Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (33 page)

But even that took second place to Allene: was she out there somewhere with that chanty wrassler, the baw juggler? He tried to guess what might have happened. He assumed Shawn had appeared in the tower in his place, though it was only a guess. Shawn would not have known about the council. Having left Niall in the tower, Allene would have looked there, and found the presumably drunk and confused Shawn. Would she have ushered him to the council meeting? Question after question attacked Niall's mind. Foremost among them: had Allene used this to her advantage? He knew her well. Of course she would! And what choice did the laird have?

And what of Shawn? He, Niall was sure, would use any situation to his advantage; for instance, being alone with a comely young lass.

He rolled from bed, fell on his knees, and crossed himself. "Lord, Jesus Christ, forgive me," he whispered, angry with himself. "I'm becoming lax. When will You deliver me from this place, back where I'm needed?" He began his morning offering, but his mind wandered to his own chambers in his own castle. Had it only been a week ago he'd woken, with Lord Darnley banging on his door in excitement, rushed with adrenaline for the raid into MacDougall territory to retrieve their cattle? He pulled his mind back to prayers, looking up at the crucifix.

...and remembered so many other days with Lord Darnley and William and Iohn, hunting and fishing. He missed them. A weight sank inside him, a knot of seaweed in his stomach. If the story was true, Lord Darnley was the traitor. He made the sign of the cross and said an
Ave
for Iohn. He would travel to Stirling with Darnley and the other men of Glenmirril. He wondered if William knew, or was part of it.

"Lord, protect Allene," he said out loud. He gritted his teeth, thinking of her out in the wilderness, alone with Shawn; then relaxed his jaw. He was supposed to be praying. "I offer this day to Thee." He said it more forcibly than necessary, in his attempt to keep his mind on his prayers. "Help me to know and follow Your will."

A long, sweet note floated through the wall. He opened his eyes, hoping, for an insane second, that it was the sound of angels appearing. But it was only a flutist, warming up somewhere down the hall. It drifted in, sweet and alluring. How incredible, he thought, to wake up in such a world, never fearing for one's safety or loved ones, always sure of the next meal. And surrounded by music and the leisure to enjoy it. These people were living in Heaven, and didn't even know it!

His mind was wandering again! He jumped to his feet, irritated with his inability to pray. He wanted—needed!—to be in the forest, making his way to Hugh. Why was God not doing that for him!

He paced Shawn's room like a caged wolf. The Laird would have wanted him to take a different route this time, but he knew better. He pushed his hand through his hair. No one knew the Glen like he did. It was by far the best way. That's where he'd be, just now emerging from its green depths, at its southern end by the new castle of Inverlochy.

He stopped pacing at the windows and stared out, between the leaded diamonds, to the garden across the wide lawn. It struck his fancy, far off behind its walls. He vowed to visit it someday, to remember every tree and leaf and flower and tell Allene all about it.

He turned back to his new crucifix and forced himself to kneel again. "Watch over Allene," he prayed. "She is my life. Please—guard her till You bring me back." The memory of their last kiss filled his mind. His stomach cramped at the thought that it might really be their last. Unless—an ugly thought occurred to him. Would Shawn try to kiss her?

Pray for Shawn!

The inner urging hit him so forcefully that he leapt to his feet, his face a mask of fury, and shouted, "No!"

At the same instant, a pounding landed on his door, forceful and loud. Was it that brazen woman, Caroline, again? What messes Shawn had left him! Niall strode through the sitting room.

He flung the door wide, his face like storm clouds over the moors. Amy jumped back, almost bumping into Dana behind her. Her hands flew immediately to twisting the ring. "I just came...it's breakfast time." She expected this behavior—from Shawn, Niall realized. Shame washed over him. He reached for her. She stepped back, shrugging his hand off her arm. "I wanted to tell you—I heard about a diorama of the Battle of the Pools. I thought you'd be interested."

"A di...a...a what?"

"A diorama. Like model trains."

"Muddle trains?" He imagined men training for war in the muddy carse.

"Only it's a battlefield," Dana clarified. "We thought, with your new interest…."

Niall wondered if he looked as confused as he felt.

"It's a model of the battle," Amy explained, "with all the horses and men in position. You can see everything exactly as it was, who was there, where they were positioned."

"Do you mean...." Niall paused, trying to imagine what she described. "I can see the battle? Like the re-enactment?" His heart sped up. Did these people have the means to watch the actual battle?

"No, not like that." She looked at him curiously. "This is just little figures." She held up a thumb and finger, an inch apart.

"Little...what did you call them? Like statues?"

"Yes! Little statues all set out in position, everything like it was." She sensed his disappointment, and quickly added, "They put a lot of research into it, every detail, which clans and knights were there, how many, where they were positioned. You wanted to know what went wrong. This might be helpful."

"Yes." Niall's hand drifted to the crucifix under his shirt. The monks always said sometimes prayers weren't answered because it wasn't God's timing; perhaps other things had to happen first. He had this incredible knowledge available to him, to see from this future, what the English would do. "Yes," he said, more strongly. "I'll go." Once again, his heart sped up. Would he see a small statue of Allene? Of Shawn?

"It's just down the road. I'll see you at breakfast," Amy said, and left, her back still stiff. Dana glanced back once, her face in its perpetual shadow of concern under her ruffled cinnamon hair.

Niall stared after them. Amy was upset about his outburst. It was Shawn's fault. If it hadn't been for Shawn, she'd never have seen him behave like that. He was a better man than Shawn! He threw a dirty look back at the crucifix, visible through the bedroom door. I've done everything else You've asked of me, he told the Man hanging there, but this is too much! I canna pray for that weasel!"

Central Scotland

Standing blind in the dark cellar, sounds and smells pushed in on Shawn, darting close like the tentative brush of a hollow-eyed street urchin's reach, and swirling away again. A faint rotting odor hung in the air. A tiny scratching in the corner, and a skittering sound, might be rats. He shuddered, and wrapped his arms around himself. Disbelief assailed him.
I'm Shawn Kleiner. I belong in a castle.
Instead he'd just let someone lock him in a cellar full of rats. He spun in the dark, seeking an exit. "Let me out!" he shouted.

Allene's hand fell on his arm. "Aer ye mad!" Panic flooded her whisper. "They'll kill ye!" Her fingers, resting on his arm, trembled. "Do ye no mind what they did to my brother? To yours?"

He turned to her in the dark. Her fear snaked around him with cold tentacles, jolting him with realization. She wasn't a reenactor. This wasn't a game. Why it hadn't been on the news, he didn't know, but these people he'd fallen in with truly feared for their lives. Someone was really hunting them, seeking to kill them.

From above came the quick swish, swish of Fergal sweeping straw back over the trap door. Her hand fell away, and he stood alone, his insides trembling. Musty odors worked their way deeper into his nose. Darkness pressed in on all sides. He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. "This is insane," he whispered. It couldn't be happening. His hand stung. The aches in his chest deepened.

"Shh!" came Allene's voice. "We mustn't alert the servant girl to our whereabouts. We doona ken if she'd betray us to the English. Be careful of the monk, now."

Shawn felt carefully behind himself, and found a bundle of burlap. He sank down on it, listening in the darkness for Allene's whereabouts. The cellar felt small and close. Her soft rustles filled it.

A groan rose in the dark, sending a chill down Shawn's spine. "Here now," came Allene's burr—so gentle when she wished, thought Shawn. A shame she didn't wish, with him. "Have a wee bit o' this." There came the soft, repetitive sounds of a man gulping. Shawn imagined his own head resting in Allene's lap, and rather envied the monk. He could use a little comfort himself. Fear prickled the hairs on his arms. There came another, softer moan, and then silence. "Rest, Niall," Allene whispered.

He didn't answer. The scratching started again in the far corner. He tucked his cloak tightly around himself, imagining a rat pushing its ugly nose up against his. But exhaustion gripped him. Tugging the hood around his face to keep the imagined rodents at bay, he curled his aching muscles up on the burlap sacks. They were hardly the hotel's four poster and silk sheets; but after the past two nights, they'd do.

He shoved a couple into position, and contented himself with images of Allene entwined in his arms and legs, maybe even saying something nice to him. Something kind and gentle. Something like Caroline might say. He twisted, trying to bunch a burlap bag into a pillow. It didn't help much. No, not like Caroline, he thought. She'd never really said anything nice to him. Not nice as in, really kind, like he mattered to her.

Allene's gentle voice brushed his ears, calming the injured man. A memory rustled, soft as a summer breeze, at the edges of his mind. He was drunk, horribly drunk. Amy wiped his forehead with a cool cloth. Amy held his head in her lap, even as Allene must be doing now for the monk, and stroked his cheek, and turned his head to the side, into a bowl, and wiped up when he vomited. Amy asked nothing of him, spoke soft, comforting words, her voice calming like Allene's. He didn't remember the rest, except that Amy had held some black cloud at bay.

He didn't want to think about it. The rat scratched in its corner. He forced his mind back to thoughts of Allene. But the images had lost their allure. He drifted off to sleep, Allene and Amy mixing in his dreams.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Breakfast was an improvement over the day's poor start. At the buffet, Niall noted a gray-haired woman's limp and insisted she sit down. "I'll bring your plate," he said. She looked at him in surprise. Indeed, several in the line around them gaped. "Last week, you told me I was too slow and pushed your way ahead of me," she said. "Your friends all laughed."

Niall’s mouth tightened. "I am truly sorry."

"Whatever happened in that castle has changed you," she said. It was not the shine on his pride it might have been, before Amy's disappointment in him, at the door of his suite. Still, it buoyed him. Other people could see he was not like that fool, Shawn.

He bowed slightly, not knowing what to say. He took her plate, silverware, and large mug of coffee to her table, and returned to the end of the line. It had grown considerably in those few minutes. The wait gave his natural optimism time to return. His apology to Amy had mollified her, although it had not entirely removed the sting from her eyes. But she would see, he vowed. She would see he wasn't like Shawn.

He thought of the comfortable bed in which he'd slept, the sunshine and flowers outside, with no fear of the English or MacDougalls to mar them, and the hearty meal bowing down the table before him. The duty demanded of him today was to practice the harp in preparation for tomorrow's rehearsal!

"What's that you're humming, Shawn?" asked the woman behind him.

He smiled, thinking how rarely he'd been shot with an arrow while playing harp. "Just an old song my mother sang to me," Niall answered. Weren't these people lucky! And after he practiced, he'd go see this model of the Pools and learn what he could.

* * *

Several hours later, after practicing on a harp whose touch was still unfamiliar, Niall walked along the river away from the city of stone buildings and spires, and found the place Amy had told him about. A group of young musicians played on the lawn; some with violins like Amy's and others with large lutes held between their knees.

Inside the museum, he found a cavernous room full of displays, with a glass case that seemed to stretch a furlong in either direction. It contained miniature rolling hills, swampy fields, and tiny figures of English and Scots. Tiny men thrust tiny spears. Horses keeled in pain in the mud. Little trees covered Gillies and Coxet Hills, where the town folk watched and waited. Stirling Castle, bristling with motionless snapping pennants, rose in the north, while Edward's enormous army streamed from the south, ablaze in reds, yellows, and blues, marking the houses of so many English nobles, and even some Scots. He recognized Comyns and MacDougalls among them, surging against Bruce's army. Bloody turncoats!

"Must you grit your teeth so, young man?" an elderly woman next to him said. Her mouth puckered with a hundred disapproving lines.

"My apologies." Niall forced himself to stop glaring at the little traitors. Music floated in from the front lawn. He circled the display, studying it from every angle, comparing it to the images imprinted on his brain from last night's study. Whoever built this display had all the men in the right positions. The horses were placed where the internet told him they had been. While it was fascinating—he could hardly take his eyes off it—to see it in three dimensions, it gave him no new information.

He studied Coxet Hill. If Allene had guided Shawn, and by some miracle reached Hugh, he would bring her along to Stirling and trust her to the care of the women on Coxet Hill. And where would Shawn be?

He stared at the tiny model, as if it could tell him something about such minor players. A man who gambled away his livelihood and stole his girlfriend's ring would most likely skite off. He'd probably find the nearest inn and be drinking himself into a stupor while other men fought and died. Niall had a strong desire to spit, thinking of Shawn.