by Amy Jarecki
RISE OF A LEGEND
Guardian of Scotland Series ~ Book One
by
Amy Jarecki
Rapture Books
Copyright © 2015, Amy Jarecki
Jarecki, Amy
Rise of a Legend
AISN: B014PU8LSI
ISBN: 9781942442073
First Release: November, 2015
Book Cover Design by: Amy Jarecki
Edited by: Scott Moreland
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences.
Foreword
The death of King Alexander III in the year of our Lord 1286 was the catalyst for England’s invasion of Scotland. After Alexander was found dead on the shore at the bottom of a stony outcropping, the kingdom spiraled into a time of dark treachery.
With no forthright heir to the throne of Scotland, the ruling Guardians quickly undertook an investigation of the royal ancestry and found two men with the most legitimate claim to the succession: John Balliol, Lord of Galloway and Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale—grandfather of the future King Robert the Bruce.
These two men now readied themselves to battle for their rightful place as king. Aye, these were brutal times, and civil war in Scotland seemed imminent.
In an attempt to maintain peace, Bishop Fraser of St. Andrew’s wrote to King Edward in England, asking for his intervention. After all, Edward had been Alexander’s brother-in-law, and Scotland had been at relative peace with England.
Seizing an opportunity he couldn’t refuse, The King of England arrived and immediately claimed he was the rightful suzerain—or overlord—of Scotland. After much deliberating, he appointed John Balliol to the Scottish throne. Balliol was considered the least likely to pose a threat to England, especially when compared to the powerful, and power hungry Bruces.
Almost immediately, Edward began his humiliation of Balliol, issuing personal insults and demanding public demonstrations of fealty. Worse, the Scots were used like pawns and forced to fight England’s battles. Balliol tried to humor Edward until he was pushed too far and the Scottish king formed an alliance with France.
At this point in history, the English army was the greatest fighting machine in Christendom. And when news of Balliol’s defection arrived, Edward sent his army to sack Berwick on 30th March, 1296. No mercy was shown. No prisoners were taken.
The slaughter continued for three days. It is said Edward only called a halt when he saw one of his soldiers butchering a woman in the act of childbirth.
The atrocity of Edward’s barbarism is still remembered to this day.
Facing the possibility of annihilation, Balliol had no other choice but to abdicate. Edward imprisoned him in the Tower of London and later sent the “puppet king” to France.
Though many of Scotland’s nobles possessed property on both sides of the border, the common majority were outraged that their king had been humiliated and wrongfully imprisoned by a tyrant overlord.
Then a warrior of epic repute came on the scene and united a broken nation.
His name was William Wallace.
Chapter One
Eva sat up gasping. Sweat steamed from her brow as she panted, catching her breath and willing her thundering heartbeat to slow. She fumbled for her smartphone while eerie shadows shone through the slats of the caravan’s blinds. Shoving her fingers in the crease between the mattress and the wall, she found it. Four-forty-four. She shuddered. Why did the nightmares wake her at the same time every night?
Mercy, she’d returned to Scotland fleeing from the terrors of New York—joined the Loudoun Hill dig team. Yeah, hard work and discovering ancient artifacts was supposed to be exciting—supposed to be an auto-reset for her life.
But no one could run from their mind.
She pressed against her eyes and saw the knife again. Drawing in a sharp gasp, she jerked her hands away. Then shook her head. The weapon had always been hewn of blue steel—a bowie knife meant for hunting—or killing. But she’d just pictured an old blade like a dagger or a dirk, maybe even a sword.
Dammit, I’m turning into a nutcase—Eva MacKay, the raving reporter.
She plopped back to her pillow and stared at the ceiling—for about ten seconds. Nope. This time there’d be no going back to sleep. Besides, the team would be stirring soon. In the past two weeks, Professor Tennant had made it eminently clear he liked to start early.
Eva quietly hopped down from her bunk so not to wake her roommates, Linsey and Chrissy. She slid into her skinny jeans, pulled a sweatshirt over her head and shoved her feet into her hiking boots. Reaching for her toiletry bag and a clean pair of undies, she headed for the women’s washroom.
Standing under the pressure-less stream of water, Eva poured a dollop of shampoo into her palm and did her best to scrub up a lather. In the fortnight she’d been working with the dig team, she missed two things from her former lifestyle—whirlpool baths and massages. She wouldn’t mind if the showers at the caravan park had an iota of pressure, but showering under the pathetic stream of tepid water took a good five minutes to just rinse the shampoo from her thick red hair.
Still jittery from the remnants of her nightmare, she hurried with the conditioner and toweled off. Teeth hastily brushed and hair pulled into a ponytail, she opted to forgo makeup, hoping to slip to the dig site for some alone time before the others arrived.
After she grabbed a takeaway cup of coffee and a scone from the Quiet Harpy, she headed for her car—a red Fiat—her indulgence, purchased on the same day her plane landed in Edinburgh. Once sitting in the driver’s seat, the rev of a new engine proved to be far better therapy than a shrink’s couch. With a surge of reassurance, she put the Fiat in gear and headed off.
Eva had no idea what prompted her to slow when she approached the turn for the town of Fail. She not only braked, she drove the car onto an unmarked road and drove as if she knew where she was heading. Nonetheless, the road led east. How lost could she get in Ayrshire? Besides, her phone had a GPS. Perhaps today would bring a new adventure. And driving down the single-track road felt right.
Just around the bend, a ruin caught her eye and she pulled the Fiat off the road. A ray of light from the rising sun illuminated what looked like the remains of an old church. Amber hues flickered golden over the mossy stone. She stepped out of the car and watched the sunbeam gradually travel over the roofless relic.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she snapped a photo.
Perfect.
When Eva looked up, the sunglow continued to move to the field beyond, leaving the ruin in the shadows of an enormous ash tree.
A sense of calm spread from her chest and through her limbs, as if the sun’s ray had been transported from the church into her body. Blinking, Eva had no idea what had come over her, but at least the jitters from her nightmare finally faded into oblivion.
After one last cursory glance, filled with calm, she climbed back into the Fiat and headed for Loudoun Hill.
***
The tires skidded through the gravel when she pulled into a parking spot above the way-too-modern looking monument erected in honor of William Wallace—not Robert the Bruce. She sniggered at the irony. The dig was sponsored by the NTS to unearth relics from Robert the Bruce’s battle. And according to Professor Tennant, Wallace’s fight waged on this very ground could onl
y be conjecture since it hadn’t made it into historical documents.
Right. That’s why Wallace’s monument is here—not Bruce’s. She sniggered again.
Eva stepped out of her Fiat and grabbed her gear.
Tools in hand, she headed to the trench with a determined hitch in her stride, making a beeline to the same place she’d been working yesterday. Her shoulders again tensed, forgetting the sense of calm she’d experienced at the ruins a few moments ago. The day before, she’d uncovered a boulder that wouldn’t budge. They had a backhoe onsite, but by the time she’d brushed the dirt from the top of the rock, no one was there who knew how to use it. A historical journalist brought up in the city, Eva wasn’t even about to try.
Maybe because she didn’t want to use a backhoe.
Maybe she could carefully chisel around the rock and dislodge the thing herself?
Her gut clenched. As a matter of fact, she needed to, absolutely must, dislodge it herself.
The caffeine from her coffee kicked in to high gear and she started running with pick, trowel and brush in hand. Jumping into the trench, she eyed the offending rock. She set her tools on the shoulder-level ground and pushed up her sleeves—ready for battle. A quick reach for her pick and Eva sauntered toward the piece of granite.
“You’re not going to stop me today.”
She used the point to dig around the stone as she’d been taught, carefully chipping away pebbles and dark soil as she worked. After clearing a good two inches from the top of the rock, she tugged up her gloves and gave it a good downward shove. The boulder didn’t budge. Putting her weight into it, she tried to work the rock from side to side. When it refused to move, she bore down, pushing so hard her feet lifted off the ground. Nothing.
Losing is not an option. Not today.
She braced both hands on top of the stone. “You’re going down.”
Straining with every ounce of strength, gnashing her teeth, a bead of sweat rolled from her forehead into her eye. With a huff, she released her grip and took in a deep breath. “Double dammit.”
She wiped her forehead with the crook of her arm. “You will not get the better of me. I’ve had enough roadblocks in the past year to last a lifetime.” God, she hated anything that stood in her way. Eva worked the pick more vigorously into the dirt at one side of the boulder, and then the other—heck, a backhoe would do a lot more damage than her wee pick.
Eva’s palms slipped inside her gloves, but she refused to stop. A goddamned piece of rock could be moved, even by her. For goodness sakes, at five-eleven she was no delicate rose. She’d played basketball for NYU. Well, yeah, she may have graduated five years ago, but she still had “it”.
With each stab at the earth, she became more determined. This piece of granite epitomized all the debilitating quicksand in her life—the grief, the fear, the loneliness, and failure, the suffocation of being beaten and crushed by the entire world. And today she would not allow the boulder to win.
She raised the pick over her head and shook it at the sky. “Steve is dead!” she screamed.
Again and again, Eva clawed and brushed earth away from the boulder that seemed to increase in size with her every effort. Conquering this blasted rock served as a symbol of redemption. She had to dislodge the boulder. Her life depended on it.
A tear streamed down her face. Finally, months of pent-up grief released through her arms as she tore into the earth with all her strength and more. She would dislodge the beast and prove to the world she could move on.
Prove to myself.
“I will show you, the world, and every murderer out there. I will not be afraid. I will not be intimidated for the rest of my life. Take your knives and bury them beneath this rock!”
With one more stretching blow, she drove the pick behind the boulder. The enormous thing shifted down with a groan from the earth. It stuck there, precariously jammed in the crevice. Eva skittered backward.
Holy shit.
She could have been crushed. The rock had to be at least three feet in diameter.
She climbed out of the trench and stood above her giant boulder. Dropping to her knees, she gave it a forceful shove.
“It’s my turn to win, you bastard!”
The slab of granite dislodged and dropped to the ground with a dull thud, debris and stones showering behind it. Now they’d definitely need the backhoe to pull the darned thing out of the trench.
Eva rocked back onto her haunches and chuckled. “That’s right. No stone will stop me. You might drag me through hell, but you will not take my spirit.” She shook her fist and laughed out loud. “I will be victorious.”
Jeez, it felt good to blow off steam, and thank God no one was around to tell her she’d lost her mind. She reveled in her victory. As the boulder dropped from its hold, a burden had lifted from her chest like a gateway had finally opened. Eva stood with her fists on her hips and took in deep, reviving breaths, each one filling her limbs with renewed energy.
After she slid back into the trench, she stuck her head inside the gaping hole. She removed her gloves and ran her hand over the jagged surface. Stones had come loose and scattered with the dirt. The tip of her finger hit something hard—almost harder than stone, but with a rounded edge. She froze.
Is it manmade?
Eva’s heart skipped a beat as she dug in her pocket for her penlight and shined it on the curious item. Iron, maybe?
Holding the light with her left hand, she reached in with her brush and cleared away the dirt from the rusty piece. Certain she’d found something of interest, Eva used the tip of her finger to gently push, testing to see if it was loose. The thing tipped sideways with a clink.
She gasped.
Fingers trembling, she plucked the item from its tomb and pulled it out, resting it in her palm. Carefully, Eva smoothed away the dirt, then angled it toward the sunlight. A faint imprint of an archer embossed the middle. She blew on the flat side, clearing enough dirt to study the inscription. sialaW inalA suiliF
Could it be a document seal?
Oh yeah. A stamp would be written backward.
She decoded it in her mind. Filius Alani Walais. Her heartbeat sped. She was not just a William Wallace buff, Eva considered herself a diehard super-fan of Scotland’s greatest hero. Had she unearthed the man’s seal?
“What have you got there?” a deep voice asked.
Eva jolted. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, but sure thing, Professor Walter Tennant stood on the embankment right behind.
“I-I think this might be William Wallace’s seal.” Her hand trembled as she held it up. “Um…you might recall I submitted a series of articles on Wallace I wrote for the New York Times. I-I hoped that’s what earned me a place on this dig.”
The professor nodded. “I remember very well, indeed.”
Eva bit her bottom lip and pointed. “See the embossing?”
Walter put on a pair of white cotton gloves, took the brittle stamp and turned it over his hand. “By God.” He sat on the edge of the trench with his legs dangling. “If this is genuine, it could very well be the find of the entire summer.”
Her heart performed a backflip as Eva pointed to the boulder. “Something drove me to dig out that big rock. I thought I needed to prove to myself I could do it, not that there would be a relic wedged beneath.”
Walter blew on the artifact and held it so close to his face, he looked cross-eyed through his coke-bottle lenses.
She stepped toward him. “What do you think?”
“Priceless,” he whispered.
Eva pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, then held the camera out. “Will you take one of me with the seal?”
“Hold your palm flat.”
She did as he asked and he carefully let the artifact slide into Eva’s hand. Raising it as if it were as precious as the Hope Diamond, she cradled the seal to her cheek with the inscription facing the camera—Walter didn’t need to tell her to smile. She couldn’t wipe the grin off her face if s
he’d wanted to.
After he returned the phone, he pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and held it out. “This is quite a find.”
She tilted her hand and let the seal slip inside. “Are you going to notify the NTS?”
“I’ll ring them in a minute and then do some field testing. But this is as authentic as they come, mark me.” He peered at Eva with a pointed look. “You ken there are volumes about Wallace’s life no one knows. So much was left unrecorded.”
She climbed up and sat on the side of the trench beside Walter. “It’s a damned shame if you ask me. Blind Harry said Wallace was the son of Malcolm, but the seal—that seal—clearly states he’s the son of Alan. Even Andrew Fisher agreed the evidence pointed to Alan as William Wallace’s father.”
Walter chuckled. “Your analysis of Fisher’s writings in your article impressed even me.”
“Thank you.” Eva could have floated right to the top of Loudoun Hill—her editor hadn’t been nearly as enthusiastic. “Some say he’s done the most thorough research on Wallace.”
“Some do.” Tennant cleared his throat with a deep rumble. “I wouldn’t discount Blind Harry’s fifteenth century verse. He recounted stories that had been retold for a hundred and fifty years. There might be a modicum of truth in every chapter.”
“But you shot me down when you gave your presentation—said ‘we’re not chasing after a poet’s fairytale’ or something like that.” Eva thought her imitation of the professor’s rolling burr was pretty good.
“I was presenting facts, not conjecture. However when it comes to Blind Harry, people want to believe rather than question.”
“Interesting—but all oral stories change every time they’re retold.” Eva drummed her fingers against her lips. “Regardless of what a fifteenth century poet deemed the gospel, why wouldn’t people want to know the truth? That’s the very reason I went into journalism. I want to report the truth to the world.”