by Amy Jarecki
By the time he reached them, daylight had all but gone. They mustn’t have been too concerned about attack because a bonfire raged. Blades clanged and men hollered like they were casting bets on a sparring match.
“Ye’ve been taught well,” de Vere’s deep voice boomed through the forest.
Not but fifty feet from the camp, Lachlan crouched behind a boulder and peered around. Andrew wielded his sword against the larger knight like a pro. He had been trained well, but he would be no match for a knight like de Vere, a man in his prime who had been fighting for king and country his whole life. No, Andrew wasn’t yet ready to be dubbed a knight, but he was a hell of a lot closer now than he’d been a year ago.
“What will ye trade for that horse?” de Vere asked spinning and slapping Andrew in the ass with the flat side of his blade. Now he was just toying.
Andrew leapt aside, circling his sword above his head and taking a defensive stance. “He’s mine.”
“A gift from your mother, was it?”
“Aye.”
“The shrew is trying to win ye over to her side, is she?” De Vere paced, his sword lowered.
Andrew didn’t take the bait, good lad. “Why wouldn’t my mother want to give her only son a gift?” His accent sounded a bit more English. Lachlan didn’t like that one bit.
Bellowing, de Vere swung as if he intended to cleave the boy in two.
Andrew blocked with an upward thrust, but the bigger man spun, trapping the lad in a stranglehold.
Lachlan clenched his fists. What did I teach you?
Seconds passed. The lad’s eyes were wide and he appeared to be scared.
Come on.
Lachlan rustled the brush above his head. Andrew looked. Lachlan gave a single nod before slipping back into the shadows where he wouldn’t be seen. In the next blink of an eye, Andrew used his heel to stomp on de Vere’s instep. Spinning toward the knight’s wrist, Andrew slammed his elbow into de Vere’s unprotected throat. Lachlan wanted to stand up and cheer, but settled for a fist pump.
“Bloody insolent whelp.” The knight hopped in place. “Tie him!”
Guards immediately followed orders and bound Andrew’s hands and legs.
De Vere meandered in and walloped the boy with a slap across the chops.
Bloody coward.
“When we arrive in Stirling, ye will support my cause.”
“Marry your daughter?” Andrew spat. “She’s a child.”
“She will not be a child for long.”
“And then what?”
“And then ye sit back and enjoy the spoils.” De Vere pulled his dagger and pretended to run it across Andrew’s neck. “If ye cross me I’ll slit your throat myself.”
Andrew’s lips thinned as his gaze shifted to Lachlan’s hiding place. Slightly shaking the brush, he gave a sign to let the boy know he wasn’t alone. Then he waited until the camp was asleep, crept around the perimeter and quietly released the tie line holding de Vere’s horses in a row. Several followed as he continued on his way toward Stirling without Andrew. But he had a plan.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Christina’s fingers started to tremble when she finally saw Stirling Castle as the Highland hills parted, giving way to the vast lea cut by the winding River Forth. Since Lachlan had ridden off to fetch Andrew from de Vere’s clutches, her nerves had been on the ragged edge. She’d done nothing but clutch her reins, dig in her heels and pray.
Too many emotions coursed through her blood. Seeing Stirling was like going back in time six and ten years. The last time she’d been there, her husband had taken an arrow to the shoulder in the Battle of Stirling Bridge. The wound didn’t seem mortal at first, but three months later, the Lord took him.
On that triumphant day, Andrew’s father rode beneath the portcullis beside his comrade, William Wallace. Christina had followed at the end of the procession, riding her horse alongside Eva. She still could not grasp the truth. Eva was Lachlan’s mother. After William’s death, the redheaded lass had returned to her time and given birth to a boy. By Robbie’s calculation, if Eva had birthed Lachlan in her time, he’d be a lad of nine. But something behind the medallion was magical for certain. He’d grown into a man afore the powers that be sent him through the centuries to be her champion.
And, oh, so much more.
Indeed, a maelstrom of emotions coursed through her blood as she and her retinue spurred their horses to a canter. Was Lachlan waiting at the castle as he’d promised? She couldn’t wait to see Andrew and hold him in her arms again. She wouldn’t blubber over him, but she would ensure the lad kent how much she’d worried and how very important he was to her.
At the town gate, they were stopped by the guard—a sign Robert Bruce was holding court. “What is your business?” asked the sentry.
“Lady Christina de Moray and her army here to present to King Robert as commanded by Sir Boyd,” said Hamish. It would have been improper for her to announce herself.
Allowed to enter, up the cobblestoned road they climbed to the royal palace. Christina had seen many castles and Stirling was one of the grandest. Still, her gaze swept to and fro. Where are they?
Before they reached the inner castle gates, grooms met them to stable the horses. As soon as her feet touched the blessed ground, Lachlan hastened toward them, thank heavens.
Smiling, she craned her neck to look beyond him. “Where is Andrew?”
“On his way.”
“Did he see us riding down from the Highlands?”
“No.”
“What is it?” Pursing her lips, she squinted. “I sense ye’re not telling me something.”
Lachlan grasped her elbow. “Come. They’ve appointed you with a chamber in the white tower.”
She jerked her arm away. “Nay. I want to ken where my son is or I’ll not take another step.”
“He’s on his way, I said.”
“From where? The moon?”
Lachlan stooped and lowered his lips to her ear. “First of all, I’m counting on you to keep your calm. He’s still with de Vere. By my estimation they should be here by the end of the day. Now walk with me to your chamber so we can avoid a scene. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to have spies swarming around this place.”
A raging fire burned in her belly. By God, she would have answers. And if Lachlan weren’t right about the fact that they were probably being watched, she would have slapped him right across the face. How dare he leave Andrew with that despicable blackguard?
Her lips thinned, her fists clenched as they made their way past merchants’ shacks to the tower. She wanted to scream, she wanted to run back to the stables, mount her horse and gallop for her son. It seemed to take forever to reach her chamber, but once the door closed behind them, she faced Lachlan, jamming her fists onto her hips. “Do ye have any idea how awfully harrowing it is for a mother to have her son taken from her arms? Do ye have any idea how much agony I endured during those three and ten years?”
“I—”
“Ye couldna possibly, ’cause if ye did, my son would have met me at Stirling’s gates.”
“It would have been—”
She slapped him across his insolent face. “I want to shake ye until your teeth rattle! Ye left him with that backstabbing cur and there ye stand like ye havena care in the world, ye bastard.”
“Stop.” Lachlan grasped her shoulders like an iron vise. “Listen to me before you fly off on a rampage. Andrew would have been in greater danger if I’d tried to rescue him.”
She twisted from beneath his fingers. “Ye shouldna have gone alone. If we’d taken the de Moray army, we could have laid an ambush and finished the Earl of Oxford.”
Lachlan grew red in the face. “That may be, but when I heard de Vere say he was riding for Stirling, I made my decision.”
“Och aye, did ye now? Ye’re not only toying with my life, ye’re toying with Andrew’s, and I’ll not abide it. For the life of me if—”
“Would you hear me ou
t, dammit?” Lachlan threw up his hands. “I was close enough to the camp to hear his plans. He intends on approaching King Robert to propose a marriage between Andrew and his daughter, just as he told us. He wants the de Moray lands—could care less about our boy.”
“I kent it all along—he’s a blackguard of the worst sort.”
“While I was there I made eye contact with Andrew. The lad is on our side.”
“Ye could tell by giving him a look?” She stamped her foot at the absurdity.
“De Vere was talking big, making threats. He even had the lad bound. He’s using fear and coercion to bend Andrew to his will. Don’t you see? We never did that to him. Andrew was shown respect and love at Ormond Castle—something he’d never had with de Vere.”
“Aye, but it’s only been mere months since the lad has swayed to our way of thinking. He’s vulnerable.”
Lachlan’s lips thinned.
Christina didn’t like that one bit—because there was a hole in his thinking. Crossing her arms, she took a step in. “Are ye certain beyond all doubt that Andrew will support the de Moray Clan, that he will stand tall beside his mother, upon whom he focused his anger and resentment for years?”
“I’m certain enough.”
“Enough?” She shoved him in the shoulder. “Blast ye. How can ye toy with my life like this? If I lose my son and my home to that evil knight, I shall never forgive ye.”
***
Lachlan paced atop the battlements. He’d been damned confident with his plan until Christina’s tongue lashing. Now, doubt had his gut twisted in knots and the more he paced, the more he doubted everything. Had he grown too overconfident? Had he misunderstood the whole thing with the medallion? And, for Christ’s sake, he’d been in this century for over a year and still had no clue how he’d make his way home.
He stopped for a moment and stared out over the River Forth, snaking its way to the firth.
The bridge has been rebuilt since the battle.
He didn’t know why he knew it, but the English had destroyed the bridge trapping their own men to prevent complete annihilation by Wallace—his father. Across the carse of flat, fertile land, a wooded hill rose in the distance, Abbey Wood. Lachlan remembered standing in that very spot on the Stirling Castle battlements with his mother and looking out toward the Wallace Monument, a grand tower that wouldn’t be built until the nineteenth century. Mother had pointed out the details of the battle while he’d listened—one of the few times he’d paid attention to her historical prattle. Lachlan did, however, always listen when Mum talked about William Wallace.
The medallion warmed. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his mother. But it was a man’s voice he heard, a deep, resonant voice: “Be careful what ye wish for, son. Ye have been blessed with experiencing life in two centuries. Where are ye needed most and where are ye most content? Follow your heart, for ye may never have a chance to do so again.”
“Who are you?” Lachlan asked before the spirit could leave him. When there was no reply, he opened his eyes, the scene still the same. Abbey Wood quiet in the distance devoid of the Wallace Monument.
Raking his fingers through his hair, the past year played out in Lachlan’s mind. He’d been so wrapped up in daily life, he hadn’t thought much about the long term. Did he have a choice? If only there were someone to talk to, someone who knew about time travel and the medallion. God, he was such a damned romantic. He’d gone and fallen in love with Christina. He’d fallen in love with her doll-shaped face and her strength of character. He’d fallen in love with the role of Andrew’s mentor. He’d fallen in love with horses and castles and simple fare, and a slower, yet more brutal way of life.
And now he’d gone and screwed it up. Christina was ready to boot his arse across Scotland. And if Andrew made one misstep, the lad would either have his throat cut now or give his lands away to a tyrant and, most likely, end up with his throat cut later.
A guard approached at a run. “’Tis the Earl of Oxford at the gate, demanding an audience with the king.”
Lachlan’s gut squeezed. De Vere had made better time than he’d given him credit for.
“Are they meeting?” he asked.
“All men-at-arms have been ordered to the great hall forthwith.”
I’ve got one shot to make things right.
Taking off, Lachlan sprinted to Christina’s chamber and pounded on the door. “Hurry. De Vere is headed into a meeting with the Bruce.”
The lady flung open the door, her light blue veil pinned perfectly in place. She’d changed into a dark blue velvet gown and with the determination in her eyes, she looked more commanding than a queen. “Then what the devil are ye standing there for? Escort me to the hall this instant.”
Unfortunately, by the time they’d crossed the courtyard, guards blocked the enormous hall doors with pikes and battleaxes. No matter how they tried to explain, the guards refused to budge. “No one enters until King Robert gives the word.”
Lachlan pulled Christina by the wrist. “Come with me.”
She resisted his tug. “Where the devil are ye taking me? What if de Vere comes past with Andrew?”
He slid a hand to her waist. “You want inside?”
“Aye.”
“After crawling around ruined castles with my mother for years, I’ve learned a few things. Now come.” He led her around the back of the great hall—back where the nobles never ventured. Where it stank and rotting debris filled the gutters. The pathway curved around a steep decline, leading to a dark archway.
“Hold up your skirts,” Lachlan warned. “You wouldn’t want your hem to drag through some of the ooze we’ll be walking through.”
True, Christina had been in many kitchens, but he doubted she’d been in one so vast. As long as a footy field, Lachlan had spent some time in Stirling’s basement kitchens when he was a lad. True enough, they’d been altered over the years, but he was banking on one thing being the same as it was in all medieval castles. The kitchen that fed the masses had a direct passageway to the great hall.
His memory didn’t fail. As soon as they stepped through the archway, they were blasted by heat from the bread ovens. The smell of baking bread overpowered scents he knew lurked from beyond.
A man covered with flour blocked the entrance to the main kitchen. “M’lord, m’lady, what is your business here? Ye shouldna be down in the galley with the common folk.”
“We need your help.” Lachlan gestured to Christina. “This is Lady Christina de Moray, wife of the patriot, Andrew de Moray—comrade of William Wallace.”
The man gasped, hitting his cheek with a flour-covered hand. “Forgive my impertinence, m’lady.” Sputtering like a fool, he dipped into a bow. “Ye said ye needed my help?”
“We do.” Christina grasped the man’s hand as if he were as important as a dignitary. “Ye may have heard the Earl of Oxford has demanded an audience with King Robert?”
“Aye, we’ve been asked to make extra loaves for his army, and yours, m’lady.”
“Excellent,” she said. “But make no bones about it, de Vere is ruthless. He’s holding my son hostage and intends to demand terms from the king. I must spirit inside afore the blackguard states his case.”
“Can you lead us through the kitchens?” Lachlan asked.
“I can and there’s only one way in that’s no’ blocked.” He pointed toward the main kitchen that Lachlan knew. “Ye canna go that way until the evening meal is served. Follow me.”
The man pulled a torch from the wall and took them down the dankest, dirtiest passageway that stank like rotten fish. Water trickled down the stone walls and slapped underfoot. Just as Lachlan was about to call a halt, the man used a key to open a door and lit a torch secured to the stone wall. “Go up the stairwell. The first door opens onto the dais.”
“Thank you.” Lachlan placed a coin into the man’s palm before they continued up through the dim stairwell, completely devoid of sunlight. At the first landing, he reached fo
r the latch.
Christina stilled his hand. “If a guard sees us, they may try to force us to leave.”
“Good thinking.” Very slowly, Lachlan raised the lever and only opened the door wide enough to peer inside. “The dais is blocked by a screen,” he whispered.
She pressed against his back. “Perfect.”
No sooner had they stepped through the door when a voice boomed across the hall, “The right honorable, the Earl of Oxford.”
“Ye’ve relieved him of his weapons?” came the king’s commanding bass.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Then allow him to enter.”
More than one set of footsteps approached.
“Oxford,” said the king. “I’m surprised to see ye with young de Moray.”
Christina grasped Lachlan’s hand. “He’s here.”
Nodding, Lachlan touched a finger to his lips. He wanted to hear what was being said before he leapt from their hiding place and challenged the braggart to a fight to the death.
“I have a proposition for ye,” said de Vere.
Odd, the earl didn’t use a courtesy title. Did he consider the Bruce to be an equal?
“Do ye need to be reminded ye’re on Scottish soil? Ye’ll refer to me as Your Grace, else I’ll toss your proposition out with your arse.”
Lachlan pulled the corners of his mouth down to keep from laughing.
“I beg your pardon Your Grace. I must have been thinking fondly of the years we spent together when ye were the Earl of Carrick.”
“What have ye come to propose?”
“Ye need a strong army in the north. Ye ken there’s none better trained than the de Vere men.”
“I beg to differ,” replied the king. “I’ve received word the de Moray army is growing in strength and numbers.”
“Do ye honestly think they can best me? My army is King Edward’s hammer. But if we made an alliance, I would pledge my fealty to Scotland’s throne.”
