#SampleSunday -- Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER THREE

Caitrina de Berkely snapped off her thread and examined the seam she had finished sewing. There was no doubt. The seam was crooked.

She frowned in disgust at the gray underskirt and glanced across the sunlit bower at her sister. Isobail's needlework was always perfect. Everyone told their mother so. Even their father, who had no use for such things, had said, "Her embroidery is as dainty as she is."

Caitrina peeked at her mother, afraid that she might have noticed that she had stopped working, but her mother was paying Caitrina no attention at all. Her mother was counting a stack of white linen coifs and veils they had readied for Caitrina's departure for the convent, a crease between her fair eyebrows as she refolded them. She said Caitrina should be grateful they were giving her to the church and that she must be properly clothed for the novitiate. Her dower had already been paid.

Caitrina bent over the garment she held and chewed her lip. She could pick out the seam and salvage the skirt. It would take time, and her mother would notice. Sighing, she laid down her needle and watched her sister take a careful stitch in her embroidery.

Perhaps if she was careful she could slip out of the room. At least, she could have a last afternoon of freedom. Tears filled Caitrina's eyes, but she blinked them back. It wasn't fair that she was being sent to be a nun. She would never run along the beach, launch an arrow at a rabbit, or gallop a horse across the hills again. Never gather berries with her friends from the castleton and never have her own home where no one would judge her lacking.

She stood up and started quietly for the door.

"Where are you going, sister?" Isobail said in a voice as soft as one of the rose petals that scented the bower.

"I want to have one last glance of the firth before I go. Would deny me that? I'll never see it again."

Isobail colored, but even that she did daintily just as she did everything. She had even gotten their mother's golden coloring instead of red hair like their father. Her skin was soft and white as freshly skimmed cream instead of dotted with freckles.

Their mother raised her eyes. "You have no need to see the firth today. You will see it on your way."

Caitrina wanted to scream. It was just like Isobail speak up and let their mother know she was escaping.

"Let me see. Your clothes must be prepared for the morrow." Her mother stood and picked up the underskirt. "Caitrina, this must be unpicked and re-sewn. It will not do at all."

The corners of Isobail's mouth turned up in the tiniest smirk. It was all too much. Caitrina spun and bolted for the door.

Her mother said in a grimly soft voice, "Caitrina, come back here. Don't you dare take another step."

She stopped in the doorway and turned back. "What will you do to me? Lock me up?" She took brief satisfaction from the shock on their faces. "You're sending me away, remember?" With that, she whirled and made her escape, running down the stairs.

What had she done that was so bad? How could her father have agreed to send her away before he left to lead their men to fight the English? Isobail was fifteen, a year older. Perhaps by the time Caitrina was born there was no love left over for her. Or perhaps it was that she wasn't the heir they wanted. It wasn't fair. Isobail could dance, and sing, and play the harp. Even worse, she was beautiful like their mother. Their nurse had called Caitrina carrot-top while she doted on Isobail. Caitrina could ride a horse better and the sight of blood never made her cry. But who cared about such things in a lass?

She dashed past the guardroom at the postern gate before her mother could have them stop her, but there were few guards about now. Their father had taken most with him when he went to fight the invaders. Now she'd not see them return, not greet her lord father or feel his strong arms in a hug. She'd thought that he loved her. Tears were running down her face as she dashed down the hill, plunging her way through the prickly gorse.

One spiky leaf snagged her skirt so she stopped to loosen it, watching up the castle to see if they sent anyone after her. No one was in sight except a single guard walking atop the red sandstone wall. She took a deep breath and angrily wiped the tears away with the heel of her hand. She wouldn't waste her last day of freedom weeping.

They weren't pursuing her, but her mother would probably have them look in the village. There were better things to do than to stay there anyway. First, she had to find Donnchadh. He would be as eager to escape his father's mill, as she was to escape the castle.

She arrived, hot and breathless, at the round stone millhouse that jutted above the edge of the firth. Inside, below the floor, the wheel screeched as the tide turned it, blending with the swish of the frothy waves below.

Donnchadh propped up the wall, a faded plaid of green and yellow checks pleated over one shoulder and his saffron tunic hanging to his knees. He gave her a curious look. "I thought they had you locked up in the castle until you leave."

Caitrina wrinkled her nose. "I escaped. For a last day of freedom."

He grinned, showing the homey gap between his front teeth. "Come on, then. Let's go." He looked up the hill before he turned his gaze back to her. "What do you want to do?"

"It's been so warm, I'll wager some of the blackberries are ripe already. Let's go picking. We can eat our fill and then go climbing for eggs." She bent and pulled the back of her skirt through her legs to kilt it in front. She spun in circles, head back. The sun was warm on her face and the air mingled the scent of salt sea with the spice of gorse and heather. She stopped, a little dizzy, and grinned. "Come on. I'll race you."

She dashed along the beach and up a stony path to the top of the rise. Donnchadh let her have a head start. He always did, but she soon she heard the thud of his footsteps.

In a few minutes, they were deep in the blackberry brambles that grew eight feet high. They were covered with ripening berries and the two shooed away squawking birds. Donnchadh yelped when a thorn scraped a bloody line on his arm. She made a face at him. Her leg already bore a long scratch. She stuffed her mouth with a handful of juicy berries and grinned, so he did the same. A drop of purple juice dripped onto his chin.

When she heard a signal horn bugle, she stopped to listen.

"What is that?" Donnchadh asked, frowning.

"I'm not going back, whatever it is, but it's not from the castle." She took her lip between her teeth. "We're not expecting my father to return with his men for weeks yet. It might be news. They were going to fight."

"It could be." He parted the dense blackberry leaves to peer through the brambles. They were west of the castle, a good way beyond the southwest corner of the outer wall. They could see only a short stretch of the road leading out of the gate.

"I think it's too soon for news," Caitrina said. "What do you see?"

"Not much. But... Do you hear that?"

She didn't so much hear it as feel it, a rumble in the ground up through her feet from the road to the west. When she parted the brambles beside him, she could see nothing, because of the pinewoods that bordered the road, but as she stepped into the open, she could see sentries dashing into place on the castle wall.

The sound was horses, large horses. A trumpet sounded from somewhere on the road.

"That's not my father's horn. Nor Lord Avoch's. I know the sound from when they marched away."

A deep-toned horn called from the castle. A horseman came in sight around the angle of wall, riding fast out from the gate. His armor glittered. He wore the green cloak of their master-at-arms. "It's Sir Ailean," she said.

"Maybe you should go back."

"Whatever it is... it's odd." Out of the trees came a column of men-at-arms behind a hundred or so horsemen. She gasped. "Look!"

"Whose banner is that? Do you know it?"

She jumped back into the brambles and peeked through the dense branches. "Just a second. The wind's wrong. White field—-something on it in red. The horsemen are all knights. But there are a lot of infantry." Row after row of single-edged blades on the end of tall polearms waved like a field of corn in the wind.

"None of our men were carrying those when they left," said Donnchadh.

"It is pikes. I can see the blades flashing in the sun." She swallowed. A huge rock had grown in the middle of her chest. "Holy Mary... I think that's the banner of England. The cross of St. George."

The master-at-arms rode to meet a fat man in shining half-armor who spurred his huge black destrier ahead of the column.

"Let's see..." For a few moments, Caitrina fell silent as she watched.

Nothing moved. The only sound was a faint clatter of armor. The fat man gestured. Sir Ailean shook his head emphatically and turned to ride back the way he came.

"I wonder what..."

The master-at-arms slumped over in his saddle. Slowly, he slid sideways and crashed to the ground. A crossbow bolt thrust up from his back.

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Sample Sunday -- Chapter One of Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER ONE

April 1296

"Just beyond the peak, my lord." The outrider's voice was dulled by weariness. Under a clear afternoon sky, the man pointed up a beech-covered knoll.

Andrew de Moray could already make out the rumble of a moving army. He reined in his charger and jumped from the saddle. When he took off his helm to tuck under his arm, sweat dripped from his blond hair. He tossed his head to flick it out of his eyes. His father motioned for the knights in their party, a score in all, to wait as he dismounted. A faint spring wind blew. Over their heads flapped the de Moray banner, six-pointed stars on a field of blue.

With his father, he climbed the knoll and from within the dappled shade of a beech at the crest, he frowned down on the English host. A dark river of mounted men flowed through the middle of the glen below. On and on they flowed, too far for detail, but moving inexorably, columns of heavy horse, light flashing from steel like ripples of waves. There were brief breaks in the procession but only between divisions, and yet another followed.

His father's master-at-arms, newly hired from the war in France, had been instructing him on how best to count the numbers of a foe. "Twenty divisions, my lord," Andrew said. A chill went through him. It was excitement. Of course. A thrill for his first battle. He braced his shaking hand against a rough tree trunk. "Two hundred to a division, I think, so four thousand, all mounted." He looked at his father whose blond hair, streaked with gray, blew around his face in the sweet breeze.

His lord father squinted into the distance. "More than that. Not all have cleared the bend." He pointed towards a black-and-gold checkered banner. "That looks to me like John de Warrenne is leading them. All mounted, as you say, lances with swords and battleaxes for close work."

"Where do you think the English king is then?" Fighting that dreadful old man who had slaughtered all the people in the city of Berwick would be a proud thing for any Scot, surely, and nothing to fear.

"Who knows? But he isn't here and for that we'd best be grateful." The lord of Avoch shook his head. "I make it to be five thousand." Wagons straggled into sight behind the army.

"We can defeat them though. We have four thousand--almost as many." Though a few of the Scots were chivalry on barded destriers, most were men-at-arms on light, unarmored mounts, a fact that he chewed on as he watched the tide of English might flow through the glen before him.

"I've seen enough." His father turned, cloak whirling over his blue tabard with a triangle of stars across the chest, to hurry down the slope. "We'll need to find a position to block them from reaching Castle Dunbar. I'm thinking Spottsmuir..."

A wet wind smelling of pine and fir and moss saw Andrew and his father's tail of knights back to their camp and the awaiting king. Pale mist twisted around the trees as they rode towards the welcoming fires strewn in a wide swath across a long valley. The thousands of fires made a second wavering haze within the entwining fog. Andrew's father had kept a morose silence all the way back and ignored his questioning looks. A stone knocked loose by the hoof of Andrew's horse rattled its way down the slope, and his father started in his saddle as though coming back from far thoughts.

They descended, their silence broken by the clop of horses' hooves and the clank of their armor. Outlined by the westering sun, a peregrine falcon swooped down upon a fleeing lark.

The Scottish camp sprawled for miles. They rode past hundreds of tents and cook fires where dusk turned the banners an anonymous gray. Midges swarmed around them and he scratched a stinging bite on his neck. The scent of meat roasting mixed with the smell of smoke, so tempting his mouth watered.

They passed a pavilion where John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, had set up his camp. From there, voices rose in a bawdy song and loud laughter. Andrew was willing to wager none of the laughter was from the Comyn. The king seemed not to move or speak without the Comyn's solemn say-so.

Next to the king's white pavilion, the great gold-and-crimson lion banner of the king of the Scots waved overhead from a towering staff. The Comyn, a tall man with brown hair and beard heavily salted with white and a long, elegant face, paced under it. His had been an angry voice in that fierce dispute over who was the new king after King Alexander of Scotland died with no son. Andrew's father still cursed the day they'd thought to ask Edward of England to judge between the contenders for the throne of Scotland.

"The outriders spoke true," his father said. Andrew pushed the flap of the pavilion aside for the two men and followed them in. The king's servants had softened the ground with rushes mixed with rosemary to sweeten the dusty air.

King John de Baliol, tall and broad shouldered with brown hair that curled to his shoulders, sat with a greyhound at his feet. His red tunic and hose went ill against his sun-darkened skin. The king nodded to each of the two lords as they entered and smiled at Andrew.

Andrew's father gave a deep bow, but John Comyn's was brusque. "They found the English," he said.

The king raised a silver cup to his lips and drank before he spoke. "How many?"

His father's face was bland. "Five thousand chivalry under Warrenne's banner. They're a two day's march from Dunbar at best."

"God be praised." The king smiled his mild smile. "That gives our army time to move into position."

"I saw no sign of English outriders, but surely de Warrenne must know we'll try to cut them off."

John Comyn frowned even more deeply. "Whether they do or no, Castle Dunbar is the key to Scotland. They must have it and we must stop them."

Andrew's father cleared his throat. "We can cut them off at the water of the Spottsmuir. The burn will force them to that route."

"True enough," Comyn said. "I yet have time to lead our army into position. And I will do so."

Andrew's mouth popped open and he shut it with a snap.

His father stared at the earl. "You, my Lord? What of the king?"

King John raised a hand. "I discussed this matter earlier with Lord Buchan. We agreed. He will lead the main part of the army whilst I ride hard with a smaller force for Stirling Castle."

Deep brackets formed around his father's mouth. "My liege, the army will be disheartened..."

"Nonsense." Comyn's thin nostrils flared. "I will lead the battle and my men will follow me gladly. It had best be the same with yours."

His father's face flushed and the muscles of his jaw worked. "My men will obey, my Lord, as will I. But..."

"I had no doubt, Lord Avoch," the king said. "I expected no less, and you shall be in command after my lord Earls of Buchan and Atholl. To do you honor as such, at first light before I leave, I shall knight your son." He turned his smile upon Andrew. "You'll be a fine knight and serve us well."

Andrew gulped in a breath as his spirit took flight. "Sire..." His heart pounded. "My sword is yours, always."

The king looked to Andrew's father. "The men will see my confidence in all of my commanders, including your good self, and know it's my confidence in you that allows me to leave."

His lord father bowed his obedience, but his hands were tensed into fists as he shoved his way out of the king's pavilion. Andrew was conscious of Lord Buchan's eyes on his back as he followed his father's angry stride towards their own camp.

Night had settled, turning all the banners to black. Sparks flew from campfires like wandering stars. Lord Avoch's master-at-arms, Sir Waltir mac Donchie, awaited them before his father's tent. His scarred face creased into a frown when he heard the king would leave. He was a sturdy man of forty years, muscled and hard. Arms crossed over his chest, he surveyed their men. "We should speak to them, my lord, so his leaving is no surprise."

As they went to make rounds, Andrew sat on a tree stump at the crackling campfire and tossed in a chunk of wood. The flames leaped. He propped his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. He'd make no vigil before an altar as most knights did. The tournament to celebrate his dubbing would be battle.

Battle... He was not afraid. They would surely win.

The camp buzzed with the murmur of men's voices and the scrape of whetstones sharpening steel. Horses at distant picket lines nickered in the murk of evening. Andrew warmed his hands over the heat of the flames and told himself the chill was from the air. A clap on his shoulder made him jump.

Brian punched his shoulder harder. "Want company?" He straddled a log and sat down.

Thin as a whip with lanky brown hair, Robbie Boyd ambled towards them from where a hundred men gathered around Sir Waltir. As Robbie walked past, he gave Brian a shove.

Brian returned the punch and Robbie dodged. "Andrew here won't be the bairn of the castle after tomorrow," Brian said.

"He's grown into being a man, right enough." Robbie looked down with a twitching mouth. "Too bad you'll never grow into those flapping bat wings you have for ears."

"My ears may flap but at least my tongue doesn't."

"Get you gone." With a blow from his shoulder, Robbie tumbled Brian onto the ground and took his place on the log. "Bring over the wineskin."

A snort of amusement came bursting out from Andrew's nose, as Brian jumped up and ran, whooping, to return with wineskin. When Robbie grabbed at it, Brian gave it a squeeze. A thin stream of red squirted Andrew in the face.

Robbie jumped up. "Hoi! Don't waste good wine."

Brian danced away, laughing, but Andrew lunged and grabbed the wineskin. He tilted his head and squeezed a stream into his mouth. God be good, it was sweet. Brian and Robbie would be with him in the battle, and that would be sweet as well.

Battle was what knights were meant for, what he'd spent his life training for. Brian grabbed back the wine. They shared a grin. When the two stumbled away, holding each other up, to wrap themselves in their cloaks, Andrew sat alone until long fingers of dawn lightened the sky and the camp turned morning silver. He realized with a start that around him everyone was in an uproar to be off. Knights shouted for squires. Horses were being saddled and led into lines, as tents were broken. The valley was a fury of noise and motion.

When his father put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, Andrew looked up.

"It's time, lad."

Andrew took a shaky breath and stood. Today he would become a knight. Trying to look serious, biting his lip to hide his grin, he followed his father through the field, squelching through trampled mud and steaming horseshit. They wended through serried lines of mounted men-at-arms that stretched across the valley, horses shaking their mane and stamping to be off. He recognized Brian's voice, "Moray!"

At the front sat a long line of knights, mounted on massive destriers clad in gleaming armor. Andrew wondered if they could hear the thump of his heart, it seemed so loud, beating so hard it might escape his chest.

King John de Baliol stood alone before the tall staff that held his banner, as golden as the sunrise. He was dressed for riding in black silk hose and tunic. A gold and ruby brooch in the shape of a rampant lion held his cloak.

"I have brought you my son, Your Grace." His father held out the hilt of a sword with one hand and its belt in the other.

Beneath his fine brows, the king studied Andrew with eyes like a summer sky. His mouth curved in a smile impossible not to return. Just two days before, Andrew had watched the king bring down two stags with his own bow. He found himself remembering what his father had whispered: He would make a fine huntsman. But the man has no steel in him. He bends before the storm. His father must surely be wrong. This was the king.

Andrew swallowed the stone lodged in his throat and ran a sweaty hand down the blue tabard covering his mail. He dropped to both knees at the king's feet.

King John lifted the sword and gave Andrew a firm tap on first one shoulder and then the other. "I dub you knight. Be you good and faithful and never traffic with traitors until your life's end."

The knights behind him made a din, hammering on their shields. Brian and Robbie whooped, "Moray! Moray!" The rest of their men joined in until the glen rang with it.

Andrew rose, head swimming. He couldn't feel the ground under his feet. Another cheer went up as the king fastened the sword belt around his waist. Hilt over his forearm, the king proffered the sword; Andrew's hand shook as he took it. His father pounded his back, and then dropped to a knee to fasten on his golden spurs. Even John Comyn of Buchan slapped his arm with a laugh. His head was as dizzy as if he were drunk on red wine.

The king looked around at the cheering men and smiled. When the noise died, he nodded.

Andrew knelt and reached up to place his hands between those of his king. His throat was tight; he had to force his breath, but he made the words of the oath strong.

"I, Andrew de Moray, become your man in life and in death, faithful and loyal to you against all men who live, move or die. I declare you to be my king and liege lord--so may God help me and all the Saints."