In the Kingdom's Name (Guardian of Scotland Book 2) (5 page)

“Bloody hell.” Blair shoved his chair away from the board. “I’ll fetch my own writing gear. But the next thing we’ll know, she’ll be wanting to be assigned command of an entire battalion or some fool-born notion of the female persuasion.”

Eva dipped the point of her quill into the inkwell. “I assure you, leading a regiment is not my forte.” She slapped a piece of vellum in front of her. “But writing
is
, thank you very much.”

The priest grumbled something undecipherable under his breath. Eva chose to ignore him. Father John Blair was William’s personal chaplain. He mightn’t care much that Eva had appeared on the scene but he’d accepted her, grumbling along the way. She’d stopped trying to make him like her. A fondness just wouldn’t develop between them. Tolerance was all she could hope for.

For hours, she wrote across the board from Blair with William dictating every word in Latin. It was as if she’d landed in an advanced Latin class at university. The content of the letters was mostly the same, all requesting trade to again flow between the cities and villages of France, The Holy Roman Empire, Norway, Spain and beyond. William and Andrew signed each one and affixed their seals in wax.

Eva’s forearm burned from continuous writing and the rims of her fingernails turned black from the ink. By the time they’d scribed the last missive, the candles on the table had burned to nubs. She rubbed the back of her neck. “It must be late.”

“I believe I heard the toll of the Matins bell not long ago,” said William.

She’d been concentrating so hard, the bell had slipped past her.

Andrew pushed his chair back and swayed a bit. A sheen of sweat glistened on the knight’s face. “I reckon I’d best find my bed afore this damn fever gets the better of me.”

Eva cast aside her fatigue, hopped to her feet and dabbed his head with her kerchief. “How is your shoulder?”

“Still canna move it, but not to worry, I’ll come good in a matter of days.” He pushed Eva’s hand away.

She cast a worried grimace to William. “Shall I fetch Lady Christina?”

“Nay. Let her sleep.” Andrew swayed in place again, the little color he had completely draining away from his face. “I’ll not be cossetted by anyone.”

Eva stepped back and let him pass, staggering across the great hall to the stairwell.

“I’m off to my pallet as well,” said Blair as he collected the scrolls of vellum.

The rest of the men had headed to bed not long after William first started dictating missives.

He stood, took the kerchief from Eva’s hand and tossed it on the table. “Come here, lass.” A long sigh slipped through her lips as he pulled her into his arms. “It has been quite a day, early rising—attacked on the trail, up until the wee hours setting the Kingdom to rights.”

His deep hum soothed her as she relaxed into his arms. “It hasn’t been ordinary, I’ll say.”

“And still ye choose to stay with me, even with the peril that surrounds us.”

“I would be nowhere else.”

He took her hand and strolled toward the stairs. “I worry about Sir Andrew.”

A shiver coursed across her skin. “Me, as well.”

The medallion warmed enough to remind her it was there. Sometimes Eva hated the damned warnings the piece of bronze gave. And when it came to Andrew Murray, she was scared out of her wits. She was no doctor—she’d only learned a fraction of medieval healing arts through her time with Brother Bartholomew. She probably couldn’t help the knight if she tried, and every time she’d considered it, the damn medallion issued a scorching warning.

She hated being powerless to do anything.

Before William crouched into the stairwell, he stopped. “Can ye help him?”

“I’m not a physician.” She shook her head for added emphasis.

“I didna ask that. Do ye ken a remedy?”

The medallion heated like it was burning a hole over her heart. She suspected Andrew suffered not only from a septic infection, but he had lead poisoning as well. She’d seen the arrow after Brother Bartholomew pulled it out of Sir Andrew’s shoulder in the tent at Abbey Wood. The tip had been made of lead and was broken—as if a chunk had chipped off inside his shoulder. But she didn’t know of a cure, not unless she could hurl Sir Andrew to a twenty-first century hospital.

She shoved the medallion aside. “No, I have no idea how to cure him. Can you summon a physician?”

“Perhaps, but I fear he would want to bleed the poor man. My ma always called the healer—warned against physicians.” William scratched his beard as if second guessing his mother’s reasoning.

Eva shrugged her shoulders to her ears. “I wish I knew the solution—but if you don’t have any other options, maybe Lady Christina should summon a...” she couldn’t bring herself to say
physician
. The medallion cooled a bit. Eva’s stomach twisted into a knot.
Bleeding never did anyone a bit of good. I have no idea why doctors resorted to it for centuries
.

William groaned and proceeded up the stairs. “There must be something more we can do.”

“Is he keeping the wound clean? Changing the bandages several times a day?”

William eyed her over his shoulder. “Have ye asked this of Brother Bartholomew?”

“I told him to only use clean bandages…” Eva pulled the medallion out from beneath her shift and let it rest atop her gown. A few layers of fabric might help—if she didn’t end up flung to 2016. “We could try cleansing the wound with boiled saltwater.” She cringed, ready for the deafening rush and an abyss of blackness to overcome her, but nothing happened.

“Honestly?” He led her onto the third floor landing. “A cure is as simple as boiled water and salt?”

Eva shook her head. “I didn’t say it would cure him—I think he needs antibiotics, but those won’t—”

“—be invented for another seven hundred years,” he finished. “Good Lord, woman. Why did ye have to attend university to become a chronicler? A physician would have been much more useful to me.”

“Or a chemist,” she grumbled, biting her bottom lip and brushing the hurtful remark aside. William always spoke his mind, though sometimes he could be a little too insensitive. Eva didn’t bother to point out that if she were a doctor, she never would have been chosen to time travel in the first place. The forces behind the medallion picked her because she wanted to take the truth to the world and there was no one better to do that than a journalist with a passion for history.

“Alchemy?” William chortled. “Isna that a tinker’s art of chasing magic?”

“I didn’t say alchemy. Chemistry is not magic. It’s pure science.”

He opened the door to her chamber and accompanied her inside. Though for decorum his chamber was through the adjoining door, he rarely slept in his bed. “I’ll have to take ye on your word. I shall speak to Brother Bartholomew on the morrow about the boiling salt water.”

“Boiled salt water.” She held up a finger. “You wouldn’t want to scald the poor man.”

Rain spat from the dense clouds. It would make William’s hauberk rust for certain, but if he left all the Kingdom’s business for fine days, he’d ever accomplish a thing. He chuckled at the irony. Only a few months ago, he’d been content to live in a cave and never paid a mind to the weather unless it was blowing a gale with hip-deep drifts of snow. Now he’d moved into more comfortable quarters. He balked at the rain.

Well, no more. A warrior must endure all manner of discomfort to carry out his duty
.

After convincing Sir Andrew to stay abed, William gathered a cavalry of three hundred horse and set out for Dunbar. He didn’t expect a fight from the Earl of March on his own lands. The ambush had been clandestine—in the forest with the unlikely chance of credible witnesses.

Regardless, after the Fountainhall raid, Wallace needed to be cautious with his every move. He might be the Guardian of Scotland, but that only increased the size of the target on his back. Before, he’d achieved success with surprise raids. He understood the mind of a raider better than anyone. In no way would he ride into such an ambush again.

With him, he took the missives Eva had written for the chieftains of East Lothian. Once he met with the earl, he intended to visit the southeastern clans to reinforce their fealty to the crown.

He’d also taken Paden Wishart with him this time to stand in as his squire. Though Robbie Boyd had acted as his squire for the past two years, Paden needed to learn to be a man, and hadn’t received any training from his father, Bishop Wishart. And the fact that the man was now rotting in Roxburgh’s prison did nothing to add to Paden’s education. Worse, the lad was soft—preferred his lute to a bow or dirk. He spent too much time strumming and not enough learning the art of war. Unless the lad intended to live his life behind the walls of an abbey, he needed to grow some cods.

Truth be told, William felt more confident leaving Robbie with Eva. The Boyd lad would protect her with his life. Paden? He might try to lull a plunderer with a ballad.

Fortunately, William had found Eva a new mare to keep her out of mischief and he’d decided to humor her by agreeing—Robbie Boyd was just the lad to stay behind and give her a few pointers on handling a more spirited mount. William couldn’t imagine what Christendom would be like without horses. His mind still boggled at Eva’s description of motorcars.
What about traversing all the bogs? Wheeled carts can only pass where the path is cobbled or dry
.

He had plenty of time to ponder her tales—be them what they may. But doing so helped pass the time while the rain drove harder with each progressing hour. And the wind cutting through William’s hauberk told him winter was nigh. Onward he rode, keeping the Firth of Forth on his left until the immense red-stone fortress of Dunbar came into view. Built upon the most strategic peninsula in Scotland, the castle was considered impenetrable and, moreover, William needed its ground advantage for the Kingdom.

William ground his molars. Though they arrived well before dark, Dunbar’s gates stood barricaded with archers posted atop her outer bailey.

“What’s your plan?” asked Eddy Little, commander of the archers, William’s cousin and most trusted spy.

Wallace held up his hand to signal a halt well before the barbican bridge that separated the castle from the mainland. “I’ll go in.”

“Alone?” John Blair pointed to the archers. “Do ye think they’ll allow the great and powerful William Wallace to pass by without skewering him with a few arrows first? Ye canna cross the bridge without riding right beneath their sights”

William sliced his hand downward. “Wheesht. I’ll carry the black flag of parley. Even a bastard as two-faced as the Earl of March wouldna kill a man who merely wanted to talk.”

Eddy shook his head. “I dunna like it. At least let me and Blair go in with ye.”

“Och aye,” Blair nodded. “Cospatrick’s likely to sit down for a wee yarn, then stab ye in the back as ye’re leaving.”

“Bloody oath, ye’re carrying on like a pair of old crones.” Sliding the reins through his gloved fingers, William considered his options. Truth be told, the men had a point. “I’ll allow the pair of ye go in with me if ye promise to behave and keep your swords in their scabbards.” He turned and faced his man-at-arms. “Graham, mind our horses.”

“Did ye think to bring a black flag?” asked Blair.

William pulled a black bit of silk from under his hauberk. “Now ye think me daft as well?”

“I dunna think it, I ken it.” Blair tugged his helm low over his forehead. “Planned this all along did ye?”

“I reckon I did.” William dismounted and passed his reins to Graham. “I’m putting ye in charge. Be ready for anything—and above all, keep the men out of range of their archers. If ye hear a blast from my ram’s horn, make ready for a fight. Only then can ye take out the archers on the wall.”

“We’ll stand ready for a battle, sir.”

“Good lad.” William adjusted his sword belt and looked to his two most trusted men. “Come along, then.”

Holding the flag above his head, William and the pair of lieutenants marched up to the gate in silence. The breeze off the sea cooled his face as white gannets screeched above. The entire distance William kept his eyes on the men atop the bailey. Not a one made a move.

Blair pounded on the gate.

The viewing screen opened and a ruddy face glared out. “Who goes there?”

“William Wallace, Commander of the Army of Scotland, so appointed by the Parliament of the Kingdom. I carry the flag of parley and would have a word with Lord Cospatrick.”

The man’s eyes bulged, then shifted with guilt. “Wait here.”

The screen screeched as the guard started to close it, but William was faster, slipping his dirk’s hilt into the gap before it shut completely. “Long live King John.”

After a heated interchange with man’s beady-eyed stare, William pulled his dirk away.

Blair rocked back on his heels. “At least we havena been skewered by arrows yet.”

William looked up and met the curious stare from a helmed archer regarding them from the battlements. “Cospatrick would be a fool to attack us here. If he were so bold, half the nobles of Scotland would raze his castles, every one.”

“After the backstabbing at Fountainhall, that doesna sound like such a bad idea,” said Little.

William frowned. “Aye, but if we can win Cospatrick’s alliance, we’ll be all the more closer to controlling the border—and our ports.”

Blair spread his hands to his sides. “And how do ye expect to do that?”

A snort trumpeted through William’s nose. “Oh ye of little faith, father.”

“God will strike ye down one day for your mockery toward this holy man.” John Blair might be an ardent soldier of God, but he didn’t always have a vision of what could be.

“Will he now?” William smoothed his palm over the psalter he kept in the purse at his hip. “I think not.”

The man door beside the portcullis creaked open and a burly man-at-arms addressed them. “His lordship will see ye now.”

“My thanks.” William looked to his two lieutenants and waggled his brows. “’Tis time to dance.”

The main gate led directly into a tower and an enormous hall with sparse furnishings, clearly barracks for the earl’s army. They strode out through the tower and over a sea bridge to the donjon. Once inside, opulence fitting an earl’s rank was evidenced from the silk seafaring tapestries to the white marble hearth.

William took it all in with quick shifts of his eyes.
The earl is smart to hide all this wealth behind an army
.

Crossing through the great hall, the guard led them up a stairwell to the second floor landing. He opened the door to the lord’s drawing room and gestured for them to enter. A polished walnut table filled the space, appointed with rich hunting tapestries. Yet the Earl of March was nowhere to be seen.

The man-at-arms gestured to the chairs. “Sit. His lordship will attend ye momentarily.”

Wallace and his men proceeded as asked, with William taking the seat at the south end of the table. At the north, a lavish and immense wooden chair was clearly reserved for the earl. He watched the man-at-arms pull aside the tapestry and exit into yet another chamber.

“His lordship is taking no chances, I see.” Eddy drummed his fingers atop the polished wood.

“Aye. I’d have preferred it if he’d greeted us.” William swirled his palm over the pommel of his sword, then stood and pulled the wooden shutter away from the window and looked down to a small courtyard. If this meeting became hostile, they had three options for escape and all except diving into the icy depths meant they had to cross that narrow sea bridge. The window would be the quickest, but a two-story drop to the cobblestones might cause Eddy and Blair injury. No, William had best keep this a congenial gathering as he’d wanted it in the first place.

After resuming his seat and waiting a time, the compline bell tolled. William’s stomach rumbled. He considered going in search of the evening meal when the door behind the tapestry opened. Through it marched a dozen men-at-arms all dressed in mail and carrying pikes as if they were protecting the king himself.

Finally, the earl slipped through, wearing a hauberk beneath a red surcoat and a mailed coif atop his head. Topping off the ensemble, a sword and dirk hung from his belt.

William and his men stood and bowed. As he straightened, the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smirk. “M’lord Cospatrick, were ye expecting a fight?”

After assessing the three men with a deprecating glare down the length of his nose, Cospatrick moved to his chair. Two impressive looking men-at-arms took their places behind him and stood with hands grasping their hilts. The earl frowned. “With three hundred cavalry men stationed outside my castle, I should be asking the same thing of ye,
Mr
. Wallace.” His emphasis on “Mr.” sounded decidedly disrespectful.

“Aye? Well, I suppose I’ll make no bones about it then.” William looked the earl directly in the eye. “We saw more than one targe bearing the seal of the Earl of March when we were set upon near Fountainhall. I come to ask if the attack was under your orders.”

“Och, aye?” The backstabber looked too smug as he sneered and ran his fingers down his surcoat. “And ye think I would own up to such a lawless raid against one with so much newly purchased acclaim?”

William’s clenched jaw twitched at the insult, but he refused to take the bait—not with the narrow sea bridge to cross while archers waited above. “I assumed the brigands outlaws, but in the interest of Scotland, ’tis my duty to allay the rumors of your allegiance to Edward.”

Cospatrick had the gall to roll his eyes. “And why should I not pay the King of England his due? My holdings in England are nearly as vast as those in Scotland.”

“Yet ye make your home here in Dunbar.” William intensified his stare. Earl or nay, he would not be spoken to like a fool. “And ye sit on the Privy Council of Scotland. All I ask is that ye own to your lawful king, John Balliol. If ye choose to stay in the Kingdom of Scotland, then ye’ll live by her laws of—”

“Are ye threatening me? I am an earl…and ye? Ye are but a poor commoner. The King of the Kyle is all ye are.”

Pausing to let the churning bile in his stomach subside, William mulled over his response. The man needed a good hiding, but that would best be accomplished on the battlefield. “I did not come under the flag of parley to withstand your arrogant insults.” The chair clattered to the floor as he stood and slapped his palms on the table.

In fluid motion, soldiers leveled their pikes at William’s neck.

Blair and Little pushed back their chairs, reaching for their weapons, only to be stopped by guards seizing each burly man’s arm.

William glared at the earl and hissed through his teeth, “I am the Commander of the Scottish Army, appointed by the esteemed Parliament of the Kingdom of Scotland and, as such, I have a duty to ensure the safety of all subjects of this land,
commoners
and nobles alike.”

The earl emitted a rueful laugh. “Ye are no better than the puppet king.”

God’s bones, William would welcome the opportunity to meet this bastard on any battlefield. “And your words are treasonous.”

“Do ye believe I would ever stoop so low to take heed of a commoner?” Cospatrick leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers atop his stomach.

William straightened, ignoring the deadly sharp pikes leveled at his neck. “As the Guardian of this Kingdom, I expect ye to honor the edicts of the Privy Council or suffer the consequences—just as any subject, noble or nay.”

“Ye are an embarrassment to the nobility of this great land,” the earl sneered. “Go home to Ayr, Wallace, and leave the governance of Scotland in the hands of men bred to lead.”

“And watch while Longshanks razes our lands? Few of our countrymen have the luxury of being able to cross the border and hide in an English fortress.” Heaven help him, William’s rage was about to burst from his temples. He clenched his fists to keep from launching himself across the table and strangling that reed-thin neck. “Have ye so easily forgotten the devastation of the battle of Dunbar less than two years past? Your own people—people who bore your arms and tilled your fields were cut down, raped and murdered, all in the name of a foreign king who calls himself suzerain over Scotland. A king whose only interest is to place our sons on the front line of
England’s
battles.”