Rise of a Legend (Guardian of Scotland Book 1) (16 page)

“Me?” He released his grip.

She rubbed her arm, a purple bruise spreading across her skin. “You are a man of the cloth, yet you did not approach me kindly first. You glare at me during the evening meals. What am I to think of you? Are you planning to betray William’s confidence?” There. Possibly using a touch of reverse psychology might encourage him to back off.

He snapped a hand to his chest. “How dare ye doubt my fealty? William Wallace and I have been friends since we were lads. We are of one mind in this rebellion—but
ye
. Ye came from nowhere. Ye have no kin. Ye speak like a heathen sent from the depths of hell.”

Gaining her confidence she stepped closer. “You’ve met such a heathen?”

“I ken loose women such as ye.” He shifted backward. “They all have one thing on their minds and ’tis not the goodwill of their lovers.”

Cheeks burning, Eva’s mouth dropped open. Her? Loose? “You, sir, do
not
understand anything.”

He held up a finger and shook it. “I ken what I see, lassie.”

Eva flinched. “You are wrong. I have done nothing to incite your ire.” Even if she had been a tad improper with William, the passion they shared behind the shrouds was no one else’s business.

He splayed his fingers and dropped his hand. “See to it things remain that way, else I’ll be the first to run a blade across that bonny neck of yours.” He started off.

“Wait.” Though she could have picked up her stick and clobbered him over the head, she didn’t want this disagreement to end badly. Things were uncomfortable enough.

“Aye?” he asked without turning

“How can I earn your trust?”

Blair regarded her over his shoulder. “Ye’ll ken if it ever happens. Until then, ye’d best watch your back.”

Eva watched him walk away, then kicked the damned stick. Thank God they would be leaving soon. She wouldn’t consider giving up her time with William Wallace for anything or anyone—especially an uptight warrior priest. Aside from the story of a lifetime, she’d found exactly what she needed—an intelligent and desirable man with no strings—a man she could place on a pedestal yet continue to keep her heart locked away, not to be twisted and torn apart by medieval brutality.

***

Eva collected the strips of cloth she’d washed from the drying line. Brother Bartholomew watched her, gripping his hands on his hips. “With so much to do, ye waste your time washing these linens.”

Inside she cringed. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

He harrumphed. “Where on earth did ye hear that drivel?”

“I thought everyone said it.”

“Aye, in what country? Egypt? The Bible tells of the Great River Nile, do people there bathe as much as ye?”

“Yes. Bathing is of great importance to a person’s wellbeing.” She rolled a bandage. “And using clean bandages will help the men’s wounds heal faster.”

The monk snorted. “And so ye’re thinking ye’re a physician now?”

“Not at all. I just know a thing or two about personal hygiene.” Something medieval physicians knew nothing about. But jeez, the first time she’d seen the monk wrap a dirty cloth around a bloody cut, she’d gathered up all the rags she could find and washed them in boiled water. Eva shook her finger. “Please, if you pay heed to nothing else I say, do not apply a dirty bandage to any wound, especially one that has already been used. Someone could die…” She stopped before saying
“from blood poisoning.”

“I think ye’re being overly cautious.”

She placed her roll in the medicine basket and pulled the next bandage off the line. “Just humor me on this one thing. Please?”

“Verra well.” The little monk held up his palms and shrugged. “If ye are willing to wash the bandages, I shall use those first.”

“Thank you.”

“Miss Eva.” Robbie approached, leading a scrawny, dirty-faced lad by the elbow. “Lachlan got sideswiped with a lance.”

Eva shot a pointed look at Bartholomew. “We’re running low on avens water, too.”

“Because ye use it on every wee cut. ’Tis a wonder they’re all coming to ye now for their healing. Ye spoil the lot of them.” He turned on his heel and headed into the cave.

“We’ll need to gather more avens root on the morrow,” she called after him. Fortunately, the medicine basket sat beside her and Eva could tend the lad right there. “Come, sit on this rock.”

Lachlan did as asked and held out his arm. “’Tis not bad. It’ll come good in a day or so.”

Eva crossed her arms. “And how am I supposed to examine the cut through your sleeve?”

Just like most everyone else, the lad’s shirt was dingy with eons of ground-in dirt. Soaked with blood, the sleeve had a gaping hole that would need repair too.

“Do you have a needle and thread?” she asked.

The boy clamped his lips taut and shook his head of brown hair.

“He’s an orphan,” Robbie said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “Just like me.”

“I see.” Most of the lads Robbie’s age who’d made their way to William’s camp were orphans. No twelve-year-old’s mother would allow her son to join a rebellion. Not even in medieval Scotland.
Would she?
“Well then, take off your shirt and give it to me. I’ll see it’s returned to you by the evening meal.”

“Thank ye, Miss Eva. ’Tis the only shirt I own.” He pulled the filthy garment over his head.

“You and everyone else, it seems.” She grasped it between her pincer fingers and dropped it far away from her clean bandages. “Now let’s have a look at that cut.”

Lachlan held out his arm and grimaced.

Eva did too. Then she hissed. “It appears the lance clipped you pretty good.”

“Aye.”

“What on earth is Father Blair thinking allowing you lads to play with spears and poleaxes?”

Robbie tapped a stone with the toe of his boot. “We’re not playing. We’re training.”

“Well, lads your age should be playing.”

Both boys glowered.

“I thought wooden sparring weapons were available to prevent the
men
from being hurt.” She added emphasis to men to bolster the boy’s esteem.

“Och.” Robbie crossed his arms. “Willy says sparring with toys makes a man soft. In the heat of a battle, he needs to ken what ’tis like to swing blade hewn of iron. Says we need to be ten times fitter than our opponents—’tis the only way we’ll win.”

She had to agree with them there. This bedraggled lot needed stamina to stand up to English soldiers and this wasn’t the first time she’d heard it said. “In that case, I suggest you swing your lances at something inanimate, like a tree.”

Lachlan gave her a quizzical stare. “Ye sure do talk peculiar.”

Eva doused a clean bandage with avens water. “’Tis so I can entertain the likes of you.” She held it near his arm. “Now this might sting a bit.”

The lad proved to be a tough little bugger, and when Eva had the congealed blood cleared away, she peered closer at the wound. “Looks like this needs to be stitched as well.” Her stomach squelched—she hadn’t needed to sew up a wound yet. Two days ago, she’d assisted while Brother Bartholomew stitched a cut to a man’s flank. The well-meaning monk jabbed the bone needle through the skin like he was picking nutmeat from a walnut as blood streamed all over his fingers.

Panic filled the boy’s eyes. “Can ye not tie a bandage around my arm and call it good?”

She pulled a needle and thread from the basket. “I’m afraid not this time. Would you prefer I ask Brother Bartholomew to do it?” She grimaced.

Lachlan snatched his scrawny arm into his chest. “Nay. He’ll skewer me for certain.”

“All right then. I’ll be as gentle as I can.” After threading the needle, she pinched the flesh together, willing her stomach to stop its queasiness.

Robbie leaned in and peered a bit too close. “Are ye not going to give him a tot of whisky first?”

To a twelve-year-old?
Eva looked at the wound—it needed the whisky more than Lachlan, though avens could be used as a mild antiseptic, which is why she’d used it so profusely. She regarded the cut—the stitches were going to hurt. How much damage would a wee swig do? She waved her hand. “Quickly—run in and ask Brother Bartholomew for a flask.”

After Robbie dashed away, Eva sat on the big rock beside Lachlan. “Where do you come from?”

“Berwick.”

A lump formed in her throat. She didn’t need to ask what had become of his parents. Grasping the hand of his uninjured arm, she held it between her palms. “If you should ever need to talk to a grown up, I hope you’ll feel comfortable coming to me.”

“Why would I want to talk to ye?” Lachlan’s mouth twisted with his quizzical look. “Ye’re a lass.”

She grinned. “Perhaps one day something will come up. Who knows?”

Robbie raced back with a flagon and pulled the cork. “Drink this down.”

“Just a sip,” Eva cautioned.

But Lachlan gulped the spirit as if he were drinking a cordial. Belching, he wiped his mouth and handed the flagon to his friend.

“Give me that.” Eva reached out, just missing.

Robbie took a swig before handing it to her. “Ye mean ye drink whisky? But ye’re a woman.”

She poured a bit over the needle. “I can drink it if I want to.”

“But now ye’re just wasting it.” Robbie snatched the flagon and clutched it against his chest.

“Wheesht.” Eva held up the needle with a steady hand and regarded Lachlan. “Are you ready?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll be careful.”
After all, I’ve sewn seat cushions in Girl Scouts
. Every muscle in the boy’s body tensed as she pushed in the bone needle for the first stitch. Perhaps she should have gone into nursing rather than journalism.
If only I’d known I’d be spending time in the thirteenth century
. Eva chuckled under her breath as she pulled it through.

Lachlan blanched.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Eva squeaked. “Are you ready for another?”

“More whisky,” he croaked.

She nodded to Robbie. Given the choice between causing pain and an inebriated minor—she’d choose the later.

When Eva tied off the last suture, a horse and rider trotted into the clearing. He spun his mount in a circle before he stopped and pulled a folded piece of vellum from beneath his surcoat. “I’ve a missive for William Wallace.”

William ran his finger under the red wax seal of James, the High Steward, and unfolded the missive. Written in Latin, he read the scrolling penmanship.

“Who is it from?” Blair asked while the men crowded around them.

Wallace handed the missive to the priest. “Lord Stewart.” William looked to Eddy Little and Malcolm, who’d arrived from Ayr earlier that day. “Come, we need to talk.”

“What does it say?” someone hollered from the crowd.

William regarded the expectant faces. “All of ye, prepare to march at dawn.”

“To face the English?” another asked.

“Aye.” William nodded. “I would have preferred to train ye a bit longer, but there’s a garrison moving northward carrying out ‘peacekeeping’ demonstrations. I’m sure ye all ken what that means.”

Robbie pushed his way in front of Wallace. “Why do we not set out straight away?”

He mussed the lad’s hair. “Because we must follow the plan.”

“But I want to skewer the bastards who killed my da.”

“Ye’ll get your chance, lad.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “Pay heed to my words. If we stand unified, we’ll not be beaten. But every one of ye must follow me. If anyone has a mind to haul off and become a hero, ye have leave to do so…but ye’ll be going it alone.”

Then William turned and led his band of lieutenants up the hill—the only place they’d be away from prying ears. Eva stepped aside and allowed him to pass, their gazes connecting for a moment. Must her green eyes be so intense—so inquisitive? Why did a wicked storm brew in his loins every time he met the lass’s stare? Grinding his teeth, he walked past her. She kent this day would come, damn it all.

Once they reached the summit, William gathered his men in a circle.

Malcolm spread his palms. “What’s afoot?”

“Lord Stewart is sending fifty horse and two hundred foot from Renfrew—and Sir Douglas is marching a hundred more cavalry from Galloway.”

“Douglas?” Malcolm asked, a hint of distrust inflected in his tone.

“He’s bringing a hundred men.” William sliced his hand through the air. “We need his numbers. Besides, if anyone has a bone to pick, it is he. The knight lost near everything when Edward sacked Berwick.”

Eddy elbowed his way further into the circle. “Did that missive mention anything about a plan?”

“We’re to rendezvous at Fail Monastery on the morrow. But tell no one. Even if we havena spy in our ranks, ye never ken when someone will turn tail and join our enemies.”

“Aye,” Blair said. “And I still dunna trust that lassie ye brought into our camp.”

Wallace stepped up to Blair so their faces were but a hand’s breadth apart. “That’s right. Ye havena had a good word to say about Eva since she arrived.”

Blair squinted. “She’s a harlot.”

Clenching his fists, William leaned even closer. “Ye took an oath of celibacy and now your cods are aching. Is that it?”

Blair took the first swing—a fisted jab, aimed at the temple.

William blocked and thrust an undercut into John’s gut. Best friend or nay, Wallace wouldn’t stand for Blair or anyone spewing foul words against Eva. Locking arms, they wrestled to the ground.

William shoved the heel of his hand in the priest’s face. Straining through his teeth, he growled, “She’s done nothing but work her fingers to the bone since she’s been here.”

Blair’s palm squished Willy’s nose to the side. “And keep your miserable bed warm at night ye swiving bastard!”

William swung back with his fist.

“God’s teeth, Willy.” Malcolm grabbed William’s right elbow from behind with John latching on to his left. “What the bloody hell have ye been doing whilst I’ve been away?”

Arching his back, Wallace struggled to break free. “I’ve been training an army to fight the rebellion, ye beef-witted swine.”

From his back, Blair grunted and took a dirty swing, connecting with William’s jaw. “Aye, but ’tis time to leave the wench be and let her find another bed that’s not so important to our cause. God bless it, William. Ye fight with the power of six mace bearers. We canna afford to have your mind anywhere but on your duty to Scotland.”

The blow could have been harder, but regardless, William didn’t care to be hogtied by his brothers while his best friend tried to knock some sense into him. “Eva is no one’s business but my own.” It was one thing for
him
to question her presence, but that’s as far as it went. She’d earned her keep as far as William was concerned.

Blair squirmed out from under Wallace and stood. “She doesna belong here.”

William wrenched his arms away and glanced at Eddy. “Ye’re being quiet all the sudden. What say ye, Little?”

He shrugged. “Not certain. She’s been a help, but if ye canna fight because of the likes of her, I’d sooner run the lassie through.”

Blair clasped his hands together like as if he were ready to say a few prayers now he’d had the last swing. “We’re going to Fail—’tis where ye found her, no?”

William rubbed his aching jaw. “Aye.”

“Well then, why not leave her there?” Eddy reasoned. “One of the Trinitarians ought to recognize her, otherwise how else would she have ended up inside when ye found her?”

Malcolm tapped a finger to his lips. “Unless the marauding English brought her in.”

“Nay.” Rubbing his jaw, William opened and closed his mouth to ensure it hadn’t been knocked out of place. “One of the bastards was trying to kill her when we arrived.”

Blair chuckled. “Now that’s a quandary. I pegged her as a spy and the English want to kill her?”

William blinked then looked each man square in the eye.

Eva’s prediction about his meeting with Lord James Stewart weighed on his mind. He hadn’t told anyone—more for her protection than anything. But it was time these men knew. “Ye breathe a word of this outside this circle and I’ll slit your throat myself. Eva’s a seer. She kens things—says she sought me out.”

Eddy shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So then what was she doing at the monastery?”

“Trying not to get herself killed.” William slapped him on the back. “Never mind that. I’ll be the one to decide what is to be done with her.”

Everyone seemed satisfied with William’s answer except Blair. “Ye ken she’s been up here swinging a stick around as if she thinks she’s going to march into battle with us?”

“Aye?” William puzzled. “That makes no sense. She’s afraid of sharp weapons.”

“Another good reason to leave her in the hands of the monks at Fail,” Malcolm said.

“Enough about the woman.” William sliced his hand through the air. “I said I’d determine what to do with her. And in the meantime, I’ll appreciate it if ye leave her be. Now, we’ve a battle to plan.”

He pointed to his brother. “Malcolm, I want ye to steer our uncle clear of the English garrison.”

“Consider it done.”

Wallace crouched down and drew a map in the dirt. “Stewart’s missive said the English are hunting for the giant who killed Heselrig. I reckon we should make sure they meet their end with no doubt of exactly who I am.”

***

After a downpour started, too many smelly bodies crammed into the cave. Eva sat in her usual place beside Robbie and now Lachlan. The lad hadn’t left her side since she’d stitched his arm.

Robbie reclined on his fur, holding a tankard of freshly brewed ale, his eyelids drooping. “I hope the rain stops afore the morrow.”

Now that he’d swilled the flagon of whisky and joined with his partner in crime, Lachlan grinned with a glassy look to his eyes. “It has to. I’m ready to face the English.”

“I’m afraid you’re on injured reserve.” Eva would do anything to keep the lads from picking up weapons and facing grown men—trained soldiers, no less.

“Wha-d-ye mean?” Lachlan flexed a scrawny arm. “I’m ready.”

Eva gave him a mothering stare. “Aw, come on lad, even a grown man knows it is madness to run into battle with a wound as grave as yours.”

“But I feel fine.”

She pointed at the flagon. “Aye—because you’ve had a wee bit too much to drink, I’ll say.”

Lachlan hiccupped. “I’m fair to middling.”

Robbie sat up and thumped his chest. “Too right, we’ve both been practicing for days. We’re ready. Lachlan isna about to let a wee scratch keep him from skewering the English.”

Eva clamped her lips together and glanced at William, holding court across the fire. The man hadn’t so much as glanced her way after he’d come down from his secret meeting up on the hill. Nor had any of them said where they’d be off to come dawn. She rifled through her memory, but couldn’t tie anything to June, 1297. If she knew where they were headed, she might be able to figure out what they’d be facing.

Eva pinched the bridge of her nose.
After Lanark, William’s next battle of record is in Scone—and I figure that should occur within the next three to six weeks. What happens leading up to that is a quandary—unless it was detailed in the cryptic writings of Blind Harry
.

She forced her mind to clear, but nothing came.

“Ye look like ye’re in pain, Miss Eva,” Lachlan said.

“What?” She regarded the boy and ran her hand over his tangled hair. “You should try to get some sleep. Doubtless, with all the marching, tomorrow will be a tiring day.”

“Aw, I can go for days without sleep.”

“Really?” Eva didn’t believe it for a second. The boy looked like he wouldn’t last another hour. “Let us hope you’re not sore in the head as well as your wing on the morrow.”

“Ye worry more than my nursemaid used to,” Robbie said.

“Well, someone should be worried about you lads. You’re not really old enough to be out on your own.”

“Says who?” Lachlan asked.

“Me.” Eva stood. “The pair of you might be ready to swill ale all night, but I’m heading to my pallet.”

Once sitting cross-legged in the alcove, Eva struck a flint to light the tallow candle, pleased with herself for the progress she’d made surviving in the wood with all the mosquitoes and midges and men wilder than Alaskan lumberjacks.

She reached for a piece of vellum and recorded the day’s events, including her trouble recalling what was on the horizon in the next few days:

…News of Wallace’s actions in Lanark has most certainly spread like wildfire, evidenced by the new troops arriving at the campsite every day, and by the growing interest from the nobility. Things will become unsettled and tumultuous in the coming weeks and months. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

She blew on the ink as she read, then rolled it with her other pages and secured them in place with a leather thong.

The furs parted. William stooped and crawled up beside her. “Do ye ken what will happen on the morrow?”

“This isn’t one of your bigger battles. Where are we heading?”

His eyes shifted sideways, then he picked at the fur beneath. “We’ll be meeting up with more men at Fail Monastery.”

A shiver tickled up her spine.
Four thousand strong that night did lodge in Ayr, and in the bloody barns without the town
[1]
. The verse from Blind Harry’s poem came to mind with the force of a lightning flash. She blinked in succession. “Are the English taking their ‘peacekeeping’ demonstration to Ayr?”

When he looked up with that acute intensity reflected in his eyes, Eva knew he’d never be able to lie to her. “Aye.”

“You’ll come upon them after dark—holed up in the barns on the outskirts of town.” The medallion against her chest burned, but Eva wasn’t ready to hold her tongue. Not yet. “Who are you meeting at Fail?”

“Lord Stewart is sending an army.” Those eyes shifted again.

“Who else?” she pushed.

“Douglas—Le Hardi.”

“And so it begins.” Eva smoothed her fingers along William’s forearm. “Watch out for that man. He’s as vain and barbarous as they come.”

“That I ken. His reputation was bad afore he lost Berwick. What more can ye tell me?”

She shifted the medallion to the side, but it burned like a branding iron against her skin. “All I can say is there will be fire and death.”

I hope it is the English who will be dying and not my men.

Eva couldn’t look him in the eye. “Oh, yes.” If Blind Harry’s account was accurate.

William adjusted his seat and then did it again. “I want ye to remain at the monastery.”

A gasp caught in the back of her throat. “Will you return for me?”

“I plan to.” This time
he
didn’t meet
her
gaze.

She leaned toward him. “Where will Brother Bartholomew and the lads be?”

“They’ll come along to tend the injured—but I’ll ensure they remain at a safe distance.”

A fire ignited beneath Eva’s skin—this was so unfair. “So it is all right for clerics and children to follow you into battle, but not me?”

William inclined his head against the wall and looked at the low ceiling as he let out a deep sigh. “I canna in good conscious allow ye to stay with us. I’ve thought about our arrangement and it is selfish of me to keep ye as my
leman
even if ye are a seer. The monks at Fail will help ye find a husband.”