Rise of a Legend (Guardian of Scotland Book 1) (3 page)

Not quite sure what to say, Eva looked down at the bronze disk while another breeze tickled the back of her neck bringing on a swarm of tingling goosebumps. “Well, thank you. I’m honored you trust me with such a keepsake.”

“Let us hope your sentiments don’t change after…”

“After?”

He glanced up at the window and stroked his chin. “The summer’s end.”

She wrapped her fingers around the medallion, surprised that it felt warm after having been suspended in the cool air. “Where did you find this piece?”

“A young monk gave it to me right before I tried to alter the past.” Walter made no sense at all.

“What?” Eva asked.

The professor batted his hand in front of his nose. “Never mind. That story’s for another time and I must be on my way. After your momentous find, there’ll be more reporters at the dig site today, mark me.”

Eva started to follow him, but he stopped and held up his palm. “Stay here for a while. I wouldn’t want you to miss the serenity Fail Monastery brings to those who allow these crumbled walls to speak. I interrupted your moment of solace. Carry on.”

Watching Walter head to his car, Eva puzzled.
He’s a bit cryptic that one
.

After he drove off, the trees rustled above and a welcomed, woodsy scent fragranced the sanctuary. Suddenly heavy-lidded, Eva sat cross-legged and looked up at the window. “What have you seen in all the centuries you’ve stood there? Happy times and unfathomable desolation, I’d bet. You most certainly were built in a time of brutality—a time when human life was not valued as highly as it is today.”

“
You must not change the past,
” Walter’s voice echoed in her head. But those hadn’t been his exact words. Regardless, Eva was too tired to rationalize any of the professor’s mysterious prattle.

Placing her elbow on a fallen stone, she yawned. Overcome with sleepiness, she rested her head in the crook of her arm and closed her eyes.

I want to find my wow
.

Scottish borders, 1
st
May, the year of our Lord, 1297

William Wallace galloped his warhorse toward the village of Lochmaben, a score of men following in his wake. Unable to reach the town fast enough, he could not pull his gaze away from the black smoke billowing ahead—a sure sign the messenger had been right.

He’d never prayed so hard for a man to be wrong.

Sour bile churned in his stomach.

Dear Lord, I cannot be too late
.

But his gut told him differently. Approaching the cottages near the English fort, the smoke grew thick as fog. Not a woman wept or infant cried. An eerie quiet wafted through the air with the billowing blackness. William drove his horse forward and pulled his mantle across his nose, his eyes tearing at the sting.

Father John Blair rode in beside him. “My God.”

Though the butchering had become a common scene, William would never grow accustomed to it. Scots men, women and children lay face down in the mud, their blood turning the puddles to a sickly maroon. Others hung by the neck, suspended from ropes affixed to the lintel of the burning barn. The ropes creaked on the wood, swinging back and forth in a demanding rhythm, screaming outrage as their lifeless bodies swayed.

“Cut them down,” William growled.

Riding further into the war-torn border village, William’s throat thickened. None of this made sense. A madman had invaded his beloved Scotland and his countrymen paid in blood with these nonsensical raids.

Since Edward Plantagenet sacked Berwick and Dunbar one year past, William had formed a secret militia of a score and ten men. But his efforts were not enough. Worse, the Scottish nobles had been hogtied—any insurrection on their part and the upper class would face ruination. The nobility could lose not only their lands, but indeed their families could end up ruined by the same murderous tyranny William and his men witnessed this day. Forced to sign an oath of fealty, none of the great men in Scotland could stand against the mightiest army in Christendom.

Not unless they are united
.

But the day of emancipation seemed a passing dream. Edward had imprisoned the King of the Scots, John Balliol in the Tower of London. English raids grew ever worse. And now the bastards had lured William’s father and other influential men into their clutches.

Many faces of the fallen were familiar.

A gust of wind cleared the smoke a bit. Gulping back a heave, William wished it hadn’t.

Dread iced through his veins as he inched his horse through the boggy street.

Though the man lay flat on his face, there was no mistaking Wallace gazed upon the remains of his father. All shreds of hope dissolved. The back of Da’s legs had been deeply cut, as if the bastards sliced through his sinews to take the big man to his knees. And by the wounds encrusted with blood, they’d attacked his body with spears and knives.

Disbelief clutched William’s heart into a tight ball. He’d experienced hate before, but never an all-consuming malignity that seeped from his skin like a sickly plague. Sucking in gasping breaths, his chest heaved. His gaze shifted left then right.
The cowards have fled?
“They’d best not sleep.” His voice tremored. “For I will hunt down each of these murderers and watch the life flee from their eyes as they suffer the cold iron of my sword.”

“The blackguards’ tracks lead north.” Blair stepped beside him, his voice sounding like the toll from a lone church bell announcing a funeral.

William wiped his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he dismounted and staggered to his father’s side. His tears were no longer caused by the smoke. They represented the anguish spreading through his limbs—his bleeding heart, stunned to the point where every beat pained him. Longshanks had taken his lust for power too far. William had seen annihilation by the English, carried out in the name of their bloodthirsty king, but never had Longshanks’ sword struck kin. William’s knees turned boneless as he dropped beside his father.

Rage, despair, agony, disbelief all gripped ahold of his heart at once. His hands shook violently as he reached out. His throat thickened and choked him.

Gathering Da into his arms, William clutched the still-warm body to his chest. Rocking back and forth, his every muscle tensed to the point of ferocious tremors.
God in heaven, is this a nightmare from which I will never wake?

A chasm spread through his chest and boiled until it erupted from his throat with an earth-shattering bellow, “Nooooooooooooooo!”

His mind consumed by burning fury, bloodlust ate his gut. William would never forget the sight of his father slaughtered, Da’s blood staining the muddy ground.

The past year of tyranny had taken its toll on Scotland’s countrymen. But William would sooner die than lay down his sword and submit. He hadn’t signed over his fealty on Longshanks’ Ragman Roll. He vowed before God he would never bend to the yoke of tyranny. Yes, Longshanks had humiliated and imprisoned Scotland’s true king. The English monarch continued to threaten the nobles and impose insurmountable taxes. And now that he had the ruling class in his grasp, the usurper had taken to raiding small villages and churches—inviting landowners to meetings and slaughtering them, just as he had done this very day.

The bloody English think themselves superior? They’re the most heinous barbarians who ever walked through Christendom.

William’s jaw set firm as he recalled the verse drilled into him by Brother MacRae, a fierce teacher, knight and monk, “Freedom is best, I tell thee true. Of all things to be won, then never live within the bond of slavery, my son.”

“Amen,” Blair said behind him. The priest had witnessed the same lesson alongside Wallace when they studied to be Templar monks at Dundee.

William closed his eyes and clutched his father tighter. The lifeless man in his arms had done nothing to incite the ire of the English. A tenant farmer to their landowning uncle, big Alan Wallace had led a peaceful life, raising his family, practicing piety and humility. He’d been a father, a husband, a hard worker—a man any son could look up to with respect. No, Da did not deserve this end—cut down like a criminal.

The men who did this were the unlawful curs, an abomination to all humanity.

“In the name of Christ our Lord,” William growled through clenched teeth. “I will spend the rest of my days fighting for Scotland’s freedom.”

Hoofbeats thundered from the west.

A single horse pulled to a halt beside them.

“The English are headed north into Ayrshire,” said Edward Little. “Hell bent on murder, they are.”

Blair slammed the blunt end of his pike into the ground. “Good God, ye mean the bastards havena shed enough blood for one day?”

“There can be no rest.” William pressed his lips to his father’s forehead. “John,” he called to his younger brother. “Take Da’s body to our mother.” He gently lay Da down and chanced one last glance at the mutilated corpses of his fallen countrymen.

The smallest and fairest of the three brothers, John had seen far too much death and destruction for a man of one and twenty. “Ye mean ye’re not going with us?”

William swiped his hands over his face and stood. He’d said farewell to his father. Now he needed to look after the living. “We ride.”

Malcolm gestured to the dead. “Will we not bury them first?” A good man, Willy’s elder brother was no warrior. He had too gentle a heart like their father.

But William had a heart hewn from granite.

He pointed to his squire, Robbie Boyd, then to Blair and two of the younger men in his army. “Stay behind and give them a Christian burial.”

“But,” Robbie objected. The lad’s father had been hanged by the English when Edward first tried to force the nobles to sign his godforsaken roll of fealty. The murder of the venerated Boyd knight had been a successful tool used by the English king to strike fear in the hearts of the gentry.

Now an orphan, William had agreed to foster Robbie until he reached his majority. Their union would serve two purposes, first to hide the boy from English talons, and secondly, William would turn the lad into a man—a warrior. “I’ll not hear a word of complaint.”

John led his horse beside their father’s corpse. “Uncle Reginald willna approve if we cause a stir in Ayr.”

William couldn’t believe such dull-witted words had just been uttered by his brother. He clutched the errant jester by the throat. “Those are the words of a coward,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “Ye’d sit idle and allow those murderers to run free? Whose village will they pillage next? Will they rape and murder women until there are none left to wed Scotland’s sons?” William shoved John away. “Are ye willing to stand by and watch the tyranny unfold, just as it has this verra day so near our own home?”

He turned and mounted his black steed, not waiting for John’s reply.

“After them!”

The screeching sound of steel echoed with chilling scrapes and clangs. Men grunted and bellowed. Someone shrieked in pain.

Eva opened her eyes.

Metal flashed.

Panic shot through her veins.

Her heartbeat raced—as if in the midst of a nightmare.

Jerking up, her head struck something hard—a wooden bench.

Where am I?

Eva blinked, her mind racing. She clapped her hand to her throbbing head.

I was on the ground, but this floor is stone
.

The bench above her scraped and teetered.

Eva jolted, clutching her fists to her chest.

Unable to breathe, she stared into the eyes of a madman, brandishing a gory sword dripping with blood.

“P-please, don’t kill me,” she cried, frozen in place, heart hammering.

He sauntered forward, chuckling with a black-toothed grin. Wearing a red surcoat with three rampant lions embroidered on his chest, he looked like something out of a historical reenactment—but way more realistic—smelled like a sewer, too.

Trying to gain her bearings, Eva scooted from his disgusting pall and wedged herself under the bench. “Y-you’re s-scaring me.”

“Ye miserable Scots speak nary a bit o’ sense.” With an evil sneer, the man jerked his sword over his head.

Her heart nearly bursting from her chest, Eva fled on hands and knees. The bench caught on her back and scraped the floor.

The sword hissed.

From the corner of her eye, the blade glistened, just like in her dreams. But Eva didn’t recall the sound before.

Gasping, she dropped to her stomach and rolled away from the weapon’s arc.

God, this was the worst nightmare she’d had yet.

The lunatic smashed his sword into Eva’s bench. Splinters of wood shot through the air.

Screaming, she sprang to her feet and ran. Everywhere she looked, men in red surcoats fought monks dressed in white. Blood splattered everywhere.

Stay alive
.

She dashed for an altar below a bronze cross. Diving beneath, she crouched into a ball, praying the maniac would find something else to destroy with his bloody sword.

With a whooshing boom, the door burst from its hinges and clattered to the floor.

Lips trembling, Eva peered out from beneath the table vestments. An enormous behemoth of a man barreled into the sanctuary, baring his teeth, swinging a two-handed sword. A mob of bellowing warriors raced in behind him. Each man armed with medieval swords and battleaxes, they charged into the thick of the fight.

With a resounding thud, the altar tottered.

Eva shrieked.

The murderous freak from the pew cackled with a deranged laugh.

She scooted against the wall clutching her arms tight to her shaking body. “Go fight with the other wackos. I’m not a part of your reenactment!”

“I’ll skewer your liver, ye mongrel dog!” The man sliced his weapon beneath the table.

Eva screamed as the blade skimmed inches from her face. “Get the fuck away from me,” she shouted. “I’m terrified of sharp objects. Take it away. Now!”

The lunatic roared, trying to shove the altar over.

The sturdy table tottered then rocked back into place.

Eva forced her body flush against the wall. “Jesus Christ. I am
not
playing your game.”

Something whizzed through the air.

The smelly creep dropped to the floor, his throat cut, his eyes stunned. Blood oozed over the flagstone, spreading rapidly. The metallic stench of blood mixed with dirt. Eva crouched on her toes, clenching her fists so tightly, her fingernails dug into her palms.

Holy shit. Wake up, Eva.

The cloth lifted and the enormous man from the door peered at her. Christ, his dark eyes bore through her with the intensity of a devil. “We killit all the Inglisch, lad—least thoos who didna touk tal an’ flee.”

Eva couldn’t move.
What the hell did he say?
She pointed a shaking finger at the dead man. “Y-y-you
murdered
him,” she whispered.

“Aye, afore the bastart cuid run ye thro.”

Eva pushed her back against the stone wall and stared. Something clicked in her head.

He’s speaking in Auld Scots
.

Then her gaze dropped to the corpse. The only time she’d ever seen a dead man was at the morgue when she’d identified Steve’s body.

God, stop freaking me out
.

She couldn’t take it.

Only seconds ago, the man was alive—trying to kill her. She clapped a hand over her mouth before she coughed up her miserable scone and coffee breakfast.

The behemoth held out his hand. “Come afore Inglisch spies se us. Ye dunna want to be found here.”

I can wake any time now
.

“Haste ye,” A man in a black habit called from the doorway. “We nede ta be heding avay.”

The big man shook his extended palm at her with a deranged intensity in his glare. “Now, laddie.”

She wanted to flee, but her legs wouldn’t move, completely frozen in a crouch. Eva clenched her teeth against her stomach’s involuntary heave. All color had drained from the dead man’s face. Her foot slid forward. The tip of her boot met with dark red blood.

Red
.

This dream grew freakier by the second.

Steeling her grit, she placed her hand in the man’s outstretched palm. Warm and calloused fingers closed tightly around hers. “Good lad.” His speech became clearer. “We must make haste. Once I ken we’ve not been followed, I’ll see ye home.”

He pulled her out.

The fighting had stopped.

Light streaked above from a wheel window shaped like the one at the ruin.

Numb, she let the big man lead her outside at a run. Lord, he was more than a head taller.

Rays of sunlight peeked through brilliant green leaves. She blinked at the pain of sudden brightness.

This dream is way too vivid
.

They stopped beside an enormous horse, the saddle high in the front and back, skirted by blue felt, looked like nothing Eva had seen before—not that she’d ever ridden a horse.

The man pulled a scabbard from beneath his saddle blanket and sheathed his sword, then strapped it to his back. “Ye’ll have to ride with me, laddie.”

Me?

She turned full circle, half expecting to see the Fiat.

Now I know I’m dreaming
.

“Ye’re not one for words, are ye?” He gave her a quizzical look and gestured to the steed. “Up with ye.”

She shrugged.
May as well go with it
.

Eva slipped her foot into the stirrup and launched herself into the saddle. She gave the man a nod, finally able to take a deep breath. His face turned up to the sky, his eyes practically pierced through her—the color of blue crystal, they made her heart flutter clear up to her throat. He wore a full beard just like the others. And though he had shoulder-length brown hair curling from beneath his helm, his beard was uniquely auburn.

His eyebrows drew together at an angle. “G’on, scoot behind. There’s nary enough room for us both in my wee saddle.”

Licking her lips she blinked and studied it. With a cringe, she leaned forward, and inched her behind up and over the back and landed askew. The horse jolted aside. Eva tightened her grip and gasped. Sitting this massive beast was almost as terrifying as being attacked by the reenactment madman.

Reins in his fist, the big man climbed up like he was ascending to his easy chair. “Bloody oath, ye act as if ye’ve never been on a horse afore.”

Eva’s throat was so tight, she couldn’t utter a word. She would have told him she preferred to drive her car. Right. If only it were part of this nightmare, she’d speed away.

With a grunt, the behemoth dug in his spurs. The horse lurched and jolted, racing away with such bumpiness, Eva threw her arms around the guy just to stay on. Her entire body tensed as she dug her fingers into the man’s mail-clad waist. Something pricked her finger.

The horse snorted and stutter stepped. “Ease up your arse, else we’ll both end up on our backsides,” he growled like a gruff sailor.

Taking in a deep breath, Eva relaxed her thigh muscles. Immediately, the horse settled into a smooth gait. She pulled her hand away and looked at her finger. A droplet of blood streamed and dripped onto her jeans. She put it in her mouth. The bitter taste of iron oozed across her tongue.

With a gasp, heat flared up the back of her neck.
Taste?
The horse smelled like the barn animals at the county fair. The man in front of her had a strong scent as well—definitely masculine—spicy—musky—
kinda nice
.

As a wisp of his hair brushed her nose, the burning sensation from her neck spread throughout her entire body.

Oh my God. This is real
.