Rise of a Legend (Guardian of Scotland Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  She chuckled. The great legend changed from hardened warrior to ravenous lover behind the privacy shrouds. Eva almost liked it that way. She couldn’t fall in love with him—lust, yes. But the everlasting-get-married-have-your-babies kind of love? She couldn’t begin to allow herself to consider it.

  Never.

  Even though she was living and breathing in thirteenth century Scotland, one day she must return home. She might stay a year and that would be it. The end. The grand sayonara and, poof, she’d be gone.

  Heated stares across the campfire Eva could handle.

  Unbridled passion with an incredibly hot seven hundred-year-old Highlander in the middle of the night? Mm Yeah. Bring it on.

  Mad declarations of love from a Don Juan? No. Possible. Way.

  With William, she could remain anonymous, her past life hidden beneath the rock in the alcove alongside her satchel.

  Eva reached the hill’s summit and gazed over the throng of activity. William and the swordsmen sparred with their deadly sharp weapons flashing in the sunlight. John Blair’s group was busy fashioning longer pikes. Eva shuddered. She didn’t want to guess at what they’d be used for. Edward Little and the archers had quite a setup of targets—some of the men who were wealthy enough to own a horse practiced firing from horseback. Then there were the workers who hunted, set snares, chopped wood and fetched water among other chores.

  William blew his ram’s horn four times per day. With each sounding, the groups would change—that way no one ended up saddled with the same tasks day-in and day-out. A certain harmony beat like a heart among the men. If only they could remain like this and let the War of Independence pass them by.

  With a sigh, Eva stepped away from the summit and picked up a good sized boulder. Holding it in front of her chest, she performed leg crunches, just like William did with the men. She also added some additional exercises to her routine, similar to those she’d learned in the weight room when training with the team at NYU.

  Funny. People in her time went to gyms to stay in shape—at least city folk did. They never had to worry about waking up to the enemy pillaging their homes and attacking their families. New Yorkers and Edinburghers alike didn’t till fields with hand tools, or hunt for their evening meal—butcher their own meat—brew their own ale.

  Eva picked up a stick and lunged, thrusting it forward. Last time up on the hill she’d practiced with an imaginary sword, but now wanted something sturdy to hold in her hand. Sharp weapons still gave her the willies, even though she’d been surrounded by them for weeks. Though she hadn’t yet convinced herself to carry a knife, she might need to defend herself here in medieval Scotland more than anyplace she’d ever been.

  Having watched enough of William’s lessons, Eva worked through the exercises, imagining a sparring partner opposite.

  “Thinking to ask Willy to let ye join the resistance?”

  Eva nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the rumbling voice behind her. She whirled around. “Father Blair? You startled me.”

  He drew his palms together and tapped his fingers to his lips, his grey eyes calculating. “I saw ye venture up this way. Thought mayhap it would be an opportunity to talk.”

  “Oh?” She’d been bothered by his cautious stares and on numerous occasions. It didn’t take a nickname of seer to know he didn’t trust her—even if he did enjoy her singing. Squeezing her stick at her side, she returned his pointed stare. “Is something weighing on your mind?”

  “Aye, there is.” He wasn’t an attractive man. Aside from shaving the top of his head like a monk, he had a narrow face and a long angular nose to match.

  She looked at him expectantly. The priest certainly didn’t remind her of any holy man she’d ever met. But then monks in the Middle Ages weren’t only clerics. Some were warriors—like the Hospitallers and the Templars. She stepped toward him. “You and William studied together, correct?”

  “Aye.”

  “But he did not take his vows and you did. Why is that?”

  “I didna come up here to give ye a lesson on Willy’s past.”

  His gruff response brought no surprise. After waiting a few uncomfortable seconds, Eva turned and continued with her exercises. Lunging, she jabbed the stick forward.

  Blair snatched her wrist and the stick dropped to the ground. “I want to ken why ye are here.”

  Eva tried to wrench away, but he held fast. “You’re hurting me,” she hissed.

  “Ye havena answered.”

  If she told Blair she was from the future, he’d have her tied to the stake and burned before sunset. And if William didn’t buy her story, this guy had no chance. She stopped struggling. “Aside from having no other place to go, I’ve remained to help the patriots in any way I can. I wish no harm upon William or anyone else.” She glared at the fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You, however, I’m not entirely certain about.”

  “Me?” He released his grip.

  She rubbed her arm, a purple bruise spreading across her skin. “You are a man of the cloth, yet you did not approach me kindly first. You glare at me during the evening meals. What am I to think of you? Are you planning to betray William’s confidence?” There. Possibly using a touch of reverse psychology might encourage him to back off.

  He snapped a hand to his chest. “How dare ye doubt my fealty? William Wallace and I have been friends since we were lads. We are of one mind in this rebellion—but ye. Ye came from nowhere. Ye have no kin. Ye speak like a heathen sent from the depths of hell.”

  Gaining her confidence she stepped closer. “You’ve met such a heathen?”

  “I ken loose women such as ye.” He shifted backward. “They all have one thing on their minds and ’tis not the goodwill of their lovers.”

  Cheeks burning, Eva’s mouth dropped open. Her? Loose? “You, sir, do not understand anything.”

  He held up a finger and shook it. “I ken what I see, lassie.”

  Eva flinched. “You are wrong. I have done nothing to incite your ire.” Even if she had been a tad improper with William, the passion they shared behind the shrouds was no one else’s business.

  He splayed his fingers and dropped his hand. “See to it things remain that way, else I’ll be the first to run a blade across that bonny neck of yours.” He started off.

  “Wait.” Though she could have picked up her stick and clobbered him over the head, she didn’t want this disagreement to end badly. Things were uncomfortable enough.

  “Aye?” he asked without turning

  “How can I earn your trust?”

  Blair regarded her over his shoulder. “Ye’ll ken if it ever happens. Until then, ye’d best watch your back.”

  Eva watched him walk away, then kicked the damned stick. Thank God they would be leaving soon. She wouldn’t consider giving up her time with William Wallace for anything or anyone—especially an uptight warrior priest. Aside from the story of a lifetime, she’d found exactly what she needed—an intelligent and desirable man with no strings—a man she could place on a pedestal yet continue to keep her heart locked away, not to be twisted and torn apart by medieval brutality.

  ***

  Eva collected the strips of cloth she’d washed from the drying line. Brother Bartholomew watched her, gripping his hands on his hips. “With so much to do, ye waste your time washing these linens.”

  Inside she cringed. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  He harrumphed. “Where on earth did ye hear that drivel?”

  “I thought everyone said it.”

  “Aye, in what country? Egypt? The Bible tells of the Great River Nile, do people there bathe as much as ye?”

  “Yes. Bathing is of great importance to a person’s wellbeing.” She rolled a bandage. “And using clean bandages will help the men’s wounds heal faster.”

  The monk snorted. “And so ye’re thinking ye’re a physician now?”

  “Not at all. I just know a thing or two about personal hygiene.” Something medieval
physicians knew nothing about. But jeez, the first time she’d seen the monk wrap a dirty cloth around a bloody cut, she’d gathered up all the rags she could find and washed them in boiled water. Eva shook her finger. “Please, if you pay heed to nothing else I say, do not apply a dirty bandage to any wound, especially one that has already been used. Someone could die…” She stopped before saying “from blood poisoning.”

  “I think ye’re being overly cautious.”

  She placed her roll in the medicine basket and pulled the next bandage off the line. “Just humor me on this one thing. Please?”

  “Verra well.” The little monk held up his palms and shrugged. “If ye are willing to wash the bandages, I shall use those first.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Miss Eva.” Robbie approached, leading a scrawny, dirty-faced lad by the elbow. “Lachlan got sideswiped with a lance.”

  Eva shot a pointed look at Bartholomew. “We’re running low on avens water, too.”

  “Because ye use it on every wee cut. ’Tis a wonder they’re all coming to ye now for their healing. Ye spoil the lot of them.” He turned on his heel and headed into the cave.

  “We’ll need to gather more avens root on the morrow,” she called after him. Fortunately, the medicine basket sat beside her and Eva could tend the lad right there. “Come, sit on this rock.”

  Lachlan did as asked and held out his arm. “’Tis not bad. It’ll come good in a day or so.”

  Eva crossed her arms. “And how am I supposed to examine the cut through your sleeve?”

  Just like most everyone else, the lad’s shirt was dingy with eons of ground-in dirt. Soaked with blood, the sleeve had a gaping hole that would need repair too.

  “Do you have a needle and thread?” she asked.

  The boy clamped his lips taut and shook his head of brown hair.

  “He’s an orphan,” Robbie said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “Just like me.”

  “I see.” Most of the lads Robbie’s age who’d made their way to William’s camp were orphans. No twelve-year-old’s mother would allow her son to join a rebellion. Not even in medieval Scotland. Would she? “Well then, take off your shirt and give it to me. I’ll see it’s returned to you by the evening meal.”

  “Thank ye, Miss Eva. ’Tis the only shirt I own.” He pulled the filthy garment over his head.

  “You and everyone else, it seems.” She grasped it between her pincer fingers and dropped it far away from her clean bandages. “Now let’s have a look at that cut.”

  Lachlan held out his arm and grimaced.

  Eva did too. Then she hissed. “It appears the lance clipped you pretty good.”

  “Aye.”

  “What on earth is Father Blair thinking allowing you lads to play with spears and poleaxes?”

  Robbie tapped a stone with the toe of his boot. “We’re not playing. We’re training.”

  “Well, lads your age should be playing.”

  Both boys glowered.

  “I thought wooden sparring weapons were available to prevent the men from being hurt.” She added emphasis to men to bolster the boy’s esteem.

  “Och.” Robbie crossed his arms. “Willy says sparring with toys makes a man soft. In the heat of a battle, he needs to ken what ’tis like to swing blade hewn of iron. Says we need to be ten times fitter than our opponents—’tis the only way we’ll win.”

  She had to agree with them there. This bedraggled lot needed stamina to stand up to English soldiers and this wasn’t the first time she’d heard it said. “In that case, I suggest you swing your lances at something inanimate, like a tree.”

  Lachlan gave her a quizzical stare. “Ye sure do talk peculiar.”

  Eva doused a clean bandage with avens water. “’Tis so I can entertain the likes of you.” She held it near his arm. “Now this might sting a bit.”

  The lad proved to be a tough little bugger, and when Eva had the congealed blood cleared away, she peered closer at the wound. “Looks like this needs to be stitched as well.” Her stomach squelched—she hadn’t needed to sew up a wound yet. Two days ago, she’d assisted while Brother Bartholomew stitched a cut to a man’s flank. The well-meaning monk jabbed the bone needle through the skin like he was picking nutmeat from a walnut as blood streamed all over his fingers.

  Panic filled the boy’s eyes. “Can ye not tie a bandage around my arm and call it good?”

  She pulled a needle and thread from the basket. “I’m afraid not this time. Would you prefer I ask Brother Bartholomew to do it?” She grimaced.

  Lachlan snatched his scrawny arm into his chest. “Nay. He’ll skewer me for certain.”

  “All right then. I’ll be as gentle as I can.” After threading the needle, she pinched the flesh together, willing her stomach to stop its queasiness.

  Robbie leaned in and peered a bit too close. “Are ye not going to give him a tot of whisky first?”

  To a twelve-year-old? Eva looked at the wound—it needed the whisky more than Lachlan, though avens could be used as a mild antiseptic, which is why she’d used it so profusely. She regarded the cut—the stitches were going to hurt. How much damage would a wee swig do? She waved her hand. “Quickly—run in and ask Brother Bartholomew for a flask.”

  After Robbie dashed away, Eva sat on the big rock beside Lachlan. “Where do you come from?”

  “Berwick.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She didn’t need to ask what had become of his parents. Grasping the hand of his uninjured arm, she held it between her palms. “If you should ever need to talk to a grown up, I hope you’ll feel comfortable coming to me.”

  “Why would I want to talk to ye?” Lachlan’s mouth twisted with his quizzical look. “Ye’re a lass.”

  She grinned. “Perhaps one day something will come up. Who knows?”

  Robbie raced back with a flagon and pulled the cork. “Drink this down.”

  “Just a sip,” Eva cautioned.

  But Lachlan gulped the spirit as if he were drinking a cordial. Belching, he wiped his mouth and handed the flagon to his friend.

  “Give me that.” Eva reached out, just missing.

  Robbie took a swig before handing it to her. “Ye mean ye drink whisky? But ye’re a woman.”

  She poured a bit over the needle. “I can drink it if I want to.”

  “But now ye’re just wasting it.” Robbie snatched the flagon and clutched it against his chest.

  “Wheesht.” Eva held up the needle with a steady hand and regarded Lachlan. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll be careful.” After all, I’ve sewn seat cushions in Girl Scouts. Every muscle in the boy’s body tensed as she pushed in the bone needle for the first stitch. Perhaps she should have gone into nursing rather than journalism. If only I’d known I’d be spending time in the thirteenth century. Eva chuckled under her breath as she pulled it through.

  Lachlan blanched.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Eva squeaked. “Are you ready for another?”

  “More whisky,” he croaked.

  She nodded to Robbie. Given the choice between causing pain and an inebriated minor—she’d choose the later.

  When Eva tied off the last suture, a horse and rider trotted into the clearing. He spun his mount in a circle before he stopped and pulled a folded piece of vellum from beneath his surcoat. “I’ve a missive for William Wallace.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  William ran his finger under the red wax seal of James, the High Steward, and unfolded the missive. Written in Latin, he read the scrolling penmanship.

  “Who is it from?” Blair asked while the men crowded around them.

  Wallace handed the missive to the priest. “Lord Stewart.” William looked to Eddy Little and Malcolm, who’d arrived from Ayr earlier that day. “Come, we need to talk.”

  “What does it say?” someone hollered from the crowd.

  William regarded the expectant faces. “All of ye, prepare to march at dawn.” />
  “To face the English?” another asked.

  “Aye.” William nodded. “I would have preferred to train ye a bit longer, but there’s a garrison moving northward carrying out ‘peacekeeping’ demonstrations. I’m sure ye all ken what that means.”

  Robbie pushed his way in front of Wallace. “Why do we not set out straight away?”

  He mussed the lad’s hair. “Because we must follow the plan.”

  “But I want to skewer the bastards who killed my da.”

  “Ye’ll get your chance, lad.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “Pay heed to my words. If we stand unified, we’ll not be beaten. But every one of ye must follow me. If anyone has a mind to haul off and become a hero, ye have leave to do so…but ye’ll be going it alone.”

  Then William turned and led his band of lieutenants up the hill—the only place they’d be away from prying ears. Eva stepped aside and allowed him to pass, their gazes connecting for a moment. Must her green eyes be so intense—so inquisitive? Why did a wicked storm brew in his loins every time he met the lass’s stare? Grinding his teeth, he walked past her. She kent this day would come, damn it all.

  Once they reached the summit, William gathered his men in a circle.

  Malcolm spread his palms. “What’s afoot?”

  “Lord Stewart is sending fifty horse and two hundred foot from Renfrew—and Sir Douglas is marching a hundred more cavalry from Galloway.”

  “Douglas?” Malcolm asked, a hint of distrust inflected in his tone.

  “He’s bringing a hundred men.” William sliced his hand through the air. “We need his numbers. Besides, if anyone has a bone to pick, it is he. The knight lost near everything when Edward sacked Berwick.”

  Eddy elbowed his way further into the circle. “Did that missive mention anything about a plan?”

  “We’re to rendezvous at Fail Monastery on the morrow. But tell no one. Even if we havena spy in our ranks, ye never ken when someone will turn tail and join our enemies.”

  “Aye,” Blair said. “And I still dunna trust that lassie ye brought into our camp.”

  Wallace stepped up to Blair so their faces were but a hand’s breadth apart. “That’s right. Ye havena had a good word to say about Eva since she arrived.”