Rise of a Legend (Guardian of Scotland Book 1) (29 page)

After the friars returned to the English camp, for the third time that day Longshanks’ army started across Stirling Bridge. When nearly half of the English vanguard had traversed, Father Blair approached, wearing mail atop his habit and carrying a psalter in his hands. “It looks as if we will have our fight after all.”

William took in a deep, reviving breath of air. “Aye, friar, and a blessed day this is.”

Father Blair bowed his head. “Let us pray.”

Andrew and William kneeled, as did the other men in their company. Bowing his head, Wallace clutched his fist to his heart.

“In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, we beseech thee, oh Lord to grant these brave souls courage to face triumphant death and stand against the oppressor. We carry your cross over our hearts as we fight against tyranny. For rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God. Amen.”

“Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God,” William repeated. “Amen,” he chorused with the others, then stood. “I expected a prayer the length of Sunday mass.”

Blair’s shoulder ticked up. “Aye, well sometimes the Lord needs us to get on with it. Besides, I’ll not tire our men by making them kneel for hours.”

Andrew pointed. “I think it is time.”

Indeed, the numbers of Englishmen who’d crossed the bridge had begun to march on. With a nod, William held his ram’s horn to his lips and blew for God Almighty and the liberty of his people.

He and his cavalry sprinted for their horses, while William’s heart thrummed a fierce rhythm. A year of building his forces and fighting Edward’s rouges, he would finally wreak vengeance on a large scale.

At long last he had the army behind him to make a formidable stand. “Scotland until Judgement!” he roared, leading the charge down the crag and into the open lea.

The enemy sped their pace across the bridge, but still a good third of their numbers remained on the southern shore.

Swinging his great sword, Wallace led the cavalry around the English vanguard toward the north end of the bridge before the English troops realized they’d been trapped and surrounded.

Behind, Little and Blair ran on, bringing forth the Scottish infantry. The hiss of arrows overhead infused William’s determination. The bloody English had nowhere to run and he would show no mercy.

Every beady eye of the English trespassers reflected Longshanks’ tyranny. Every grimace mirrored the English king’s disdain for Scotland.

The enemy attacked with pike and sword. Spinning his horse, William defended his country in the thick of battle, blocking the cowards from retreat. His arms grew stronger with every swing of his great sword. A heinous blackguard attacked screaming like a banshee, his hideous face splattered with blood. Clenching his gut, William eyed the doomed murderer while his sword swept down and beheaded the cur, silencing his shrieking screams.

“Send them to hell!” he bellowed as he hacked off the arm of another assailant.

Blood spewed across the ground while William pushed forward with his army of pure grit.

Wallace and his cavalrymen fought in the midst of mayhem, whilst Andrew skirted around and attacked those brave enough to face them on the bridge itself.

The bloodcurdling cries of battle rose to the beat of the English drums. The snare only served to incite William’s rage as he fought one adversary after another. “Drive them into the river!” he shouted as brave Scotsmen gained ground, pushing the English back.

In the blink of an eye, the sounds of armored bodies hit the water with thundering splashes. Mud stirred from the riverbed, mingled with blood from the dying. English infantrymen weighed down by heavy hauberks tried to swim while the angry current pulled them do their deaths.

Behind him, a clamorous pounding reverberated above the deafening throng.

“They’re destroying the bridge,” Andrew shouted.

“Let them!” William spun his horse. The faster he swung his blade, the greater his bloodlust grew. The battlefield glistened red with the blood of the enemy and the river had turned as maroon as the mud in Lochmaben where William’s da had been murdered. “Fight until none are left standing! We. Will. Be. Vic-tor-ious!”

***

Eva couldn’t drag her gaze from the gruesome battle unfolding before her. The thunderous battle cries and the hideous shrieks from the dying held her stunned by the horrific bloodshed unfolding before her eyes. Her stomach churned while she clenched her fists tight to her body. All the movies she’d watched glorifying battles were child’s play.

No wonder she hated sharp objects.

They hacked off limbs and stabbed through flesh, maiming and killing. In a matter of seconds, the exhilaration of watching courageous men charge across the battlefield was replaced by revulsion as metal scraped and the howls of dying men shrieked above the wind.

Tears stung her eyes as she trained her gaze to the front of the mayhem and focused on William. He fought with the strength of ten warriors and moved with the speed of a cobra. Though she knew the outcome of this battle, she feared for his safety most of all. From her vantage point, he could be hit by an arrow or cut open by a blade with her next inhale.

She couldn’t blink.

Breathing became labored.

Every inch of Eva’s flesh tremored.

Then the pounding started. On the far shore, Warenne’s men used axes to hack away at Stirling Bridge.

“My God, they’re condemning their own men to die.”

Beaten soldiers fled into the river, only to be dragged under by the force of the current and their heavy armor. She watched in horror as enemy soldiers cried out as they were swept downstream.

“They’re retreating—admitting defeat.” Brother Bartholomew clapped his hands beside her. “Come Miss Eva, there will be many wounded to tend in short order.”

But Eva couldn’t move.

The Earl of Surrey, marked by his coat of arms and his horse covered with a caparison in the Surrey colors rode south, surrounded by a vanguard for protection. The entire English garrison remaining on the north shore fled.

From the trees, a mounted attack engaged the earl’s forces. Eva pointed. “Lord Stewart and the Earl of Lennox.”

“In the hour of victory they choose their side,” said Bartholomew. “Let us pray they remain loyal to Scotland.”

Then she saw it. Speeding through the air like a bullet, an arrow pierced through Andrew’s shoulder. Grasping at the shaft, the knight fell from his horse. Eva’s entire body shuddered at the jarring impact when he hit the turf, flat on his back. The brave warrior didn’t move.

“My God,” she whispered again, her heart seizing.

Then Murray sat up and lumbered to his feet, the arrow shaft protruding from his wound.

She stood frozen in place as she watched the brave knight stoop for his sword and whistle for his mount, his every move sluggish.

Only when the sound of agonized moaning approached, did Eva drag her gaze away from Murray as he stiffly mounted and crouched over his horse’s withers. Her head swimming, she flicked her wrist at the dazed lads beside her. “Quickly. We’ll need bandages and hot irons to cauterize wounds.”

Robbie and Paden headed off, but Adam remained completely still, his eyes round as coins, frightened out of his wits, no doubt.

Eva kneeled and wrapped her arms around the lad. “This is why I insisted you remain up here. Never forget that war is a last resort. Always try to negotiate if there is a way.”

Adam’s bottom lip trembled. “But people tried to talk to William.”

“True, though the Earl of Surrey tried to bribe him. That’s different and would not free Scotland from the tyranny of Edward the Longshanks. William and Sir Andrew had no choice but to make a stand this day.”

The lad dropped his chin. “Longshanks has my da locked away in the dungeon of Roxburgh.”

“Aye.” Eva smoothed her hand over the lad’s cap of curls. “And one day he will walk free because William Wallace took a stand.”

“Do ye think so?” Adam asked with a hopeful lilt.

“I know it, lad.” She patted his shoulder. “Now come. We must do what we can to help those who have fallen, for they are the true heroes today.”

“Ye sure do talk funny.”

Eva chuckled. And here she’d thought her accent was becoming more archaic by the day. “Well, at least you can understand me.”

***

Eva worked endlessly, tying bandages and repeating over and over how well the men had done. Even if she’d wanted to use avens water on every cut, she couldn’t because supplies had run out. It was all she could do to staunch the bleeding and move on to the next wounded Scot.

When Andrew Murray rode his horse up the hill with the arrow protruding from his shoulder, Eva swallowed her urge to hurl. She dashed to Brother Bartholomew, looking down at his patient. “I’ll take over here. You must go tend to Sir Andrew.”

The monk peered over his shoulder. “Dear Lord. ’Tis a crossbow arrow with which he’s been skewered.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Thicker shaft.” The monk shook his head. “And the arrowheads are near impossible to remove.” The monk turned in a circle. “Father Blair, I’ll need your muscle over here.”

Eva hadn’t seen William yet, but by the sound roaring from below, the battle still raged.

By God, she would help every man she possibly could, but couldn’t bring herself to look the young Murray in the eye. Besides, Bartholomew knew more about pulling out crossbow arrows. Eva kneeled beside an injured man, his armor only a quilted doublet like many of the foot soldiers. “Looks like you had a nasty gash to your arm.”

“Aye.” The man gave her a wincing grin. “But not afore I skewered a half dozen English swine.”

“You fought bravely.” She held a balled up bandage against his wound and pressed.

He hissed. “’Tis a victorious day for Scotland.”

“Indeed, and you must rise to tell about it.” She used another bandage to wrap the wound tightly. “Keep this clean and at your first opportunity wash it with spirit.” The medallion warmed against her skin. “Or avens water—anything that will keep it from festering.”

“It’ll be right.” He grimaced. “I’ve a family in Bannockburn.”

She patted his hand. “Then do as I say, and you’ll live to watch your children grow.”

It was dark when William trudged up Abbey Craig’s steep hill to camp. His mail hung on his limbs threatening to drag him to his knees with every step. Aye, this was a day of great victory for Scotland, but he’d been going since dawn.

Every step punished him.

Never in his life had he fought so long and hard. He thought he was conditioned for battle? Lord, his every muscle, every sinew ached.

But when he saw her his heart fluttered with a wee surge of energy—enough to see him to the top of the hill.

Holding a torch, Eva waited on the path. “I was wondering if you’d make it back to camp or if you decided to sleep in the king’s chamber at the castle.”

He chuckled. “I’d never be so presumptuous as to enter the king’s chamber, let alone rest my head on His Grace’s pillow.”

Moving forward, she took his hand. “I know. That’s what makes me—ah—so attracted to you.”

He winced when she looped her arm through his.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just sore.”

She inclined the torch in the direction of their tent. “Come, I have some oil. I’ll give you a massage.”

“No sweeter words have ever been spoken, m’lady.”

She chuckled and gave him another squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of my men.” But victory was bittersweet—battles were never waged without losses and that’s what would always haunt him.

“But
you
are amazing.”

William stretched his back. “I dunna feel too bloody amazing at the moment.” His lip slit when he smiled—Lord, even that hurt. “I most likely canna even lift my sword I’m so bone-weary—but dunna tell anyone.”

“I’ll keep it to myself.” With a sweet giggle, she held the flap to the tent.

But William wasn’t so bone-weary he’d forgotten his manners. “After ye.”

With a smile, she doused the torch and slipped inside.

It didn’t take long for her to help him remove his armor.

She gestured to the pallet. “Lie down.”

“Not yet.” He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest. This is what he was fighting for. Not just for himself, but for all men to hold their women in their arms—and to raise families free from tyranny. Lord, Eva felt so damned good, he never wanted to release her. “Home,” he whispered.

“Pardon?”

William closed his eyes and inhaled her scent. “It doesna matter whether we’re at Leglen Wood or Stirling, or Scone. Wherever ye are, I’m home.”

She took in a sharp breath.

“Are ye well?” he asked, sensing his words had struck a chord.

Cupping his cheek with her palm, darkness shrouded her smile. He could have sworn he saw a hint of sadness in her green eyes. “I’m fine. It is you I’m worried about.”

He stretched his neck from side to side. “Nothing a good night’s sleep willna cure.” He kissed her fingertips. “Or your deft fingers.”

Her smile brightened. “I’ll fetch the oil.”

“Now that’s music to an old warrior’s ears.” He stretched out on the pallet.

She chuckled. “You’re not old.”

“I feel it this night.”

Sitting beside him, she ran a gentle hand along his spine. “Perhaps I can help with that.”

He moaned. “Your touch can revive my verra soul, m’lady.”

“And that is music to my ears, m’lord.” Her lips brushed his ear. “Close your eyes while I massage some life back into your weary shoulders.”

“Och, Eva. Ye’re so fine to me.” Her fingers started making their magic, swirling across his back, rubbing deep into his aching muscles. “What would I do without ye?”

He closed his eyes and let her take him to heaven.

***

By dawn the next morning, the air was still. William hated that Andrew had taken an arrow to the shoulder, but by the grace of God, none of his inner circle of men had been killed. The losses on the Scottish side were minimal compared to those on the English. He estimated a third of Edward’s men had drowned, being sucked under the current of the River Forth by their heavy hauberks.

William ducked under the flap of Andrew’s tent. The knight grimaced as he struggled to sit.

“How are ye feeling, my friend?” William asked, cringing at the blood soaked bandage wrapped around Andrew’s shoulder.

“I’m coming good.”

This was one time William hoped that Eva’s cryptic prediction was wrong. But the man who had grown to be his closet comrade-in-arms in a few short sennights looked like shite. “Ye’re a bit pale.”

“Nothing a tot of whisky willna remedy.” Andrew licked his cracked lips.

William found a flagon at the foot of the pallet. “Good thing ye’ve a bit of spirit right here.”

Andrew reached for the whisky with a pained grin. “Ye’re a man of great talents and a nose for fine spirit.” He took a long swallow.

“I’ve sent for your wife. She should be here anon.”

“Do ye think I’m that bad off?” Andrew swung his feet to the side of his pallet. “’Cause I’ll beat ye to Stirling’s gate.”

“No need. We secured the castle for Scotland last eve. But ye do need to mount for the triumphant ride through her gates for certain.”

Andrew chuckled. “We gave them a good run.”

“Och aye.” William sat beside his friend. “If only the bastards hadn’t destroyed the bridge, we would have given chase to Warenne and the rest of his sorry lot.”

“Not to worry.” Andrew took another drink. “With our victory, Scotland’s nobles will join us for certain.”

“’Tis music to my ears. The High Steward has dispatched criers to take the news throughout the land.” William shook his head. “Said this was the victory we needed to wash our hands of the English. Lord Stewart has even called a meeting of parliament.”

Andrew passed him the flagon. “At last our dreams have come to fruition.”

“Indeed.” William took a swig. “Did ye ken we sent Cressingham to his grave?”

“Now that’s the best news I’ve heard today. I only wish I would have been the man to run him through.”

“Och, aye. But the men had a bit of sport.” William shuddered and took one more tot. “They flayed him—just as he did to his victims in Dunbar.”

Andrew straightened a bit and winced. “Ye dunna look too happy about it. Why not let the men have their vengeance? After all, Cressingham was the worst tyrant of them all—aside from Edward himself.”

William let out a long sigh. “Ye’re right.” How could he stand in the way of a mob of three-thousand Scotsmen when they were hell-bent on repaying crimes committed against their kin? These were brutal times and why should he not settle up with the English in kind? “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” He passed the flagon to Andrew.

“Ta.” Murray took a long drink this time. “We should mount his head above the castle gates.”

“I’ll see it done.” William patted the wounded knight’s elbow. “Are ye up to a triumphant march?”

“I wouldna miss it for all the gold in Christendom.” Andrew grimaced and started to stand, but William held up his hand.

“Rest for a bit longer. When ’tis time I’ll send in your squire, and when ye’re ready, we shall parade through Stirling’s gates and make merry.”

***

Eva’s toe nudged an arrow. She stooped to pick it up as Brother Bartholomew stepped beside her. “That’s the nasty thing I pulled from Sir Andrew’s shoulder yesterday.”

It was ghastly—three-dimensional with four barbs. “Is it made of lead?”

“Aye, like so many.”

Eva tested the jagged tip with her finger. “Did the point break off?”

Squinting his beady eyes, the Monk studied the arrow. “It looks as if it has. Regardless, Sir Andrew’s fighting days are over. He’ll never have full use of that arm again for certain.”

Eva threw the vile arrow into the wood. It made her sick. If Andrew didn’t die of infection, a chunk of lead in his shoulder would ensure a slow and painful death. “I hate violence.”

Brother Bartholomew patted her arm. “There, there lass. People like us canna do much about keeping the men from fighting. But we can provide support through healing and prayers.”

She nodded, staring down at the dirt.

“Miss Eva.” Robbie came running with Adam on his heels. “Lady Murray has arrived and is already in the tent with Sir Andrew.”

“Honestly?” asked the monk. “How did the lady arrive so quickly? She had to travel all the way from Inverness, no?”

Eva shrugged—no use telling anyone she’d insisted William send for her. “’Tis just good she’s here. Her presence will give Sir Andrew strength.” She looked to the lads. “Do you know where William is?”

“Last I saw, he was meeting with Lord Stewart down by the river.” Robbie threw his thumb over his shoulder. “I canna believe people are arriving in droves. Are ye ready for the grand march through Stirling’s gates?”

“Och, aye,” said Adam, clearly recovered from his shock from watching the battle. “’Twill be a magnificent parade. Willy says we’re making history.”

“True.” Eva patted his shoulder. The lad didn’t know exactly how well the Battle of Stirling Bridge would be remembered. “You are at that. Is your horse saddled and festooned with brilliant colors?”

The lad shot a panicked look to Robbie. “We need caparisons for our horses.”

The twelve-year-old threw up his hands. “Och, where will we find that much cloth?”

Eva looked to Brother Bartholomew and grinned. “Don’t each of you have mantles? I think they would look splendid adorning your horses.”

Robbie grabbed the younger boy by the arm. “Come. We must make haste.”

“Ye do have a way with the lads,” the little monk said.

“Thank you.” Eva scanned the grounds and spotted John Blair. She excused herself and headed toward the priest. “Father Blair, may I ask a favor?”

He turned and assessed her from head to toe. “From me?”

It was time to test the waters with the priest again. “William is by the river and I can find no one else suitable to introduce me to Lady Murray.”

He clasped prayerful hands together and bowed his head. “Of course. I’m sure the lady will be pleased to meet another woman amongst the rebels.”

“Thank you.” They strolled toward Andrew’s tent. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“God was with us.”

“Will you be marching through Stirling’s gates this afternoon?”

“Aye. I’ll be right behind William.”

“And I’ll bring up the rear with Lady Murray if she is willing to ride beside me.”

“Why would she not? Your father was a knight.”

“True.” Eva nodded. “May I ask you a question?”

“Verra well.” He cleared his throat and looked skyward. “If ye must.”

“Can we be friends?”

He frowned and met her gaze. “Priests dunna make friends with women.”

“I see.” She stopped outside Andrew’s tent flap. “But surely you must know by now that I’ll never do anything to compromise William’s success.”

“Dunna ye mean the success of the rebellion? Taking back our liberty is not about one man. It is about regaining freedom for Scotland.”

“I know.” She bit her bottom lip. The last time they’d talked, he thought her a traitor and warned her to watch her back. “But you and I are on the same side.”

He bowed his head. “I’ll give ye that, lass.” Then he rapped on the tent. “Father Blair here. May we have a word with Lady Murray?”

“A moment.” A woman’s voice came from inside. In no time, the flap opened and Andrew’s wife stepped through. She wore a light green kirtle with a darker green mantle draped over her shoulders and fastened at her neck with an enormous, round brooch. She looked at Eva and smiled. With alabaster skin, she had natural beauty, and though her hair was hidden by a wimple, she had mahogany colored eyebrows.

“My lady.” Father Blair bowed. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Eva MacKay, the daughter of the late Sir David MacKay.”

Eva’s heart stopped for a moment. She’d never grow accustomed to anyone referring to her father as “the late”, but “the future” would make no sense to anyone but her and William. She reached out her hands. “I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours.” Lady Murray offered an aristocratic smile. “Andrew mentioned William’s wife rode with the rebels.”

Wife?
Eva clapped her hands to her burning cheeks and looked to the priest.

Sucking in his gaunt cheeks with a pointed glare, he imparted no sympathy whatsoever. “If ye’ll please excuse me, I’ve preparations to make.” The priest hastened away before Eva could thank him.

She returned her attention to the lady. There was no use correcting her. “William and Andrew will be leading the procession through Stirling’s gates and I was wondering if you’d care to join me at the rear?”

“I would be delighted.” Lady Murray looped her arm through Eva’s. “Would ye walk with me?”

“Of course.” Eva hadn’t expected the woman to be so amenable. “How was your journey?”