by Amy Jarecki
“Let me see,” he said. “I think I’d like to take my time with this one—young women always provide such interesting sport—and ye will be all the more entertaining when I hold court in the town square on the morrow.”
She took in an inhale—good, he didn’t plan to kill her immediately. Eva slid the knife from its peg and hid it behind her back.
The sheriff spun around. “What was that?”
Jeez, I barely made a noise. She knitted her eyebrows. “Pardon me, sir?”
He chuckled and sauntered toward her, his neck craning so he could look her in the eye. “Ye might be certain of yourself now wench, but I assure ye, I’ll have ye singing the bastard’s name from the bell tower by the time I’m done.”
Eva tightened her grip around the knife’s hilt.
He held up a pair of shears and grinned like Batman’s Jester. “We’ll start with these.”
He yanked her veil from her head, then jerked away. Sucking in a gasp, he gaped at her in horror. “Miserable bleating wretch! I should have known someone might have already taken the shears to ye.”
Then Heselrig narrowed his eyes, his initial shock replaced by a sneer. He fingered a lock of her hair—the veil had kept it dry. “What did ye do to earn this shearing? I’ll wager ye’re keeping company with more than one scoundrel dog.”
Eva jerked her head aside, making her hair slip from his fingers. Her gut lost a bit of verve and clamped with terror. She needed to keep the sheriff talking—anything to prevent him from doing something unconscionable. “I-if I tell you his name, will you let me go?”
Lunging, his hands shot out and trapped her against the wall, his foul breath wafted up to her nose. “Ye’ve broken the law, for that ye must be punished.”
She looked down at his beady eyes—black and without a hint of compassion. “But I thought a man like you might be a better negotiator,” she baited him. “Telling me I’ll pay penance regardless does nothing to loosen my tongue.”
“Ye are a wicked bitch.” With a sickly chuckle, he ground his crotch against her thigh. “Clearly ye’re not daft.” He inclined his head toward the table of torture devices behind. “If ye hold your tongue, the pain ye’ll endure will be far worse.”
Eva swallowed, perspiration prickling her brow. Though the man was shorter, he outweighed her by a good sixty pounds. She needed time. How the hell could she overpower Heselrig and then take on the goons with the battleaxes by the stairwell? “What will you do if you catch him?”
“When I catch him.” He licked her neck, an unwelcome column of hardness growing against Eva’s thigh. “There will be a public display on such a grand scale, the king will grant me title, lands and riches.”
“So you’re pillaging Scottish villages—murdering innocents for a title?”
His hand snapped to her face, his fingers clamping around her chin. “I’m clearing vermin from the face of the earth.”
The back of Eva’s head ground into the stone wall behind, but she clenched her teeth against the pain. I must keep stalling. “What about the gentry—nobles like Bruce and Comyn? They own lands on either side of the border.”
The vile man spat at the wall beside her head. “They’re little better—aside from having the king’s ear—and his bleeding protection.”
“True,” she hissed through her teeth with her face squashed in his grip. “Those who signed the roll pledging fealty to King Edward are all protected—but then some didn’t sign.”
Still pinning her with his body, Heselrig released his grasp on her chin. “And it is my duty to convict those errant bastards for treason.”
Her brow pinched. “How can they commit treason when they are not English subjects?”
“Ye’re one of them are ye not?”
“A Scot? Aye.” Oh, how Eva would have liked to tell Heselrig how wrong he was, and describe exactly how psychotic the English king would become, but that would only serve to make her captor lash out—might even buy her a one-way ticket back to 2015.
The muffled sound of horses came from above. Eva prayed Wallace and his men had arrived. She doubted she’d be able to delay the sheriff’s sadistic torture much longer.
Heselrig grabbed the back of her hair and yanked.
Eva braced herself against the wall and tightened her grip on the dagger. “What if the man you’re after rides with Bruce?”
“Ye’re boring me, wench. Ye know as well as I, Bruce sides with Edward.”
“Does he?”
He yanked her hair to the side and held up the shears. Grunts and clanging echoed from above stairs.
Hesitating, Heselrig nodded at the guards. “Go take care of the skirmish.”
With his attention diverted, Eva clenched every muscle in her body and stamped her boot on the sheriff’s instep.
Hopping, he reeled back. “Christ! I’ll murder ye for that.”
He drew back his fist. Clamping onto the dagger with both hands, Eva swung. She gritted her teeth as the blade sliced across his arm.
“You cock-sucking whore,” Heselrig shrieked, bending over his wound.
Eva sprinted for the stairs. “Help!”
Something clattered behind her. Heart racing, she ran faster.
Her foot stretched for the first step. She grasped the rope rail.
A blunt object thudded against the back of her head.
***
“Spare the innocent!” William held a torch high as he led the charge into the town of Lanark. “Burn out the vermin!”
The only way to break through Heselrig’s defenses was to storm the city at night. It had taken every ounce of William’s self-control, but he’d waited until the sun sank in the western sky.
The Sheriff of Lanark had murdered hundreds of his countrymen—had murdered his father, and now he’d taken Eva. The woman might be only a slip of a lass, but in the past hours she’d become a symbol embodying all of the suffering inflicted against Scotland by the trespassing English.
Ahead, the town gates had not yet been secured. Wallace waved his torch. “We shall have our vengeance.”
An arrow hissed past his ear. His warhorse didn’t flounder, pummeling the ground as together they barreled forward.
A high-pitched bellow shrieked from behind. William’s gut roiled with his mounting ire. Aye, he would lose a man or two this night, but his losses would be nothing compared to the devastation his men would deliver.
English pikemen scampered in front of the gateway, awaiting their death.
Digging in his spurs, William demanded more speed as he galloped toward the doomed men. Holding his course, he drove with focused abandon. Two steps before impact, he leaned forward and cued his warhorse to jump over the unsuspecting guardsmen.
With a thud, the horse’s front hoof caught a soldier’s helm. The man grunted as he dropped to the ground.
William braced himself to land, casting a glance over his shoulder. As planned, Blair followed suit, along with Little. The miserable guards had no defense.
The warhorse hit hard, then raced ahead. William threw his torch at a thatched roof and reined his steed toward the gaol. By the time he dismounted, the burgh’s roofs were ablaze. Women screamed as frenzied people raced through the streets.
“Spare the innocent,” he bellowed again, hopping down with his sword firmly gripped in his hand.
William led the way up the steps straight toward a line of guards.
“Halt,” yelled an emboldened fool, defending the door with a battleax.
The impertinent command only served to raise the hackles on the back of William’s neck. Not stopping to parley, he raised his blade and dispatched the man with a sidelong swing. Metal clanged as William and his men deftly launched into battle, cutting through the line of guards.
Not a man in the burgh of Lanark could stand against William and his patriots. When not fighting the enemy, they trained from dawn till dusk for battles such as this. If Sir Heselrig thought he’d continue to demonstrate the ruthlessness of Ed
ward Plantagenet, he’d soon discover the error of his ways.
Charging inside, William addressed a young soldier. The lad’s sword shook as his neck craned to take in Wallace’s extraordinary height. William glowered and advanced. “Where’s the sheriff?”
The lad’s eyes flashed toward the stairwell.
“Help!” Eva’s voice shrieked.
William started toward the sound. The lad howled and attacked from the flank. With a twist, the great sword hissed through the air, colliding with the young man’s blade. William attacked.
The boy quickly retreated behind a table.
In two strides, William skirted around it, slamming his pommel into the lad’s helm. His eyes rolled back as he dropped to the floorboards.
William dashed to the stairwell, crouching low to descend the narrow passage without hitting his head.
Rounding the last bend, Wallace found the repugnant blackguard kneeling over Eva’s body. Blood pooled beneath her face.
Heselrig sprang up with a sneer.
William roared and leapt from the last step.
Moving like an asp, the sheriff blocked William’s strike and spun to behind the security of a table. The man’s deranged cackle filled the dungeon. “Luring ye into my snare proved far easier than I’d guessed.”
Together the men circled the table, laden with blackened iron tools of torture.
Heselrig lunged to the side with a tricky flick of his sword. William hopped away from the blade’s pass and dashed around the board.
The Englishman made chase like a milk-livered swine. William stopped daring the bastard to make a move.
The scoundrel trained his blade between them. “’Tis a shame ye spoiled my fun. Any later and I would have impregnated her with English seed.”
William’s ears rushed with his inhale.
Each thundering beat of his heart rumbled as if the world stilled.
The shift of his eyes brought in a myriad of information.
As his lids lowered, William upended the table and hurtled it into Heselrig’s body. Weapons clanked and clattered to the ground. The sheriff flew against the stone wall, his eyes stunned. Heaving the board aside, Wallace advanced. “Ye will not live to rape another woman or pillage another Scottish burgh.”
Heselrig jerked, pulling his weapon up. “I’ll murder—”
William’s great sword hacked off his arm at the shoulder, opening a giant gash in the bastard’s upper quarter.
The English sword clattered to the floor.
Dropping to his knees, blood spouted from the sheriff’s wound before he fell to his face.
As time again sped, William dashed to Eva’s body, praying she was alive.
Turning her over, he gathered her into his arms. Blood caked beneath her nose. “Eva, wake. Please.” He clutched her body against his and rocked, the agony of the past few days hitting him with the force of an iron hammer. “God in heaven,” his voice cracked. “Why are my people to suffer at the hands of a madman’s rule—a man not of this kingdom?”
Beneath his arms, Eva’s ribs expanded. Gasping, William regarded her face. “Eva?”
Her eyes remained closed.
Chapter Eleven
William sat beside Eva and read his psalter, something he often did to make sense of the world around him. The memory of his own brutality troubled him—deeply troubled. Amidst the fever of battle, he could be as ruthless as Edward Plantagenet himself. But who else will take a stand against these tyrants?
At least Eva could rest peacefully there in his private alcove of the cave. He’d never allowed anyone inside this space, but he’d brought her there because of her gender, not because…
William shook his head and read Psalm Eighty-eight—a favorite—one about his soul being in the depths of a pit. When he rescued Eva from Lanark, his soul had soared with the stars. But now doubt clutched his heart with iron gauntlets. How could he have allowed the woman to grow close? She’d shown him kindness in the wee hours one night and he’d assumed they had made a bond. And now it would be yet another black mark on his soul if she didn’t wake.
When he finished reading, his gaze slid to the rectangular object that had fallen out of her pocket when he removed her doublet. Devil’s spawn, the thing lit up without a fire when he grasped it. He tensed. Even Eva’s doublet was not from this world. It possessed a metal tab that ran up and down a track, fastening and unfastening as if by magic. How he hadn’t noticed the abnormality before, he couldn’t fathom.
A sorceress.
William had never had dealings with a witch, but Eva appeared to defy all the rumors spewed about them. She certainly wasn’t capable of saving herself from Heselrig, nor would she have escaped Fail Monastery alive if he hadn’t arrived when he did.
His gaze slid to the worn leather satchel she had slung over her shoulder when he found her at Lanark. She definitely didn’t have that before she’d been abducted by Heselrig—and in no way could Wallace imagine the sheriff giving it to her.
Did she come in contact with someone else?
William desperately wanted to believe she had been given the bag by a passerby, but it seemed so unlikely. Could she have met another of her kind? A sorcerer? He shuddered. A Devil worshiper?
He had noticed her boots before. Carefully, he unlaced them and removed each one. Thick soles with grooves that would provide good traction for certain, but once again, they were not of this world. The soles weren’t made of leather or wood. He ran his thumb over the back of the heel. The material had pliability to it, and inside, the sole was spongy. He turned the boot over in his hand and sniffed. She’d said these were waterproof, yet they’ve not been immersed in fat.
The satchel stared at him like a calculating serpent. Had she witches potions within? William couldn’t remember ever being afraid of anything in his life. He was a warrior. He ran into battle when others fled, and by the grace of God, he would fear nothing from this witch.
With a growl, he snatched the satchel and unfastened the buckles. Taking a deep breath, he quickly threw back the flap, ready to face any apparition that sprang out. When nothing untoward happened, he inclined the opening toward the candle and peered inside.
He reached in and pulled out another bag, pink in color, hewn of a foreign, iridescent material. This, too, had the fastener with the metal tab. Dreading what he might find inside, he opened it. Oddly, he recognized a few items—a hairbrush and another that might be used to clean one’s teeth. He picked up the hairbrush and examined it. Indeed, the materials were a quandary. He placed his finger on a rounded point, surprised when it didn’t prick him. The center of the brush was pillow soft, entwined with Eva’s red tresses.
To his dismay, small vials of potions were tossed haphazardly inside, as if they wouldn’t break. William held one up. Though the writing was bold and blocked—nothing like the script he’d seen used throughout Christendom—he thought he recognized the letters. “Sh-am-poo.” Whatever does it mean?
He tugged on the stopper, to no avail, but it twisted beneath his thumb. Curious, he turned it again and again until the stopper pulled all the way off. Amazing, yet so entirely alien. Holding the vial to his nose, he sniffed. A pleasing fragrance of honey mixed with flowers—not a repugnant-smelling potion he’d expect from a witch. Still, the scent was so heavenly, it couldn’t be of this world.
William didn’t know what to make of any of it. That Eva was a witch was certain. He fingered the hilt of his dirk. Practicing sorcery was strictly forbidden by the church, punishable by burning. What havoc could she run with his men? I should kill her now while she’s still sleeping. That would be the most compassionate way to dispatch the lass.
But William didn’t draw his knife. He glanced at her face and then to the items scattered about him. He needed no more evidence of her guilt. The satchel and its contents must be burned, and when, or if Eva awoke, he’d send her away. He’d been a fool to take her in and clothe her.
“Where am I?”
; William jolted. Things might have been easier if she’d passed away in slumber. “We’re back at the cave,” he grumbled. In no way would he mention Leglen Wood.
Her eyes peered open with a flash of green. “My head feels like it’s been bludgeoned.”
His gut clamped. She wouldn’t be charming him ever again. “I’m surprised a witch can feel pain.”
She pressed her palms to her temples. “What are you talking about?”
William held up the most incriminating evidence of all. “This, this thing lit up without fire when it fell from your doublet.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Blasphemy!” He drew back. “So it is true, ye do worship the devil and practice sorcery?”
She sat up and swayed, holding her hand to her head. “No. I am a Christian. I’m sorry, my head is pounding so hard I can’t think straight.”
“Mayhap because I have uncorked your beguiling floral potion. I can still smell its wiles in my nostrils.”
Her gaze trailed to the satchel. “You looked in my bag? That’s my personal stuff.”
“Aye? It became my duty to look inside when that object lit up like a streak of lightning.”
She reached for the vial he’d opened and twisted the stopper. “This is not a potion. It is shampoo, used for washing hair—ye ken, scrubbing my tresses. The scent lingers and smells nice.”
“A hair tonic it may verra well be, but nothing about ye is of this world. Your doublet fastens with magic, the soles of your shoes are not of leather or wood, or any material I’ve ever seen. Even that vial of sh-am-poo must be hewn by a sorceress’ hand.”
“Ugh.” Eva rubbed her head. “You weren’t supposed to look in my satchel.”
He straightened. “So ye admit to being a witch?”
“No.” She groaned and looked up, dragging her fingers through her hair. “I am not a witch. I promised you that before.”
