The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  “Come on now,” Don said soothingly. “If you had tried to fight, you would be dead too. It would have made no difference. The best thing you can do to redeem yourself is to go for—”

  He was interrupted by a cry from the younger man, whose eyes finally met Don’s and locked on him with a wild and terrible stare.

  “You! You never answered my question!” he shouted shrilly. Foam flecked the corner of his mouth. “You did it all! You cringing lick-spittle! You … you planned it! I wasn’t to blame for treachery, at least!”

  The blade again sprang free of its scabbard and the drover aimed a wild blow at Don that would have split him from head to crotch if it had landed. Without thinking, Don partly parried the blade with his staff. But the keen tip struck his left arm near the elbow. Don whirled the butt of the staff in an arc with the strength that comes from desperation. The metal-shod butt struck his opponent on the temple with a hollow thud. They both fell, but only Don struggled back up.

  Don examined his left arm. Strangely, there was no pain, despite the deep gash, which extended across the back of his forearm and diagonally across his left biceps. His sleeve was already sticky with blood, and dark drops continued to pitter-patter onto the trampled earth. His opponent lay still.

  Don stripped off his tunic yet again, and managed to stop the bleeding, clumsily binding the cuts with strips of clothing from the pile of baggage. He then attended to the drover. The younger man’s pulse was strong, but he showed no sign of stirring. A swelling was clearly visible on his left temple. Don dragged him into the shade and prudently retrieved the sword. He struggled back into his tunic, pulled the scabbard and belt from the unconscious form and buckled the weapon around his own waist. He then threw a pack of supplies over his good shoulder and strode off down the road to the southeast. It was noon, and it had been a long morning, but he felt no hunger.

  Chapter 3

  †

  The Bishop

  Deliver me from evildoers and save me from those who are after my blood. Psalm 59:2 NIV

  Philip struggled to his feet and jogged farther downstream. Was it hopeless? Maybe not. The dogs might not pick up his scent, or maybe he could confuse them and hide his tracks. But he had to keep moving. Maybe if he went to a neighbor, he could borrow a horse.

  But any neighbor that helped him now would feel the same harsh treatment that his father got, or worse. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he feared he had only made matters much, much worse for his parents and certainly for himself. He knew he did not want to cause danger to his father’s friends on top of everything else. What a mess! But then the thought struck him. Bishop Bruce! Of course!

  He climbed a steep, bushy ridge and left the river bottom. He could see a silver thread of water circling to the southwest. Bishop Bruce had horses and some would likely be kept in corrals outside his stockade. Perhaps he could steal one. His life was already forfeit. If the dogs tracked him there, the soldiers could take vengeance on one of the Prophet’s own bishops and welcome. It was risky, but it seemed like a chance.

  He was wearing his good school shoes, and after jogging for a mile or so, he began to get blisters on his heels. He longed for his work shoes. They were scuffed and worn, but at least they were well-broken in. They fit his feet much better than the ones he wore. His thoughts again turned to his parents and he began to weep, but he kept going.

  By the time he crossed the hilltop overlooking Bishop Bruce’s farmstead, the moon stood high in the eastern sky, nearly full, and he knew that midnight had passed. There were not many more hours before dawn, and then the chase would be on! He could see the stockade as a black, ugly blotch with corrals and sheds reaching out like arms to the east and west.

  He crept up to the nearest corral. Three horses stood there, quite still, as if they were statues in the silver moonlight. One looked like a stallion, and the other two like young fillies. He doubted whether any would do for what he needed—a gentle but tough mount. Another pen held several sheep. Finally, he moved through an open-sided shed to a small corral closest to the stockade gate. A trim, blaze-faced sorrel stood there, calmly facing him. Philip looked at the animal through the corral bars.

  A saddle mark showed that it was broken to ride. It would have to do. Now he needed a halter. Feeling totally exposed, he slipped over to the shed door and tried the latch. It was unlocked, so he eased it open, and stepped inside into the blackness. The air was musty and warm. He felt along the wall, trying to find saddles or harnesses. Then he thought he heard a rustling noise behind him. He froze. Then something pricked the small of his back. It was a knife.

  A thick, heavily accented voice grated, “Don’t move. I hate prowlers!”

  Minutes later Philip stood in candlelight, eyes on the coals that still glowed on a hearth. Bishop Bruce, in a wool night shirt, robe and moccasins, sat by the fire and stared at him with hard eyes. There was a plaque on the wall with the three lightning bolts that was the Prophet’s emblem. It was clear that this home was not a friendly one.

  “All right, Otto,” he said in a soft but exasperated voice. “You found him prowling in the saddle shed. I won’t ask why you were up this time of night or where the other servants were.”

  The thin face, with deep set eyes, high cheekbones and bushy brows, turned to Philip. “All right, brat!” he spat. “What mischief were you up to?”

  Philip’s knees were shaking and his mouth was dry, but his brain was clear. “You’ll be angry with me, sir, if I tell you,” he answered in a scared child’s voice.

  “Will be angry?” came the oily, sarcastic reply. “You don’t think I’m somewhat irritated now?”

  “Sir,” Philip began, his mind racing, “My little sorrel mare disappeared four days ago. I hadn’t been able to find her. I’ve been searching all night.”

  “Come now,” returned the thin, colorless lips. “You’ll have to do better than that. Surely the mare wouldn’t be here and surely not in the shed. What did you want to steal?”

  “Please, sir,” Philip returned, staring straight into the fixed eyes. “You have to believe me. I thought someone may have run her into these corrals, and I had to know, so I came here to see, and …”

  “Oh really?” the voice was almost gentle. “I’m being called a thief in my own home. Once again, why were you in my shed?”

  “It sounds stupid, sir, but I must not have been thinking clearly. I thought if I could find her halter …”

  “That does it!” exploded the bishop at last. “My worthless steward finds a brat in my outbuildings in the dark of night, and I’m the one on trial. Well, I can tell you, young man, no horse of yours or your stiff-necked father’s had ever better come on my land or I’ll make fertilizer of it.”

  Philip started. “Yes, I know who you are!” continued his accuser. “You are the smith’s son. I am not a complete idiot.”

  He leapt up and began to pace the floor. Philip was afraid to move, hoping that the lie would be accepted. “Otto!” the bishop snapped.

  “Yes, sir.” answered the little dark-skinned man, promptly.

  “Saddle the bay mare and take this brat into town to the guard house. If his story proves to be true, I probably won’t press charges. But a night in jail will do him good. Do it now!”

  He then turned to Philip. “Don’t ever come back, day or night!”

  He then strode out of the room but paused at the door and glanced back for a second. “Don’t saddle a horse for the boy. He needs the exercise.”

  Irritable, with his night ruined, Otto had no intention of being easy on Philip. He left him his pouch, but took his sling and used it to tie his hands in front of him. Catching and saddling a horse took a few minutes, and Otto turned his back while he did so, but Philip made no move to try to escape. He could not decide if his chances were better here or later on the trail.

&
nbsp; While Philip was trying to decide, Otto came from the corral carrying a spear, mounted, and silently motioned him to take the trail to the east, toward town. Philip obeyed, and again felt the steel point jab him in the middle of his back. He started walking, he knew, to his own execution.

  They covered several miles. The wagon road was a narrow shadow between groves of oak brush that hedged both sides in nearly impenetrable thickets. He had to try something. If only the moon was not still so bright! He had to try something.

  He considered darting suddenly to the side and trying to escape into the underbrush. Then he saw a fist-size rock just ahead. He staggered and then fell forward as if in a faint, on top of the rock. He cradled it firmly as he lay face down in the middle of the road. Hooves thudded nearby; then he felt the spear prod his back.

  “No time for games, brat!” shouted Otto. “Get up or I’ll run you through, I swear it!”

  The spear prodded him again, much harder. He could feel a warm trickle of blood, but he lay still. A rain of curses and threats fell upon him, but he did not move.

  He heard footsteps drew near, then a hammer blow struck his ribs. Whether it was the spear butt or Otto’s boot, he never knew, but he still did not move or make a sound. Then he felt hands turning him over. With all his strength he brought the rock up under the little man’s chin in a sudden uppercut. Otto dropped as limp as a dirty cloth, without a sound.

  Moving quickly, Philip jumped up and took the guard’s belt knife, then checked to see if he was still breathing. The man was not dead, to Philip’s great relief, but he was clearly unconscious. He managed to loosen the knots with his teeth and free his hands.

  Then Philip dragged the other man a few yards off the trail, took his bootlaces and tied his hands behind his back around the base of an oak. Then the exhausted youth began his long run, on a stolen horse, a stolen spear in his hand and his sling in his belt. He had three hours until dawn.

  Chapter 4

  †

  The Trial

  Bloodthirsty men hate an honest person, but the upright care about him. Proverbs 29: 10 HCSB

  Urgency drove Don to a fast trot. He held this pace as long as he could, but quickly tired. The ground began to tilt before him, and white spots swam before his eyes. He stopped and leaned on his staff for a moment, breath rasping the back of his throat. The numbness had left his arm, and it was now throbbing painfully.

  “Slow down—mustn’t get over-tired,” he said, speaking to himself.

  He took a swallow of water, then continued at a brisk walk. He alternated walking and jogging for what seemed like miles. He came to one farm, its house and outbuildings surrounded by a stockade. He pounded on the gate, but the only response he could get was a woman’s voice telling him to begone, and wild barking of what sounded like a pack of dogs. Side roads joined the main road at that point, probably leading from other farms, but Don decided to stay with the main highway, and continued on. Where was all the traffic? The road was empty, and the morning was getting late.

  Finally, Don saw a thin plume of dust and movement on the road ahead. It was a group of about twenty men on horses, lances held high. From the flag borne by one of the leaders, he assumed it must be a military unit. Probably it was a cavalry patrol from Stonegate.

  Don ran to meet them, and waved them down. He shouted his message in a hoarse voice. Two of the riders dismounted. One, obviously one of the leaders, asked him a few quick questions about the attack. The other stripped off his blood-soaked bandage and rebound his arm with clean linen strips. He then offered Don a drink from his canteen.

  “How do you feel, Lore-man?” asked the second man, evidently a healer. “Can you walk another mile?”

  At Don’s assent, the leader unclipped a broach bearing the sign of a wolf. “Present this to the next farmstead, and wait for us there. We want to talk to you further.” At this, the men remounted and rode off toward the lowering sun.

  The mile stretched out until it seemed like ten. His body was beginning to feel bone-deep aches that bowed his back and slowed his limbs. Afternoon shadows were getting longer. His arm continued to throb, and he tried to move it no more than necessary. A gray stockade and watchtower came into view with a wide gate, open and inviting. Don stumbled through the opening to be met by a short, stocky man with salt and pepper hair and a short spear. The man was suspicious, at first. The wolf token, however, gained Don admittance and a smile besides. He was escorted to a large stone house in the rear of the courtyard and invited to sit on a wooden bench near the front door. The upper story was built of wood with high gables.

  The man entered the house and returned a few minutes later with a tanned teenage boy. The lad, dressed in a nicely-woven tunic, took his pack and led him inside. When they entered, they were met in a foyer, floored with red tiles, by a middle-aged woman with a kind smile. “Hello, Lore-man, and welcome,” she said. “Your wounded arm would have gained your entry, but the wolf token and your lore-craft make you a welcome guest, indeed.”

  “Many thanks, my Lady,” returned Don. “I am of the Fisher clan, from Goldstone. Donald is my name and I thank you for your kind hospitality.”

  “Come in, come in,” she urged. “You can call me Wilma.”

  “Ralph, take his staff and pack to the second guests’ bedroom.” She motioned the youth to the left. Don followed her lead into a center hall with a high ceiling and dark crossed beams above, a huge fireplace at the end, and beautiful embroidered hangings on the walls. This was not the home of a common farmer.

  Don was given a comfortable, fur-covered chair next to the hearth and in the full light of a west-facing window. A table was set, with a vase full of spring flowers.

  “Donald,” said Wilma. “I know you must have seen evil this day, for your bandage is still wet with blood, and your tunic muddy and damp. Have your wounds been treated?”

  “My Lady, I thank you for your concern,” Don responded. “My arm was re-bandaged a short time ago by a surgeon from a patrol of heavily-armed horsemen. They gave me the wolf token and sent me here.”

  “Very well. But if you don’t mind, I have skill with wounds, and your arm is apparently still bleeding,” she said, pulling up a stool and sitting next to his left arm. Another young man entered, somewhat taller than the first with light brown hair and a nut-brown tunic. “Howard,” said Wilma. “Get your sister. Lay out some bandages and lint, and have her put some water on to boil. Then bring our guest a mug of beef broth. He looks hungry.”

  The young man sized Don up with an anxious look, then spun on his heel and left without a word. Don turned to his hostess with a grin. “I suppose I am hungry, now that you mention it. I just realized I have not eaten this day,” he said. The chair felt strange after weeks on the trail, strange but good.

  Wilma pulled up his sleeve. “May I tear it at the seam? It can be re-sewn.”

  “Of course. The tunic is ruined anyway,” Don responded.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, as she produced a small knife and, with quick hands, ripped the sleeve and rolled it back as high as his shoulder. She then unwrapped the arm. The forearm cut was clotted and ugly but was not bleeding. The cut across the biceps, however, was a different story. It was deeper and oozing blood. The throbbing and pain increased as he looked at the wounds.

  “You’ve broken it open by moving it, you see,” Wilma said. “Oh! Here comes my oldest daughter, Rachel.”

  Don turned his head and forgot his arm for a moment. The girl approaching was strikingly beautiful. Her long hair hung past her shoulders and was the color of oat straw. Her face was almond shaped with a small nose, full lips, and (he saw as she drew closer) blue eyes. She wore a long dress made of printed cloth with a close-fitted bodice, laced in front, a high collar and long sleeves. Her figure was slender, yet well rounded. He quickly remembered his manners and smiled as she ap
proached.

  “Rachel, this is Lore-man Donald of Fisher,” said Wilma. “He has a sword-cut on his arm that will require stitches, I’m afraid.”

  “Hello,” said Rachel, smiling. “I brought you a mug of hot broth, if you’re hungry.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” responded Don, starting to rise.

  “No. No. Sit down,” said Wilma, firmly. “Rachel, go boil some fine linen thread and the needles from my medical kit. Boil some linen strips as well.”

  Don took the mug and took a deep drink. It was the best soup he’d ever tasted; of that he was sure. It was hot, but not too hot, and rich with chunks of meat. He took a second gulp. It tasted even better. He found himself relaxing, almost sinking deeper into the chair. Wilma excused herself and left for a few minutes.

  When she returned, the mug was empty. “How did you get the sword cut?” asked Wilma. “Was it the Raiders?”

  Don briefly explained, neither sparing nor excusing his actions. Her eyes widened slightly when he told of the attack by the drover. She began to wash his arm with a cloth and a pan of warm water.

  “Is that the drover’s sword?” she asked. “But, according to your story, you won it fairly. Even if he was out of his mind, you cannot be blamed for disarming him after an unprovoked attack.” Don nodded, unsure himself of the rightness or wrongness of it.

  Just then, Rachel returned, bearing a pan of steaming cloth and a second pan of hot, soapy water. Wilma took the pans and set them on a window sill next to Don. Then she carefully washed her hands, and then washed his arm a second time. The water or perhaps the soap had a pungent smell. Then she took the threaded needle from the other pan with a pair of tweezers. “This might hurt a bit,” she said.