Page 1 of The Protector’s Promise

1

Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1273

“Give me a reason not to kill you.”

With the tip of his broadsword to his attacker’s throat, the Lord of Camburg stood immobile, waiting for the Scotsman’s answer. The guard stared back at William.

No response.

He tried again. “What are you guarding?”

Nothing.

He’d not traveled all this way, from the borderlands of North West England, to be stopped so close to his goal.

Suddenly, the big, bearded man who’d tried to lop off William’s head from behind shifted before his eyes. A scared young boy, too young to grow a beard, lay in his place. The vision disappeared, and William found himself staring once again at the man who had followed him from the moment he’d begun his ascent up the mountain. The winding path had hidden his pursuer from sight, but the silence had done nothing to mask the big man’s telltale footfalls.

The visions came more often now. He had gone years without them, but since arriving in Scotland, they occurred nearly every day. Most often, they were altered versions of that which was in front of him and other times of what was to come. Perhaps whatever was at the top of this mountain might provide some much-needed answers. He hoped so since they were becoming harder and harder to disguise.

Though he would likely regret it, William pulled back his sword. The fleeting visions that had plagued him his entire life had come more readily each day of this voyage. They showed him glimpses of the past or the future, and after seeing the lad the guard had been, he could not harm him. Sheathing his weapon, he moved away from the guard, who scrambled to his feet.

“I am guarding no one,” the man insisted.

He lied.

“We shall see.” William pointed to the path ahead of them. “Lead the way.”

They had nearly arrived. He knew neither what nor whom he sought, something he would never willingly admit to his friends or foes. They’d think he’d descended into madness if he told them, and William may be inclined to agree. But the call that had taken him away from Camburg Castle across the borderlands and to this mountain had been too strong to ignore. Now, after days of aimless wandering with only the strange pull to guide him, William was close.

This man’s presence told him as much.

“If you attempt to harm her, I will kill you,” the Scotsman said as he picked his way along the rocky path.

“Her?”

The guard spun around, his brows furrowed. “Who are you?”

Finally, perhaps, he could get some answers. “An answer for an answer.”

The guard responded with a curt nod.

“Who do you protect?”

“Scotland.” He answered so quickly, William would have been inclined to believe him if not for the outrageousness of his response. Then again, he’d come here alone, for no better reason than he’d felt drawn to. There was no denying his situation was outrageous.

“Who do you protect”—he pointed—“up there?”

“Scot—”

“You are telling me Scotland resides at the top of this mountain on the Isle of Skye?” He was losing patience. After days of questions with no answers, he was ready for real information. “Try again.”

“The Priestess of the Stone. But you knew that already.”

Priestess? Stone? What had he stumbled his way into?

All the same, he was a man of his word—he’d promised to answer the man’s question in exchange for information. “I am William Thornhurst, son of Lord Ranville and seneschal of Camburg Castle.”

“Why are you here?” The man’s hands itched at his sides, reaching for a sword that was no longer there.