Page 18 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

The road narrowed to little more than a rutted track, threading its way through heather-covered slopes until, quite suddenly, it spilled into a cluster of stone and timber cottages crouched close to the banks of a burn.

The late-afternoon sky was the color of pewter, heavy clouds pressing low, and in the gray light the village looked almost painted in shades of ash and earth.

She’d smelled it before she saw much of it.

Thin curls of peat smoke rose from squat chimneys, stinging her nose with their woodsy tang, mingling with the sour reek of animal dung and the mouthwatering drift of something roasted that sent her stomach growling.

Alaric had taken only a handful of men forward, leaving the rest of the army beyond the ridge.

Even so, the sight of men and horses sent chickens scattering across the muddy track.

A woman snatched up her toddler, another pulled children behind her skirts, all of them staring wide-eyed as though a storm had come down the slope in human form.

From the top of the ridge, Ivy stared, hardly breathing.

This was no tourist site or reconstructed heritage village—there were no neat signs or roped-off displays, no camera flashes, no tidy guides in costume.

The cottages leaned crookedly against one another, their thatch patched in places with turf or heather, their small windows dark and glinting like watchful eyes.

A handful of stalls slumped beside the lane, half-collapsed frames that gave the impression of a market, albeit one from centuries ago.

She could almost hear it—the clamor of voices, the clink of coin, the bleating of penned goats.

At first the street had emptied, shutters slamming, voices hushed.

But slowly, heads reappeared in doorways, and a crowd began to gather, curiosity too strong to resist the pull of armed men riding in, Ivy supposed.

Or maybe they recognized the plaids draped across so many of the MacKinlays.

Not an English troop, they might surmise with relief.

She clutched the reins tighter, her heart battering at the sight. Dumbfounded awe pricked through her curiosity, for here, again, was proof so undeniable it left no room for bargaining. She had fallen backward into history.

Ivy shifted gingerly, grateful for the stop after another long day in the saddle, since every bone in her back and legs protested so many days on horseback.

The sight below held her transfixed—it was the first true glimpse of civilization she had encountered since stumbling into this century, and it struck her as both wondrous and unreal.

Though at a considerable distance by the time he reached the town, Ivy had no problem picking out Alaric among his men.

There was no mistaking him, the breadth of his frame, the iron-straight set of his back, the quiet authority that clung to him like a mantle.

Even at a distance, he seemed larger than life, the axis around which the others turned.

Alaric reined in near the edge of the street, and one of the villagers ventured a hesitant step forward.

Though too far to make out words, Ivy saw the wary tilt of the man’s head, the way his hands moved in quick, restless gestures.

Others soon joined him—one, then two, then more—drawn from doorways and shadowed lanes until a small knot of villagers had gathered before Alaric and his men.

The conversation stretched on, too long to be idle chatter.

Even from this distance, Ivy sensed its weight in the set of Alaric’s shoulders, in the rigid stillness of the men at his back, except for what seemed, even from this distance, to be speaking glances exchanged.

When at last Alaric shifted in the saddle, his head bowing sharply as though absorbing a blow, Ivy’s stomach clenched.

He turned his horse around, the starkness of his movement suggesting he’d just received bad news.

His men followed and together they rode back toward the waiting column, leaving behind the silent, watchful cluster of townsfolk.

Alaric and the captain of the MacKinlay army, whom Ivy had since learned was named Mathar, crested the rise, a knot of men riding at their backs.

They did not come fast, nor slow, but with a heavy tread, Ivy sensed.

From where she sat, she could see the stiffness in Alaric’s shoulders, the hard line of his jaw, and made note of the grim silence with that small moving group.

A shiver ran through her before she even knew why.

Something terrible had happened; she could feel it in the way the air itself seemed to sag beneath the weight of their silence.

They reined in at the head of the column, where the foremost soldiers drew close.

At first no words carried back, only the low rumble of voices.

Mathar’s hand sliced the air once. Alaric’s head was bent listening as the captain growled out something before Alaric answered with a clipped reply.

The soldiers nearest craned to hear, and Ivy felt the ripple of it spread outward—men straightening in their saddles, glances exchanged, whispers passing from rider to rider, carried swiftly on the air, borne from man to man with a terrible weight.

Ivy caught fragments only— Wallace... hanged.

.. butchered in London —until at last the meaning struck her full.

It was 1305, the specific improbable year having more meaning in this instant. William Wallace was dead.

The name struck her like a stone, familiar from every book she’d ever read on Scottish history, every tourist plaque she’d wandered past in different locales around Scotland, all of her dozen viewings of the movie Braveheart .

But those had been words in written form, names etched on memorials, cold stone statues, and the American born-Australian Mel Gibson on the screen.

Here, the name carried flesh and blood, hope, and now tremendous heartbreak.

Kendrick and Blair had rushed ahead when the laird had returned, but Ewan had remained at her side. He drew in a harsh breath and gave a small shake of his head and spoke gruffly. “Wallace,” he muttered. “Dead?”

Ivy’s gaze swept the line of men along the ridge.

They’d halted as if struck, the column bunching in the lane.

Ivy looked around at their faces—the grief was naked, unashamed.

Some bowed their heads. Others swore low, violent oaths.

One man clenched his fist around his bridle so tight his knuckles blanched white.

One man pressed his forehead against his horse’s neck, letting out a low, ragged curse.

A few stared down toward the town below, but not with the sharp, assessing eyes she had grown used to—these were vacant, dazed, as though they were seeing nothing at all.

It was as if the marrow had been sucked clean from their bones.

In an instant, the fierce, unbreakable army she had marched among seemed to hollow, their defiance bleeding out into the cool air.

Wallace’s death struck them like a blade, not to the body but to the spirit, cutting at the very thing that had kept them riding.

Ivy’s heart thumped wildly. She had known this already—of course she had—the betrayal, the brutal execution, every grim detail.

And yet, since falling into this century, she had scarcely given it thought.

Each day had been consumed with survival, with keeping herself upright in a world that still didn’t quite feel real.

She hadn’t paused to consider the calendar—what had already happened, what was about to happen—until now.

And suddenly, it came rushing back: that this was the season England tightened its grip, that Bruce had not yet seized his crown, that defeat and despair pressed heavier than hope.

She had walked herself into the very heart of the chapter she had studied right here in Scotland over the last year, never once having contemplated what it would feel like to be among the people who had followed him, who had fought beside him, who had placed so much faith and hope in him.

The sorrow in their eyes was not academic, it was fantastic for the breadth of it.

And suddenly she ached to tell them more.

To stand up and cry out: You will not always be beaten!

You will not always bow! The cause does not die with Wallace!

She wanted to tell them that the day would come when Scotland stood free again, that Robert the Bruce himself would lead them to victory at Bannockburn.

The words clawed at her throat, but she bit them back, clenching her fingers around the reins until her nails dug into her palms. Some inner voice warned that she couldn’t tell them anything.

Sci-fi movies and old novels had warned her about this, about the dangers of meddling.

Butterfly effect , her mind supplied dimly, though she’d never believed in such things before.

And yet now—God, if she spoke, was it possible even the smallest tidbit of information could change everything in ways she could never undo?

She ducked her head, throat thick, staring at her hands on the reins.

She had thought, in these chaotic days, only of survival—of finding food, keeping warm, enduring the endless march with a baby inside her.

She had never once paused to imagine meeting history .

To meet the flesh-and-blood men whose names filled the pages of the books she once read with idle curiosity.

Too late now for William Wallace. But Robert Bruce—her heart kicked hard in her chest—he yet lived, was alive in this moment, had yet to assume his greatest role.

It was not impossible she might see him with her own eyes.

The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

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