by Amy Jarecki
Lachlan narrowed his eyes, putting the pieces together. Wallace was destined to die by execution, nothing else. No wonder Mum wasn’t happy. She would have been mortified. “What was wrong with him?”
“Festering battle wound to the shoulder.”
“What year was that?”
“’Twas before he was captured and suffered a mockery of a trial. Must have been thirteen-o-five.”
“Jesus.” Mum wouldn’t have been mortified, she would have been completely and utterly freaked out.
Boyd arched an eyebrow. “Ye look just like him, ye ken.”
“William Wallace?”
“Aye.”
Such a statement made Lachlan uneasy. He’d always held Scotland’s hero in high esteem. No one should look like him. In his mind, no one could hold a candle to the common man who took on Edward the Longshanks. “Tell me more about Eva.”
“Let’s see…” Boyd scratched his beard and looked up to the sky. “I was nine and ten the second time she showed up, with bare legs and dressed in garb I’d never seen afore. Jesu, she appeared in Leglen Wood like she’d flown down from the stars. And she was angrier than a wee badger. But she had some medicine in her satchel that fixed Willy right up.” Boyd frowned. “Mayhap it would have been better if he’d died in the cave.”
“On account of his death in London?”
“Aye.”
“But didn’t his death spur the Scots to action?”
Boyd nodded with a deep sigh. “That and Robert the Bruce took up the reins—a solid king of men he has become.”
“All right.” Lachlan wanted to know more. So, his mother had time traveled before him? Why hadn’t she told him? Probably because I’d think she was nuts. “Then what happened?”
“She stayed beside him until the end—married him, too.”
“Wait. Eva MacKay married William Wallace?” Good lord, his poor mother had been through hell and back.
“Aye.”
“What happen to her after Wallace’s death?”
“No one kens. She traveled to London with Father Blair and Eddy Little. Went to his trial and after the lord justice gave his address, she started to argue. Blair told me she vanished right then and there.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Sir Boyd crossed his arms and took a step forward. He didn’t smile and he clearly didn’t want to shake hands. “I’ll ask ye once again. Do ye ken Eva MacKay?”
Lachlan looked the knight in the eye. The man was tough as nails with a battle-hardened glare. He’d said he was only twenty-eight, but he looked ten years older. Then Lachlan looked past him to the horses Boyd had brought across the bridge with him. He knew full well the extent of medieval torture. If he didn’t provide the right answer, he could end up in a pot of boiling water or worse.
But Lachlan had a few moves up his sleeve and he wasn’t about to let Boyd take him without a fight. Not anymore. He’d had enough of manacles and cages to last him the rest of his life.
Though he exhibited no outward sign of preparing for defense, Lachlan’s every muscle twitched, ready for anything. Then he looked Boyd in the eye. “My mother’s name is Eva MacKay.”
Chapter Eight
King Robert moved in beside Christina on the wall-walk. “I’m told your champion is making a fool of himself by swimming the Tweed. Doesna he ken it snowed this morn?”
Christina pointed. Sir Lachlan had stripped down to his braies and even from atop the ramparts, she could tell the man was hewn from pure muscle. “Hamish didna think he could swim the Tweed with the current being so strong and Boyd challenged him. Sir Lachlan couldna refuse lest he’d become the court jester for the next year.”
The king looked dubious. “I reckon Boyd has another reason for coaxing him out to the river. By the size of him, that man looks like he could swim the length of Loch Lomond in the midst of winter.”
She watched Lachlan dive into the water without a moment’s hesitation. His head disappeared for a very long moment—too long. Just when she thought to holler for someone to throw him a rope, his head emerged—nearly halfway across already and his arms worked the water with powerful strokes. “He may catch his death.”
The king gave her a sidewise look. “I’ll wager ye’ll see to it he doesna.”
“What do ye mean by that?”
“He’s your champion, is he not?”
“Aye.”
“Then I expect ye to care for him as ye do all the de Moray men.”
An exhale of relief slipped through her lips. At least the king couldn’t hear her thumping heart. “Indeed, I intend to. And I must prevail upon ye to allow him free movement within Roxburgh walls.”
“Perhaps. Once he returns to the castle, bring him to me.”
***
At least Lachlan made it back to the castle without being locked in manacles. And he hadn’t been sure if he’d agree to return to Roxburgh at all. By some miracle, on the riverbank, Boyd hadn’t run him through—or tried to. He’d only threatened to do it and that was if Lachlan did anything to hurt Christina or the king. Sir Boyd had surprised him by admitting he thought Lachlan was Eva’s son all along. When the knight probed further, Lachlan explained what he knew about the medallion as well as the year he was born. In the end, Boyd thwacked him on the back and said any kin of Willy’s was kin to him—but warned never to utter a word of it to anyone. He reckoned confessing to being a time traveler was worse than practicing witchcraft…and everyone knew what happened to witches and sorcerers.
By God, if Lachlan ever made it home, he’d have a good long chat with his mother and the first question would be, “Who the hell is my father?” William Wallace, Scotland’s greatest patriot and martyr?
Shut up.
After Christina met them in the courtyard, he and Boyd obediently followed the de Moray matriarch to Robert the Bruce’s lair. It appeared the king had watched his swimming demonstration from the wall-walk.
I suppose entertainment is sparse without televisions.
Climbing the worn wheeled stairs, Lachlan had no choice but to stoop over to keep from hitting his head—again. He’d already knocked it twice and, if you asked him, Scottish sandstone was every bit as hard as basalt.
Fortunately, they exited on the second floor landing, but not before Lachlan knocked his head on the way out. “I swear, these stairwells were made for dwarves.”
“Oh, please.” Christina glanced at him over her shoulder. “I had no problem, nor would any normal-sized man.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ye are enormous. I’m certain no one needs to remind ye of that fact.”
Lachlan rubbed the biggest knot on his head—one of many. “No, especially around here.”
She stopped in front of a door that arced up to a point just like anyone would expect to see in a medieval castle. “Ye say the oddest things at times.”
Lachlan swiped his hand across his mouth. “I suppose I need to be more careful about that.”
“Aye, ye do, especially in front of the king.” She shook her dainty finger under his nose. “Pay ye mind. If Robert the Bruce decides he doesna like ye, there’ll be hell to face for certain.”
“Will it involve torture?”
“Of course.” She threw out her hands. “What would ye think? He’d give ye a white stallion and send ye on your way?”
“That would be preferable over being scalded.”
“Or flayed.”
“Christ.” He rubbed his outer arms. Boiling pot be damned, being skinned alive had to be worse. “He’d do that?”
“Aye, the English flayed the Scots in Dunbar and, since, we’ve taken our own back a time or two.” The woman talked about torture like it was a perfectly normal everyday occurrence.
Remind me not to get on her bad side.
Before he could ask more about the torture methods employed by the crown, the door opened and introductions made while Lady Christina stood beside him looking prim and proper and not sayin
g a word. King Robert was an imposing man with a dark beard and eyes that looked like steel balls. Of all the statues and renderings of Bruce that Lachlan had seen, the closest likeness was the one near Bannockburn where he’s wearing full mail and mounted on a horse, holding a battleaxe in one hand and his reins in the other. That Bruce, like this man, had chiseled features and hardened lines, eyebrows that angled inward as if the man had a great deal on his mind.
The king sat behind a table in a large wooden chair—one that looked like it housed the Stone of Scone—but that rock had been stolen by Edward the Longshanks and taken to England. As he bowed, Lachlan stole a glance under the table to ensure his recollection was right.
Yep. No stone. Maybe I paid more attention to Mum than she gave me credit for.
“I owe ye thanks for rescuing Lady de Moray,” said Robert the Bruce in a deep, commanding voice. “Scotland would have lost a great deal had she been taken in the battle.”
“Thank you—ah—Your Majesty.”
The Bruce laughed and looked to his surrounding men. “What is this, Your Majesty? He is odd, is he not? Though your majesty has a pleasant ring to it.”
“Indeed it does, Your Grace,” said Christina. At least she was allowed to speak in the king’s presence…and she’d advised Lachlan of the king’s rightful title without making an obvious correction.
“How old are ye, sir knight?”
Lachlan looked both ways before answering, just to be certain there wasn’t a child in the room. How old am I? People stopped asking me that after my eighteenth birthday. “Thirty years old, Your Grace.”
“Are ye married?”
Dear God. “I was.”
The king frowned. “Unfortunate. Death has a sordid way of robbing us of our loved ones.”
Lachlan decided it was no use trying to correct the man. Did they even have divorces in the fourteenth century? Unfaithful wives who dumped their husbands before marching into battle were probably dealt with severely. “Indeed,” he managed to say while swallowing his urge to chuckle at the image of Angela locked in the stocks for a week.
The Bruce didn’t look amused in the slightest. His steely eyes cut through Lachlan like a pair of lasers. “I would have taken ye for a younger man. But a man of thirty? Why did ye not join me for the wars?”
“I’ve been away for years.” That was the truth. He’d been away from medieval Scotland all his life.
“In the Holy Land?” asked the Bruce.
“In Malta—and Rhodes.” Indeed, Lachlan had been both places. Fortunately, hotspots for the Crusades.
“A crusader, then?”
“Of sorts.”
“Ye didna pledge to an order?”
“No.”
“Acted as a mercenary soldier?”
“A student, mostly.”
“Och aye.” Those steely eyes softened with a look of respect. “Sir Boyd tells me ye’ve trained with the descendants of Genghis Khan.”
Lord, how one misunderstanding could lead to another. Lachlan pushed the medallion aside. The bloody annoying gewgaw heated like someone held it to a flame. “Um…I trained in warfare with a man from the Orient. Whether or not he was related to Khan, I cannot say.”
“Hmm. And what is your purpose in my army now?”
I wish I knew. Lachlan scratched his head trying to come up with something truthful that wouldn’t get him stretched on the rack.
Lady Christina held up her finger—she proved quite adept with such a small appendage. “I have named him my champion. He will help me find Andrew.”
The king glanced her way, but then regarded Lachlan with a critical eye. “What are his motives, m’lady? Riches? Land? Power?”
Not about to let a woman speak on his behalf, Lachlan stepped forward. “As long as I’m here, I want to be treated with the same respect due any man.” He gestured to her ladyship. “And serve my lady as she sees fit.”
“And your king?”
He bowed. “Of course that goes without saying, Your Grace.”
The king almost cracked a smile. “He does learn quickly does he not, m’lady?”
“Aye he—” Christina turned as the door burst open.
“Your Grace.” Two mail-clad warriors marched inside, wearing swords at their hips and targes strapped across their backs. They both bowed, then the larger stepped forward. “They’ve taken Andrew de Moray to Norham Castle.”
Clasping her hands together, Christina gasped. “My son.”
“He’s alive?” asked Bruce.
“We believe so. At least that’s what the English bastard told us afore we—” The guard bowed to Christina. “Beg your pardon, m’lady, but we had no choice but to send the poor beggar to his maker.”
“This is war. And in war, there are casualties on both sides. No one kens that better than I,” said Christina with a hard edge to her voice Lachlan hadn’t noticed before. He gave her a look. Though darling and petite, she might not be quite the delicate flower he’d pegged her to be. “Please, Robert,” she even called the king by the familiar. “Norham is so close.”
“Aye, and ’tis crawling with English,” said the guard.
Sir Boyd leaned back and folded his arms. “That only means we need to attack swiftly.”
“Nay.” The king sliced his hand through the air. “We’ll have better luck against her ramparts when the siege engines arrive from Stirling.”
“I’ll go in alone,” Lachlan heard himself say with conviction. Though he didn’t want to die before he managed to make it home, he’d been far better trained than any of the characters in this chamber. In the Special Forces, he’d been trained in covert warfare. He could slip inside and play a ghost until he found the lad.
Boyd snorted. “Ye’d be gutted the moment ye opened your mouth.”
“I’m not planning to make any lengthy speeches.” He shot a pointed look to Sir Robert Dominus Boyd, a man he was beginning to respect—and the only person in this century who knew the truth. “Tell me I’m wrong. I have no doubt King Robert knows it’s expensive to move an army—and to engage them is even more costly with loss of life. Besides, you said you’re waiting for catapults to come from Stirling. Why not let me slip inside while you’re waiting—one man can be a more powerful weapon than an army given the circumstances.”
“But what if ye’re caught?” asked Boyd. “They’ll move Andrew south for certain.”
“I like the crusader’s plot.” Bruce slapped his palm on the table. “If Wallace is seized we’ll attack as soon as the retinue leaves the safety of Norham’s ramparts.”
Lachlan raked his fingers through his hair. How little value they placed on his life. The king’s indifference made him want to withdraw his offer.
Lady Christina wrung her hands. “Do ye honestly think ye can spirit Andrew away without being captured?”
He gave her a nod—at least she showed some concern for his welfare. “I think I have as good a chance as any man.”
Christina covered her mouth. “Ye will not put Andrew’s life in peril?”
Well, it’s only natural she would show more concern for kin than for me. “Less than if King Robert’s army attacked the English directly.”
Lowering her hand, the lady squared her shoulders. “Then I say we do it.”
“That’s settled, then,” said King Robert with a clap of his hands. “Sir Boyd and Sir Lachlan will plan the rescue and, tonight, we shall feast in their honor.”
Chapter Nine
Christina allowed herself a modicum of hope as she climbed through the stairwell with an arm full of new clothes. They had discovered Andrew’s whereabouts and Sir Lachlan had volunteered to rescue him. Would she hold her son in her arms at last? If only she could allow herself to feel happiness, but it was too soon. If she set her hopes too high and their plan was thwarted, she might wither and die from disappointment.
Exiting on the fourth floor of the west tower, she made her way down the narrow passageway—clear to the back. After they’
d agreed on a plan, Sir Boyd had appointed Lachlan with a small chamber to allow him to prepare. Very few men received chambers of their own, not unless they were knights. Lachlan had said he was knighted, though he hadn’t mentioned by whom. It didn’t matter, really. Christina imagined he’d received his knighthood on the continent while he was on the tourney circuit.
Though her champion was an odd sort, she liked him. Liked his honesty and his strength of character.
Arriving at her destination, she knocked on the door. “Sir Lachlan, are ye within?”
“Yes, m’lady,” his deep voice resonated through the timbers.
She slipped a hand to the latch. “May I come in?”
“Ah…” water dribbled. “Sure.”
Grinning, she pushed the door wide. Then her heart nearly stopped. “Oh my heavens, why did ye not say ye were bathing?” His hair was wet and slicked back. Rivulets of water trickled through the dark curls on his chest. Merciful saints, it was quite a massive chest at that. It rose and fell with his inhale. Christina had seen him stripped to his braies from a distance, but up close, he was so much more virile.
The dark and devilish look in his eyes was enough to stop her breath. The last time a man had stared at her with such hunger, she’d been but a young bride at the age of eight and ten. Ill equipped was she to control the swarm of tingles spreading across her skin. Heaven help her, this man was sculpted from granite. Merely the definition of the braw beneath the flesh on his arms was enough to make her legs unsteady.
Slightly parting her lips, she forgot to breathe as her gaze meandered down, down until she met with the waterline. Goodness, with his knees over the edge of the tub, his feet hung to the floorboards.
He glanced down into the bath. “I’m covered—more or less.” He did look a wee bit silly with his feet dangling over the side of the wooden half-barrel with a fire crackling in the hearth behind him. “Come in and shut the door—you’re letting out all the warm air.”
“Pardon me.” Peeking over her shoulder, she checked to ensure no saw her, then slipped inside. She still needed to give the man his new clothes. Besides, she was a widow and completely impervious to the wiles of the flesh. She held up her armload. “I’ll only be a moment. I ordered these made for ye the same day I ordered your boots.”