by Amy Jarecki
He hissed when he touched the bruise at his temple, partially hidden by a mop of shoulder-length brown hair usually secured at the back of his crown with a band the way Angela wanted it. Maybe he should shave his head. Or maybe he should grow it even longer, travel to Alaska and become a mountain man. He certainly looked the part—thick beard, with two days of growth on his cheeks and neck where it shouldn’t be—and it itched like a bitch.
His hip knocked the gift bag over.
Lachlan shifted his gaze and stared at it for a moment. It wasn’t like Walter to leave a gift. Heaving a sigh, he reached for the bag and pulled out a note.
Dear Champ,
I presumed you would figure out that Crumpet could take care of himself for a week or two. But I also knew you’d be hurting on the inside. Believe it or not, I’ve suffered a tragedy or two in my lifetime, as well. Right, so go ahead and pull out the medallion inside. This isn’t a gift, but a loan. I lent it to your mother before you were born after she’d experienced a tragedy and it turned her life around in a miraculous way.
Go on, now. Hold it in your palm and put it around your neck. Feel the temperature of the metal against your chest.
Lachlan dug inside the bag and pulled out the medallion. It was about the size of a fifty-cent piece but round rather than being a decagon. Heavier than it looked, the worn piece was inscribed in Latin.
Lachlan turned Walter’s note over.
As you can see, this old relic is inscribed in Latin. I found it when excavating the Fail Monastery ruins eons ago.
The front reads: “Verum est quasi malis navis in nocte” and means “truth is like a beacon”.
Lachlan confirmed Walter’s statement, then flipped the medallion to the back.
On the reverse it reads: “Sed pauci volunt sequi”, translated: “but few choose to follow”.
He rubbed the hunk of bronze between his fingers. Truth is like a beacon, but few choose to follow. Indeed, his mother had always drilled into him the importance of the truth. She’d spent most of her life trying to interpret historical facts and take her findings to the world.
Honestly, Lachlan’s entire life had been a quest to seek the truth. His dedication to martial arts and kinesiology, to finding the body’s balance, energy, peace and healing all centered around the need for a man to be truthful to himself. Otherwise, Zen could not be achieved. Inner peace could not be found.
The problem?
His inner peace had been obliterated with a single phone call.
He slipped the leather thong over his head and plopped back to the pillows, staring at the paint chipping off the ceiling until sleep took the pain in his heart away.
Chapter Two
The Scottish Borders, November, 1314
Lady Christina de Moray’s horse stutter-stepped as if the gelding sensed her unease. But who in all of Christendom could remain calm at a time like this? Sitting taller and craning her neck, she searched the ranks of approaching English soldiers for any sign of her son.
She’d waited thirteen years for this day. During the duration of her purgatory, she’d spent endless hours on her knees praying this moment would come. The wind picked up her veil and blew it into her face. Batting the ugly grey wool away, she continued her search while the English rode into formation on the other side of the border. On the Scots side, she sat on the outside of the row of nobles atop a galloway pony that was far smaller than the knights’ destrier warhorses. King Robert had allowed her to come because her son was the first of several prisoners for whom they were negotiating a trade in exchange for English prisoners of war as part of the peace terms after the Battle of Bannockburn. Though “peace” might be an exaggeration.
The de Moray army was led by Hamish, her man-at-arms. They were among the ranks behind the row of nobles. This was a diplomatic meeting—an exchange and nothing more.
Though a frigid day, Christina’s palms still perspired in her gloves. She prayed she would recognize Andrew, though the last time she’d held him in her arms he was only a bairn of two. With a shiver, she remembered the day the English had breached her castle walls and taken her child from her embrace. Gracious, at five and ten, Andrew would practically be grown—but still not a man.
He had blue eyes and was named for Christina’s husband, a nobleman who died from his wounds in the Battle of Stirling Bridge. Aye, Andrew de Moray had fought beside William Wallace. Together, they were named Guardians of Scotland and, shortly thereafter, she had lost him to fever—the only man she would ever love. Eight and ten was far too young to be a widow.
But this day she didn’t want to think about how the world had spiraled out of control with Andrew’s death. She would soon have her son back on Scottish soil. They had so many things on which to catch up—three and ten years of separation to pack into a few months until King Robert would require Andrew to squire for Sir Boyd. The great knight who had once squired for Wallace now led the procession forward to meet with the English party beside the marker that defined the boundary between the two countries.
What will Andrew be like? Surely he will know his mother. Though a lad of five and ten will not want to be pampered.
At Roxburgh Castle, Christina had a package for the lad—his father’s sword, surcoat bearing the de Moray coat of arms, and a leather targe with brass nails, fit for a man of great import. He would be given a Scottish galloway stallion and a royal caparison so that everyone who saw him would know him to be a nobleman—and that one day he would become a knight.
Aye, she had many plans for Andrew and, finally, the day had come. Like a hawk, she watched the English side. Someone towed a line leading a horse bearing a rider with his wrists bound. Merciful father, the prisoner was a lad for certain. His dark locks blew sideways with the wind, but his beard had not yet come in.
“Andrew!” she cried out, then smothered her outward exuberance by pressing a fist to her lips.
The lad glanced her way as if he’d heard his mother call his name. Sir Boyd and the others must have started the parley, because Andrew’s attention was quickly drawn back to the proceedings. But Christina’s heart leapt. For the first time in three and ten years she was gazing upon her son. At long last, they would be a family again.
A rumble sounded from behind the English ranks. Screeches of swords drawn from their scabbards on both sides of the border hissed through the air. The thundering of horses grew nearer.
Christina’s stomach twisted while a sharp jolt shot through her insides. The horse beneath her neighed and sidestepped again. The line of English soldiers opened, giving way to a cavalry of warriors, their faces hidden by bucket helms.
“Andrew!” Christina shouted, spurring her horse forward.
The scene erupted in mayhem. Ahead, her son was swallowed by soldiers behind the enemy line. Men bellowed. Swords clashed.
“No!” She slapped her reins, demanding speed from her gelding. The horse reared while destriers laden with armored knights cut them off. The sound of battle boomed from the ranks while arrows hissed above.
Frantically, Christina searched the mayhem for Andrew.
Where have they taken him?
Her galloway skittered away from the fight. Wind swirled, blinding her with her veil. A thick hand peppered with black hair grabbed the gelding’s bridle. Instinctively, Christina reached inside her sleeve for her dagger. “Release me!”
“So now the bleating Scots have women fighting their battles?” growled the smelly English pikeman. “I’ll show them what we do with women the likes of ye.”
He reached for her arm.
Recoiling, Christina sliced her dagger and aimed for his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt slit open.
“Bitch!” the man swore, grabbing her wrist and twisting. Hard.
As she was pulled from her mount, Christina’s knife fell to the ground. “Do not touch me!” she screamed.
The cur’s brutal grip only strengthened as he wrestled her to the ground and pounced atop her. Blood cold as ice
pulsed through her veins as she thrashed and kicked, fighting to free herself from the crushing weight driving into her chest. An ugly laugh rumbled from the blackguard’s belly while he stuck his tongue out and licked her face. “Once ye’ve had an Englishman, your Scotsmen will never measure up.”
Whipping her head from side to side, she escaped his mouth, but he threw back his hand and slapped her face.
Searing pain stung her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision.
The varlet’s weight shifted, pinning her shoulders while his hand shoved between their bodies.
In a blink, Christina knew what he was doing. Fighting for her life, she jerked her shoulders trying to wrest free while she dug her left heel into the ground and threw her right knee to his groin. Missing her mark, she connected with the crack of his bum.
He growled, punishing her with another slap.
But Christina wasn’t about to stop fighting—not until she took her last breath. Boring down with her heels, she thrashed. “Get off me, ye brute.” She would hold her son in her arms this day if it was the last thing she did. And by the shift of the crushing weight on her chest, she only had moments before her life’s breath completely whooshed from her lungs.
The very thought of dying whilst her son was still held captive infused her with strength. With a jab, she slammed the heel of her hand across the man’s chin. He flew from her body like a sack of grain. Praises be, had the Lord granted her with superhuman strength? Blinking, Christina sat up.
No, no. Her strike hadn’t rescued her from the pillager.
A champion had.
A behemoth of a man pummeled the pikeman’s face with his fists. “Never. Ever.” His fists moved so fast they blurred. “Harm. A. Woman!”
Bloodied and battered, the varlet dropped to the dirt.
A swordsman attacked her savior from behind.
“Watch out,” she cried, but before the words left her lips the warrior spun to his feet. Flinging his arm backward, he grabbed his assailant’s wrist, stopped the sword midair and flipped the cur onto his back.
Onward, he fought a rush of English attackers with his bare hands, without armor. Not even William Wallace himself had been so talented. This warrior moved like a cat, anticipating his opponent’s moves before they happened.
Five enemy soldiers lay on their backs.
“Quickly,” the man shouted, running toward her, his feet bare.
No sooner had she rolled to her knees than his powerful arms clamped around her. The wind whipped beneath her feet. He planted her bum in the saddle.
“Behind!” Christina screamed, every muscle in her body clenching taut.
Throwing back an elbow, the man smacked an enemy soldier in the face resulting in a sickening crack.
She picked up her reins and dug in her heels.
“Whoa!” The big man latched onto the skirt of her saddle and hopped behind her, making her pony’s rear end dip. But the frightened galloway didn’t need coaxing. He galloped away from the fight like a deer running from a fox.
Christina peered around her shoulder at the mass of fighting men behind them. “My son!”
“Do you see him?” the man asked in the strangest accent she’d ever heard.
She tried to turn back, but the man’s steely chest stopped her. “They took him.”
“Who?”
“The English, of course.”
The more they talked, the further from the border the galloway took them.
“Huh?” the man mumbled behind her like he’d been struck in the head by a hammer. Everyone for miles knew the Scots and the English were to exchange a prisoner that day.
The champion’s big palm slipped around her waist and held on—it didn’t hurt like he was digging in his fingers, but he pressed firm against her. The sensation of such a powerful hand on her body was unnerving. It had been eons since any man had touched her, at least gently. The truth? Aside from the brutish attack moments ago, Christina’s life had been nothing but chaste.
White foam leached from the pony’s neck and he took in thunderous snorts. He wouldn’t be able to keep this pace much longer. Christina steered him through a copse of trees and up the crag where just that morning she’d stood with King Robert and Sir Boyd before they’d led the Scottish battalion into the valley. There, she could gain a good vantage point and try to determine where the backstabbing English were heading with Andrew this time.
At the crest of the outcropping, she pulled the horse to a halt. “The pony cannot keep going at this pace.”
The man’s eyebrows slanted inward and he gave her a quizzical stare. Good Lord, his tempest-blue eyes pierced straight through her soul. “Are you speaking English?”
Shaking off her solicitude, she thrust her finger toward the ground. “Hop. Down.”
Immediately, the warm palm left her waist and the warrior slid off the pony, though with legs the length of a two-handed sword, he didn’t have far to go. Christina reached her hands out for a bit of help, but the man strode to the edge of the crag without so much as a backward glance. He planted his fists on his hips and stared out over the battle. “Jesus Christ, that’s realistic.”
Snapping a hand over her heart, Christina gasped. Blasphemy. After sliding down from the horse without assistance, she stood still for a moment—why was there something familiar about this stranger? Could she be in danger?
Nay.
The man had rescued her from certain death. But the more she examined him, the odder he appeared. He wore black trews far looser and longer than any chausses she’d ever seen. And on top, a curious thick grey shirt cinched below the waist—his garb appeared excessively casual. He had no cloak, no surcoat displaying his coat of arms. And as she’d noticed before, his feet were bare, of all oddities.
And ’tis miserably cold.
True, there had been something familiar about his eyes.
And Christina had only seen one man in her entire life who stood as tall as he, and that man had died in the service of his country nine years prior.
But her new protector was the least of her worries. Her son had been no more than fifty paces away and she’d lost him. Her heart sank to her toes.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, the warrior turned and faced Christina, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “Who are those maniacs?”
For pity’s sake, he used unusual speech. “King Robert’s army.” She eyed him. “Ye speak as if ye’ve just flown down from the moon.”
He batted a hand through the air. “You can stop with the act now—no one’s around who cares.”
“I beg your pardon? I care. Have ye climbed out of some hole in the midst of a bog?” She stamped her foot. Perhaps this man needed things spelled out. “They were supposed to conduct a peaceful exchange—my son for one of theirs—but ye ken ye can never trust an English king. I havena seen my son for three and ten years until this day. And just when Sir Boyd rode forward for the exchange, the evil swine’s blackguards attacked.”
The man’s eyebrows pinched together and he looked at her like she’d grown two heads. “Jesus, I can barely understand you. What is it? Auld Scots?” He paced and gestured out to the battlefield. “What I saw of the fighting was just too goddamned realistic—and the man who was on top of you—I’ll tell you right now, that was no act. If I hadn’t collared him, he would have raped you.”
She wrung her hands, trying to make sense of this unusual behemoth. True, he’d acted like a champion, but now he was being nonsensical. “I can tell ye true, that accursed man wasna playacting. Had ye not come to my aid there is every chance I would be laying in a pool of my own blood about now.”
“Unbelievable.” He again looked to the battlefield, where the two enemies began to head in opposite directions. “Where are the bloody police?”
“Pardon?” How could she make sense of such gibberish?
“They’re going to need a bigger jail when they haul all those nutcases in.”
Christina didn�
��t understand a word—except jail—it sounded like gaol. “Never mind them.” She scanned the horizon. Whoever took Andrew was long gone by now.
Curses.
“As I said, I’ve waited three and ten years to see my son and I’m finished with standing by helplessly. King Robert released me from being a prisoner in my own castle.” She turned back to the horse. Aye, she had the remains of the de Moray army, but no one in her ranks could fight like this stranger. “Please, I cannot ride into England myself and go after him. I need someone like ye. Someone who can fight—who can help me scale castle walls and bring my Andrew home.”
He sauntered toward her. “So let me get this straight…The English have your son and you want to break into a maximum security prison to help him escape?”
She scoffed. “Ye make it sound as if Andrew’s a felon.”
“He’s not?”
“Nay, he was abducted from my home and taken from me when he was but a bairn. Finally, after we won at Bannockburn, King Robert negotiated for Andrew’s freedom in exchange for an English prisoner.”
The man’s eyes nearly crossed as he shook his head and waved his hands. “Wait. Let’s back up a moment.” He scratched his head, looking completely lost. “You said the Battle of Bannockburn?”
“Aye.”
“If my memory serves me correctly, Bannockburn was fought in the year thirteen hundred and fourteen.”
“At least ye havena been under a rock for so long ye dunna ken the year.”
He snorted with a laugh. “So, you’re trying to tell me the battle down there is real—that King Robert is Robert the Bruce?”
“Aye.”
“Shut up.”
“I beg your pardon? I merely answered your question.”
“No. It’s just I am either dreaming or you’re feeding me a line of tripe.”
“Anyone can plainly see ye are awake.” She moved around the horse and regarded the warrior over the galloway’s back. “But I’m thinking ye’re addled in the head.”
“I’m beginning to think I agree with you.” He raked his fingers through his thick, shoulder-length locks—his hair was awfully well-groomed for a man. “I have no idea how I ended up here. I can’t even remember having a night on the sauce. Do you have a car nearby?”