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  THE PROMISE OF

  PEACE

  CAROL UMBERGER

  THE PROMISE OF PEACE

  Copyright © 2004 by Carol Umberger.

  Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc.

  5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE the MANIFEST PRESENCE of GOD.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado, 80920.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible (KJV).

  Cover design: David Uttley

  Interior: Inside Out Design & Typesetting

  ISBN 1-59145-166-3

  Printed in Canada

  04 05 06 07 08 TCP 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ALSO IN THE SCOTTISH CROWN SERIES

  Circle of Honor

  The Price of Freedom

  The Mark of Salvation

  DEDICATION

  To the men and women, past and present,

  of the US Military Services.

  You know the true price of freedom and peace.

  God bless you.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MY SINCERE THANKS to the many readers who have written to encourage me and to ask for another story. Here it is, as promised.

  A warm thank you to the Thursday night Improv group at Barnes and Noble—you know who you are. Thanks for your smiles and encouragement. May you each write to whatever level of success suits you best.

  A huge thanks to Maureen Schmidgall, who bravely read the manuscript at its worst and always put smiley faces with her suggestions for improvement.

  Thanks to Donnell and Beth for insights into teenage rebellion. Best of luck in your own writing endeavors.

  A big thank you to Angel Smits, a wonderful writer who understands when I tell her the symbolism isn’t working and then helps me fix it.

  Thank you, Betsy Wintermute, for sharing your knowledge of horsemanship and all things medieval.

  Thank you, Heather Peterson, for allowing me to ride the real Shadow, a magnificent eventing and dressage thoroughbred gelding. And to Shadow himself, who made jumping 18" seem as exciting as a sixfoot fence!

  As always, a big thanks to my wonderful editor, Lisa Bergren.

  And thanks and praise to the God who promises us peace beyond our understanding, if only we believe.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Dear Readers,

  I hope that you have enjoyed this final book in the Scottish Crown Series. Like you, I will miss these characters who have become friends. But there are more characters waiting in the wings for me to tell their stories.

  Despite his many successes, Robert the Bruce’s one regret was that he never fulfilled his promise to go on Crusade. On his deathbed in June 1329, he asked James Douglas to take his heart to the Holy Land. After Bruce’s death, Douglas had the king’s heart embalmed in a small silver casket that Douglas then wore on a chain around his neck. On March 25, 1330, Douglas rode into battle at Zebas de Ardales and was killed in the ensuing fighting. The casket was removed from Douglas’s body and returned to Scotland, where it was buried at the Abbey of Melrose.

  Scotland’s peace with England was short-lived. By 1331, Thomas Randolph was also dead, leaving young King David to reign without the help of his father’s most trusted advisor. Two years later, Edward III disavowed the treaty he’d sealed with the marriage of his sister to David Bruce, on the grounds that Edward was under-age when he signed it.

  Warfare between England and Scotland broke out again and continued on and off for the next four hundred years. Never again did a king or general with Bruce’s gifts arise in Scotland. But Bruce had forged a sense of nationality that has not deserted the Scottish people to this day.

  I have tried to capture some of the history and customs of fourteenth-century Scotland, and I beg forgiveness where I felt it necessary to take liberties for the sake of clarity. If you would like to learn more about this time period, I highly recommend Robert the Bruce, King of Scots by Ronald McNair Scott.

  For news about my upcoming releases or to contact me, please visit my website at www.carolumberger.com, or you may write in care of Integrity Publishers.

  God Bless.

  PROLOGUE

  Scotland, June 1306

  FRESH FROM A DECISIVE VICTORY over Robert the Bruce, Ian Macnab and his older brother followed the Prince of Wales and his retinue of knights. In pursuit of Bruce and what remained of the Scottish army, the English knights and a handful of Scottish loyalists were anxious to blood their swords again.

  But Bruce had melted into the highlands. Seeking an enemy, any enemy, the prince ordered an attack on the small, unarmed village of Midvale. The English were destroying the village for no other reason than that it lay in their path. As anxious as his comrades for more of victory’s promise, this was too much for Ian. What madness had swept over these men? He watched as the thatch on a cottage caught fire and its occupants raced for the cover of the nearby woods. The smell of smoke and screams of women and children filled the air. Village men armed with pitchforks tried in vain to turn back the attack. Ian longed to come to their rescue, but even with Angus’s help, there was little they could do to affect the outcome.

  In the confusion of the charge, Ian spurred his horse next to his brother’s. “This is wrong, Angus. We must not attack innocent people. Come, let’s be gone!”

  Angus hesitated.

  “Stay then. I’m riding out.” He turned his horse and rode to the top of the hill overlooking the village. There Ian watched in shock, shaking his head as if doing so would make the carnage before him disappear. He clutched his sword as anger, fear, and finally revulsion raced through him.

  Angus soon joined him on the hilltop.

  It might be futile, but he couldn’t just sit here and watch. “We must find a way to stop them!” Ian took up his reins to ride to the rescue of the innocents being slaughtered before them.

  Angus Macnab grabbed at Ian’s reins. “Nay, don’t be foolish. Ye were right not to be party to this but ye’ll not stop the prince when the bloodlust is on him.”

  “We must try. What if this were Innishewan?” Their home and village were safe well across the country in Argyll. But that didn’t make it any easier to see this unfamiliar hamlet senselessly destroyed. Angus shook his head as Ian’s bay pulled and shied from Angus’s grasp. “If we attempt to stop the prince, he will have us cut down, and then we will be no help to anyone.”

  Ian had no doubt what Angus said about Prince Edward was true. The prince’s capricious emotions and mighty temper were as feared as his father’s.

  Angus Macnab let go of the reins and pointed to the west of them. “There, brother. There ye may do some good.”

  Ian looked to where Angus pointed and saw a tree-lined c
reek and, yes, movement and color within the woods. Some of the unfortunates had managed to escape from their homes to seek refuge where it could be found.

  “Those will need help and I’m for it,” Angus said. “But them in the village are beyond our help.”

  Though everything in him cried out to rescue those still in the village, Ian knew his brother was right. No sense in seeking a needless death. They were going to be in enough trouble for refusing to attack in the first place. Reluctantly he nodded.

  Angus said, “We’ll help as we can and then slip into the hills for a time.” They raced their horses to the creek, where they found women and children, many of them wounded. Innocents, every one. The Prince of Wales. Ian spit on the ground.

  He and Angus were joined by a cousin, Duncan, who had also declined to join the prince’s butchery. Though none of them were experienced healers, all of them had tended to battlefield wounds before, and they set to work with little conversation.

  Ian bound a gash on the arm of a woman not much older than his daughter, Morrigan. A warrior in her own right, Morrigan had ridden with them earlier today. She had suffered a nasty cut in battle and he had sent her home for his wife, Eveleen, to tend.

  Then he turned to face a young woman who was wailing over a dead infant in her arms, his tiny leg slashed to the bone. The child had bled to death. With agonizing motions, Ian caressed the young mother’s face and gently pried the boy from her arms.

  “Please, let me hold him . . . just a wee bit longer.” She bit her lip, nodding as tears streamed down her red face. She sank to the ground, weeping, face in hands.

  Ian turned to face his brother, raising the child to make sure Angus could see. “I’m glad Morrigan did not witness this.” He drew a breath, determined that Angus should understand how he felt, staring down at a lad who would never have the chance to wage his own battle, never have the chance to look out for his own family, his own country. “I’ll not follow the prince in battle again, Angus. He disgraced the title of knight today, he and the men with him.”

  Angus said nothing, probably hoping Ian would get his emotions under control and see reason. Angus’s reason. ’Tis how it had been all their lives. Except once.

  Ian turned and helped the woman to her feet, then returned the child to her arms, whispering assurances that he would help bury the child; that while all seemed lost, God had not abandoned her. He looked down the hill to the smoking village. The English were gone now, and the people were returning to what was left of their homes. They looked as dazed and disoriented as Ian felt. But he was rapidly regaining his bearings.

  Scotland’s king had been treated with treachery, with no hint of honor. The Earl of Pembroke had declined to fight when Bruce challenged him, saying the day was too far gone. The two generals had made a gentleman’s agreement to commence the battle the next day at first light—a customary agreement. Bruce and his army had made camp and bedded down for the night.

  However, despite his assurances to Bruce, Pembroke had waited until the Scots were sufficiently off guard—with tents pitched and supper cooking—and then he’d attacked, routing the Scots and nearly capturing Bruce in the chaos. “Where was the law of chivalry yesterday, Angus? Pembroke did not keep the faith, and neither did the prince. Mayhap Gordie had the right of it, giving his loyalty to Bruce.”

  This war with England had divided the loyalty of many highland clans. Ian had sided with his brother Angus—laird of clan Macnab—and against his son, Gordon. Gordie had died fighting with Bruce at Dalry Pass against one of their own clansmen, John of Lorne.

  Angus looked around—the three Scotsmen were alone now. He said, “I’ll not speak poorly about the dead. Gordie did what he felt he had to. I accept that, though I disagreed with him. ’Tis bad enough yer son defied his laird. Ye and I can’t change sides now without incurring the prince’s wrath, and through him, King Edward himself.”

  “Which king shall we serve? An honorable Scot or a butcher and his son?”

  “King Edward had nothing to do with the prince’s behavior today. Clan Macnab will fight for Edward so long as I’m laird. And that’s the end of it.”

  Ian looked at his brother, at the deep reddish hair and blue eyes they shared. Barely a year separated them, and they’d often been asked if they were twins. But they were not alike in any other way, which meant they were oft at odds. “I’ll not fight for England again after what I saw today.”

  “War is evil, and sometimes the innocent pay a price, Ian.” Angus stood and faced him, then gazed about at the last of the wounded. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s be gone.”

  Duncan moved to stand beside Ian.

  But Ian didn’t move. “I said nothing, fought beside ye this day despite Pembroke’s lack of chivalry against Bruce’s army. Treachery and war against armed men was one thing. But this savagery against women and children—that I won’t abide. Not for any cause.”

  Angus shoved his shoulder, trying to provoke him. “Get on home with ye, then. Ye aren’t fit to be a warrior.”

  Duncan wisely moved across the rock-strewn ground to stand with the fidgeting horses.

  Ian stood firm and Angus shoved him, harder this time. Ian stepped back. “I don’t want to fight ye, Angus.”

  “Then don’t disobey yer laird.”

  “I’ll not join Bruce. That much I promise. And I’ll help ye however I can. But I’ll not take up arms for the king of England again.” Ian turned to leave.

  Angus grabbed his sleeve, pulling him around to face him. He let go of the cloth and poked Ian’s chest with his beefy finger. “Will ye fight me, then? Because that’s the only way I’m going to let ye have yer way in this.”

  Ian held his hands at his sides, even though he wanted mightily to hit his brother. But he would not dishonor himself by striking his laird in anger, brother or not. “Aye, ye’ve wanted an excuse to fight me ever since the last time. Ye won that fight, Angus. I still have the crooked nose to prove it.”

  “I didn’t win and ye know it. Ye may have got a broken nose but ye still got Eveleen.”

  Mustering patience, Ian said, “She didn’t necessarily pick the best man, Angus. She picked the man she loved.”

  Ian turned again to walk away but Angus grabbed him once more, spun him around, and struck Ian’s cheek. His eyes watered from the sting of the blow, but he refused to strike back. He waited for Angus to hit him again.

  “Stop it, both of ye!” Duncan yelled, coming toward them as if to calm them down.

  But Ian waved Duncan off. Long-simmering animosities and buried hurts often welled up between the brothers. Trying to avoid further confrontation, Ian wiped his sleeve over his eyes to dry them. “We finished this years ago, Angus. I’ll not fight ye again over Eveleen.” He stood there, daring his brother to strike him again. When the other man stood still, Ian turned and walked toward Duncan and the waiting horses.

  With a roar Angus crashed into Ian from behind. Ian had no time to react and fell headlong to the ground, striking his head before Angus’s body came to rest on top of him. Ian heard bones crack, then all went silent. One thought filled his head and heart before the world went dark.

  Eveleen.

  ANGUS SCRAMBLED OFF HIS BROTHER and knelt beside him.

  “Ian. Ian, man. Wake up!”

  Duncan ran to him. “He hit his head.”

  Then Angus noticed the unnatural angle of his brother’s neck and, at the same time, watched as Ian’s breathing stopped. “Ian?” Angus felt for the pulse. “Ian! Oh, God, please no. I didn’t mean it, none of it.” Angus clutched his brother’s body to his chest and sobbed. He was laird; he was in fact his brother’s keeper, the keeper and protector of the Macnabs. He and Ian had survived so much together, and it came to this? A freak accident, and now Angus had his brother’s blood on his head.

  Why had he allowed anger to overrule love? And how would he ever explain to Eveleen? Would she believe it was an accident?

  When he could delay no lon
ger, Angus motioned for Duncan to help him. With few words between them, they hoisted Ian’s body over his horse, tied it fast, and made the long ride back to Innishewan.

  As they neared the keep Duncan said, “I don’t think yer sister-in-law can take another heartache. Would ye like for me to break the news?”

  Angus, his voice choked, said, “’Tis my duty to tell her. I have caused her nothing but pain, all my life. May God forgive me.”

  When they approached the castle, a cry went out from the sentry. Angus, leading Ian’s horse, rode into the bailey. Shock and dismay covered the faces of those who came to greet him. They must have assumed Ian died in battle, for no one asked what happened, sparing Angus from having to confess.

  Weary and dreading what lay ahead, Angus halted his horse and dismounted. “Duncan, see to Ian while I go to Eveleen.”

  She wouldn’t be in the castle but at the small cottage inside the walls that she and Ian called home. Angus left his tired horse and walked the short distance, dreading his task with every footstep.

  She stood there just outside the cottage, her beautiful dark hair streaked with gray. Wiping her hands on her apron, she said, “What is it, Angus? Ye look as if ye’ve seen a . . .” She clutched the apron. “It’s Ian, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” He wanted to make everything right between them. Turn back the clock twenty years and start over. Would anything ever be right again?

  Not if he told her the truth.

  And so when he stood before the woman who’d taken his heart years ago, he couldn’t bear to tell her that he’d killed her husband. “He fell from his horse, Eveleen.”

  She said not a word, just stared in disbelief before she crumbled. He stepped forward and caught his brother’s wife in his arms. He carried her into the small cottage she had shared with Ian and their children but couldn’t think what to do. He stood there, Eveleen’s weight in his arms, as his niece, Morrigan, rushed through the door.

  “What have you done to my mother?” she demanded.