Rise of a Legend (Guardian of Scotland Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  The Earl of Surrey jutted his finger forward. “I expect you to hang every one of the survivors when this is over. And the two of you clearly are incapable of negotiating a farthing from a blind beggar’s alms basin.” This was preposterous. Surely Wallace didn’t want to be responsible for massacring his men.

  Warenne snatched the missive containing the terms for the outlandish pirate and pointed to two Dominican friars. “Take this. Quickly cross the bridge and deliver my terms to Wallace and Murray. Tell them their refusal will result in the slaughter of their entire garrison of men.”

  As soon as the two friars set out, Sir Richard Lundie rode in. “Lord Warenne, with all due respect, if we wait until the entire army crosses the bridge, we are dead men.”

  “That is absurd,” said Cressingham. “Are you another Scottish noble turned backstabber?”

  “Please hear me out,” Lundie deplored. “We can only cross the bridge two abreast, and the enemy is keeping their numbers hidden which makes me very wary indeed. Let me take a hundred and fifty cavalrymen and cross at the ford downstream.”

  Warenne stroked his beard. “We’ve not that many horse to spare.”

  Lundie pointed down river. “Then make it fifty. At least that will increase our odds.”

  “We cannot divide our forces, my lord.” Cressingham rode his mount alongside the earl. “To do so would weaken us at our very heart. And it will pay us no service, my lord earl, to misuse the king’s money with vain maneuvers.”

  Warenne peered across the grassy carse. “The heathens are hiding in the forest for Christ’s sake.” He frowned at Sir Lundie. “I’m afraid I agree with the king’s treasurer on this. We need the strength of our cavalry here with the heart of our forces.”

  ***

  William watched in disbelief as two Dominican friars now crossed the bridge and made their way through the Carse of Stirling.

  “What do ye make of that?” asked Andrew.

  Unable to do anything but shake his head, Wallace smirked. “As farcical as this day has transpired? It could be the two monks are carrying a missive declaring us both to be saints.”

  “I could live with a sainthood.” Andrew gave a wink and a grin.

  William chuckled. “So could I, but only after we boot the bloody English off our lands.”

  Andrew inclined his head to the path. “Shall we ride down and meet them at the forest edge or make them climb the hill?”

  William cued his horse to a walk. “If we dunna go down there, the sun will be setting by the time they reach us.”

  Riding down the hill had been the right decision, because the two holy men were breathing heavily by the time they stepped under the cover of the forest.

  “The right honorable Earl of Surrey requests your surrender on threat of annihilation of your men. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop this madness.” A friar held up a missive. “Lord Warenne has offered you good terms—lands and riches—even a title. You and all your men could walk away and live.”

  William snatched the vellum from the friar’s fingertips and handed it to Murray. “Do ye want to bargain with a backstabbing tyrant?”

  Andrew shook his head. “No more than I want a rat to crawl up my arse.”

  “Then burn that bloody thing afore I use it to gag these two wayward monks. I will not accept a bribe to accede to defeat and play Judas to my countrymen.” He held up his finger and eyed each one. “Tell your commander that we are not here to make peace, but to do battle to defend ourselves and liberate our kingdom. Let them come on, and we shall prove this in their verra beards.”[2]

  The second man shook his finger toward the Scottish ranks. “Then their deaths shall be on your head.”

  The other made the sign of the cross. “May God have mercy on their souls.”

  “And on yours for taking the side of oppression and injustice.” William reined his horse toward the crag. Bless it, he’d have his battle this day.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  After the friars returned to the English camp, for the third time that day Longshanks’ army started across Stirling Bridge. When nearly half of the English vanguard had traversed, Father Blair approached, wearing mail atop his habit and carrying a psalter in his hands. “It looks as if we will have our fight after all.”

  William took in a deep, reviving breath of air. “Aye, friar, and a blessed day this is.”

  Father Blair bowed his head. “Let us pray.”

  Andrew and William kneeled, as did the other men in their company. Bowing his head, Wallace clutched his fist to his heart.

  “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, we beseech thee, oh Lord to grant these brave souls courage to face triumphant death and stand against the oppressor. We carry your cross over our hearts as we fight against tyranny. For rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God. Amen.”

  “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God,” William repeated. “Amen,” he chorused with the others, then stood. “I expected a prayer the length of Sunday mass.”

  Blair’s shoulder ticked up. “Aye, well sometimes the Lord needs us to get on with it. Besides, I’ll not tire our men by making them kneel for hours.”

  Andrew pointed. “I think it is time.”

  Indeed, the numbers of Englishmen who’d crossed the bridge had begun to march on. With a nod, William held his ram’s horn to his lips and blew for God Almighty and the liberty of his people.

  He and his cavalry sprinted for their horses, while William’s heart thrummed a fierce rhythm. A year of building his forces and fighting Edward’s rouges, he would finally wreak vengeance on a large scale.

  At long last he had the army behind him to make a formidable stand. “Scotland until Judgement!” he roared, leading the charge down the crag and into the open lea.

  The enemy sped their pace across the bridge, but still a good third of their numbers remained on the southern shore.

  Swinging his great sword, Wallace led the cavalry around the English vanguard toward the north end of the bridge before the English troops realized they’d been trapped and surrounded.

  Behind, Little and Blair ran on, bringing forth the Scottish infantry. The hiss of arrows overhead infused William’s determination. The bloody English had nowhere to run and he would show no mercy.

  Every beady eye of the English trespassers reflected Longshanks’ tyranny. Every grimace mirrored the English king’s disdain for Scotland.

  The enemy attacked with pike and sword. Spinning his horse, William defended his country in the thick of battle, blocking the cowards from retreat. His arms grew stronger with every swing of his great sword. A heinous blackguard attacked screaming like a banshee, his hideous face splattered with blood. Clenching his gut, William eyed the doomed murderer while his sword swept down and beheaded the cur, silencing his shrieking screams.

  “Send them to hell!” he bellowed as he hacked off the arm of another assailant.

  Blood spewed across the ground while William pushed forward with his army of pure grit.

  Wallace and his cavalrymen fought in the midst of mayhem, whilst Andrew skirted around and attacked those brave enough to face them on the bridge itself.

  The bloodcurdling cries of battle rose to the beat of the English drums. The snare only served to incite William’s rage as he fought one adversary after another. “Drive them into the river!” he shouted as brave Scotsmen gained ground, pushing the English back.

  In the blink of an eye, the sounds of armored bodies hit the water with thundering splashes. Mud stirred from the riverbed, mingled with blood from the dying. English infantrymen weighed down by heavy hauberks tried to swim while the angry current pulled them do their deaths.

  Behind him, a clamorous pounding reverberated above the deafening throng.

  “They’re destroying the bridge,” Andrew shouted.

  “Let them!” William spun his horse. The faster he swung his blade, the greater his bloodlust grew. The battlefield glistened red with the blood of th
e enemy and the river had turned as maroon as the mud in Lochmaben where William’s da had been murdered. “Fight until none are left standing! We. Will. Be. Vic-tor-ious!”

  ***

  Eva couldn’t drag her gaze from the gruesome battle unfolding before her. The thunderous battle cries and the hideous shrieks from the dying held her stunned by the horrific bloodshed unfolding before her eyes. Her stomach churned while she clenched her fists tight to her body. All the movies she’d watched glorifying battles were child’s play.

  No wonder she hated sharp objects.

  They hacked off limbs and stabbed through flesh, maiming and killing. In a matter of seconds, the exhilaration of watching courageous men charge across the battlefield was replaced by revulsion as metal scraped and the howls of dying men shrieked above the wind.

  Tears stung her eyes as she trained her gaze to the front of the mayhem and focused on William. He fought with the strength of ten warriors and moved with the speed of a cobra. Though she knew the outcome of this battle, she feared for his safety most of all. From her vantage point, he could be hit by an arrow or cut open by a blade with her next inhale.

  She couldn’t blink.

  Breathing became labored.

  Every inch of Eva’s flesh tremored.

  Then the pounding started. On the far shore, Warenne’s men used axes to hack away at Stirling Bridge.

  “My God, they’re condemning their own men to die.”

  Beaten soldiers fled into the river, only to be dragged under by the force of the current and their heavy armor. She watched in horror as enemy soldiers cried out as they were swept downstream.

  “They’re retreating—admitting defeat.” Brother Bartholomew clapped his hands beside her. “Come Miss Eva, there will be many wounded to tend in short order.”

  But Eva couldn’t move.

  The Earl of Surrey, marked by his coat of arms and his horse covered with a caparison in the Surrey colors rode south, surrounded by a vanguard for protection. The entire English garrison remaining on the north shore fled.

  From the trees, a mounted attack engaged the earl’s forces. Eva pointed. “Lord Stewart and the Earl of Lennox.”

  “In the hour of victory they choose their side,” said Bartholomew. “Let us pray they remain loyal to Scotland.”

  Then she saw it. Speeding through the air like a bullet, an arrow pierced through Andrew’s shoulder. Grasping at the shaft, the knight fell from his horse. Eva’s entire body shuddered at the jarring impact when he hit the turf, flat on his back. The brave warrior didn’t move.

  “My God,” she whispered again, her heart seizing.

  Then Murray sat up and lumbered to his feet, the arrow shaft protruding from his wound.

  She stood frozen in place as she watched the brave knight stoop for his sword and whistle for his mount, his every move sluggish.

  Only when the sound of agonized moaning approached, did Eva drag her gaze away from Murray as he stiffly mounted and crouched over his horse’s withers. Her head swimming, she flicked her wrist at the dazed lads beside her. “Quickly. We’ll need bandages and hot irons to cauterize wounds.”

  Robbie and Paden headed off, but Adam remained completely still, his eyes round as coins, frightened out of his wits, no doubt.

  Eva kneeled and wrapped her arms around the lad. “This is why I insisted you remain up here. Never forget that war is a last resort. Always try to negotiate if there is a way.”

  Adam’s bottom lip trembled. “But people tried to talk to William.”

  “True, though the Earl of Surrey tried to bribe him. That’s different and would not free Scotland from the tyranny of Edward the Longshanks. William and Sir Andrew had no choice but to make a stand this day.”

  The lad dropped his chin. “Longshanks has my da locked away in the dungeon of Roxburgh.”

  “Aye.” Eva smoothed her hand over the lad’s cap of curls. “And one day he will walk free because William Wallace took a stand.”

  “Do ye think so?” Adam asked with a hopeful lilt.

  “I know it, lad.” She patted his shoulder. “Now come. We must do what we can to help those who have fallen, for they are the true heroes today.”

  “Ye sure do talk funny.”

  Eva chuckled. And here she’d thought her accent was becoming more archaic by the day. “Well, at least you can understand me.”

  ***

  Eva worked endlessly, tying bandages and repeating over and over how well the men had done. Even if she’d wanted to use avens water on every cut, she couldn’t because supplies had run out. It was all she could do to staunch the bleeding and move on to the next wounded Scot.

  When Andrew Murray rode his horse up the hill with the arrow protruding from his shoulder, Eva swallowed her urge to hurl. She dashed to Brother Bartholomew, looking down at his patient. “I’ll take over here. You must go tend to Sir Andrew.”

  The monk peered over his shoulder. “Dear Lord. ’Tis a crossbow arrow with which he’s been skewered.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Thicker shaft.” The monk shook his head. “And the arrowheads are near impossible to remove.” The monk turned in a circle. “Father Blair, I’ll need your muscle over here.”

  Eva hadn’t seen William yet, but by the sound roaring from below, the battle still raged.

  By God, she would help every man she possibly could, but couldn’t bring herself to look the young Murray in the eye. Besides, Bartholomew knew more about pulling out crossbow arrows. Eva kneeled beside an injured man, his armor only a quilted doublet like many of the foot soldiers. “Looks like you had a nasty gash to your arm.”

  “Aye.” The man gave her a wincing grin. “But not afore I skewered a half dozen English swine.”

  “You fought bravely.” She held a balled up bandage against his wound and pressed.

  He hissed. “’Tis a victorious day for Scotland.”

  “Indeed, and you must rise to tell about it.” She used another bandage to wrap the wound tightly. “Keep this clean and at your first opportunity wash it with spirit.” The medallion warmed against her skin. “Or avens water—anything that will keep it from festering.”

  “It’ll be right.” He grimaced. “I’ve a family in Bannockburn.”

  She patted his hand. “Then do as I say, and you’ll live to watch your children grow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was dark when William trudged up Abbey Craig’s steep hill to camp. His mail hung on his limbs threatening to drag him to his knees with every step. Aye, this was a day of great victory for Scotland, but he’d been going since dawn.

  Every step punished him.

  Never in his life had he fought so long and hard. He thought he was conditioned for battle? Lord, his every muscle, every sinew ached.

  But when he saw her his heart fluttered with a wee surge of energy—enough to see him to the top of the hill.

  Holding a torch, Eva waited on the path. “I was wondering if you’d make it back to camp or if you decided to sleep in the king’s chamber at the castle.”

  He chuckled. “I’d never be so presumptuous as to enter the king’s chamber, let alone rest my head on His Grace’s pillow.”

  Moving forward, she took his hand. “I know. That’s what makes me—ah—so attracted to you.”

  He winced when she looped her arm through his.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Just sore.”

  She inclined the torch in the direction of their tent. “Come, I have some oil. I’ll give you a massage.”

  “No sweeter words have ever been spoken, m’lady.”

  She chuckled and gave him another squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m proud of my men.” But victory was bittersweet—battles were never waged without losses and that’s what would always haunt him.

  “But you are amazing.”

  William stretched his back. “I dunna feel too bloody amazing at the moment.” His lip slit when he
smiled—Lord, even that hurt. “I most likely canna even lift my sword I’m so bone-weary—but dunna tell anyone.”

  “I’ll keep it to myself.” With a sweet giggle, she held the flap to the tent.

  But William wasn’t so bone-weary he’d forgotten his manners. “After ye.”

  With a smile, she doused the torch and slipped inside.

  It didn’t take long for her to help him remove his armor.

  She gestured to the pallet. “Lie down.”

  “Not yet.” He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest. This is what he was fighting for. Not just for himself, but for all men to hold their women in their arms—and to raise families free from tyranny. Lord, Eva felt so damned good, he never wanted to release her. “Home,” he whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  William closed his eyes and inhaled her scent. “It doesna matter whether we’re at Leglen Wood or Stirling, or Scone. Wherever ye are, I’m home.”

  She took in a sharp breath.

  “Are ye well?” he asked, sensing his words had struck a chord.

  Cupping his cheek with her palm, darkness shrouded her smile. He could have sworn he saw a hint of sadness in her green eyes. “I’m fine. It is you I’m worried about.”

  He stretched his neck from side to side. “Nothing a good night’s sleep willna cure.” He kissed her fingertips. “Or your deft fingers.”

  Her smile brightened. “I’ll fetch the oil.”

  “Now that’s music to an old warrior’s ears.” He stretched out on the pallet.

  She chuckled. “You’re not old.”

  “I feel it this night.”

  Sitting beside him, she ran a gentle hand along his spine. “Perhaps I can help with that.”

  He moaned. “Your touch can revive my verra soul, m’lady.”

  “And that is music to my ears, m’lord.” Her lips brushed his ear. “Close your eyes while I massage some life back into your weary shoulders.”

  “Och, Eva. Ye’re so fine to me.” Her fingers started making their magic, swirling across his back, rubbing deep into his aching muscles. “What would I do without ye?”