The Stonegate Sword

Chapter 3: The Slavers

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 kindly farmer Hurst, he could borrow a horse.

But any neighbor that helped him now would feel the same harsh treatment that his father got, or worse. He hoped that his impulsiveness had not caused more harm to his parents. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he feared that he had only made matters much, much worse for them, and certainly for himself. He knew that 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 seal 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.

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. There didn't appear to be a watchdog. His gamble seemed to be paying off. 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. 

He couldn't tell if it was a mare or a gelding, but it looked to have size and stamina, and a saddle mark showed that it was broken to ride. It would have to do. Now he needed a halter. A shed across the road might have some tack. 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!"

Moments later Philip stood in candlelight, eyes on the coals that still glowed on the hearth. Bishop Bruce, in a wool night shirt, robe and moccasins, sat by the fire and stared at him with hard eyes.

"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, that 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.

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 prod him in the middle of his back. He started walking, he knew, to his own execution.

After covering several miles at a walk, and later at a jog, Philip decided he had to try something. The wagon road was a narrow, black 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, deliberately, and then fell forward as if in a faint, on top of the rock. He cradled it firmly in his right hand as he lay face down in the middle of the road. He felt the nearby thud of horses hooves as Otto's mount stopped just in time. 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.

Then he could hear Otto dismount, and 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. Cursing the need that drove him to it, and his inability to untie the knots, he cut his sling off his swollen hands. He could probably splice it, and he had little choice. 

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 a cut sling in his belt. He had three hours until dawn.