Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (46 page)

"God, place your angels beside Shawn," he said. "Be with my Allene." His shoulders sagged. He felt less sure of his choices than before he'd entered the garden.

Central Scotland, 1314

With cries of
Niall Campbell!
ringing in his ears, and the scarred soldier gripping his arm, the cold wash of fear turned to ice in Shawn's stomach. It brought with it cool logic.
Niall would fight or run.
So I can't do either.
Shouts and cries rang out. The acrobats tumbled to the ground and somersaulted away. The boy dragged his braying, protesting ponies off as quickly as they'd move. Yelps sounded through the crowd as children and dogs were shoved aside. A phalanx of soldiers in white tunics and round, metal helmets surrounded Shawn.

He pushed away the terror, and pulled his natural arrogance back to himself. A cow lowed. His mind flashed to milk, and he let out a laugh, such as he'd let out at his parties. "I don't know any Niall Campbell. My name is Carton." A name jumped to mind. He ran with it. "Sydney Carton." Must be someone he'd known in school.

The captain of the guard stepped forward, chest to chest with Shawn. Shawn pictured Conrad, and stared back with the indolent smile that always got him off the hook with the conductor. The captain hesitated. He turned to the soldier. "You saw him, I didn't. What makes you so sure this is Niall Campbell?"

"He looks just like the minstrel, sir."

Shawn didn't part with his grin. He vowed they would not hear the thudding of his heart. "I look like who? Who do I look like now? Someone really ridiculously good-looking, I hope?" He turned his two-hundred watt, village-idiot smile back and forth between the two like a giant friendly dog. He let out another boisterous laugh, throwing his head back, and hee-hawing. They'd think he was too stupid to be Niall Campbell. Right now, he assured his inner Dr. Phil, that worked for him.

The captain looked doubtfully at the soldier. "If it were him, don't you think he'd be running instead of laughing like an idiot? And wasn't Campbell wearing red and blue?"

"Sir, it's him," the man protested.

"It's hard to tell one man from another when you're drunk," the captain said. He studied Shawn, up and down, from his pointy green hat past his olive leggings to his leather boots. "I hear Niall Campbell is a deeply religious man." He snapped his fingers high in the air, his eyes locked on Shawn's. A soldier appeared beside him, pulling a crucifix from his neck. "Put your hand on it. Swear you're not Niall Campbell."

Shawn laughed again. Thank God Niall wasn't here. He, Shawn, had no qualms about swearing on a crucifix. Especially in the rare instance he was actually telling the truth. He placed his hand on it; indeed, held it high, turning and playing to the gathering crowd, to dirt-streaked boys and fresh-faced girls and old men, and said, "I swear before God and all the angels and saints,"—that phrase rang nicely in his ears—"that I am not now, nor never have been, Niall Campbell." He lowered the crucifix, and cocked an eyebrow at the captain. "My name...is Sydney Carton."

The crowd clapped. He wiggled his eyebrows at the ladies, making several of them blush, and bowed deeply. They clapped again.

"I wasn't drunk," the soldier insisted. "I watched him for ten minutes. He sang, he and the other one."

Shawn looked around. "I'm the only one here." He turned to the crowd for approval. His own conviction that he'd said something unerringly clever washed over them. They laughed. He played it up. "Don't see any more of me, 'cept for those times I'm beside myself." The crowd, chuckling, inched closer, losing its fear of the soldiers. The guard's ears turned red. "He played the harp, sir."

Shawn held out empty hands, pretending to play. "Always sounds good with a skin of ale in me, too."

The crowd roared. A man slapped his knee. Shawn grinned. The soldier glared. The captain looked back and forth between the two. "Hold him," he snapped, and stepped through the crowd.

Shawn's heart began its snare drum tattoo. Streaks of panic shot up and down his arm where the soldier gripped him. He'd thought he'd done it. He breathed deeply, as he did before a concert, calming himself.

"No hard feelings," he said. The soldier scowled. Judging by the man's vice grip on his arm, the feelings were hard indeed. Shawn forced a shrug more careless than he felt, and rose on his toes, scanning the crowd—old women in kerchiefs, girls in braids, boys with wooden swords, all staring at him—and willing his heart to slow. He spotted the captain consulting with a hooded man. His gut told him this was bad—very bad. His insides turned watery, but his brain churned. The sound of a flute, from the small ensemble playing at the other end of town, drifted to him.

He waved his free arm suddenly at the captain. "I've never touched a harp," he shouted. "I play the sackbut. Can Niall Campbell play sackbut?" He didn't know what made him do it.

The captain and the hooded man stared. His heart slammed roughly in his chest. The faceless figure nodded. The captain charged, shoving villagers aside. He grabbed Shawn's arm, yanking him from the soldier's grip. "We're calling your bluff, Campbell. Tell the truth now and die quickly; play with me and die like William Wallace." He dragged Shawn through the crowd, now scrambling out of the way, to the far end of town, where a small orchestra performed.

"Stop playing!" he shouted. The men lowered their instruments, looking fearfully at each other. "Last chance," the captain barked at Shawn, yanking him nose to nose. Foul breath singed Shawn's nostrils. "You do know how William Wallace died, don't you?"

"I do, sir," said Shawn. Anger wrestled with fear, giving his voice strength. "And when you see I speak the truth, I'll not die at all. I have your word?"

The captain, unnerved by Shawn's confidence, turned to the hooded figure, behind the musicians. He nodded. "You have my word." He scanned the musicians, and pointed. "That thing?" Shawn nodded. The captain snapped his fingers at a gangly man. He came forward, trembling.

Shawn bowed to him; then accepted the sackbut, the feel of it strange in its lightness, yet familiar and beloved. He ran a hand down the smooth brass slide, and over the slight flare of the bell.

"Play!" shouted the hooded figure. His hatred streaked over the orchestra like sheet lightning, crackling around Shawn.

Shawn blew one long, golden tone, settling his nerves. His gaze drifted over the orchestra, to the hooded man who wanted Niall dead.

"Anyone can do that," the captain snapped. "Play, or you're dead."

Shawn scanned the crowd. He spotted Allene far back, pale as an albino rose and straining against Brother David's arm. He turned from her, winking as he did. He started a scale, getting a feel for the instrument. He played some lip slurs, jumping octaves faster and faster, as a boy skips stones in a river.

"Anyone can do that!" the captain roared.

"Want to try?" Shawn offered the instrument. An easy smile curved his lips.

The captain glared. His eyes narrowed. His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Play a song,
Sydney
. I'll cut your bowels out myself for playing me for a fool."

Their eyes locked. Shawn read bloodlust. Once more, his heart took up its pounding. This man did not want to be convinced. A moment of doubt assailed Shawn. But he swallowed hard and stepped boldly into his fate, as he always had.

He raised the instrument, paused for effect, meeting the eyes of several in the crowd: the dark-haired woman with child; the apron-clad apprentice. He let out a single note, tripped a half note up and back down, and slid an octave higher. He dropped in a couple of effortless grace notes, and drifted into the sweetly poignant melody of
Czardas.

A gypsy women near him swayed, her long black hair, like Amy's, swinging, her skirts swirling around her ankles. A couple of sixteenth notes floated from the bell, and she twirled. People stepped back, giving her space. He slid into a lively melody, the slide flying, notes tumbling out in revelry. The woman threw her head back, laughing; spun, twirled, raising her arms over her head, her feet skipping to his sparkling music.

He smiled behind the mouthpiece; his eyes danced with hers, then skimmed out over the crowd. He found Allene, leaning against Brother David. The gypsy's skirts spun in a magnificent circle, flashing layer after layer of kaleidoscope petticoats. Young girls swayed to the music. His arm flashed in and out, his tongue clicked out the
tu-ku tu-ku tu's
needed for notes this fast. He leaned toward the gypsy, their eyes met, and they circled one another, the sackbut singing, the slide flying, her feet dancing, gold earrings flashing sunlight. Shawn skipped and danced as he played, the notes skimming out in joyous revelry.

Villagers gaped. The sackbut player gaped more. Shawn slid back into the poignant melody, and the gypsy laughed again, showing white teeth and joy in life, and slowed back into the swaying, matching his music beat for beat; a bright crimson kerchief floated from her hands.

The last note drifted from the bell, shimmering in the summer air. Shawn lowered the instrument, beaming, bowing. The crowd cheered and clapped. They shouted. A girl threw blossoms, whites and blues and pinks showering his feet. He blew her a kiss. He grinned from ear to ear. He turned to the captain.

The man's face glowed crimson.

The words
Can anyone do that?
froze on Shawn's lips.

For once, he recognized a man humiliated, and had a diplomatic urge. He threw his arm around the man's shoulders, ignoring his tension, and the hand clenched on his sword. "Thank my friend!" he bellowed. The crowd cheered. "This man insisted I play. He procured this fine instrument. A drink! Who will buy a drink for my friend?" The innkeeper bustled off for a flagon of ale. The captain's hand slipped off his sword; his muscles relaxed. Shawn pressed his advantage. "Not only is he a military man of the highest caliber, he has a fine ear for music. He is the best of men!"

He doffed his cap to the captain, who now glowed red with pleasure under the crowd's admiration. He'd no doubt never experienced such adulation before. Shawn knew too well what a powerful drug it was. He offered his hand to the captain, who removed his heavy glove to shake. "I'm most sorry I didn't realize how serious the situation was." Shawn leaned in confidentially. "It must be a real villain you seek."

"Aye, the worst of men," the captain confided. "A traitor raising men against England."

Shawn put a look of disgust on his face, spitting to reinforce the opinion. "Praise be to God above we've men like you to guard us! To Edward," he said. "To the king. Is there aught I can do to help?"

The captain slapped him on the back. "Fine men like you almost redeem this dread country. Get yourself to Stirling for the battle."

"That I will," Shawn agreed. If I can't find a way out of it, he added to himself.

"I shall see the king rewards your loyalty. What's your name again?"

Shawn panicked. Little John? He remembered the captain spitting it out. "Sydney." He searched desperately for the last name, and remembered the cow. "Sydney Carton."

"Ah, yes, that was it. Keep playing."

Certainly Niall couldn't do any such thing on a sackbut, but Shawn raised the instrument and started the Davison
Sonata
. At least it was a pleasure to play, and work an audience again.

* * *

"My lord," said the captain. He and the hooded Scot stood under a tree, watching the man playing sackbut. Soldiers ringed the crowd. "Would Niall Campbell swear a falsehood on a crucifix?"

"He'd have run. Or more likely, fought. He may have lied at first, but faced with a crucifix, he'd have gone pale and sought an excuse."

"He does not speak like a Highlander."

The Scot scowled. The summer breeze rippled the edge of his cowl. "Niall was ever a clever mimic. He speaks as he pleases."

"He is not wearing what Campbell wore in the forest. And the sackbut. Can he do such a thing?"

"Impossible," murmured the Scot. "Niall is clever, but not so clever as to have fooled me all these years. He'd no reason to." His jaw clenched. "But he looks exactly like Niall."

They watched the man playing the sackbut, with precision and ease that spoke of years of practice. The captain gestured at him. "My lord, I ask again, can Niall Campbell do that?"

"No," admitted the Scot. "He canna do that."

"Then it is merely a man who looks like him. Is that so strange, with your clans being so close and marrying one another?"

"Still…." The Scot issued instructions, and stalked away.

Ten minutes later, the musician had regained his sackbut, staring at it in wonder. Shawn waited in the tavern's upper room that struggled to pull sunlight through one small window. "Take off your shirt," the captain said.

Shawn kept his wisecracks to himself. But wary relief crept in. They were looking for Niall's scarred back. Still, if
Czardas
had not convinced them, would his unblemished back? He pulled off the tunic and shirt, waiting with growing distaste in his mouth, and considering whether he could take on the two of them. He looked out the small window, across the field. Allene watched the tavern from behind a tree. He hoped she wouldn't give them away, try some ridiculous diversion or something.

The man in the cloak circled him, a faceless grim reaper. He pushed Shawn's hair off his temple. Shawn stood still, disliking the man more with each invasion. The man dropped the hair back in place and pulled the captain across the room. Shawn's heartbeat slowed gradually to something like normal.

The captain returned swiftly. "My lord offers his apologies, and bids you well." He held out a small leather bag. Shawn took it, surprised at its weight. "Our apology, Sydney," the captain explained. "Godspeed."

The realization dawned slowly: he would see the sun sink in the west tonight. With the end of danger, the trembling began. Hatred burned like bile in his stomach. He steeled himself, turning to the hooded figure. The man had withdrawn into a shadowed corner, a swath of brown wool, nothing to identify him. He'd said not a word.