The Time Traveler's Christmas (Guardian of Scotland Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  She grabbed Sir Boyd by the forearm. “We must make haste afore they take him too far into England.”

  “Ye’re right. I’ve sent out spies already. My guess is they havena gone far. I reckon the bleeding English are hell bent on another invasion.”

  Christina clasped her hands over her chest and swept her gaze across the crowd. “We must collect our army and ride straight away.”

  Sir Boyd shook his head. “I dunna recommend it. Let us find out where they’ve taken Andrew first and then we can plan our attack.”

  “I agree with Lady Christina.” Hamish stepped forward, giving her a nod—one that showed respect and fondness. Did he have a thing for his mistress? “If we dunna ride by the morrow, the trail will grow cold.”

  Boyd eyed him with a twitch to his jaw. “We shall put it before the king. If he agrees, then we’ll ride at dawn.”

  “My new champion needs to be armed,” said Christina.

  Hamish coughed out a loud snort. “Champion, m’lady?”

  “Sir Lachlan fought off countless blackguards to rescue me.” She poked her man-at-arms in the chest with her pointer finger. “Whilst ye were otherwise engaged.”

  “I was battling the same mob of English rascals.”

  “Do ye challenge Lady Christina’s appointment, Hamish?” asked Sir Boyd.

  Scarface puffed out his chest. “Bloody oath, I do.”

  Lachlan’s gut turned over. Fight the old mail-clad, pot-bellied zealot? There’d be no contest.

  Boyd pointed. “Do ye put up your sword?”

  Hamish drew his weapon and held it aloft. “I do with honor.”

  The knight gave Lachlan a deprecating once-over. “And what have ye of value?”

  Should he back down? No. He’d not only humiliate himself, he’d humiliate Lady Christina. She might be a little hellion, but he kinda liked her. Lachlan tugged the medallion from beneath his sweatshirt. “Just this.”

  “Jesu.” Boyd yanked the leather thong from Lachlan’s neck. “Where did ye find this?”

  Christina stepped in. “Didna Eva wear such a medallion?”

  The knight turned it over in his palm. “I swear this is one and the same—she and William argued about it time and time again.”

  Prickly heat spread across Lachlan’s skin. Surely they didn’t mean Eva MacKay, his mother? And his father always referred to himself as Bill—well, his adopted father. Right? “Who are you talking about?”

  “Ye dunna ken?” Suspicion filled Boyd’s eyes. “She was there at Willy’s trial. Father Blair always thought she was a witch—said she disappeared as soon as the sentence was pronounced.”

  Hamish scooted backward, his eyes bugging out. “Ye reckon he’s a sorcerer?”

  Sir Boyd pursed his lips as if considering.

  “Burn him!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “Aye—stone him.”

  The dissonant chants grew and swarmed around the courtyard.

  “Silence!” bellowed Sir Boyd.

  Lachlan stuffed the medallion back into his shirt. “Whoa. I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Nay. We need ye.” Lady Christina slid between Lachlan and the formidable knight. “Please, Sir Boyd, ye will agree with me if ye see this man fight. He is highly skilled—and I only witnessed him fighting with his hands—against armed soldiers at that.”

  Boyd gave a single nod. “Hamish—does your challenge still hold?”

  The man-at-arms looked to Christina before he stepped forward and squared his shoulders. “Indeed.”

  “Choose your weapons,” said the knight.

  Lachlan held up his fists. “This is all I have.” Though trained with a samurai sword, he preferred to keep things less bloody and opt for hand-to-hand combat.

  Hamish drew his sword. “To the death?”

  “Are ye out of your mind? I canna bear to lose either one of ye.” Christina reached for the stout man’s sword, but he jerked it away from her grasp.

  Hamish paraded around the circle of onlookers. “Who here is willing to lend a poor beggar a blade?”

  “Bloody hell, will we spend this entire eve arguing?” Boyd yanked the sword from his scabbard and handed the hilt to Lachlan. “Do ye ken how to use one of these?”

  He took the weapon and balanced it in his hand, making note of the sharpness, the weight. Heavier than a samurai sword, it was honed sharp on both sides—but still a two-handed weapon. With a flick of his wrist, he whipped the blade in an arc, making it hiss through the air. Then he looked Hamish in the eye. “I’d prefer hand-to-hand, but if the gentleman favors swords, I’ll comply.”

  The crowd moved back, making a circle.

  Boyd stepped between the challengers, just like a referee would do in a karate match. “This is sparring only. Ye both heard her ladyship. She needs men who are able bodied, not a pair of bloodied milksops. Ye ken?”

  “Aye,” said Hamish snarling like a caged baboon.

  Lachlan bowed to Sir Boyd, “Yes, sir.” Then he bowed to his opponent and crouched in a defensive stance. He’d done this a gazillion times. He’d fought with fists and knifes, swords and nunchucks, bow staffs, guns and all manner of weaponry. Even if the man he faced was more skilled with a sword, Lachlan had no doubt he could disarm him.

  “Best of three.” Boyd sliced his hand through the air and backed into the crowd.

  Lachlan reached for his inner peace, listening to his breath rush in his ears. A fight always started like this—in slow motion. He watched the shift of Hamish’s eyes, the twitch of his scarred cheek.

  Anticipating a thrust to the gut, Lachlan countered with a defensive upward strike. The stout warrior barreled in with a series of hacking strikes—easy to predict and defend, but leaving little room for attack.

  But the man wore heavy mail and in a matter of ten seconds, his timing slowed. With a burst of strength, Lachlan defended the next hack with a clanging upward strike. The force of the blow sent Hamish’s sword flying from his grasp. Using the momentum, Lachlan released his right hand and circling his fist under, he collided with the man-at-arms’ chin. Hamish’s head snapped back. With two steps, the medieval nutcase crashed to his back.

  Lachlan lunged in for the kill, holding his sword above the big man’s heart, waiting for a judge to shout three points awarded.

  “First round to Lady Christina’s new champion,” bellowed Boyd.

  That was good enough for Lachlan. He instantly let up and moved back to his starting position, waiting for Hamish to lumber to his feet and collect his sword. Lachlan proved the better fighter in the first two rounds and the contest was over. Honestly, Hamish was as strong as an ox. Though strength was important, Lachlan always taught his students the aggressive and cunning combatant wins.

  By the end of the match, Hamish was breathing like he’d run a marathon. He held out the hilt of his sword to Lachlan. “I dunna ken what kind of sorcery ye’re using, but I’ve seen no man fight as fast and crafty as ye.”

  Holding up his palm, Lachlan shook his head. The sword probably meant a great deal to the man. “I don’t want your sword. I just need a lift.”

  Hamish scowled and readied this weapon like he wanted another ass-kicking.

  “Stop.” Lady Christina stepped in. “Sir Lachlan is right. This was not a contest to be won or lost, ’twas a demonstration of my new champion’s prowess.”

  The scar on the man-at-arms’ face stretched downward as he gave Lachlan a deprecating glare. “I still dunna trust him, m’lady.”

  “I agree,” said Sir Boyd. “I shall advise the king of his presence. We shall allow him sanctuary behind Roxburgh’s walls, but he must be kept under lock and key.”

  “Why?” Lachlan asked. “Haven’t I proved enough?”

  Sir Boyd snatched back his sword and handed Lachlan his medallion. “Do ye think we would allow a stranger—a possible sorcerer to roam freely about the castle? Ye’ll need to do much more than prove your might afore we give ye fre
e reign.”

  “Are you serious?” Panning his gaze across the hostile faces, Lachlan held up his palms in surrender. “Christ, I just need a phone to call my friend to give me a lift home.”

  Boyd stepped in. Though he had to raise his chin, they stood nose-to-nose. “Ye see, ye are speaking gibberish, and that makes me verra nervous. Aye, ye can fight like Wallace, God rest his soul—ye look like him, too. But I canna trust ye, not yet. And my word is final until the king speaks differently.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “We willna throw ye in the pit, but ye will stay behind bars. Lady Christina will see to your needs until the king decides what is to be done.”

  Lachlan looked sideways. At least a dozen soldiers surrounded him with pikes leveled at his throat. Even if he had a prayer to fend them off, the portcullis was closed. His gaze shot to the top of the curtain walls. If he managed to break away, he’d be an easy target for the archers. The odds weren’t good, no matter which way he considered it.

  Before they led him away, he searched the faces for Lady Christina. Met with her wide-eyed stare, his jaw clenched and he shook his head.

  Stabbed in the back by a woman yet again. Will I ever learn?

  Chapter Four

  Christina gulped against her thickening throat. Sir Lachlan’s fierce glower before they took him away cut her to the quick. Why did he have to make her feel as if she’d betrayed his trust? Surely he must understand the need to keep everyone in the fortress safe. And though Lachlan hadn’t done anything to hurt her or anyone else, he certainly proved himself capable. Goodness, if there ever was a one-man army it was he.

  Besides, she would insure her new champion would receive food and hay to sleep upon—far more than a man could expect had he remained outside the castle walls at the mercy of outlaws, the English, or border reivers. Alone, Sir Lachlan would have faced all manner of dangers, especially after dark.

  She couldn’t worry about her new champion’s ill feelings or glowering glares at a time like this, anyway. Now that the prisoner trade had been thwarted, she had dealings with King Robert whether the Bruce liked it or not.

  She grasped Sir Boyd by the elbow. “Come, we need to gain an audience with the king.”

  It had been four months since Robert the Bruce had sent the English back to their lands with their tails tucked between their legs—four months since Christina had been released from being a prisoner in her own fortress, Ormond Castle on the Moray Firth. Since that time, she’d joined her king and the nobles who supported him, her only goal to be reunited with her son, heir to the de Moray barony.

  She didn’t delude herself into thinking her quest was of utmost importance to Scotland. King Robert had a great many things on his mind, but he still needed the nobles to support him. By freeing Andrew from captivity and bringing him home to Scotland, the Bruce was making an ally of the most powerful clan in the Highlands. There was a reason William Wallace had been successful at Stirling Bridge. The man built loyalty. Fighting beside Wallace, Christina’s husband had a significant role in Scotland’s success. Had her son’s father survived, things might have turned out quite differently for the kingdom and Robert Bruce knew it.

  Regardless of how anxious she felt when in the king’s presence, she held her head high whilst she followed Sir Boyd through the labyrinth of buildings toward the royal donjon. She was in control of lands needed by the crown and showing the slightest bit of fear would be folly. Thank heavens her father, the late Earl of Atholl, had taught her inner strength. For this was no time for wallflowers. This was a time to stand her ground and make it known that neither she nor her son could be cast aside for another cause deemed more important.

  With Sir Boyd, she marched through the donjon doors, across the great hall and up the stairwell to the first landing—straight to the solar King Robert used to direct his affairs. As was proper, the knight addressed the sentries standing guard outside the door. “Sir Boyd and Lady de Moray to see His Grace forthwith.”

  “I’m afraid ye’ll have to wait, sir.” The man bowed to Christina. “M’lady. The king is gathering with his ministers.”

  “Ballocks to that.” Boyd pushed past the man and pulled down on the latch. “I am one of his bloody ministers.”

  Christina shuffled inside the solar on the knight’s heels, then curtseyed deeply. “Your Grace, what are we to make of this day’s events?”

  The king grumbled, looking under his thick eyebrows and raking his gaze across the faces of the noblemen seated at the table. “We were discussing that very issue.”

  She moved closer to King Robert’s chair. “We must make haste to follow the men who took Andrew afore they venture too far into England.”

  “’Tis already done.” The king motioned for his squire to fill his tankard. “Sir Boyd sent our best men to track the varlets afore we left the battlefield.” His stare grew dark. “This is the last time I place any trust in King Edward. No greater backstabber hath ever walked Christendom.”

  “Thank ye, sire.” Christina bowed her head and curtseyed. “I should have kent ye’d act swiftly. I long to have my son home for Yule, as ye promised.”

  King Robert’s lips thinned and stretched over his teeth. “We will do what we can to see him returned, but as I’ve said, if Andrew is lost to us, ye will have no choice but to choose a husband and set to breeding a new heir.”

  “Indeed,” said the High Steward, licking his lips. He’d made his intentions clear where she was concerned and Christina had not been impressed.

  The thought of making a match with the pompous toad made her stomach churn. “Now, let us not grow hasty. I couldna possibly do anything to put my son’s inheritance in jeopardy.”

  “Aye, and we’ve discussed that many times,” agreed the Bruce. “Ye’d best remember your place and set to your duty whilst ye’re at court.”

  Her face burned. Why did the king make a spectacle about her need to be amenable to a suit of marriage whenever she had something unsavory to discuss?

  King Robert shifted his gaze to Sir Boyd. “What other news? I had word there was a contest in the courtyard.”

  Christina looked to the candles alight in the wheel-shaped chandelier overhead. Nothing happened at court without the king gaining knowledge of it straight away.

  “A knight has arrived from the continent,” said Sir Boyd. “He fought off several Englishmen to rescue Lady Christina from capture.”

  “Och, I never should have allowed a woman to ride to the border. I should have kent Edward would turn backstabber.” The king’s gaze softened. “Ye must forgive me, Lady Christina.”

  She clasped her hands together, ever so grateful for the change in subject. “Oh no, ye wouldna have been able to keep me away. I saw my son today and for that, I would pay all the silver in my coffers.”

  “And what have ye done with this knight? Is he trustworthy?” The king reached for his goblet and took a swig.

  Boyd shook his head. “He must earn his trust. For now, he’s behind bars in the gatehouse. His speech is odd—I’ve only met one other person in my life with such a tongue.”

  Setting his drink on the board, the king regarded his champion knight intently. “And who might that be?”

  “Eva MacKay,” Christina answered. A clammy chill spread across her skin as she glanced to Sir Boyd. “She wore a similar medallion as well.”

  “William Wallace’s wife?” asked the king. “I met her briefly. Good woman.”

  “Aye,” said Sir Boyd. “This fella looks like Wallace for certain—every bit as tall as well.”

  The king scratched his beard. “We could use a man like that.”

  The High Steward shook his finger. “Agreed, once he’s proven his loyalty.”

  Robert again raised his goblet, but this time in toast. “Here, here.”

  “But he’s already done that.” Christina took in a deep inhale and stood her ground. “I would have been…ah…violated for certain if he hadna fought for my virtue.”

  Aft
er taking a long drink, the king gave Sir Boyd a hardened stare. “Is this true, Robbie?”

  Boyd nodded. “Aye, he saw a woman in distress and fought off a half-dozen pikemen.”

  King Robert leaned in. “And then he challenged a soldier in the courtyard?”

  Clapping her hands together and tapping her fingers to her lips, Christina stepped in to set the record straight. “My man-at-arms, Hamish, challenged him, Your Grace.”

  “And he fought fair?” asked the king.

  Sir Boyd nodded. “Aye, he stopped precisely after each of two take downs.”

  “And ye’ve still decided to keep him under lock and key?”

  “Unless ye disagree, Your Grace.” Boyd made a hissing sound through his teeth. “He’s unusually skilled and—”

  “But he uses his skill for good,” Christina interrupted.

  The knight sliced his hand through the air. “That verra well may be, m’lady, but I wouldna want him wandering the passageways at night until we ken a bit more about him.”

  “Sir Boyd is right,” said the king. “Let us come to ken this knight, Sir…?”

  “Lachlan,” said Christina. “Lachlan Wallace.”

  Every man seated at the table gasped and mumbled.

  “Dear God, mayhap he is an illegitimate son of our hero?” King Robert rocked back in his chair. “Did he mention anything about his parentage?”

  “Nay,” said Boyd. “But I wouldna want word spreading that Willy sired a bastard.”

  Christina had to agree with him there. She had only the greatest respect for William Wallace and his sacrifice for Scotland. Such a black mark would only serve to sully the hero’s reputation and she would never want to be a party to that.

  ***

  Lachlan sat with his back to the wall, his legs crossed. There weren’t many options for comfort. As a matter of fact, there were no options. The cell they’d caged him in was about three feet wide and only a bit more than five feet high. Fortunately, it extended a good eight feet to the back wall where there sat a bucket—for him to piss, he assumed by the smell of it. Musty hay was strewn across the dirt floor. Some kind of green slime grew on the opposing wall. He could only tell because a bit of light shone in from the barred windows in the door separating his quarters from the guard’s tower.