Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by JR Tomlin

  "Did the Bruce and the others keep much state before they surrendered at Irvine? What happened there?" Here was someone who would know the truth of that.

  "I'll give them this--they didn't surrender. The Bruce swears they couldn't have won a battle, and as badly as they were outnumbered, he would be right. They tied the English army up for weeks working out the terms which did me some good." Wallace chuckled deep in his chest. "The Bruce offered them his daughter and heir as a hostage and then hid the wee lass. Douglas sent his lad to France to keep him out of their hands. Now the Bruce is in Annandale raising men."

  "Will they fight when it comes down to it though?"

  Wallace threw back his head and squirted a stream of wine into his mouth, washing down the venison, before he replied. "Bruce will--as long as it's not for the Balliol. He'd kill Balliol before he'd fight for him. The Stewart, I think will not on any side. He's an old man and was never much of a warrior. The Douglas--" He laughed again, but grimly. "That man would fight if he could, you may be sure, but they captured him. He's back in an English dungeon." He shrugged. "By rights, I should be in Bruce's faction, you know. My father was sworn to the Stewarts who have always supported them."

  Andrew looked at Wallace thoughtfully and scratched his chin. "That sounds as though you aren't though."

  "I will be, I suppose, if he ever gets himself crowned," Wallace said. "The crown should have been theirs by all laws of the realm. Yet it is Balliol who is crowned." Wallace's face twisted with emotions that Andrew understood all too well--banked anger and hatred. "It is not a king I fight for though, man. It's the English I fight against."

  Andrew looked at his uncle who gave his head a shake. Well, they'd all had their losses. Best not to ask. Then Wallace continued. "They've destroyed everything I care for. Everything. I'll see them gone from our land. Our people free of them." His voice lowered to a dangerous growl. "I swear it."

  "You know, I take it, that I have reason enough to hate them. More now than ever." Andrew ignored his uncle's raised eyebrows. "The English... Now that they've made an excuse to claim our country, they will do anything to hold it. We'd best not forget that.

  They're a strange people. In this fighting, I've realized much about them. They believe they have a right to rule--that they are superior to any other. To the Welsh. To the Irish. Now to we Scots. Even to the French. We'd best be glad they're so determined to conquer them that it sometimes takes Edward's mind off us. But, mind you, they consider us fit for nothing but conquest. They'd rule us and take what we have as their own. They will go on just as they have begun. So we'd best be ready to fight--and this war will not end soon."

  Wallace shook his head. "That's too far into the future for me. I'll stick to the fight we have now."

  Andrew took the wineskin out of Wallace's hands and threw back his head to fill his mouth. The wine was a bit sour over the sweet. It matched his mood. "Oh, I won't argue. It's the battle now we must worry about. So what other news do you have? Is Edward still fighting in France?"

  "Oh, aye." His uncle reached for the wineskin, his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. "He's ordered Cressingham to aid Warrenne in bringing us to heel. Then Wallace here chased Bishop Beck out of Glasgow, like a whipped cur. They are now raising armies since they don't want to have to go to their master and tell him they've lost Scotland."

  "So we have little time until we have to deal with a new invasion. Warrenne is--not a great commander. He defeated us at Dunbar more because we were led badly than because he did well." Andrew spat on the ground at his feet. "Cressingham... That filth has never led an army as far as I know."

  Wallace cleared his throat. "He ran fast enough when I was at his heels. Now most below the Forth is in our hands. They daren't issue forth from the castles they still hold, but some are too strong to take--yet. I'm thinking a try for Castle Dundee would be worth doing. Together we might could take it."

  David took another drink of the wine before he handed it back to Wallace. "It will take two months or more to raise the men they need and weeks to move it. Time to consolidate what you have." He looked from Andrew to Wallace and back again. "If the two of you work together, you'll have a better chance."

  Wallace gave a heavy sigh. "There is more to it than that, and you know it. I'm only a squire and from a poor family even though my father was a knight. We need a Guardian of the Realm and that means a nobleman."

  "Or more than one. The position could be shared." Andrew rubbed his thigh. "You are thinking I should take the task? But they won't follow me below the Forth--not the commonality at any rate. It's you they know and trust. You who has won the battles there. What do they know or care about my taking Avoch or Balconie or Bothwell? Perhaps the two of us, me from the north of the Forth and you from below."

  "You the nobility would consider fitting," Wallace said.

  Andrew snorted with laughter. "They think I'm a young whelp getting above myself, or so the earl of Buchan told me. But, aye, I have high family connections enough."

  Silence fell over the little group as they stared into the fire. While they'd talked, the night had grown dark and Andrew picked up a log to toss into the fire. Sparks flew like fireflies.

  David broke the silence. "There will be time for talk of governance later, though I think you have the right of it. Andrew, you will bring the nobility behind us. Wallace, you the commonality. No one will argue your youth--not after all that you've done." He smiled. "As to consolidating, I had word from Aberdeen that the English fleet has docked there to take much that they've stolen from us to safety, and the English at Aberdeen Castle are in no mood for a fight. If you destroyed the fleet before they could load their loot and took Aberdeen while doing it..." His eyes gleamed in the firelight.

  "For a priest, you're a good military man." Wallace sounded amused. "So you'll move on Aberdeen, Sir Andrew? I suspected that was your next goal."

  "It is indeed, although the fleet is news. He's right, and your company would be right welcome. We can talk further about planning the battle we're like to fight. And perhaps, as you say, Dundee..."

  Wallace stood up. "I'll see to my men. Do we move at first light?"

  Andrew started when Pilchie spoke up. He was not a man of many words, but when he opened his mouth, his words were worth heeding. "What are your plans for the fleet?"

  "Sink it," said Andrew.

  "Not that easy. I have an idea on how to take care of it. We have pitch, and broom is easy come by. They'd make a nice bonfire."

  Andrew smiled. "You're a man of ideas, Pilchie."

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  A high wind scurried clouds across the sliver of horned moon in the gray darkness. With Wallace beside him on a rough-coated garron, Andrew led the lines of his knights and pikesmen and Wallace's small band of sword-armed fighters, splashing across the River Dee. A pale mist clung to the surface of the water. He led them past the soft, muddy ground that rose in a gentle slope. They plodded their way through hills and broken pastureland towards the sea, south of Aberdeen. Climbing a low ridge clumped with gorse and wind-twisted trees, they startled sleeping cattle. Andrew drew up to await the lines of men and half dozen sumpter horses that followed. Down below, flanking the estuaries of the River Dee and the River Don, lay Aberdeen, the houses along its twisting streets dark and sleeping. A little apart on a rise, the castle was dark as well with only a few glimmers of light from cressets on the towers. From this ridge, it was too far for Andrew to make out men, but he had no doubt that watchers patrolled the streets and battlements.

  Andrew pointed toward the estuary. In the moonlight, the masts of the English fleet formed a skeleton forest. "There is our first target. I mean them not to reach home. The question is do they sleep with watchdogs?"

  "Watchdogs may be silenced." There was a grim smile in Wallace's voice. "This army of yours does not move quietly for all that its steel is sharp."

  "Would you like the silencing of them, then? I had thought to send some of Pilchie'
s men who know how to sneak through city streets, but if you feel you'd do better..."

  Wallace gave a brusque nod and turned in the saddle to motion to his men.

  "An hour and I bring my men in. When the moon reaches there." Andrew pointed to the pale silver crescent. He could only hope that Wallace was as good as he thought he was.

  Without another word, the big man jumped from his horse and slipped away, amazingly quiet and agile for one so large. His men dismounted and followed him into the darkness.

  Robbie Boyd nudged his horse to beside Andrew. "What think you?"

  "I think--we will soon see. They will come out when the ships are attacked. They'll have to lower the drawbridge and sally out. They cannot sit within and watch the ships burn." He laughed. He'd been about to explain the strategy they'd used so many times. He must be over-tired.

  "Any idea how many we'll be fighting?" Robbie asked.

  Andrew shrugged. "We will keep well back from the castle. I don't want to pull them before times." He slapped Robbie's shoulder and watched as the man separated out the men to go with them from the ones who would follow Pilchie to the ships. In spite of the clatter of armor and the stomp of hooves, only a few birds fluttered, disturbed in the dark and a cow in the gorse lowed in protest. The men knew to keep silent before an attack--it was their lives depending on it.

  Andrew took a deep breath. The sea air smelled sweet mixed with the scent of summer flowers. Soon it would be different. Fire and the sword carried a different sweetness entire. He shifted in the saddle and waited, as the moon drifted in the sky, timing when it had been long enough for an attack. There was a choked-off cry from down the slope. It might have been a night bird. The gorse bushes below rustled, though it could have been the cattle. Andrew grew stiff and shifted in the saddle.

  At last, the moon reached its appointed place. Andrew motioned ahead. A low order came from the sergeants as he flicked his reins and moved to a slow walk. Down the slope, he came to the street that ran between shops. He paused at a body lying in the street. It was a man-at-arms in a jack and pointed helm with nose-guard, English obviously. The night air smelled of blood, fish, and salt. The streets were crooked. He motioned and led the long columns of men forward. Pikes caught the moonlight and heavy treads thudded behind him. A door slammed as he rode past. Candlelight glimmered behind a shutter and went out. A sliver of light appeared briefly in a doorway before it disappeared. Wisps of pale fog drifted off the river in the predawn chill. The town seemed to hold its breath.

  Andrew spared a glance at a cross street where two bodies lay. Wallace stepped out of shadows between the buildings, the bulk of men in darkness behind him. "The watchdogs won't bark tonight," he said.

  "Good man. There will be hot work in more ways than one with the fire, if you'll aid Pilchie." He motioned to Pilchie who rode up to them leading Wallace's mount. "You're sure they'll catch?"

  "Aye. The pitch used in building ships makes fire their worst enemy besides what we bring. They're tied close so it will spread fast."

  Andrew nodded. Pilchie had owned ships. He should know. "It will take a few minutes to get into position. When you heard the trumpet--set them ablaze."

  Pikes clattered and Andrew's horse whinnied as he led their half of the men away from the town. The western sky was purple, speckled with stars except where the bulk of Aberdeen Castle cut them off. Pale yellow fingers spread out to the east as the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. This would not be the last sunrise he would ever see. He knew that and wondered how many men had died in battle with the same thought.

  "Unfurl the banner," he said. Donnchadh shook it out, and it swirled and streamed in the sea breeze. On the road at the foot of the motte, with sparse stands of pines on both sides, the pikesmen spread, an iron thicket, sharpened and ready to rend flesh.

  He made a sour face. His chivalry, nearly a hundred now on light horse not heavy destriers, would never win the battles but they gave his people a confidence and had their uses. He drew his sword and pointed to a clearing to the right of the road. The grass was heavy with dew, like scattered diamonds. His knights fell in across the space, couching lances for the charge as the horses stamped. Andrew nodded to Donnchadh. The lad put the horn to his lips. The blare hurried through the dawn, fierce and urgent. To battle. To battle.

  On the other side of the still town, a flame leapt up. A high thin scream raised the hair on the back of Andrew's neck. As he nudged his mount ahead a step for a better view, it blazed higher and brighter. Another blazed. And another, followed by yelling and the crackle of fire. The sea breeze carried an acrid, choking stench.

  Against the lurid light, dark figures slashed and stabbed with blades that flashed red. The glow silhouetted a huge shape, greatsword high, leaping to catch a fleeing form.

  Trumpets shrilled in the castle and again, then a silent pause. It was too far to hear movement inside the castle, but Andrew could guess. The drawbridge crashed open and the enemy was before him, boiling out the gate, a wall of armored warhorses. The ground shook. The drumbeat of hooves crept under his skin. He shifted his shield. "Hold! Steady!"

  A crescent of enemy lances had formed ahead, a scythe of bristling steel. The captain, tall and spare, wearing a long chainmail hauberk, bellowed a command and put his mount to a canter. A wedge of armored might thundered onto the pikes. Half the horses shied at the last second, rearing and screaming. The charge broke. Others died, sharp steel ripping into their mounts and cleaving their chests. A dozen men went down.

  Andrew put his spurs to his mount. "Scotland!" he bellowed. "Moray! Moray!" As he galloped, he glimpsed a knight vault free as his mount died under him. His belly was opened by a Moray pike. By then, he was on them. A blade thrust at his chest so he lopped off the hand that held it and smashed a face with the backslash. He jerked up his mount and wheeled it to race after another, taking him from behind with a wide sweep of his sword. The corpse bounced, foot caught in the stirrup. Reining up, he looked over the field.

  The English captain was screaming, "Retire! Retire!" He'd lost his helm and blood ran down his face as he turned his horse in a circle.

  Andrew kicked his horse to a canter in two strides and set it towards the captain. "Yield!"

  The captain flung his sword on the ground. "I yield," he screamed and raised an empty hand. "I yield, my lord."

  "Tell your men." Andrew reined his horse to a walk and paced towards the man until the point of his sword touched his chest. But the English were already backing away from the killing square of pikes, surrounded by Andrew's knights, and throwing down their swords.

  * * *

  A trumpet shrilled through the gentle air of morning. Donnchadh clattered down the steps from the tower where he had been raising the Moray banner. "Riders... The Comyn banner and twenty men-at-arms."

  The boy has learned much. "It won't be Buchan with only twenty," Andrew told him. "Probably a messenger telling me I’m a fool to fight the English. Have them open the gates."

  He went into the guardhouse to talk to Waltir about rewards for their men. They were beginning to grumble about being forbidden to plunder any of the towns they had taken. Scottish towns or not, soldiers expected plunder. "Go through the warehouses and let them loot one that has no church goods and hold back the wool. I'll think about siller as well, but my purse is lean these days."

  "Perhaps your uncle..."

  Andrew nodded as he emerged into the bailey where half a dozen knights and a score of men-at-arms were dismounting. "De Moray," said a Sir Alexander Comyn, Lord of Badenoch. A pale, slender man with thin lips and lank dark hair, Alexander wore a tunic of calfskin finely embroidered. "I come to speak for the house of Comyn," he announced, "at my lord the earl of Buchan's bidding."

  Andrew snorted. "Come to offer me my father again, are you?"

  "It is too late for that, but the house of Comyn has a right to be heard in your planning."

  The wind was blowing from the sea. Andrew could smell the stink o
f burnt ships and docks that it carried. To the south in England, a mighty army gathered to crush him and his or bind them to servitude. He shrugged. "Speak at our war council if you like. I'm sure my allies will be interested in hearing your words."

  He and Wallace had discussed besieging Dundee, probably the best course, but he would hear the others' thoughts on it. This was as close as there was to a council so it should be heard. Somehow, they had to rebuild a government with no king in the kingdom, so here he would start. King Alexander, it was said, always heard out his councilors before he made a decision. So would he.

  The war council convened in the great hall of Aberdeen Castle, at a trestle table on the dais. He sank wearily into the great seat with William Wallace on one side and his uncle on the other. Word of their victories had spread across Scotland, drawing support. Alexander Pilchie, Robbie Boyd, Sir Alexander Scrygmouer, who rode with Wallace, Sir Robert Fraser, gaunt and grim, who had ridden in only the day before to join them, and Neil Campbell, Lord of Loch Awe, even younger than Andrew but with a bushy red beard, sat around the table. Alexander Comyn, glowering and grumbling, took a seat at the end as far away from the others as he could.

  The debate raged on for all of the morning. Each man claimed the right to speak, and speak most of them did. They cursed, shouted, reasoned, poured wine in their cups only to slam them down and storm out, and came back, scowling.

  The Campbell urged a retiral to Loch Awe to rest their troops and avoid a battle with the new English army they all had heard was still forming. Wallace would have none of it. They should finish the work he had begun below the Firth of Forth. Scrymgeour wanted to march on Berwick at once before the army could reach Scotland to deny the way to them. Young, hot-tempered Fraser urged a strike into York instead. Andrew sat and listened to them.

  Alexander Comyn pushed back his chair and stood up. "The Comyn's have given an oath to King Edward. So have you all. The man who was once king of the Scots is in English hands. Our army is defeated. They'll give us peace and let us hold at least part of what is ours if we kneel to them." He looked around the table. "You gave your oaths. Now abide by them."