William was bored, his men were growing lazy and the Duke of Normandy, a man he refused to acknowledge as king, was slowly eating away at what remained of free 'England' He sighed slightly, if he didn't move soon the next place he would be going would be the executioners block and an axe wielded by the Duke himself. The man must never find him, William surmised, ever.
But where to go? He asked himself, the question had run through his head countless times in the past few days, since his narrow escape from Nottingham and now, a hundred miles South of the fortified city he had nowhere left to turn. Without the word of Edgar he was enemy to the Saxons, and with the maniac on the thrown of Norman England, he was enemy to those he had once called kin. There was one thing for it, to Scotland he must go. The bitter cold of the North would surely chill the hearts of his kinsmen, enough so to maybe stay there hand should they reach the border. Maybe the King of Scotland would enjoy the information William kept safe within his head, and maybe power would once again be his one day. Power bought by Lowlander blood and Highlander steel.
That day he would leave England, his men following faithfully, to Scotland they went, on Cogs and fishing boats. A ramshackle fleet traversing foreign coasts in the search of safe haven.
William stepped off the boat, his boot crunching into the sand as he landed on the beach. A chill wind froze his bones, causing him to pull his furs tightly around him. They were here alright, Scotland. He could feel it.