by Amy Jarecki
“I’d fight an army if it meant getting out of this cage.”
One of the guards used an enormous key to open the door. “Mind yourself or ye’ll end up right back here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Lachlan crawled through the opening, then stood.
Sir Boyd glanced down to his bare feet. “Still no shoes?”
Lachlan wriggled his toes. “The cobbler visited earlier—made me put my foot through the bars.”
“Aye, well, Malcolm is most likely less than half your size—not a fighting man for certain.” Boyd examined Lachlan’s face, pinching his eyebrows. “Did ye spend time in the Holy Land?”
“No…well, sort of. I went to Malta with my parents when I was young.” Lachlan didn’t want to let too much out of the bag. He’d vacationed in Malta a few times because his parents kept a timeshare there.
“Parents?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” It appeared Boyd was playing with his cards close to his chest as well. Lachlan didn’t care one way or the other as long as he figured out a way home. Lady Christina was hell bent on rescuing her son—maybe Lachlan had landed there to help her? Whatever the reason, he’d play along until he figured a way back to his time. He still didn’t know if he was in a time warp or among a group of zealots occupying a remote part of the borderlands. Regardless, why couldn’t the process that had landed him on the battlefield reverse itself? He was still holding on to the idea these nutcases had cordoned off a patch of the borders and created their own medieval world. Maybe some disappointed fan saw his loss on TV, stole into Uncle Walter’s flat, drugged him and hauled him to the battlefield where he awoke?
Strange, but not impossible. Right?
Boyd beckoned him with a wave of his hand. “Come. Today the men will be sparring with their fists. To be able to wield a sword is one thing, but a man who can win with cunning and only the tools which God gave him is truly a champion.”
“I agree.” Lachlan fell in step behind the knight. “What is your favorite weapon, sir?”
“Horse and pike.” Boyd flashed a wry grin over his shoulder. “A man with a sword canna come near ye if ye’re riding at a gallop with an eight-foot spear in your hand.”
Always one to seek the greater advantage over an opponent, Lachlan chuckled. “I like the way you think.”
“Aye, but dunna misunderstand. I’d use a rock to crush a man’s skull afore I’d let him run me through.”
“Isn’t that why we train? To learn how to stay alive, given the worst circumstances imaginable?”
Boyd stopped, turned and jammed his fists into his hips. “I hadna ever heard it put that way, but ye’re spot on.” He looked over Lachlan from head to toe. “Where did ye learn to fight?”
“Master Amori from Japan.”
The knight’s face blanked. “From where?”
Lachlan forced himself to hold in a guffaw. “Have you heard of the Orient?”
“An Oriental trainer is here in Scotland?”
How should I respond to that? Lachlan knew of several Asian black belt champions who lived in the UK. Keep it simple. “Unfortunately, Master Amori passed away a few years ago.”
“I’ve heard tale of the great army of Genghis Khan—the monks of the Order of Saint John still practice tactics learned when the Oriental general invaded the Holy Land.”
Jeez—this guy came up with the weirdest shit. Lachlan rubbed his temple. Khan—end of the twelfth century, beginning of the thirteenth, I think. About a hundred years ago for Boyd. Not Japanese, but Mongolian. “Yes. Khan was unsurpassed in his day—but a ruthless tyrant.”
Boyd chuckled and started off again. “I’ve met enough of them in my day.” Though not a lad, the knight couldn’t be any older than Lachlan.
“How old are you, sir?” he asked.
“Eight and twenty.” Boyd arched an eyebrow. “And ye?”
“Thirty.”
“Hmm. I would have taken ye for younger.”
It must be on account of a good diet and exercise. Lachlan snorted.
“Ye find that funny?”
“Yes, I suppose. If a man eats well-rounded meals, he stands the best chance for good health and long life.”
“What is this? Well-rounded?”
“Lean meat, plenty of vegetables, whole grain breads, milk, cheese, fruit.”
“That’s a verra pleasant thought, but in midwinter a man’s fortunate if he can find an apple in the cellar that hasna gone bad.”
Stepping into the courtyard, Lachlan held up his wrists. “If you’re planning to have me spar, you’d better remove these manacles.”
Boyd folded his arms across his chest. “They stay.”
I could use them as a weapon. “Suit yourself.” Lachlan panned his gaze across the faces of the army. “Who wants to be my first victim?”
Chapter Six
Christina’s chamber overlooked the courtyard. She hooked the window furs to the side, opened the shutters, then took a seat in the window embrasure to watch Lachlan spar. Aside from his bout with Hamish, she had only seen him fight on the battlefield and she’d been too distraught to give him a fair assessment. At least that’s what she told herself as she leaned forward. Of course, at the mature age of four and thirty, she was too old to admire his good looks. Though anyone could find a talented display of brawn fascinating to watch. And if she, indeed, intended to fold him into the de Moray army, she would need an iron-clad opinion of his level of skill.
My interest is purely for the good of my clan. I must remain completely impartial. If he is the right man to fetch Andrew, he will have my support. Once my son is returned to me, God willing, we will spend our Yule with King Robert then return to Ormond Castle and strive to put these years of oppression behind us.
Below, Sir Lachlan strode around the circle of men, his arms outstretched—at least as far as the chain between his manacles would allow. After two turns, Sir Boyd removed his weapons and his mail, handing them to a guard. Raising his fists, the king’s greatest knight stepped into the center of the courtyard. Mirroring his stance, Lachlan faced Robert the Bruce’s champion. Christina’s stomach squeezed. Lachlan was perhaps a hand taller, but Boyd had squired for William Wallace. There wasn’t a man in Scotland who could best him.
In a blur of fists, blocks and kicks, the two men engaged like a pair of wildcats, weaving in and out, deflecting blows with one hand while issuing punches with the other. Lachlan spun with a lightning fast kick aimed at the head. Ducking, Boyd clipped Lachlan’s heel. The larger man drew his knee in—Christina had never seen such a move. Then he snapped a forward kick so fast, she didn’t realize what he’d done until Sir Boyd’s head snapped back and he toppled over.
With a gasp, she covered her mouth.
Lachlan shuffled back, crouched and ready for another bout while he waited for Sir Boyd to recover. Who on earth would be so polite when sparring? When Sir Boyd wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve and was met with a swath of blood, the entire courtyard erupted in mayhem.
As she sprang to her feet, Christina’s heart nearly burst from her chest. The men rushed poor Lachlan. Except for a man who jumped on his back, the warrior fended them off with sweeping blocks. The man on his back slipped his arm around Lachlan’s throat, choking him. Still fighting off multiple men at once, Lachlan’s feet skittered backward until he slammed the choking cur into the wall. With a bone-jarring grunt, the attacker dropped to the ground. Downed guardsmen peppered the courtyard, yet still more ran in to take a swing at her new champion.
“Halt,” bellowed Sir Boyd, marching forward and shoving men aside.
“He’s a beast!” someone shouted from the back of the ranks.
“I am merely a man.” Lachlan held up his arms, stretching the length of chain between his wrists. “I could have used this length of chain as a weapon. I could have strangled the life out of half of you, but I chose not to because I am a man of honor.”
Christina’s heart
hammered so loudly, she practically had to lean out the window to hear what was being said.
Sir Boyd shook Lachlan’s hand. “Bloody oath, how did ye manage to kick me after I blocked your spin?”
“Just a countermove I picked up along the way, I guess.”
“And then ye fought off the whole mob of soldiers?”
“Not exactly. I was only trying to defend myself.”
Boyd grabbed Lachlan’s upper arm and squeezed. “Jesu, ye are Goliath.”
“I’m a warrior. I’ve dedicated my life to fitness, to toning my body and studying different forms of defense. I’ve studied how motion can flow from one movement and build to the next, and to the next.” Sir Lachlan pointed to Sir Boyd’s chest. “May I show you something?”
“Of course.”
He held out his hand. “Grab my wrist and wrench it up my back.”
“As hard as I can? ’Cause I’m likely to break it.”
“Do it as hard as you like.”
“Break it,” shouted Hamish.
Christina would have a word with her boisterous man-at-arms.
Sir Boyd snatched the wrist and whipped Lachlan around, brutally yanking the poor man’s arm up his back.
Instead of crying out with pain, Lachlan rolled out with the force of the move. He slammed his elbow into the side of Sir Boyd’s head, spun around, flipped Boyd’s arm over and kicked him in the backside.
“What the devil?” the knight shouted as Lachlan forced his wrist downward. Now poor Robbie could do nothing but drop to his knees. “Arraagh.”
In the blink of an eye, Lachlan released his hold, took two steps back and bowed. “A continuous flow of motion, sir—and believe me, I’d be a fair bit more effective without these bloody manacles.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of,” said Boyd, rubbing his wrist and rising to his feet.
“I can help you. If you are willing to trust me.”
Boyd scratched his beard as if considering. “These are trying times and trust comes easy for no man. Especially someone who appeared out of the blue. Why havena I heard tale of ye afore?”
Lachlan’s gaze shifted to Christina’s window, but he pretended not to see her. “Like I said. I’ve been away.”
“I ken of a woman who claimed the same.”
“Was she friend or foe?”
“Friend—for the most part, I’d reckon.”
“Did she betray you?”
“Nay.”
“Then why did you say ‘for the most part’?”
“’Cause she had a way of disappearing that nary a soul could explain—not even Father Blair, God rest his soul.”
Lachlan again looked at Christina, but this time, his gaze lingered. “People say I’m a patient man, but I wouldn’t recommend pushing me too far—that cell you’re locking me in is a bit too cramped for a bloke of my size. I’ll stand beside your army. I’ll do what I can to help Lady Christina find her son, but if you continue to treat me like a criminal, I’ll be like that woman you knew and you’ll never set eyes on me again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sir Boyd as he snapped his fingers and hailed a pair of guards.
Lachlan continued to stare straight up at Christina’s window. His eyes bore through her like a drill. Her heart thumped like she’d been running a footrace.
She had no doubt his words were intended for her ears as well as Sir Boyd’s. He turned one palm up, making a bowl and pretended to use a spoon to feed himself with the other. Goodness, the man was telling her he needed food. Hadn’t they given him enough?
Most likely they hadn’t.
She nodded and gave him a subtle wave before the guards led him back to his cell.
***
Lachlan sat cross-legged in the center of his cell, his wrists on his knees, his palms turned up and his eyes closed. Focusing on the sun, imagining a cool breeze on his face, he transported himself to a place of peace—a place where the pain from the bruises he’d sustained in the courtyard no longer felt like iron pokers jabbing into his flesh.
He might have grown sick and tired of being treated like a criminal, but Lachlan could still compartmentalize his emotions. Martial arts had taught him many things, the most useful being self-control. Meditation was like a hypnotic drug for him. When things were at their worst, he could transport his body and mind to a place of peace and tranquility.
“Ah-mm, ah-mm,” he silently whispered as if the air flowing in and out of his body was the source of wind. With each “ah”, he filled his lungs and with each “mm” he slowly let the breath rush through his nose until his air completely dissipated. Over and over, he repeated the meditative sequence while his body transitioned to a place of weightlessness.
When the guardhouse door creaked open, he didn’t move. But he did know who was walking toward his cell and that she was alone. Her light footsteps gave her away, as did the swish of her frumpy skirts. Inhaling, Lachlan caught the hint of roasted meat—lamb perhaps—and freshly baked bread. He caught something else with his next inhale. Oiled leather.
“Are ye planning to sit there all night and ignore me?” asked Lady Christina, sounding like a true aristocrat who was by no means accustomed to being snubbed.
A long exhale released from his lungs while Lachlan opened his eyes. “Forgive me, m’lady. I was meditating.”
She squinted, drawing her eyebrows inward. “What say ye? Med-i-tate-ing?” She pronounced the word clearly like a foreign language teacher would to a class.
“Concentrating,” Lachlan revised.
“Ye have an odd way of doing it if ye ask me.” She set her basket on the ground. “And what are ye concentrating about?”
“Clearing my mind.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“If I didn’t do it, I’d be one angry bastard.”
She flinched at his course language, but didn’t admonish him.
He looked from one claustrophobic wall to the other. “Wouldn’t you be angry if you were locked in this miniscule cell after you’d helped someone escape from an attack? After you proved to others that you were not a threat?”
She pursed her lips and glanced sideways. Then she gave him a nod. “Aye. But ye need to hold on to the reins for another day or two. I’m working on Sir Boyd. He’s found favor with ye for certain.”
“Wonderful.”
“Mayhap your meditating is a good idea. If it keeps ye from growing too angry.”
“It does.” Feeling like a schoolboy sitting cross-legged and craning his neck, he shifted to his knees and grasped the bars.
She gave him a coy look with those pixie doll eyes. “Ye ken we are only trying to win back our freedom.”
“Yes. I’m a Scot, too. Remember?”
“A different sort of Scot, but a Scot nonetheless, I suppose.”
No use trying to argue with that nutty logic. Lachlan gestured toward the basket. “It smells like you brought my supper.”
“Forgive me.” Christina swept down and plucked a parcel wrapped in leather. “Ye indicated ye needed more food, so I brought ye a leg of lamb and a loaf of bread.” She grinned, plucking something else as well. “And an apple.”
The apple was about the size of a plum. A crabapple at best and looked as sour as an unripe lemon. But the lady beamed, incredibly pleased with herself as if she’d climbed a tree and plucked the measly piece of fruit from the highest limb and somehow lived to tell about it.
“I am in your debt, m’lady.” Lachlan reached through the bars and took the gifts.
“I hope it is enough. All that food should feed three or four men.”
He set the parcel and apple beside him, wishing he could stand straight and give her a proper thank you. “Men as large as me?”
“Nooooo.” Her gaze slid down his body while her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “There are not many men about with your—ah—girth.”
He laughed, ignoring the quick rush of goosebumps rising on his arms. �
��It appears not.” In his lifetime, Lachlan hadn’t met many men his size and fewer who were larger.
“Are ye going to eat?”
He untied the leather thong around the parcel. “Will you join me?”
“I’ve already had my meal, thank ye.”
The bread was half-soaked with juice from the meat and she hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said she’d brought him a leg of lamb. She’d given him an entire leg, shank and all. The only problem? There was nothing to cut it with. He ripped off an enormous bite with his teeth while she watched.
Then her dainty mouth formed an “O”. After reaching into her basket, she held up a pair of shoes. “The cobbler finished your boots. Goodness, I’d wager both of my feet would fit into one of these.”
“Thank you.” He pulled them through the bars and kept chewing.
She pointed to the footgear. “Are ye aiming to try them on?”
Gulping down his bite, Lachlan looked them over first. He’d never had a pair of handmade shoes before. They had thick soles of a woven fiber—possibly hemp or thistle. The leather uppers were soft, with two loops stitched into each side and a leather thong to tie them with, crisscrossing over the foot and again at the ankle, making them boot-like.
“Are they not to your liking?” Christina asked.
“They are very nice.” He gave her a smile—at least as much as he could. Presently, there wasn’t any place on his body that wasn’t sore from the gang fight in the courtyard. He slipped his foot into one and tied it. “Perfect fit, though it’s unfortunate I can’t walk around a bit to test them.”
“Mayhap on the morrow.” She smiled like she was about to tell him something exciting. “I’ve talked Sir Boyd into allowing ye a turn or two upon the wall-walk. Ye were asking about the abbey and ye’ll be able to see it from there.”
That was the best news he’d heard for days. Who knew a turn on the wall-walk of an archaic castle would be thrilling? But it would give him an opportunity to see Kelso Abbey. From his last visit he had a clear picture of the ruin in his mind’s eye. Seeing something familiar would be a relief—and with luck, he’d spot a few power lines—a cell tower—a paved road—contrails. Any sign that he hadn’t completely lost his mind or his…century.
