Christina slept fitfully, her mind bouncing between her son and Sir Lachlan. The only thing that had kept her thriving through thirteen years of captivity was the need to free Andrew from the clutches of those English tyrants. Yesterday’s failure cut her to the quick, but if anything, it made her more determined. When faced with adversity, she was one to find an open window. She’d been a prisoner herself, constrained to the walls of her castle. Her new freedom infused her with confidence. As she sat up and stretched, a ray of light shone through a wee gap in the window furs.
The fire had ebbed to coals and under most circumstances, Christina would pull her comforter over her head and dream until Ellen came with the bellows. But not this morn.
The light filled her breast with a beam of hope. Sir Lachlan Wallace had come into her life for a reason. To her, he’d already proven his valor. She might be merely a woman, but he had saved her from the humility of rape and, quite possibly, death. Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, a twinge of guilt needled at the back of her neck. She should not have stood idle while they locked him in the gatehouse cell. True, she’d done what she could to make him comfortable, but her champion deserved better, especially at this time of year. Yule was neigh, for heaven’s sake.
She hopped out of bed. The floorboards cold underfoot, she dashed to the hearth and stoked the fire with squares of peat. Then she hopped in place a few times to grow warm before she braved her chilly garderobe.
After dressing, Christina headed for the great hall to break her fast—and, more importantly, to find Sir Boyd.
Fortunately, she found the knight seated alone on the dais.
She climbed the steps and took a seat beside him. “Where are the other nobles, m’lord?”
He plunged his spoon into his porridge. “Still abed, the lazy bast—um—I mean the lazy Scots.”
“I woke with the sun.” A servant placed a bowl of porridge and spoon in front of her. “And it is fortuitous that I find ye alone.”
“Oh? Why is that?” The young knight arched his eyebrow. Though Robbie had grown into a handsome man, she was six years his senior. She had been ten and eight when she’d first met the lad—the same day as the Battle of Stirling Bridge. Robbie had been a sandy-haired, wide-eyed lad of twelve, ever so proud to be William Wallace’s squire. At the time she’d come to visit with her husband, she was pregnant. On that very day, Christina had also met Eva MacKay. She’d always remember how Lady Eva had placed her hands on Christina’s belly and told her the bairn would be a lad—the lass had the gift of a seer for certain.
Gathering her thoughts, she cleared her throat. There was no use thinking about the past and if there was anyone at Roxburgh Castle in whom she could confide, it was Sir Robert Dominus Boyd. “I think we are treating my new champion unjustly.”
He drank down a bit of cider. “How else should I treat such a man, especially when the king is sleeping within Roxburgh’s walls?”
“I think Sir Lachlan is the knight I need to help me save Andrew.”
“Aye?” Robbie shoveled a bite of oats in his mouth. “I dunna trust him.”
Christina picked up her spoon. Regardless of her trust, she needed to tread carefully when it came to Sir Boyd. He had great influence with the king as well as with the men. “I trust him. He saved me the horror of being violated and then shared my horse to Roxburgh, behaving the perfect gentleman throughout the journey.”
Sir Boyd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He could have used ye to ferret inside these walls.”
Christina’s ears grew hot. Goodness, this man could think of every angle to thwart her purpose. “I think not.”
“What if he’s a sorcerer?”
She slapped her hand on the table. “Then he is but an angel.”
“Blasphemy,” said the knight in an accusing tone.
Though she, indeed, must tread lightly where Sir Boyd was concerned, it didn’t mean she should play the meek widow and allow him to bamboozle her. “Nay—do not think angels only exist in the Bible, good sir. God has sent us angels throughout history.”
“Aye,” he agreed with sarcasm in his voice. “Like those who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Little did he know he’d opened a window for Christina to further her purpose. She snatched the opportunity. “Do not tell me ye believe Scotland is filled with unchaste subjects.”
He chuckled and reached for his tankard of cider. “Far less than England, at least.”
“Is it Sir Lachlan’s medallion that’s bothering ye?”
He took a drink. “Of sorts, and the way he seemed to materialize from nowhere.”
“Aye, well, I believe Eva MacKay—the last person with such a medallion—was an angel of sorts. What say ye? As I recall, ye spent far more time with her than I.”
“Jesu.” Sir Boyd ran a hand down his face and looked to the rafters. “Willy loved Lady Eva almost as much as he loved Scotland. But she disappeared for eight years—his darkest years.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I’ll never forget the day she returned. If ye remember, she was taller than most men.”
“Indeed I do—she towered over me for certain.” Christina leaned forward, encouraging him to continue.
“Aye, well that day she came to us wearing a wee skirt—the length of a tunic. Her legs were bare, except covered by a sheer cloth that clung to her skin—made her flesh shimmer. She wore shoes with tall, pointed heels that looked practical for nothing. If I werena a God fearing man, I would have sworn she’d come from the future.” Facing her, he pointed his finger under Christina’s nose. “Never repeat such words.”
She clasped her hands over her thumping heart. Dear Lord, and he thought she was speaking blasphemy? Repeating such words could see her burned at the stake. “Ye ken I willna.”
His stern countenance softened a wee bit. “Then their love affair resumed as if they’d never been separated. There was no’ a thing she wouldna do for him. And she stayed beside him until the end.”
Christina sighed. “Aye, she did.”
“She healed him, too.”
Gulping, Christina lowered her gaze to her bowl of oats. A familiar and sickly lump swelled in her throat. “Unfortunately, she couldna heal my Andrew,” the words slipped from her lips with an icy overtone.
“What happened that day?” Robbie asked. “I’ve always wondered. It was the verra day Eva disappeared the first time.”
“I dunna ken.” Her eyes blurring with sudden tears, Christina blinked and swiped her hands across them. “I went to the chapel to pray and the next thing I kent, my husband had died and she was gone. William spent an entire sennight in solitude and I had no choice but to return home alone to birth my bairn at Ormond Castle.”
Sir Boyd scratched his head—reminding her of the old Robbie she knew. “Lady Eva was like a mother to me. Though I didna ken much about her, she always kent the right things to say. She was the only woman I could go to with questions.” With a gasp, his jaw dropped, eyes growing round as sovereigns. His face grew white and he leaned forward, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. “My God, the warrior’s name is Lachlan.”
Christina placed her hand on his shoulder. “Aye—?”
Boyd looked up, pain etched across his face. “Eva was in Scone when my friend took an arrow and died. I wanted to kill Willy that day. I’d never had a friend my age and Willy made me mind the horses whilst the lad joined the ranks of the archers.” Sir Boyd’s lips trembled. “I bawled like a bairn at the funeral whilst Eva held me in her arms and made the pain go away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nay—ye dunna understand. My friend’s name was Lachlan.”
“Ye dunna think…?”
Sir Boyd shook his head. “They’re not one and the same. Ye canna bring someone back from the dead. Besides, your warrior looks too much like Willy.”
“Do ye think William and Eva may have had a child?”
The knight smirked. “That makes no sense. Willy died childless nine years ago and the behemoth behind bars in the gatehouse is in his prime.”
“Well, I’ll be the first to agree there’s something odd about people who wear those medallions, but I’ll also be the first to testify they are sent to us to perform good deeds.” She picked up her spoon and shook it. “I want ye to allow Sir Lachlan to spar with the guard.”
Sir Boyd eyed her as if considering. “Have ye any further requests, m’lady?”
“Not this day.” She smiled inside. She couldn’t have asked for the conversation to have proceeded any better if she had scripted it out.
Two-fifty-three, two-fifty-four… Lachlan counted while pumping pushups. The far door screeched open, but he didn’t stop to see who it was. So far this morning, they’d brought him a bowl of watery mush and he wasn’t at all happy about it. Surely they had eggs and sausages in a place like this. Was that too much for a champion to ask, even if he was incarcerated?
“Tiring yourself out, I see?” a deep voice echoed between the stone walls.
Lachlan stopped and rocked back to his knees. “Sir Boyd?” The great knight was flanked by two guards.
“Ye look surprised to see me.”
“I admit you weren’t the first person I expected.”
“Lady Christina convinced me to have ye spar with the men. Are ye up to it?”
“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?”