men in the barracks, and apples stewed with honey--enough for all of them. They'll have a feast there as well."

  He sho
ok his head, looking solemn. "With what Sir Andrew is taking with him, that will leave us sore pressed for food, my lady. Especially since Sir Andrew forgave many of the rents that would have been paid in food."

  "I'll send gold to Father David to buy oats and flour. Once they leave, you must give me a list of what else we can't provide for ourselves." She smiled. There were worse things than marrying into a rich family. "My husband is not one to stint coin for our needs. In the meantime, there is ample game and we can pay for fish from the village. We'll fill our stores with that as well."

  For once, she wished she had skill with a loom or a needle. She shook out the simple woolen over-gown a village woman had sewn for her as a bridal gift, the best that she had. Being married was making her silly as a peahen. Andrew would care less than a farthing's worth what she wore. Her cheeks flamed thinking that he was more like to care about stripping it off her.

  The scent of roasting venison and apples seasoned with honey and cinnamon drifted from the kitchen. The hearth in the great hall was scrubbed and laid with wild roses and lavender sprigs; the wall hangings taken down and shaken; and the bailey filled with a cacophony of banging, hammering and neighing as they prepared. Caitrina tried to work hard enough that she could sleep but at night she lay in their bed, smelling the scent of the sea from the firth, looking at the bar of moonlight on the floor, and thinking, will war last forever? She blinked back tears. He had saved her from a nunnery, made her his wife, loved her, and trusted her with his confidences and his castle. He had not promised to stay. He said: some day. Would that day ever come?

  The fifth day dawned warm and she was bathing, wondering if she should put off donning her good over-gown when a horn winded in the distance. Her heart galloped but she took her time. Andrew's army was mostly of foot and would take time to arrive.

  By the time she reached the door of the keep, the drawbridge had crashed down to admit them and men thronged the bailey, cheering and shouting. The army rode in, two hundred strong. Over their heads, the banners whipped back and forth, the stars of Moray beside the blue Saltire of Scotland.

  Caitrina recognized many of the men following her husband. There came Sir Robert Boyd who rode at his side, a grin on his sharp face along with a dozen other knights who had joined them and there Donnchadh, beaming with pride beneath the banner he carried.

  Yet the smiling man at the head of the column, horse shaking its mane and dancing, seemed almost a stranger to her... until he vaulted off his horse with a familiar smile and took both of her hands in his. "Caitrina! It's good to be home." He looked her up and down, his eyes taking a gleam that made her blush. "My sweet bride."

  She curtseyed, giving him a secret smile from under her lashes. "My lord husband. Welcome."

  By then Robbie and the others were dismounting and a groom taking away the horses while the hundreds of foot were harried out of lines to go to the barracks Waltir had commanded built outwith the walls.

  The day turned into an eternity. She hadn't expected that. He kept her close while Waltir discussed every pike, helm, and jack they'd needed for the men and every packhorse for supplies, but Waltir beamed when Andrew said that he needed him to march with the army and he named another knight to stay as master-at-arms for her with a good two hundred men to guard their backs. Together they walked, the men ranked for inspection, through row upon row of foot, sharp steel catching the rays of the sun. When it was finally time for the feast, she was too nervous to eat even when Andrew gave her the queen's portion from the point of his knife. He leaned close and whispered, "How can it have been so long?" Then he led her up the stairs to their chamber.

  It was there that Caitrina undressed him with steady hands. When she drew him down into the soft quiet of their bed, drinking his kisses like wine her pulse pounded in her ears until she was dizzy. He started to roll on top of her, but she put a hand on his chest. "No," she said. "This night I would make love to you."

  His eyes widened but he smiled. When she mounted him, she saw a wonder in his face. She rode him as joyously as ever she had ridden across heather-covered glens. When the moment of his pleasure came, Andrew cried out her name.

  The next day they went out alone together with a secret smile for each other at a memory. The day was filled with the call of larks and the green glow of springtide. She was too filled with happiness to talk except when she said, "Do you remember?" He turned towards the hill and beech wood.

  They held hands as they wandered through the beeches. The air smelled green and even the sunlight was tinted by the spring leaves. The birds and the rustling leaves made soft music like a secret minstrel. Andrew listened, looking at her with his tender strength and a smiling shadow in his eyes. His silence fell around her like a protective mantel. He looked down at her and she felt as though something in her chest was like to break. She put her hands on either side of his cheeks and lifted her face to his. "I love you so much," she said.

  His fingers, calloused but gentle and warm, closed around hers. "Don't worry, my love," he whispered. "I will be back, I promise. Everything will be all right."

  He kissed her and they turned towards where they had left the horses. He had been gone with his army for four weeks, when she brushed her fingers over her still-flat belly. Her hand was steady when she wrote: My lord husband, in the winter of the year, I will give you an heir.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The air in the bailey yard of Castle Duffus smelled of blood, shit and the sweat of thousands of men. Hamish clouted a struggling man-at-arms on the side of the head, knocking him to his knees. Jerking the prisoner's hands behind his back, he tied them and then dragged the man to his feet to hustle him to the clump of some fifty prisoners.

  Andrew kneed his horse and rode further along the gray wooden castle wall. Duffus was an old motte and bailey castle, still with its wooden outer walls, although the inner keep was strong stone. Waltir stood at the door of the keep wiping his blade clean.

  Andrew sheathed his sword as he joined him. "I want men put to clearing the storerooms--everything. We'll take what we can use and leave the rest."

  "As you say, my lord." He motioned to one of the men.

  Andrew gave a sour smile. He'd given up on pointing out he was not yet a lord. His men still called him such whatever he said. He prayed to God and the Virgin that his father would yet survive what the English might serve out to him. A bead of sweat worked its way down his cheek. He ran fingers through his wet hair, pushing it out of his face. He frowned as he turned his head to watch one of his men pull a body across the bailey by the feet across the drawbridge, leaving a trail of crimson splotches. The prisoners watched, their faces a study in fear. Some of those men were Scots, since Duffus had been gifted to a Scots lord--a cousin by marriage at that! He clenched his teeth. Let him see how much good English favor would do him.

  "Set men to breaking up the furniture," he said, turning back to Waltir. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decide where it would do the most good. "In the great hall. Dump on any oils and fats in the place. Pour any salt they have into the well."

  Waltir raised an eyebrow, but just said, "I'll see to it myself."

  The prisoners probably didn't deserve it, but he supposed he would let them know he wouldn't bother with holding them in a dungeon. They'd done no more than follow orders anyway, bad orders though they were. He urged his horse to where Alexander Pilchie stood talking to one of his men who was guarding the tense-faced group. He nodded to Pilchie. "I see no advantage in holding them. So we'll have them taken out and released, unless you can think of a reason to waste food and guards."

  Pilchie looked the men over. "No. Once they're stripped of their armor, I'd say let them go." There was a rustle of movement from the group but they kept any words behind their teeth.

  "Have them moved onto the road. When we are ready to march, have your men loose them." He shifted in his saddle, rubbing his thigh. "I sent Robbie with a troop to bring up the people from the castleton. A lesson must be seen
to be learned."

  Pilchie's eyes shifted under his heavy brows. "Lesson?"

  "Set some men to leading horses from the stables. Picket them well back from the castle. Once that is done, I want battle order..." He pointed past the gate to the long slope outside the gate. "...in front of the castle."

  It took two hours for his orders to be carried out. Men hefted casks and bags of food and weapons out the gate and across the drawbridge. Horses whickered as they were led out. He set a couple of men to slaughtering the chickens and geese that clucked still in the bailey amidst puddles of battle gore.

  At last, the ranks of the army stretched half a mile in each direction, rank upon rank, blades flashing the afternoon sunlight. Andrew saw his banner unfurl as Donnchadh shook it out. Beside him flew the white upon blue of the Saltire. On the right wing was his little group of chivalry, fifty knights led by Robbie Boyd who gave him a grin and a wave.

  Torch in his hand, flame flowing in the summer breeze, Andrew surveyed it all for a moment. The sky was a light blue, and high above them an eagle circled. The summer air was warm on his face, and Andrew a strange joy crept through him. Revenge? Duty? Did it matter how much of each? No one would betray Scotland without paying the cost. I swear it.

  He waved the torch in a circle over his head, heart thudding like a drum. Hoofbeats rang as he crossed the drawbridge. The army and all the country seemed to hold its breath. At the steps of the keep, the animal danced and snorted, seeming to sense something of what he was feeling. He jumped down and strode to narrow doorway. Inside, broken furniture and tapestries were piled twice as high as his head. Oil dripped into puddles on the stone floor.

  He flung the torch. The pile caught with a roar of heat and light. Fire rushed up, a great curtain of fire that filled the hall to its high wooden-beamed ceiling. His mouth opened as he watched. The huge room filled with a seething cauldron of flame that ate at the beams. The heat scorched his face and he backed away. His horse was snorting and tossing its head, eyes rolling. He caught the reins, jumped into the saddle and set his heels to its flanks. Outwith the walls, he turned to watch the torrent--a fire-fall spraying sparks, roaring and blazing right up to the afternoon sky and flames leapt fifty feet into the air--a votive to war.