Page 1 of Unspoken
Chapter One
Aberdeen,Scotland: July 23rd, 1411
Death shrouded everything. Not even the horseswere spared. Blue tabards, stained crimson, adorned hundreds of scattered,broken bodies.
She frantically searched the carnage. His bodywas not among the fallen. She must find him. Must warn him! So much blood. Hadone man shed all this blood?
Evelyn Woodhouse shivered despite the close, heavyair. Still unable to shake the residuals of last night’s violent dream, she didher best to block the visions and images barraging her mind’s eye.
Beware the Blue.
Her brow wrinkled again at the divination that hadwhispered through her thoughts all day, leaving shadows of dread in its wake. Thedead men in her dream, theyallwore blue. What did it mean? Oh, whydid 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 staredout into the night. Occasionally, the shadow of a man or gleam of a weapon crossedthe flames of distant fires that winked like fallen stars across themist-shrouded fields of Aberdeen. Foreboding wound through her along with the certaintyof the poor fellow’s fate. She possessed “the sight.” At least, that’s whatpeople called it before she learned to keep it to herself.
Before she’d been abducted by those who would callthemselves righteous.
Closing her eyes against the sting caused by stalepeat smoke and utter exhaustion, she hissed in a fortifying breath and heftedthe supper tray to her aching shoulders. A reference to Atlas came to mind asshe picked her way through the crowded kitchen. She didn’t carry the world onher shoulders, only a soldier’s supper, but the load compounded the tension ofthe inner burdens she stored there.
She shouldn’t be focused on such heavy thoughtsnow, not when there was work to be done. Scotland had become her refuge andmanaged to keep her relatively safe if one didn’t count the constant barrage ofclan wars… like the imminent one brewing just outside the city.
Stealing among the crowd as a wary thief might, awhispered word rose above the muted rumble of terse male conversation.
Berserker…
Evelyn glanced to the doorway where a dark massfilled the space to overflowing. In the dim shadows of the common room shecouldn’t make out any features, just the suggestion of a man swathed in blackand the size of a small mountain. The tension hovering like a sword over Moorland’sInn and Tavern spiked palpably higher at the curious arrival, but Evelyn wiselyretreated to the kitchens.
“What’s a Berserker?” she asked aloud, andinstantly berated herself for not thinking the better of it.
“A breed wot’s killed plenty of ye bloodyEnglish, that’swho,” growled Robert Moorland, the proprietor. He plunkeda tankard and pitcher of ale onto her tray hard enough to make her flinch.
Evelyn swallowed a defensive retort. Back inLondon, she’d arduously learned to bite her unruly tongue courtesy of the rod wieldedby Sister Mary Ida in the convent where she’d spent her tender years.
“I ‘eard the black-hearted warrior wascommissioned 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 ofye’veno’ seen such a lethal creature.” Despite his cantankerous words he lowered hisvoice to a confiding tone. “It’s said that Roderick MacLauchlan is the fiercestwarrior wot’s ever been seen on the battlefield.”
Creature?
“It’s good that he’s here then, I suppose.” Sheoffered him a smile, encouraged by his rare dialog.
“Ye, suppose…” Moorland sneered at her as hethrust another bowl her way. “I’m no’ payin’ ye tosupposeye daft woman,I’m payin’ ye towork!” He punctuated with a shove to the shoulder, nearlyupsetting the balance of her tray. “Get yer lazy English arse out there anddoona let them see the bottoms of their tankards.”
“Yes sir,” she mumbled.
Steeling herself for the long and miserable nightahead, she made her way into the common room with shuffling steps to avoid thetangle of chair legs and male feet. Adept at deciphering importance from thevarious plaids and bejeweled adornments on their tartans, she was careful toset fare before nobles and clan leaders first.
As she approached the table, the smile sheattempted felt brittle and tight, the muscles in her face heavy withapprehension. Stewart nobles were deep in speculative conversation, ignoringher as she squeezed through their hunched shoulders to place dishes in front ofthem. Praise be for small blessings. Snippets of their whispered conversationburned her ears.
“I ‘eard he killed more than a hundred men byhimself when the McHughes battled the Brayden last spring.”
“It is said that he has to drink the blood of weebabes to maintain his strength.”
“He’s a servant of the devil and ought to beburned!”
“Bah! Doona be ridiculous, he’s blessed by theold North Gods, and we’re lucky he’s here! I’ll no’ be having ye anger himwith yer talk! No’ with the Donald’s bearing down upon us with his ten thousandmen.”
Clutching the now empty tray to her chest, shescanned 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 seasidetown from the advancing clan Donald of Islay. The Donald’s determination tolay 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 theirhome would become a battleground.
Following the furtive glances stolen by thesurrounding crowd, Evelyn peered into the nook wherehesprawledcomfortably, farthest from the glow of the fire. Flickering light rimmed hissilhouette, yet it seemed he conjured the darkness to cloak himself.
