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 out, 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 for 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.”
A yawn came from the dais. “I grow tired of empty alliances. And what of your lands south of the border? Are ye not bound by a blood oath to Edward?”
“Ye know as well as I all great men hold land on either side of the border—yourself included. Let the de Moray lad marry my daughter—build the bond between our two great nations.”
“And if Edward attacked—which the bastard oft threatens—what then? Would I have an army of traitors infiltrating my kingdom from the north?”
Christina lunged forward.
Lachlan caught her by the waist.
She twisted, a heated whisper spewing from her lips, “I must—”
“I believe ye are right, Your Grace,” Andrew’s young voice resounded across the hall. “This nobleman is holding me against my will and if I had use of a sword, I would challenge him to a fight to the death right here and now.”
Tension fled from Lachlan’s shoulders like a cascading waterfall. Thank God. He released his grasp and followed Christina to King Robert’s throne.
“Seize de Vere,” Christina shouted. “He is a venomed asp who spews nothing but lies.”
Guards immediately moved in, subduing the earl with a dozen or more pikes trained on his heart.
“My lady?” The king glanced between her and Lachlan. “What the devil?”
“We were traveling from Ormond Castle to make good on our promise to present Andrew to ye this Yule. To present my son, the true heir to the de Moray lands so that he could pledge his fealty to the one true king of Scotland. The earl stole into our camp in the dead of night and captured Andrew from where he lay sleeping.”
“Please, Mother, it is I who should be relaying this story.” Andrew boldly climbed the dais stairs. “De Vere threatened to hunt me down and murder me if I didna go along with his charade, but I canna in good conscience allow him to ruin our lives, as well as the life of his insipid eleven-year-old daughter.”
“Have ye thought this through, lad?” asked the Bruce. “Such an alliance might benefit the kingdom if drawn with the appropriate language to ensure fealty.”
“Exactly,” de Vere boomed from the floor.
King Robert regarded the backstabber. “Ye no longer have leave to speak, m’lord.”
“The Earl of Oxford has no honor,” Andrew continued. “He would do as ye suspected. Sign anything ye asked and then take my family lands. When I was his prisoner in England, he only kept me alive to use me as a pawn. He planned to take Ormond Castle for himself as soon as the war ended. Once ye negotiated for my exchange, his plans were thwarted—’tis why he staged the battle on the borders. Now he wants me to marry his daughter? Aside from the fact she’s as cruel as her father, de Vere aims to give away her hand when she is not yet a woman?”
The king scratched his beard thoughtfully. “But many highborn marriages are sealed afore the bride sees her first menses.”
“That might be, but if I took an oath of marriage, I wouldn’t sleep with de Vere under the same roof. He’d slit my throat for certain, and if not he, that wicked imp he calls a daughter would.”
“I’ve heard enough.” King Robert sliced his hand through the air. “Take the earl away.”
Christina clasped her hands in front of her heart. “Oh, praises be. Thank ye, Your Grace.”
The Bruce held up his hand. “This young man has made quite a remarkable turnaround in a short time. I must ask him what changed his mind.”
Andrew looked to Lachlan and took a deep breath. “’Tis true, I was angry, and I blamed my mother for my captivity, and my anger was fueled by words of hate from de Vere. I do not ken if I ever would have seen how much I had been persuaded to the English side if it weren’t for Mother’s champion, Sir Lachlan Wallace. He not only made me reach deep inside and discover who I am and where I’m from, but he made me believe in myself.”
“The tournament knight did all that?” asked the king.
“Aye.” Andrew bowed to Lachlan. “He told me he was a master of martial arts and that his life’s purpose was to train lads to become men. At first I thought he was full of shite.”
The king chuckled.
“Andrew,” Christina said. She quickly covered her mouth with her fingers. Indeed, her son was proving himself a man and she must allow him to continue.
Andrew looked her way only for a moment, then his gaze returned to Robert the Bruce. “I am Andrew de Moray, named for and son of the great knight who fought beside William Wallace in the triumphant Battle of Stirling Bridge. I was born a Scot and I will be a Scot until I take my last breath.” Andrew dropped to his knee. “Ye are my only sovereign, the only man in all of Christendom who can call me to arms, and I pledge ye my undying fealty, Your Grace.”
Lachlan managed to close his mouth and swipe a hand over his eyes. Christina’s cheeks shimmered with her tears as the hall grew completely silent.
Robert the Bruce stood and drew his sword. “How old are ye, lad?”
“Six and ten.”
“Though ye havena reached your majority, I deem ye are a man. There are knights in this kingdom who are not as gifted an orator as ye. I do believe ye are your father’s son.” The king dubbed Andrew’s left shoulder, then his right. “And I knight ye into the Royal Order of Scotland, to be a member of my parliament. May ye carry this great honor in your heart and never turn your back on your duty.”
“Ye honor me, Your Grace. I shall endeavor to make ye proud.”
Lachlan slipped his arm around Christina’s shoulder and squeezed her tight, pressing his lips to her forehead. Dear God, this was the most rewarding moment of his life.
But when King Robert turned and gaped, she hopped away from Lachlan like a frightened doe.
“Ahem.” The king eyed them with a frown. “I shall meet with ye in my antechamber alone, m’lady. Precisely when the vespers bell rings and not a moment later.”