Scotland, Burnt Candlemas, 1356
Strength is not always measured by physical prowess.
“Magna Spring, stop stallin’ and start goin’ through the pockets of the dead. Edward’s army isna done here. We need to leave anon.”
Ten-year-old Spring’s blood ran cold as she listened to her father’s words but could not seem to move. Death darkened the lands of the Scottish coast and smoke from the fires thickened the air. The English King Edward III’s army was on a rampage, pillaging and burning everything in sight. The stench of the acrid smoke intermingled with the putrid smell of severed flesh that covered the ground. The soil ran red with blood. Her stomach clenched and her small frame shook in fear. This couldn’t really be happening.
“Magna Spring, did ye hear me?” shouted her father, using his foot to overturn a dead man before reaching down to steal the man’s weapons.
Her father’s words were so harsh and calloused. It was as if he didn’t care that so many Scots had lost everything they owned and that many had their lives taken in the process of trying to protect their land or to move their families to safety. Didn’t he know these people were somebody’s loved ones? How could he not feel sympathy for those that had been killed? Her heart went out to the dead.
She’d been traveling with her father and brothers, Bodil and Egil, when they’d come across King Edward’s army burning and pillaging the land. People screamed in horror and ran in fright. Utter chaos emerged as the Scots hurried in all directions. The sharp, shrill cries of anguish and bitter weeping rang in her ears from the wives of the dead men. The women bent over their loved ones’ lifeless bodies saying their last farewells.
Broken, mangled bodies littered the blood-soaked ground. Thick, acrid smoke clouded the air, causing her to cough and choke.
“Boys, hurry,” her father yelled to her brothers, causing the boys who were the same age as her to look up from pillaging the dead. Their father, Cromwell Gunn, had taught them to fight, kill, steal, and cheat. He said it made them strong. But Spring didn’t feel strong at all right now. She felt weak and vulnerable. The sensations of fear mixed with sadness wracked her small body.
She and her brothers had been named after her father’s Viking ancestors. The man was proud of his heritage, although she didn’t think anyone who raided and killed just to gain wealth and power should be revered and honored. Cromwell Gunn’s pride mixed with his headstrong ways made him a very vile and ruthless man.
Spring’s attention went to the dead Scotsman at her feet. His body covered that of a dead woman. Could that be his wife? It didn’t feel right to steal from a fellow Scot. He wasn’t the enemy – the English were. The poor man’s throat had been slit by the English. It looked as if he hadn’t even had the chance to protect himself or the woman since he still clutched his bow tightly in his hand. A loose arrow had fallen at his feet. The long, wooden bow was wrapped in leather and the ends were trimmed in rabbit fur. The bow and arrows had been his choice of weapons but, sadly, unable to save his life. On his back was mounted a quiver of the most exquisite arrows that she’d ever seen. Etched into the wood were intricate designs of vines and leaves and even birds. The tips were made of shiny metal. At the opposite ends were brightly colored feathers of blue, red, and green.
A movement in the distance caught her attention, causing her to look up, tearing her gaze away from the horrific sight of the dead man and his wife.
Through the smoke, three boys emerged on two horses. They stopped at the monastery’s church atop the hill. One boy had hair of ebony, dark as a moonless night. Another had bright blond hair that reminded her of the midday sun. And the third lad had flaming red hair like the fires of hell. They looked to be perhaps a few years older than her age of ten summers. After dismounting their horses, the boys foolishly sent the animals away. Then they climbed over the wall and disappeared inside the enclosure of the sanctuary.
Spring wished for sanctuary right now instead of feeling like a scared rabbit on the field of battle. She didn’t like the way her father thought he was a Viking raider. He insisted his children act the same way. But like her late mother had told her years ago – the man would always have Viking in his blood. No one would ever change him.
“Grab the horses,” her father called out to her brothers. Egil and Bodil obeyed without question, running to collect the horses that had just been discarded by the boys who scaled the monastery wall. Her family had been traveling with two horses of their own and didn’t need to steal transportation that should be left for the poor souls needing to flee.
“Magna, find a weapon to protect yerself,” shouted her father. “And bid the devil, stop bein’ so afraid. Ye need to learn to use a blade!”
“I dinna want a blade,” she mumbled, trying to avoid the blood caused by a blade as she hunkered down and carefully slid her hand into the dead man’s pocket. She found naught but a few coins. Quickly slipping them into her own pocket, she tried to avoid his open eyes that seemed to be watching her. Fear emanated from his orbs, mixed with despair and anger. A shiver ran up her spine. The man’s dead body was only a lifeless, hollow shell, but she felt his spirit in his gaze. This was a sight she would never forget as long as she lived.
“We’ve got the horses,” called out her brothers. She glanced up to see the boys each pulling himself atop one. Her father took the reins of their spare horse as he mounted his steed.
“Sister, hurry,” called out Bodil. “More soldiers are headed this way and they are burnin’ everythin’.”
“Even the church,” added Egil.
“No’ the church!” Spring’s thoughts flew to the three boys she’d seen scaling the walls, looking for sanctuary. They were trapped inside now! Their act of finding safety would end up being what took their lives. Her heart ached for them. They shouldn’t have to die this way. Even if the boys managed to escape the burning church alive, they would have no means of transportation since her brothers had just taken their horses. They’d never be able to outrun Edward’s army. They were as good as dead.
With her hand still in her pocket, she rubbed a wooden trinket she carried ever since she could remember. She always did this when she felt worried. It fit into her palm and was a toy she had since childhood. Her mother had once told her, as a baby, it was the only thing that could ever calm her and keep her from crying. Her fingers caressed the piece as she stroked it for comfort. A simple wooden toy with one round end that reminded her of the head of a little soldier. The tip of her finger ran over the teeth marks chipped into the wood that she’d put there as a baby.
Releasing a breath, she willed her heart to slow.
Her father rode up with her brothers right behind him. He looked down at the dead man’s body. “So, it looks like my old enemy, Norval Gordon, is dead, as well as his wife.” He chuckled and nodded. “I’ve got to thank the English for savin’ me the trouble of doin’ it myself. Grab his weapon and get on the horse,” snapped Cromwell. “Hurry!”
Gently, she pried the dead man’s stiff fingers open, releasing the leather-covered bow from his grip. Then, avoiding his eyes and bloody neck, she reached out and slowly removed the quiver of arrows from his back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, hoping her father wouldn’t hear her. If so, he would take that as a sign of weakness. She didn’t want to seem weak to him. Nay, she wanted to be strong and please her father, just like her brothers. She needed to make him proud of her since she hadn’t been born a coveted son. Standing, she handed the quiver to her father. He yanked it upward from atop the horse and shoved the leather strap over his shoulder.
“Give me the bow,” he commanded with his outstretched hand. “That’s a fine-lookin’ weapon. I canna believe the English left it behind.”
Turning back, she couldn’t help seeing the dead man’s eyes once again. Hazel orbs held the beauty of green and ochre swirls. Such a waste of a life. He looked fit and to have been in his prime. She couldn’t see the dead woman well since the man’s body was covering her, but at least her eyes were closed. Spring felt sick to her stomach. The way this man had been clenching the bow, she knew it had meant a lot to him. Perhaps, he’d once used it to hunt rabbits to feed a wife and children. Would his children starve now that their parents were dead? Or were the young ones dead as well?
It didn’t feel right to steal the man’s weapon. She was no better than the merciless English soldiers. Her father had many weapons and didn’t need this one. Besides, she didn’t want her father to use it. Somehow, she felt as if she wanted to protect the belongings of the dead man.
“I think I’d like to keep the bow,” she told her father, running her fingers through the animal fur at the tip. It felt soft, like her favorite blanket when she was a toddler. This weapon was beautiful and didn’t seem as violent as a piece of cold steel covered in blood. This would be the weapon she would learn to use to please her father.
“Nay. I want the bow,” spat Egil.
“I want the arrows,” added Bodil.
“Hush!” Cromwell warned the boys. Then from atop the horse his attention turned back to her. “Are ye goin’ to learn to use it, lassie?” His eyes narrowed as he glared down at her. “If no’, I’ll give it to yer brathairs. I’ll no’ waste such a fine weapon on a scared wench who is too weak to put it to proper use.”
She didn’t want this beautiful bow and arrows to go to her brothers. They would probably break it by hitting it over each other’s head. Neither did she want it to go to anyone else of the clan. This bow demanded respect and she wouldn’t let it fall into the hands of someone who considered it just another weapon. Mayhap she was too young to have the strength to use it, but in time, she could learn. Her father would never stop bothering her until she agreed upon a weapon to use to do his bidding.
He treated her like a boy. Sometimes, she wondered if he even knew she was a girl. He dressed her like a boy, and even cut her hair short and close to her head. He wanted her to be a clone of him. He gave her and her brothers Viking names, telling her that Magna meant strong.
She didn’t feel strong physically, but her will to please him was very strong, indeed. All the children, as well as the clan members, learned it was better not to anger or disappoint Cromwell.
“Aye, I’ll learn to use it,” she promised, somehow feeling the spirit of the dead man running through the leather-wrapped bow.
“Then give me yer hand and get up here,” Cromwell spat, reaching out and pulling her up, throwing her behind him on the horse. She nearly dropped the bow in the process. Her eyes settled on the dead man once more. She would never forget his face.
Then she thought she heard the cry of a boy. Looking over her shoulder, she spied the red-headed young lad running from the burning monastery by himself. He stopped and looked back as if he were searching for the other two boys she’d seen him with earlier. However, his companions did not emerge from the burning building.
She witnessed him wiping a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. A passing wagon filled with Scots stopped momentarily next to the boy. A crowd of frightened people huddled together inside. A woman with a baby in her arms cared for a man with an arrow sticking out of his leg as she spoke to the boy. The red-haired lad shook his head, looking back at the burning church. Then the cart started away without him.
She didn’t think the boy was going to go with them. Her heart ached for him. She wanted nothing more than to help him as he stood frozen to the spot. If he didn’t take the offer to go to safety, he would die here. There was no doubt in her mind.
“Go with them. Get in the cart,” she whispered, willing the boy to leave with the others and not wait for his friends to hopefully emerge from the burning building. She released a breath of relief when the boy finally ran after the cart, hopping onto the back of it, leaving the burning church and his friends behind.
He looked up as they passed by. Through the smoky air, their eyes met. Bright blue eyes like a bird stared back at her, burrowing into her soul. She felt the boy’s fear and confusion. Wanting to comfort him for the loss of his friends, she smiled and nodded. As the cart disappeared into the smoke, she thought she saw him nod in return.
Satisfied, Spring turned around, clutching her new bow, wrapping one arm around her father’s waist as the horse took off at a run. But she couldn’t shake free from the vision of the dead man’s haunted gaze that was trapped in her mind. She closed her eyes, trying to think of the boy instead. When she did, she felt oddly comforted, as if she somehow knew him. But it couldn’t be true. She was from the Highlands. She had never been to the Lowlands before now and hoped never to return here again.
Slipping her new bow over her shoulder, she reached for her wooden toy in her pocket. Clutching it tightly in her fist, she brought it to her lips and kissed it. The little wooden piece in her hand, oddly enough, reminded her of the redheaded lad. Why? It felt as if she had a dream that she fought hard to remember, but it kept slipping from her conscious mind. She was so close to remembering, but each time it faded from her memory before it came to light.
Once more, she looked back over her shoulder for the lad. In the smoke-filled air, she could see nothing but the burning church in the distance. The sky turned red like the fires of hell, making her feel as if she’d entered the domain of the devil. The boy she’d seen had disappeared as if she’d imagined the whole thing. However, the memory of him would continue to live in her mind forever.