This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical author J.R. Tomlin and the medieval historical, FREEDOM'S SWORD, which is set in thirteenth-century Scotland. The novel is available now. Today, J.R. is pleased to offer an excerpt from the book. Here's the blurb:
Before
William Wallace, before Robert the Bruce, there was another Scottish hero...
In 1296, newly knighted by the King of the Scots, Andrew de Moray fights to defend his country against the forces of the ruthless invader, King Edward Longshanks of England. After a bloody defeat in battle, he is dragged in chains to an English dungeon.
Soon the young knight escapes. He returns to find Scotland under the heel of a conqueror and his betrothed sheltering in the hills of the Black Isle. Seizing his own castle from the English, he raises the banner of Scottish freedom. Now he must lead the north of Scotland to rebellion in hope of defeating the English army sent to crush them.
In 1296, newly knighted by the King of the Scots, Andrew de Moray fights to defend his country against the forces of the ruthless invader, King Edward Longshanks of England. After a bloody defeat in battle, he is dragged in chains to an English dungeon.
Soon the young knight escapes. He returns to find Scotland under the heel of a conqueror and his betrothed sheltering in the hills of the Black Isle. Seizing his own castle from the English, he raises the banner of Scottish freedom. Now he must lead the north of Scotland to rebellion in hope of defeating the English army sent to crush them.
**An Excerpt from FREEDOM'S SWORD**
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 winded 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."
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. 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 thrusting up from his back.
"No!"
"Quiet,"
Donnchadh said grimly, grabbing her arm.
The
trumpet blew again and the column marched on the castle, riding over the body
that lay on the ground.