The baron incarcerated in the dungeon of his own home, had lost count of how long he had been held captive, but his hair had grown long and grey. When after weeks of labour, the ancient mortar gave way; he crawled into an abandoned passage that once allowed access to an ice house. Upon reaching the derelict ice store, it was but a moments work for him to break down the rotten door and escape. Now he had a choice, revenge or flight. He chose revenge. His hands dripping blood he tore apart a tangle of briers. Finding his clans store of weapons he selected a spiked mace and his fathers battle axe. Now his jailers would understand why you never crossed a Scottish baron. There would be many English women who would be making wreaths. The baron sold his life dearly, as he bludgeoned his way through his family’s home. Bute force saw him reach his former bedroom and dispatch the English lord who had raped Blackthorns wife and thought to rule Blackthorns lands.
Footnote. I am still unable to use the WordPress ‘like’ button, but I will read all the stories posted here this week. And will attempt to comment where able. Mike