Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (24 page)

He and the boy fell back into a fast rhythm, shivering under waves that broke over the currach’s sides. Shawn's shoulders and back ached now, his eyes were dry and red with the whipping wind, his whole body chilled, and his ears strained, listening for danger.

An eternity passed in silence, except for the splash of their oars and the cries of the wind as it pushed the mist across the loch's surface. The moon came and went as clouds scuttled across its surface and fled again at the wind's brutal hands. The small currach nearly tipped twice, under the force of the waves. And Shawn fought back, the whole time, visions of pursuing men and underwater monsters. It had been just seaweed, he reminded himself. His perverse imagination insisted on replying that because there was seaweed didn't mean there wasn't a monster. "There's no Nessie," he reassured himself again.

The boat thumped against something solid and unyielding. His heart careened off the walls of his chest; the oars nearly slipped from his sweating, clammy hands.
There is a Nessie. And she's just stopped our boat.

* * *

With cold water seeping through his robe, Shawn turned slowly. His heart thudded like war drums, waiting for Nessie's attack. The boy scrambled from the boat even as the looming shape registered in Shawn's mind: a boulder jutting from the wall of a large cove on the far shore. He closed his eyes, rolling them heavenward behind closed lids, and let his breath out. He clambered after the boy, helped drag the boat up the pebbly shore, under thick brush, then raced to keep up with his wordless flight up a wooded hill, the bag slamming against his back.

"Hey," he whispered harshly. He glanced over his shoulder at the receding shoreline, fearful of pursuers, and nearly got a tree branch in his eye when he turned back. He slapped it away. Depending more on sound than sight in the blackness, he chased the silent, dark wraith weaving through the forest ahead of him. Trees pressed close on either side. They shut out the worst of the wind.

And suddenly, the shore was lost from sight. Sweat broke out across his forehead. Without the loch, he had no way to find Inverness. In the morning, he reassured himself. He swallowed hard. In the morning, everything would look better. He'd see sign posts and cars. He'd get coffee; he'd get to the hotel for its four-acre buffet, and have one of everything, maybe two. His mouth watered; his stomach rumbled. They'd gather around. He'd tell his adventures, and raise holy hell with the police for letting psychos with arrows loose in the country, and it would be another story they told for years.

The boy stopped so abruptly that Shawn slammed into him. The bag banged against his back. The boy yanked at it, motioning for speed. A shaft of moonlight pierced the trees far above, giving just enough light to see the small clearing in which they'd stopped.

Shivering in the saturated robe, Shawn swung the bag down, tugging with half-frozen fingers at the leather drawstring. The knot fell loose and the bag opened, spilling out a pile of clothes, a cloak, leather boots, and plumed hat. He tore off the monk's robe. Thoughts of the men watching the castle gave him haste, as much as the chilly night air on his damp, bare skin. He fumbled into a billow-sleeved shirt and long, heavy tunic, grateful for their warmth.

"What do I do with these?" Shawn indicated the robe and sandals. The boy gestured at the oilskin bag. Pushing the robe inside, Shawn's fingers touched a wooden frame. He felt further, and found strings. He looked down at his tunic. The weak moonlight showed him only that it was pale on the left and dark on the right. It was enough.

"I'm a minstrel!" he said. "I'm supposed to play the harp?"

* * *

They alternated jogging with quick walking, up steep hills, stepping high over the heather, a charcoal-drawn landscape in endless shades of black and gray. With no sign of pursuit, Shawn's panic eased, and boredom set in. He turned his thoughts to the lovely Allene, back at Glenmirril. By the time the boy led him over a hard-won ridge, he and his fantasy Allene had explored every corner of the castle with their pent-up passion, and moved on to a grassy bank by a rocky stream.

He emerged from his daydreams to see the boy far ahead, a small blur in the night, far down the slope. Fearful of being lost in this wilderness, Shawn scrambled after him, down into a deep glen. Black hills rose sharply on either hand. The ache never left his side now; the harp never stopped banging his back. Each breath drew cool night air, burning, into his heaving lungs. The ache moved to his legs. The boy walked steadily, silently, showing no sign of discomfort.

With his fantasy repertoire exhausted, Shawn's mind turned to the harp. He didn't expect to be around for whatever occasion the Laird expected him to play. But it was something to do. He tried to remember anything from his affair with Celine. Mostly, he recalled her Godiva hair like silk against his skin, and her light floral scent that had teased him in his dreams for weeks.

A rocky stream emptied into the glen, a soft pewter chain burbling along beside them and flashing back specks of moonlight. He tried to judge their direction by the moon's position, and failed. But the walking became easier, and Shawn decided to kill both problems: his boredom with the never-ending walk, and his inability to really play harp.

He started with
Blue Bells
. It was an old folk song, just the sort of thing these people would expect to hear. He imagined each note, transferred one by one, from his trombone music onto the harp strings in his mind. He played it back, seeing the strings, working out the fingerings. Celine had said never use little fingers. He chuckled. She'd blushed a pink Chablis at his bawdy comeback to that. But fine, he wouldn't use his pinkies. He played it again and again in his mind, a largo accompaniment to the stream's vivace bubbling. By the time the glen widened and the stream poured itself into a new loch, he was playing at a decent tempo, and even starting on the dancing, skipping triplet section.

The moon rose higher. They left the loch behind, veering into a wood. Birches rose like ghostly sentinels among the sparse scattering of firs. Anything for a latte, he thought. Or a beer. He wondered what food the provisions included. Probably not the McDonald's double cheeseburger with everything on it, fries on the side, and large chocolate shake he craved. The boy marched, unflagging, through the trees.

Shawn straggled behind, clutching now and again at his side. He stopped briefly, hands on knees. The boy gestured angrily. He shut his eyes, resting a minute beside a cluster of pines, despite the boy's annoyance, before heaving himself back to his midnight jog.

If he collapsed from a heart attack, he wondered, would the orchestra ever find him, lying among the wood's thick carpet of ferns. He entertained self pity for awhile, imagining the headlines.
Young Talent Lost Forever
. Amy would be broken-hearted.
Great Life Tragically Cut Short
. The moon crested at the height of the skies.
Musical Prodigy Dies in Highlands. World Grieves.
He pictured Caroline at his funeral in a black veil and that tight black dress of hers. Very nice! He smiled, enjoying his fantasy funeral. They left the wood for another bare slope and continued walking and jogging, climbing the rough hill, walking and jogging, in their endless cycle.

Bored now with the world-rocking news flashes, he began
Castle of Dromore
, once again transferring trombone positions to harp strings, steadily increasing the tempo. He chose chords, imagining his fingers on the strings. He was only mildly curious when the Laird expected him to play harp in the wilderness. Regardless, however, tomorrow, he was going to Inverness.

They stopped briefly at a river. Leaving the harp on the bank, he fell to his knees, scraping his knuckles on the rocks at the bottom as he scooped up great handfuls of cold water. Far too soon, the boy tugged his sleeve. With a groan, he clambered up and began once again to follow him.

As the moon sank to the west, they eased down another hill and he started on
Gilliekrankie
. As he finished working out an accompaniment, more trees appeared ahead. He sighed. Still no sign of a resting place. His legs threatened to mutiny. His back was no doubt permanently bruised from the harp. And the stitch in his side was a constant piercing now. He didn't have the energy to vent his anger at a boy who couldn't hear anyway. Another hundred yards, and they approached a town, nestled in a hollow high in the mountains. Hadn't the men decided towns weren't safe?

They trudged down this place's version of a main street: a dirt road with a few tiny thatched-roof cottages. Across a field, a cow lowed. A rooster crowed in the distance. Rich velvet blue now streaked the sky's eastern rim, above the mountains, where it had been black. The far end of town reached them quickly, and they passed through, to a dirt track rising once more into dusky hills. Shawn hovered between relief and disappointment. His legs screamed for rest.

With the western sky now midnight blue and the eastern horizon gray, the town shrank behind them, receding into its glen. Bright pink tinged the east by the time they paused atop the next pass. Far below, in a park-like clearing, surrounded by lawns and orchards, sprawled a rambling stone structure with a tower.

It wasn't a castle; it had no moat. Sheep dotted the glen. A bell tolled in solemn, deep tones. The boy led him, scrambling, down the last slope, through the orchards with small green apples, right up to the stone structure. He pounded on the door, a wooden affair studded with leather and brass like that of Shawn's own castle-hotel.

In Shawn's exhaustion, thoughts raced through his head: the boy was the traitor, leading him to his death. This could be the home of the infamous MacDougalls! But, having little choice, he followed.

The boy pounded the door again. After a long wait, in which Shawn peered over his shoulder, it creaked opened. From behind it, a monk in a brown robe appeared. The boy lifted the edges of his hood, showing his face to the monk, who bowed low and stood back.

Shawn and the boy passed through the towering doors, into a cold stone hallway. The boy kept going, as though familiar with the place and disappeared through a door on the left.

The monk took Shawn's sleeve and encouraged him forward. As they passed the room, Shawn saw the boy kneeling at an altar.

"Come, eat," the monk said, and Shawn followed him gratefully, forgetting everything else.

* * * * *

Chapter Nine

Inverness, Scotland, Present

The day's first sun filtered through lace curtains and skimmed past rich blue hangings. Blinking in the light, Niall pushed himself up out of the massive four poster, more comfortable than any king had ever enjoyed, throwing back covers softer than any queen had ever luxuriated under.

He missed his furs.

He missed, in the insular silence of the cavernous suite, the sounds and smells of the castle waking. He wanted to go to the great hall, so different from last night's dining room, and break his fast with the laugh of the scullery maids and sweet-smelling rushes under his feet and shaggy hunting hounds begging with large, doleful eyes for scraps, and Allene at table with her father, throwing him stolen glances. He sighed, and stretched himself out of bed. He settled the large, fluffy robe into place, yanking the belt tight.

With a wondering look around the room's wealth of frescoes, paintings, and fine woodwork, Niall knelt by the bed, under his imagined crucifix, and crossed himself. He guessed the Laird had decided to send him across the loch, down to the monastery. He shook his head. The Great Glen was much the more sensible route, knowing, as Niall did, every towering tree, every leafy trail, every cascading stream and waterfall, and, most importantly, every possible hiding place. Once he reached it, the English would never find him. He and Iohn had learned it far too well from Darnley.

Niall sighed, wondering how God could have allowed things to go so terribly wrong. Even if Shawn had been left in his place in the castle, he could never find his way through the Glen. Who would go for Hugh? Something niggled at the back of his brain, something he should remember.

He pushed it aside and pulled his wandering thoughts back to his prayers. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ crucified, I arise. May He bless, govern, and preserve me, and bring me to everlasting life. He made acts of adoration and thanksgiving. He said a
Pater
, an
Ave
, and the
Credo
. The words took on newer and deeper meaning in this inexplicable turn of events, which he couldn't handle on his own.

A knock sounded on the door of the suite. He looked up in irritation—nobody interrupted his morning prayers!—before realizing his new reality: these people wouldn't know that. Still, the Laird had taught him to put God first. If one did not walk out on a king, how much less so on God. He bent his head again, fingertips meeting between his eyebrows. "My Lord, God in Heaven," he said, "I pray thee watch over me and grant me wisdom. I've always understood everything, and now I don't."

The knock sounded again. Niall looked up. Who would be knocking at Shawn's door? Conrad, maybe? Perhaps God had sent the very man who could help him.

He jumped to his feet. The door burst in, propelled by a heady scent and closely followed by the bosom-laden woman, Caroline. Corn silk hair floated around cheeks like blush rose petals. Her royal blue shirt brought out the startling hue of her eyes, and the delicate pink of her lips. Kicking the door closed behind her, she launched herself at Niall, hugging him with vigor.

"I'm sorry about last night," she cooed. Her breath on his ear jolted him. Her finger ran down his chest, where the robe gaped. Images burst in his brain, delightful and alarming. He pushed her and the images away in shock, and yanked the robe together.

"As am I," he said, striving for diplomacy. "I meant you no embarrassment." The floral scent floated off her, filling his senses. He gestured toward the door. "I'm in the midst...."