Chapter One
Aberdeen, Scotland: July 23rd, 1411
Death shrouded everything. Not even the horses were spared. Blue tabards, stained crimson, adorned hundreds of scattered, broken bodies.
She frantically searched the carnage. His body was not among the fallen. She must find him. Must warn him! So much blood. Had one man shed all this blood?
Evelyn Woodhouse shivered despite the close, heavy air. Still unable to shake the residuals of last night’s violent dream, she did her best to block the visions and images barraging her mind’s eye.
Beware the Blue.
Her brow wrinkled again at the divination that had whispered through her thoughts all day, leaving shadows of dread in its wake. The dead men in her dream, they all wore blue. What did it mean? Oh, why did she never know until it was too late?
Dropping her forehead against the common room window, Evelyn welcomed the chill of the glass against her feverish skin as she stared out into the night. Occasionally, the shadow of a man or gleam of a weapon crossed the flames of distant fires that winked like fallen stars across the mist-shrouded fields of Aberdeen. Foreboding wound through her along with the certainty of the poor fellow’s fate. She possessed “the sight.” At least, that’s what people called it before she learned to keep it to herself.
Before she’d been abducted by those who would call themselves righteous.
Closing her eyes against the sting caused by stale peat smoke and utter exhaustion, she hissed in a fortifying breath and hefted the supper tray to her aching shoulders. A reference to Atlas came to mind as she picked her way through the crowded kitchen. She didn’t carry the world on her shoulders, only a soldier’s supper, but the load compounded the tension of the inner burdens she stored there.
She shouldn’t be focused on such heavy thoughts now, not when there was work to be done. Scotland had become her refuge and managed to keep her relatively safe if one didn’t count the constant barrage of clan wars… like the imminent one brewing just outside the city.
Stealing among the crowd as a wary thief might, a whispered word rose above the muted rumble of terse male conversation.
Berserker…
Evelyn glanced to the doorway where a dark mass filled the space to overflowing. In the dim shadows of the common room she couldn’t make out any features, just the suggestion of a man swathed in black and the size of a small mountain. The tension hovering like a sword over Moorland’s Inn and Tavern spiked palpably higher at the curious arrival, but Evelyn wisely retreated to the kitchens.
“What’s a Berserker?” she asked aloud, and instantly berated herself for not thinking the better of it.
“A breed wot’s killed plenty of ye bloody English, that’s who,” growled Robert Moorland, the proprietor. He plunked a tankard and pitcher of ale onto her tray hard enough to make her flinch.
Evelyn swallowed a defensive retort. Back in London, she’d arduously learned to bite her unruly tongue courtesy of the rod wielded by Sister Mary Ida in the convent where she’d spent her tender years.
“I ‘eard the black-hearted warrior was commissioned from the great MacLauchlan clan to help the Stewart defeat the Donald. Only the blood of a Gael or Northman can hold the Berserker, so the likes of ye’ve no’ seen such a lethal creature.” Despite his cantankerous words he lowered his voice to a confiding tone. “It’s said that Roderick MacLauchlan is the fiercest warrior wot’s ever been seen on the battlefield.”
Creature?
“It’s good that he’s here then, I suppose.” She offered him a smile, encouraged by his rare dialog.
“Ye, suppose…” Moorland sneered at her as he thrust another bowl her way. “I’m no’ payin’ ye to suppose ye daft woman, I’m payin’ ye to work!” He punctuated with a shove to the shoulder, nearly upsetting the balance of her tray. “Get yer lazy English arse out there and doona let them see the bottoms of their tankards.”
“Yes sir,” she mumbled.
Steeling herself for the long and miserable night ahead, she made her way into the common room with shuffling steps to avoid the tangle of chair legs and male feet. Adept at deciphering importance from the various plaids and bejeweled adornments on their tartans, she was careful to set fare before nobles and clan leaders first.
As she approached the table, the smile she attempted felt brittle and tight, the muscles in her face heavy with apprehension. Stewart nobles were deep in speculative conversation, ignoring her as she squeezed through their hunched shoulders to place dishes in front of them. Praise be for small blessings. Snippets of their whispered conversation burned her ears.
“I ‘eard he killed more than a hundred men by himself when the McHughes battled the Brayden last spring.”
“It is said that he has to drink the blood of wee babes to maintain his strength.”
“He’s a servant of the devil and ought to be burned!”
“Bah! Doona be ridiculous, he’s blessed by the old North Gods, and we’re lucky he’s here! I’ll no’ be having ye anger him with yer talk! No’ with the Donald’s bearing down upon us with his ten thousand men.”
Clutching the now empty tray to her chest, she scanned the torch lit room, her gaze skipping past woven kilts of many colors. Men from clans Burgess, MacKintosh, Stewart and a few others unfamiliar to her, assembled to Aberdeen from surrounding lowlands to protect the bustling seaside town from the advancing clan Donald of Islay. The Donald’s determination to lay claim to the Earldom of Ross meant tearing it from the hands of Robert Stewart, the Duke of Albany and Regent of Scotland. Tomorrow, the outskirts of their home would become a battleground.
Following the furtive glances stolen by the surrounding crowd, Evelyn peered into the nook where he sprawled comfortably, farthest from the glow of the fire. Flickering light rimmed his silhouette, yet it seemed he conjured the darkness to cloak himself.
Evelyn caught her breath. If she lived a hundred years she would likely never see a man so large again. Shadows obscured his visage. She could see naught but impossibly thick, long legs which splayed at the knees, encased within heavy, tall black boots.
Involuntarily swallowing her surprise, she knew his relaxed posture was utterly deceptive.
She also knew the Berserker, Roderick MacLauchlan, would die tomorrow.