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Sword of Trust

By Debbie Lynne Costello

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Chapter 1

Cumberland, England
January 1399
A black crow flew out from the green leaves of a tree branch as Deirdre Mackenzie passed by. It was a bad omen. But it was too late to turn back now. Besides, the most dangerous part was behind them. She and the young men from the burgh, as well as Walter, a man in middle age, managed to slip over to the wretched English land and gather eight cows without a dog even lifting its head, let alone sending an alarm out to farmers—or worse, knights on watch duty.
She attempted to shrug off the ill feeling the bird brought, but instead a shudder racked her body, a confirmation she’d made a grave error in her choice to come out this night. The clouds parted and a bright moon threw its light onto their path.
“Nay,” she whispered under her breath. She’d made no mistake.
She let out a sigh in an attempt to release the tension knotting the muscles in her neck. Gilbert, a round-faced lad who had the misfortune of growing very little facial hair, steered his horse into the woods to bring a wayward cow back to the herd.
The chill in the air bit through her mantle, tunic, and hose. She shivered. Patrik had offered his heavier mantle, but she’d refused. Though the tallest in the group, he had no meat on his bones with which to keep warm. He needed his mantle more.
The cow that Gilbert guided back to the herd lowed, protesting its compliance and breaking the silence of the night. The urge to shush the animal remained on the tip of her tongue, and she almost laughed at the absurdity. If only there were more noises in the woods to hide the cracking branches and rustling leaves—sounds that echoed through the evening air announcing their whereabouts should anyone happen upon them. Fear of her uncle’s anger and what he would do should he discover she’d left the safety of her village swept through her. But the risk was worth the reward. For the winter had proven a lean one and the people of the burgh would have meat to fill their bellies, and milk to share with their children.
Another tremor quaked over her body even as she thought on good things.
Guilt! That’s what afflicted her—guilt and fear—guilt for not listening to her uncle when he said that she was never to leave the village. Should he discover she’d gone to the Englishman’s land at night… she didn’t want to think about that right now.
Uncle seemed more protective of her and concerned for her identity of late. He made sure that Mairi, the sweet woman she lived with, and she had food to eat and clothes to wear. But the man liked people to obey him—and she had not.
He never missed an advantageous opportunity. No, and as she got older, she realized he was like her father and all men of power who did not care whom they trampled if they were to gain wealth and allegiances.
Why could she not have been born a man?
If she’d been born a man, life would be much easier. Men never had to seek permission or an escort. Their minds were their own, as well as their bodies. Deirdre wanted two things. To see that the tenants ate well through the final winter months and to exact revenge on the Englishman for what he’d taken from her. And tonight she planned to have both of those.
The last time the village men had gone reiving, they were nearly caught. The time before that, they’d come back empty handed, for other reivers from nearby villages had raided the same farm and burned the crops and house to the ground. Though she’d not gone with them, she’d heard tales of how tongues of fire had licked the sky, and smoke billowed into the air for miles. So this night she’d insisted on going and making sure they’d returned with the spoils of her enemy.
She shrugged off the failures of the past and reminded herself they’d brought eight cows home with them this time. She gazed triumphantly at the young calf she’d insisted on bringing, much to the men’s displeasure. It was adorable, with a shaggy white lock of hair atop its brown head, and she couldn’t bear to leave him behind, though he might slow their escape. No sooner had her victory settled over her, than the calf stumbled and went down. Deirdre jumped from her horse and ran to it, only to have it right itself and scramble ahead.
When they’d arrived on the Englishman’s land and she’d seen the mother nursing its calf, she made sure it was one they rounded up. The milk would be appreciated by the mothers with bairns. And she’d not leave the calf to starve as much as the others wished she would.
Walter, the oldest in the group, rode on the right side of the cattle along with Fionn. He sent a warning glance at her and scolded in a low tone. “Git back on your horse, lass.”
She opened her mouth to explain herself and quickly shut it. They rode in silence for fear their voices would carry on the night wind. She’d not risk giving them away.
Walter had made it plain that he didn’t agree with the raid even though he’d lost not only cattle but also had his fields burned by English marauders. He’d argued that the night was no good for plundering and believed it no place for a woman, especially her uncle’s niece. But she and her renegade band had already been well on their way when the old knight, who’d given up his sword for a plow, realized they were gone and followed after them. His harping would not persuade them to turn back. The other three men closer to her age had welcomed her expertise. She was a better shot with a bow and more accurate with the toss of a knife than the three of them, and well they knew it.
Walter grudgingly gave in. Whether because he wanted to be the one returning with the much-needed meat, or whether he wished to ensure that no harm came to her, she couldn’t be sure. She hoped the latter but probably both played a part. She cared deeply for Walter. Beneath his gruff exterior lurked a kind man who looked after her.
But he’d been angry with her since they started out. And now that the clouds had blown off and the moonlight shone down brightly upon them, easily giving them away should someone come along, his argument echoed in her mind.
“’Tis a guid night tae plunder the Englishmen. There is no moonlight. We will be safe,” she’d told him.
“’Tis a full moon. The clouds can blow off, and then there be no cover for us.”
She’d looked up into the dark sky. “You bring up empty arguments, Walter. The clouds cover the sky as far as the eye can see.”
“You put each of our lives in danger.” Walter’s bushy eyebrows drew down into a deep V.
“I have forced no one tae come.”
“You rally young lads who follow you blindly.” Walter had spat.
Shaking off the thoughts, she twisted her horse’s mane around her hand and swung onto its back. By the time she’d put herself aright on Storm, her palfrey, the calf had settled in beside his mother and walked along with the rest of the herd.
They crossed over onto Scottish land before Deirdre allowed herself to relax. Though the terrain looked much the same, being off English soil gave her peace.
She let out a sigh and glanced over at Walter, giving him a smile. “We made it.”
“We are not home yet, lass.” Walter spoke in that low, even tone that raised the hair on her arms.
“Ach! But we are on Scottish soil.”
“Keep your voice down. Do you want to announce us to the whole countryside?”
Deirdre frowned, the joy she felt only moments earlier snatched like a bug before a frog.
She’d no sooner dropped her shoulders to sulk when a shrill whistle split the air and a horse and rider crashed from the woods and into their path.
Deirdre sucked in a startled breath and exhaled in a scream. “Run!”
Gilbert dug his heels into his horse, sending it barreling into the woods. Patrik lingered on the other side of the intruder. Relief swept over Deirdre as Patrik finally spurred his mount on. The white horse, like a phantom glimmering through the trees, disappeared as the shadows swallowed it and its rider.
Walter pulled his sword and moved his mount in front of her.
“Go! I will follow shortly.” He threw the words over his shoulder without taking his eyes off his adversary.
Fionn, the youngest and certainly not yet a man, broke to his right and Deirdre followed, but before they could get more than a few paces, three more men crashed through. Deirdre pressed her leg into Storm’s right side as she pulled the reins to the left. The surprise of the enemy sent her mare whirling away from the other riders. If she could only make it to the cover of the trees, she’d have a chance of escape. Her chances were better if she could get lost amongst the trees and dead underbrush.
A rider drove his horse between her and freedom. Storm startled, turning abruptly. Deirdre fought to stay on her mount but with no saddle, she slid off the animal’s sleek back and onto the ground.
Her hood fell off. She snatched it back on her head and tucked her short red hair inside before rising from the ground. She reached out for Storm’s reins before the horse attempted to bolt.
One of the men seized the leather leads and leveled his sword on her, the tip pressing at the bottom of her neck.
“I would not move if I were you, lad.”
Deirdre froze. English! She stole a quick glance from the corner of her eye as Fionn, still on his horse, pulled his sword from its scabbard at his side. But his inexperience made him too slow. Before he could raise his weapon, the enemy’s blade swung in an arc and across Fionn’s neck. Even with only the moon’s light, Deirdre could see the blood spurting from his wound.
“No!” she screamed. She turned to him but was stopped by the blade’s pressure at her own throat. She watched helplessly as Fionn toppled to the ground, lifeless. Cursed English! Another life stolen by the enemy—another friend gone.
A pricking lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it. Crying would not help them right now.
Walter continued to fight, his sword clanging as steel met steel. There remained little hope now with four against one, unless Patrik and Gilbert circled around. But she doubted they would.
The plan had been to head back to her uncle’s demesne should they encounter trouble. After the slaughter she’d witnessed nearly two years ago, she’d decided it would be each man for himself should they get caught.
She’d never mastered a sword, but she was quite proficient with her knife. She moved her hand to the knife at her side. The pressure of the sword’s tip pressed deeper into her skin. A pricking sensation released a warm trickle down her neck and into her woolen tunic.
The knave pressing his sword against her called out to Walter. “Lay down your sword, or I’ll run the boy through.”
The clinking of blades rang out even as Walter spoke. “Let the lad go and I will surrender.”
“You are not in a position to bargain with us. Do you want his blood on your hands?” the reprobate asked.
Walter continued to ward off blows and push his opponent back, clearly the better swordsman. “How do I ken you will no’ kill us both?”
The man battling Walter let out a snicker. “You will have to take your chances.”
Walter’s blade sliced into the man’s sword arm, and he let out a grunt as he tossed the hilt to his other hand.
The Englishman holding her at sword-point yelled out. “Drop your weapon now or the boy dies.”
Walter stopped in mid-swing. His head jerked around, and he locked eyes with her. She knew as well as he did that the strike he’d been about to make would have killed his opponent.
He dropped the sword and it tumbled to the ground with a resounding thud.
The man moved his sword from her neck in a directive motion. “Throw your knife to the ground.”
†††
Bryce Warwick, Lord of Rosen Craig, had his fill of the reivers on his borderland. His father had fought this battle his whole life as lord. However, Bryce had no intention of spending his life squelching one uprising after another. Atop his new and unruly chestnut, Tempest, he maneuvered through the trees and the fast-approaching darkness, attempting to see any movement of the men who’d raided several of his tenant farms. The still, evening air carried the hoot of an owl and the lonesome howl of a single wolf announcing the impending long night.
He’d always known he’d inherit this problem from his father. He just never dreamed it would come so soon. He should have had another twenty years without this responsibility. It was one thing to be sent out by his father to deal with the reiving, but quite another to have the responsibility to stop the thievery and establish some sort of peace in a recalcitrant land where no sort of law or order prevailed. It seemed impossible. And if not for love of his people, he would consider it a waste of time.
With a king he no longer knew or trusted with his people’s best interests, Bryce was well aware that he’d get no help from the throne. Scotland and England had both given up on the borderland and left them to a life of lawlessness. Pillaging, cattle rustling, burning of houses, even kidnapping and murder were not uncommon. It would now be up to him to bring his region under control.
The raiding had more than doubled in the short time since his father died. The unexpected death had sent Rosen Craig into a change of hands and was surely what had given reivers their boldness. They tested the eldest son of Henry Warwick.
That was why he’d sent word to his younger brother, Royce, and wished to meet with him soon. They needed to discuss the brief tenure that Royce had overseen the demesne. One never knew what sparks could start a blaze. He never would have thought that Clarice could have caused the deaths of his father and mother, and almost his own.
In fairness, even when his father lived, he’d dealt with the repercussions of the never-ending Scottish-English wars. The people had grown tired of seeing all their hard work go up in smoke as they watched their crops burn to the ground. They were weary of the two countries’ border skirmishes, so some chose not to replant their fields and took up trades instead. In many areas along the border, the land lay barren as a wasteland. But he’d not have that on his land. He’d protect what was his.
His father tried to protect their people and land by stationing knights up along the border. And it had worked—for a while. The presence of Rosen Craig’s knights safeguarding the countryside had dissuaded some of the villainous behavior. But ever since Bryce had taken his father’s position as lord of Rosen Craig, there had been a steady stream of ever increasing reivers flowing over onto his land.
Bryce leaned forward on Tempest as he peered through the tree-covered twilight, hoping to hear or catch sight of the troublesome men they searched for.
Distant shouts broke through the quiet of the night. He pulled his mount to a stop and cocked his head in an attempt to determine the direction.
Then he heard a scream.

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