Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  Even Andrew's men, drawn up into ranks that stretched a half a mile in each direction, were silent. Along the road, under guard to protect them rather than to keep them prisoner, the people of castleton huddled. One of the bairns was crying but the rest of the crowd of seventy-five or so men, women and children did no more than shift their feet fearfully and whisper. Andrew gave his horse a nudge of the knee and paced it along the road.

  The fire roared like some great beast he had set loose. A crash came from within the burning keep. The wooden outer wall caught. Fire ringed the entire castle.

  In the ranks of the pikesmen, someone began a chant. "Moray! Moray!" Soon, above the roar of the flames, the hills rang with their warcry.

  As Andrew led them off, behind them, lay smoking ruin where war had scorched castle, grass, and tree. The army of Andrew de Moray unfolded like an iron thistle, thorns gleaming in the sun. Ahead, beyond a two-day march, past the foaming River Spey, lay Boharm Castle--his for the taking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  As the host trooped down the road towards Aberdeen through the river lands the fast-running River Spey, Andrew sent outriders under Robbie Boyd to search through the great pines forests for the earl of Buchan and his army. Andrew rode at the head of the column under flapping blue banners. He'd left two hundred men to hold Boharm Castle after they'd swarmed over its walls in a night attack. He anxiously rubbed the thick scar on his thigh as he rode by day and paced beside the campfire at night. Every rider who came galloping with word from Robbie made him clench his teeth. The word the riders brought back did little to ease his anxiety. The earl of Buchan's force of knights was moving from Aberdeen.

  "Five hundred chivalry," Pilchie said as they rode together as they marched away from the broad strath where the Spey splashed and sang over its rocky course. The vanguard spread out behind them, a slow moving forest of pikes. "Does he think he can defeat us with that number? Surely, we've shown what a schiltron can do."

  "It's a hard lesson for knights to learn, that pikes can defeat them. I doubt me he is convinced. One of the Chens rides with him who can't be well-pleased with what is left of Castle Duffus that the English king gifted him." Andrew smiled grimly. "Expect nothing of the house de Chen and you'll get what you expect. But the question is John Comyn, earl of Buchan--a cousin to me on two sides and a cousin, moreover, of King John. Will he fight his own blood? Whatever he's sworn to the cursed English king."

  Pilchie made a sour face. "With John Toom Tabard in English hands, deposed, will that count with Buchan, do you think? And himself just out of the Tower where he can't want to return?"

  "I've given some thought to the oaths he gave to free himself. We will soon see. The Bog Gight runs close to the road on both sides not far ahead. Bad country for knights." He sucked his teeth. "I have to be sure they have no archers. If they do... There's no good place for archers here. Those need high ground, best on a flank."

  "Mmmm..." Pilchie made a non-committal sound in his throat.

  Pilchie left such decisions to him. He was a fair fighter with a mace and with a loyal following. He had no great head for strategy but when he had a suggestion, it was always a good one.

  "Even when Robbie gets back with what horse we have, it wouldn't be enough against a troop of archers of any size. If they have archers, we'll retire into the Bog. On warhorses, the knights couldn't follow." He chewed over his plans for a while. "Come on. I want to look at the top of that rise." The long, slow slope of the strath crested a hundred or so yards ahead. "If I remember, the Bog there comes up to the road and the forest runs close, too, if we need to reach it." He kneed his horse to a canter and thudded up the road, the warm, moist summer air blowing sweet in his face. The air was rich with the scent of the river and peat.

  Drawing rein, Andrew thoughtfully stroked the stubble on his cheek. On both sides of the road, grassy tussocks thrust up between black peat-hags and little pools of black water half-hidden under coverlets of scummy-green moss. Andrew turned the horses head, riding off the road to splash through the peat broth. The reek of rotting grass rose at each step. His light mount, nothing as heavy as the warhorse the coming party would ride, snorted and plunged its way hock-high in muck to a dry grassy spot. "Pilchie, see how the close to the road the Bog starts on the other side." The scummy covering of the bogs made them hard to pick out from a distance.

  Pilchie bent over as he went. "It looks solid over..." There was a loud splash. "Devil take it!" Pilchie's horse foundered up to its belly and reared, snorting as the foul water splattered. He had been off-balance leaning forward and he tumbled, shouting curses and grabbing the horse's neck, only to slide off. The horse clambered its way unfeelingly out of the bog, tossed its head, and trotted back onto firm ground.

  Andrew watched open-mouthed from across the road as Pilchie struggled. He lost his footing and sat down hard, up to his shoulders in muck. He sputtered and spat.

  Andrew snorted. He couldn't hold it in as Pilchie splashed and foundered. Andrew threw back his head and laughed. "Don't swallow it all, man. Save some for the Comyn to wallow in." He was still laughing as he climbed from the saddle.

  He bent and reached a hand toward Pilchie who flung a handful of the stinking water at him. "A curse on... on you... and your orders," the filthy burgher sputtered. Andrew dodged the spray.

  "For shame! Attacking your sworn captain!" Grinning Andrew grabbed Pilchie's hand and heaved him, dripping and spitting, out of the water. Andrew rocked with laughter. "Merciful God, you reek."

  Pilchie stood and shook both hands downward, splattering muck off his arms. "I'll never get clean." He shook his head, starting to laugh himself. "But I'm glad I gave my commander some entertainment."

  "At least it's warm for a swim in the Spey. Just don't swallow as much of that as you did of the bog." He gave Pilchie a push towards his mount. A flash in the distance caught Andrew's eye. Armor always revealed itself, even at a distance, in sunlight.

  Andrew jumped back into the saddle and stood in his stirrups, squinting into the distance. "Riders. A small force."

  Pilchie had taken off his cloak to squeeze out the filthy water, which ran in rivulets down his short mail hauberk. He quickly mounted as well to peer toward the oncoming party. "Not many and no banners. Comyn's outriders? Or Boyd?"

  One of the riders waved an arm over his head and Andrew sat back down in the saddle. "That's Boyd. If he's returning, Comyn's men can't be far behind." He gave Pilchie a quick grin. "Take word to Sir Waltir to be ready to form for battle. And for God's sake, jump into the river while you're doing it--or keep you down wind."

  As he rode towards the little group of fifty horsemen, Andrew nodded to himself. The reeds, tussocks, and peat-hag pools of the Bog of Gight extended along here just as his memory had told him. Comyn's army would be forced to a narrow front, and, should it come to that, pursuit would be near impossible. Infantry could pick their way through the marshy ground. Horse could not. "Boyd!" Andrew shouted and kicked his horse's flanks, eager for news.

  Boyd pulled up, his men strung out behind on lathered mounts. "They're an hour behind," Boyd said. "No more. Both Buchan and his brother, with Chen, and Sir Gartenet of Mar as well. A strong body of knights." He grinned wolfishly. "And no archers."

  "Yes!" Andrew made a fist. "Now we will see what this cousin of mine means to do."

  In the distance, a lark shouted as Andrew's men marched into position. Across the road to the very edge of the Bog, a line of men knelt on one knee, gripping their gleaming pikes. Pressed behind them, two rows formed so that the three rows of pikes made a bristling hedge of razor-sharp steel. Yet more than two thousand men still stood in ranks behind, not yet formed into schiltrons, a clanking mass of men and weapons.

  Waltir scowled as he joined Andrew and Robbie Boyd. "Even with the Bog at our side, some few might get around us. A square would be wiser, my lord."

  "No. Those will be for us to deal with who are mounted." He nodded to Boyd. "Stay out of the Bog but
form up in the rear. I think no horse will get through, but they're yours if they do. If it comes to a fight." Andrew squinted up the road, watching for any sign of the approaching army. "Waltir, Form the other schiltron, all facing this way. I want John Comyn to understand exactly what he faces."

  At last, from the direction of Aberdeen, banners and more banners showed over the ridge of the low peat-pocked road. The heads of men and horses, nodding plumes, gleaming lance points, and tossing manes appeared. Andrew peered down the tussock-dotted braeside as the oncoming steel-girt army of seven hundred drew up perhaps a quarter mile ahead. John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, lately the leader of the army at Dunbar, rode towards him at a slow walk.

  Andrew kneed his horse and rode a few steps forward, searching the man's face. Once his brown hair and beard had been heavily salted with white, but now they were white entire and his elegant face was thin, scored with deep creases on each side of his mouth from nose to chin. Yet his gold earl's belt circled his waist over polished mail and silk surcoat.

  "Andrew de Moray," John Comyn said with chill courtesy as he reined up. He inclined his head.

  "My lord earl," Andrew returned.

  Beneath his close-trimmed beard, Buchan's narrow jaw was clenched hard. "I see you at the head of a substantial rabble. Do you really think such can defeat Edward Plantagenet?"

  Andrew raised an eyebrow and looked about. "Why--is the king of the English in these parts? Odd that my outriders did not spy out his army."

  Buchan's eyes widened. This was not a man to accept scorn lightly. "Those who have sworn fealty to him are in these parts, cousin, and your father is in his power. Do you forget that? Forget your duty to your sire?"

  The arrogance gave him a surge of anger. "You are very free with your lectures on duty. Yet I saw you swear fealty to King John de Balliol. By the laws of Scotland, you are a traitor."

  "John abdicated," the Comyn said bluntly. "We have no king in Scotland and must manage as best we can. Edward Plantagenet is a tyrant, but it is he who has the power--as your own sire well knows."

  "Power? Here? Do you want to test that power, my lord earl? Against my--" He grinned grimly. --"rabble. If you do, so be it."

  The Comyn held up a hand. "Hold, lad." He pulled out a parchment heavy with seals and stretched his arm towards Andrew, offering it. "We Scots no longer have a king... But you have a father in an English dungeon."

  Andrew nudged his horse close enough to take the document from the Comyn's hand, eyeing him suspiciously. What could this mean?

  The Comyn pointed at him. "Think on what you are about. You'd do well to accept the offer," Comyn grated out between clenched teeth. "For the sake of our kinship, Edward allowed me to offer you mercy. Strike your banner and come to me. I will send you to Edward and he has sworn on his honor to release your father."

  Andrew held up the document, marked with the King of England's own seal and scanned. ...detained in our prison within our Tower of London is sending for his son to come to him immediately in order that he may speak to him by our permission.... His belly went cold. The Comyn spoke the truth. It offered his father's freedom if he surrendered himself. The Comyn's eyes crept over him like lice. He wanted to throw up.

  The Comyn repeated, "King Edward's oath on it that you will be held honorably and your father released."

  He'd sworn--a holy oath--that he would never surrender. Worse than all would be to betray Caitrina--betray all the people who trusted him. Could he leave them to the mercies of the English raping the land on every side? By the lord God and all the saints, NO!

  Shaking, Andrew crumpled the parchment in his fist and spat on the ground at Comyn's feet. "That to Edward's honor... A pretty honor I'll grant you. He showed it amongst the bodies of children at Berwick. I think the glamour of it has ruined your eyesight. Do you not see those pikes my men carry?"

  "You think a few pikes will free your father or Scotland?"

  "Those few pikes--or that is a few thousand and those who join us will free Scotland and avenge our dishonor. All the people of the north rise to join me, including from your own lands of Buchan. Try your paltry chivalry against my schiltrons." He couldn't stop the shaking but he clenched his fist so his cousin could not see. "Break them on my steel." He glared into the Comyn's eyes, daring him. "That host of yours won't survive the first charge."

  Comyn scowled. "I would not sully my sword with a kinsman's blood, but this is madness. Think, Andrew. All of us hate what Edward of England has done, but we cannot defeat him. Not now. Perhaps someday..."

  "Someday? When the last of our pride and our honor are gone? When we've been ruled by England so long we've forgotten the meaning of freedom? Do not mistake me. I will not surrender to Edward of England--or to his minions." His gaze raked over the Comyn and he knew his scorn showed plain in his face. "But like you I have no desire to spill a kinsman's blood. Go to your own lands and leave the English to me and mine."

  A red flush crept up the Comyn's face. He looked over his shoulder at his own men, their steel armor and huge warhorses, before he returned his gaze to Andrew. "Not spilling the blood of a kinsman at least we agree upon." The Comyn sucked a noisy breath into his lungs as though making a resolve. "I was commanded to bring you to heel, but how can I do so if your men fade into the Bog where my knights cannot follow? And such will be my message to the king of England." He gave Andrew a narrow look. "If you withdraw your men, I give you my word--the word of the earl of Buchan--we will not attack nor follow. Nor will I prevent the men of Buchan from joining you if they are so foolish. But hear me, Andrew. You will not win."

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  It was the long summer twilight and the sky was alive with dancing northern lights. Andrew's camp sprawled over miles dotted with hundreds of campfires. All the men, including the knights, camped out in the open. Below on the slope, a line of pikesmen practiced their thrust and parry in the fading light, bare chests dripping with sweat. On a hill overlooking the camp beneath an elm tree, Andrew bent his head over his sword, working a whetstone over the edge. Tears dripped down his face. He paused to wipe them away with his fingers, careful that no one saw. It would have helped to get drunk, so he wouldn't have to wonder what kind of man left his father to the spite of the English. If he, young as he was, nearly died of it--what of his father? Wounded... Confused... Aging...

  Betrayed?

  God forgive him. He'd surely had no choice, so why did he feel like a traitor? He buried his hand in his hair. Curse Edward to hell that he would force a man to such an act.

  No one dared look at him. No one dared speak to him. When Robbie Boyd had come near him, one glare had sent him on his way. He was surrounded by men sworn to his banner, two thousand strong, and yet he was alone. His men had complained because he did not allow camp followers. His army moved too fast, but he wondered if having a woman would have made him feel less like an inhabitant of nowhere.

  He raised his head at the sound of a horn from the lookouts, a single tone that meant friends approaching. From across the camp came shouts: "Moray!" Andrew rose to his feet as the clatter of hooves approached. The party, gray shapes in the fading light, was a large one, a hundred men at least all on small horses, garrons, rather than warhorses.

  His uncle swung from the saddle. "Andrew." He gave Andrew a long, considering look. "You look grim. What's happened?"

  Andrew waved the question away. His uncle's eyes glittered and he had a satisfied grin. "I believe I can cheer you. This first." He held out a letter.

  Andrew grabbed it and tore open the seal. He sucked in a choked breath before a laugh burst out that he couldn't contain. "God be good!" He lifted his eyes. "Do you know what it says?"

  "Only guessed. And there is more." He motioned to one of the riders who dismounted and strode into the firelight. "William Wallace of Elderslie."

  Andrew considered the big man before him, a good six inches taller than himself, broad of shoulder with a wealth of curling auburn hair and a bushy beard. He
wore a ring mail hauberk and the hilt of a claymore, sheathed on his back, thrust up behind his head. He was at least five or six years older than Andrew but well under thirty.

  His blue eyes raked Andrew up and down until he said in a deep, guttural voice, "Greetings, my lord."

  Andrew held out a hand. "No need to 'my lord' me, Wallace. That's my father, as I tell them forever." He smothered his laughter as Wallace grasped his hand in a muscular grip. Here was something to relieve grief--news of an heir and an ally, all in one news. "Well met, friend. I think we have much to discuss."

  "Aye. That we do. I've heard that you've done great deeds up here. I'd hear more from yourself."

  Andrew slapped his shoulder. "Let's get your men dismounted. We've food aplenty." He turned and shouted. "Sir Waltir!"

  Waltir came striding up, ordering the horses picketed and scattering Wallace's men to fires where food awaited. Donnchadh brought a wooden tray piled with slices of roast venison, still steaming, rounds of bannock bread putting of a scent of oats and a wineskin out of the supply they'd taken at Castle Bothwell. Andrew's mouth watered and he realized he hadn't eaten since he'd talked to the Comyn. He motioned for Pilchie to join them as he stuck a slab of the dripping meat with his dirk and dropped it onto a bannock. "You've had a long ride, Wallace. Eat," he said and took a large bite.

  Wallace, his uncle and Pilchie sat on the ground and dug into the meat while the fire crackled with a comfortable sound. "You don't keep much state," Wallace said around a mouthful of food.