Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (19 page)

He glanced at them, and quickly back to the case, not sure what to do. Then, he saw the latches, and, with a little fumbling, popped them. He lifted the lid to reveal the finest golden instrument he'd ever seen, a curved pipe with a flaring bell. Letters were engraved on it. He traced them, sounding them out. Conrad tapped his foot. "Edward's?" Niall looked up, excited at understanding the letters. "Edward played this?" Past and present swirled around him like the loch's mists.

"Very funny, Shawn." Conrad folded his arms across his chest.

"Of course," Niall said. Edward was seven hundred years ago. What a stupid gaff. He pulled out the curved pipe with its flaring bell. It seemed to be a horn of some sort.

"The slide?" Amy said. She reached in the box and lifted out a long, narrow part, that wrapped back on itself. She took the bell from him and fit the pieces together, looking at him with real concern.

Niall stared in dismay.

It had been a Sunday. William begged the Laird to come attend the sheep. William always had a story; he'd keep the Laird away a good long time. Niall and Iohn slipped into MacDonald's chambers
and dug out the shiny new sackbut the gypsies had traded for turnips. All the way from England, they said, and such a rich, deep tone. All the Laird's musicians had tried, but none could produce anything that might be called rich.

At thirteen, Niall was not allowed to try. That didn't stop him. He and Iohn admired it, moved the slide up and down, laughing with hands pressed over mouths at their clever machinations against the Laird. Even now, he'd be hearing a long-winded list of things William had noticed about the sheep, with detailed accounts of every event that had happened on the moors leading up to these discoveries, and a lengthy discourse on the care and breeding of livestock in general. Niall blew into the instrument. A wheezing gasp of dry air came out the end.

Iohn shuddered. "Let me try," he said. He grabbed the sackbut from Niall, sucked in a deep breath, and blew, before Niall could see how he'd done it. The sound filled the chambers. Not the glorious sound described by the gypsies, but powerful.

"How did you do that?" Niall demanded. He reached for the instrument, but Iohn skipped away, laughing. "I'm better," he gloated.

A heavy stone ground in the bottom of Niall's stomach. He was invariably just a little faster, a little stronger, a little bolder. And though Iohn could sing, he couldn't make sense of the harp strings, ever.

Niall grabbed for the instrument again. He blew and blew, and produced only squawks and grunts and wheezes, while Iohn laughed louder than necessary, clutching his sides in exaggeration.

Niall glared. "'Tis a foolish thing anyway!" He shoved it back at Iohn, who blew again and got that same powerful tone. It slipped up to a higher note without a movement from the slide. Iohn took it away from his mouth and stared in delight. Niall left the chambers and never tried the sackbut again.

"This better not be for real," Conrad muttered, his arms locked like steel across his chest.

Niall stared at Edward's sackbut. Adding up all he knew of Shawn, the images all over town, the cocky, grinning face so like his own and yet so different, the talk of a concert, he understood what they expected. His face fell. He could not please this man. He saw his chances of gaining his trust and cooperation, and getting back to Hugh, dwindle to nothing. Scotland was lost, and there was naught he could do. "I canna play a sackbut," he said sadly.

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

Inverness, Scotland, Present

After another brief drive along the River Ness, Conrad and Niall reached a small castle of bricks and glass. Inside, several women huddled behind a low wall, under another of the large paintings. In this one, Shawn, once again with a plaid wrapped around his waist, lounged in a small boat with another buxom woman behind him, gripping his shoulders, her mouth and eyes in round O's of surprise. SHAWN KLEINER read the words above him. His sackbut stuck out like a fishing pole, reeling in a long-necked creature rising from the water. The best was all Niall managed to read of the words below, before the women popped up from behind the wall, giggling and blushing.

"Oh, I looove your shirt, Mr. Kleiner!" one of them squealed. She was far too old to be squealing like a love-sick lass, Niall thought. He looked down at his wide-sleeved shirt, laced at the throat, no different than any other man wore. Amy had refused to let him wear the tunic. He'd refused to be stuffed into Shawn's bizarre clothing. She'd relented and allowed him the trews, shirt, and boots.

"They'll all be dressed like that by tomorrow," Conrad grumbled. "Why can't you just be normal for once?" He brushed the women off and bustled Niall up a wide open flight of stairs, into a cavernous chamber larger than any great hall; greater, he was sure, than even Edward Longshanks had had in his glory days.

Niall took in the odd sight of hundreds of plush seats, cushioned like thrones, all facing the same way. No straw on the floor. He rather liked that. A path alongside the seats ended at a dais, though it rose higher than any he'd ever seen, higher than a man's waist. On it, dozens more chairs, small hard ones, faced a low raised platform. A single beam of light fell from above, as if from Heaven, on one large pillar, standing before all the chairs.

"The harp is onstage," barked Conrad. "This better be all you say it is, Shawn. You're on the brink...." Conrad snapped his mouth shut.

Niall glanced at him. Of being fired, he finished. He could play harp. There'd be no reason for Conrad to set him ablaze or shoot him. He'd play and get this man's cooperation. Easy.

He searched the dais for a small clairsach like his own. Not seeing one, he turned back toward the free-standing pillar. Its ethereal gold shone in the light. Carvings adorned the top and bottom. He walked toward it, seeing now that it sat on a base, and now—the strings stretched out in an orderly row behind the magnificent column.

This was the harp? The words almost came out of his mouth, but he remembered what they thought of his reaction to the sackbut. The tromboon, he corrected himself. He must remember the proper name.

Raised a soldier, and having learned his lesson, he kept his face impassive. But inwardly, his jaw fell, his eyes grew wide. He reached the dais and stared, in awe, at the harp rising above him. Its magnificent soundboard swelled out, swirling with floral, gold-inlaid motifs. He touched the base, the gold cool to his fingers, feeling the raised designs. Magnificent! If only the Laird could see this! He'd not quit his workshop till he'd built one himself! He studied the harp's features, memorizing every detail for the Laird.

"The stairs, Shawn. On your right. We don't have time." Conrad's grumble registered through his awe.

"Aye, sir," Niall said, forgetting that Shawn apparently did neither ayes nor sirs. He glanced to his right, found the stairs running up to the black-coated platform, and went up quickly, and back to the harp. It rose as tall as a man. "This is a harp!" he whispered.

"I like your outfit." A soft voice spoke behind him. He jumped, and turned to see the girl from the crowd this morning, the one who had hovered in the background. Hair flowed down her back, pale honey, almost to her knees. "The red strings are C." Her large blue eyes looked up at him through dark lashes. "The black strings are F. Remember when I showed you...?" Her voice trailed off. Her eyes returned to the floor, darted up again briefly to him. This must be Celine. Conrad had said she would meet them.

"No," he said softly. "I don't remember." He studied her young, innocent face, the way her eyes met his, hoping, and had a strong intuition Shawn had also shown her things. It appeared she was still smitten with him, and from her hesitant manner, he suspected Shawn had given her enough hope to keep her so, but not enough to embolden her. Scoundrel, he thought in disgust.

He turned to the harp, disturbed. She indicated the stool behind it. He seated himself, pulling the huge instrument down onto his right shoulder. The weight was greater than his small instrument, solid and gratifying.

Part of his mind stayed on Celine, hovering—and hoping—on his left. He felt for her. His insides raged, both at the man who would treat her so, and the idea that this is what people now thought of him. He touched the strings, wondering at this new complication. But it wasn't his complication, he told himself. His job was to get back to Hugh.

He sighed, and plucked a few strings, enjoying the instrument's deep reverberations. It felt good to play. It was his favorite thing, but with the cattle problems, the MacDougalls, and the looming battle with the English, there'd been little time of late. He wondered that these people led lives so easy and comfortable they could do this any time they wished!

He tried a few more strings, and played a scale. It now became easy to run his fingers over a familiar melody. He played it once, and lifted his left hand to add chords. Peace washed over him. He lowered his head, feeling nothing but the music. The bulk of the instrument, and the unfamiliar, heavy strings caused him to miss a few notes, but for the most part, he found it delightfully easy, playing this much larger instrument.

The clapping of two hands, slow and methodical, burst from the dark, jolting him from his reverie. "You've caused a lot of trouble in this orchestra, Shawn." Conrad's voice boomed from the dark. "But I always give credit where credit is due. Truly impressive. How have you managed to keep this secret from us?"

"You told me you couldn't play," Celine murmured.

Niall glanced from Celine to Conrad. "Just something I—learned," he said helplessly. And to Celine, "It seems you're a guid teacher."

"We usually do
Blue Bells
in D," Conrad said.

"In D?" Niall looked helplessly at Celine. "What dooz that mean?"

"Here." She edged in close, her leg coming over his. He jumped, shocked and wondering what she thought she could do with the real Shawn here in front of Conrad. Anything seemed possible in a world where women wore undergarments, and less, in public. "The pedals," she said. "I need to change the pedals." He looked down. Seven gleaming brass pedals jutted from the base. She pushed two with her foot. "Now play."

He touched the strings again. This time,
Blue Bells
came out all wrong, even though he'd hit the right strings. "What happened?" he asked.

"You have to transpose."

"I don't know what this transpose is," he replied, copying the word carefully.

"What happened to you? They're saying you were shot by an arrow."

"Transpose?" Niall reminded her.

"Play every note a step higher than it was?" she said, perplexed.

"Ah." His eyes lit up. He understood the concept, although he'd never heard the word. He pushed his hair back from his temple, and she gasped at the bruise. "It's made me forget much," he said. He took a moment to think, then played
Blue Bells
again, moving everything up a step.

Conrad clapped. "You'll do," he said, delight in his voice. "Keep playing. I'm going to move around the hall and get a feel for the sound." Niall inclined his head in acknowledgment, remembering to ease off the ayes and sirs. Conrad's footsteps faded away in the dark.

Niall wondered, uneasily, what was expected of him. He and Celine stared at each other. "I'll need help," Niall said, breaking the silence. "I don't know the music. Play it or sing it to me, and I can do it."

She smiled shyly, and worked her way in between him and the harp. He was startled, given her demeanor, at the boldness of the move. This was what she'd been asking him to remember. Shawn had done this before with her, he was certain. He stood abruptly, thinking of Allene, and backed away.

She turned to him in shock. Her face fell. Her cheeks turned bright pink, and she hung her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know you told me.... But I thought, when you wanted me here today…."

"Conrad asked you here," he said, and realized, seeing the tears glisten in the corners of her eyes, that he sounded harsh. He touched her back, where she sat on the stool, awkwardly, and pulled his hand away. He was aware of Conrad still moving around the hall. "Show me the music. We'll talk when Conrad leaves," he said softly.

She nodded, and lifted graceful fingers to the strings. He took in every motion. Music flowed magically, gentle yet powerful enough to fill the chamber. The colored patterns of the strings, under her fingers, sparkled on his brain, leaving a trail for him to follow.

He sighed heavily, thinking of his need to reach Hugh, as he watched, and wondering if he'd made the right choice in coming here. Nonetheless, he was somewhat trapped, and would do what he could with the situation into which God had placed him. He leaned forward and studied her right hand, memorizing the patterns her fingers danced on the strings.

"Again, sloo-er," he said. She played again, obediently. In his mind, his fingers moved with hers. "Again." He closed his eyes and listened intently, letting his fingers, in his mind, follow the pattern. "I'll do it now," he said.

She stood, silently. He played it twice, three, four times, each time fixing mistakes, until it came out perfectly. Even as he stood to let her take the stool, his mind was once more reviewing the piece, settling it firmly into his memory.

"I don't know how you're doing that, Shawn," came Conrad's voice from the back of the hall, "but it sounds great. Celine, teach him the whole program. I'm going to talk to the board. We'll see you at rehearsal tomorrow."

A band of light appeared at the back of the hall, and Conrad's silhouetted figure disappeared out of the door. It swung shut, leaving the hall once again in darkness.

Onstage, in the glare of the spotlight, Celine waited for Niall's nod, and started the next piece. She played it several times, before he once again took his turn. "A singer will do this one with you," she said.

"Sing it, then." Niall rolled a chord. Deep reverberations resonated through his body. He fought back a thrill at the sound and touch of this magnificent instrument. After all, he was supposed to be getting back to Hugh, and this wasn't doing it. Her light, clear voice joined in.