Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (51 page)

"You were incredible," she whispered. "When we get to Stirling...." Her eyes shone. Niall knew what she was promising. Blood raced through every inch of him. His breathing came fast. Life was good here. He'd be going back to bloodshed and death, too late to save anyone.

A girl edged through the crowd, waving. Red hair tumbled down her back, like Allene's. He shook his head sharply. What was he thinking! He had to get out of here fast, before the drug of adulation changed his mind. He had to at least try. He strained for a last glimpse of the blue and white decked stage through the open door. He wanted to imprint this euphoric moment on his soul, forever.

"Let's go." He spoke harshly to Amy. He didn't want to go.

"I'll get your things," she said. "Meet me at the stage door." She disappeared. Crowds swarmed him, blocking his way. He gritted his teeth at the handshakes and back slaps, but smiled graciously; said thank you, a pleasure, wonderful to meet you.

The redhead sidled up to him. "Is there another party?" she purred. He shook his head, trying to pull his hand away.

She held tight, all smiles, and batting eyelashes, leaning her body against his. "Join me at the Blue Bell anyway."

"I have plans, thank you." Niall tried to dislodge his hand from her velvet grip.

"Me, too." She ran a finger down his chest, where the shirt gaped. He jumped, smiled awkwardly, and yanked his hand away, turning and bumping into Amy. "Are you ready?" he asked. The smiles-for-strangers dropped from his voice.

"But we had so much fun last time," the redhead pouted.

"Ready," Amy said. "I got it." They moved as quickly as they could, edging through the narrow, crowded, hallway, Niall clutching her hand behind him. They reached the stage door, greeting several more people with plastered-on smiles, and pushed out into the cool summer afternoon, onto a narrow, metal walk hemmed on three sides by the theater's stone walls.

Niall glanced behind, sealing in a last memory of the laughing musicians, before the stage door slammed.

Then Amy screamed, yanking his hand.

He spun. A huge man with a bristling red beard stood at the bottom of the short flight of stairs directly across from the stage door, blocking their exit. Another man stood beside him, arms across his burly chest. They were Niall's height. Each outweighed him by a stone. Niall was sure they did not want to shake his hand. His whole body, maybe.

He edged Amy behind him, shielding her.

"Looky, looky," drawled the man with the beard. He planted a foot on the first stair. "What have we here? Remember me? Jimmy from the pub." He leapt up the last two steps and bunched Niall's tunic in his hand. "Someone passed me some funny money, mate. Who might that ha' been?"

Niall's heart skipped a beat. He didn't have time for this! There was a train to catch. The linen shirt scraped his chest. Amy's breath came in fast, shallow bursts. He squeezed her hand, behind his back.

"Let go, and we'll talk," he said to Jimmy.

Below, the friend climbed two steps, gripping the rails. Jimmy pushed his ale-tinged breath in Niall's face. "I let you talk once, an' you cheated me."

"What did you do, Shawn!" Amy hissed. "How could you!"

He gave a sharp motion of his hand, waving her away. To the men, he said, "Meet us at the hotel. I'll give you your money."

"Not this time," growled Jimmy. "This time, I beat the stuffin' outta ye." He dropped Niall's shirt, and swung. The friend jack-knifed up the stairs, and they both descended, swinging. Niall's arms flew, blocking one and then another.

Amy screamed. "Go!" he shouted at her. "Get out!" He turned to see her scramble safely down the stairs, and a fist slammed into his temple. He staggered. Bells pealed in his head. He caught the rough stone wall and shoved himself upright. A flurry of fists came at him, driven more by anger than intelligence. He weaved, dodged, and blocked their mindless flailing.

"It wasn't me," he yelled. "Stop!"

"'Twas you gave me the money!" Jimmy shouted. He aimed a ham-sized fist at Niall's gut. Niall's stomach sucked in, under the impact. He spit blood, coughing.

"Stop," he shouted. "I don't want to hurt you."

"'I don't...want to...hurt you,'" mimicked the friend, gasping for breath. "You're the one...gettin'...gettin' hurt, mate."

"Last chance." Niall sidestepped a vicious swipe from Jimmy. The rough stone wall pressed into his back.

"Last chance, my hairy arse," jeered Jimmy. He stepped back, lowered his bullish head and charged.

Niall almost laughed. Without horns, this was easy. He danced to the side, locked Jimmy around the neck, doubling over as he did, and yanked the dirk from his boot. He came up sharp, flinging Jimmy back against the rail. A wicked gleam shone in his eye. Sunlight flashed off his blade. Amy screamed, a short, sharp sound. She cringed against a brick wall, down in the parking lot, her hands over her mouth. Niall's eyes cut back to Jimmy and his friend.

"Foul!" cried the friend, scrambling backwards. The metal walkway clanged under his frantic motion. "Jimmy, 'e's got a knife!" Jimmy's fists shot up, but he jerked back, heaving for air.

"Foul," rasped Niall. "Two against one, ye cowards." Jimmy's fists wind-milled. He stepped in. The knife flashed. Jimmy yanked away, his face red, breathing hard. "Are ye goin' to listen now?" Niall growled. Jimmy lunged. Niall rammed the hilt hard on his thigh. Jimmy bellowed and collapsed, rattling the metal walk as he fell, clutching his leg. His friend crouched, ready to spring.

Niall spun the knife between nimble fingers, his eyes boring holes in the man. "Next time, it's the blade," he whispered. He eyed Jimmy, sniveling and clutching his leg. "'Tis sorry for yer troubles I am, but I'm not Shawn."

"You take me fer a fool!" Jimmy shouted. His face deepened several shades of red, till it matched his beard.

"I take you for a man who was wronged," Niall said. "Could I make up what Shawn did, I would. But now your friend's goin' to let me pass, aye?"

"I want me money!" Jimmy bellowed. His face flamed with rage.

"You have the wrong man," Niall said. He inched toward the stairs, his left hand raised as a shield, his right hand wielding the weapon. The friend backed up a step, but made no sign of letting him through. "Do you move, or do I hurt you?" Niall murmured.

The friend glanced at Jimmy, then stepped aside. Niall watched warily as he squeezed between him and the iron rail, brushing the other man's garments. He spun quickly, backing down the stairs toward Amy and freedom. She screamed again as the man leapt down two steps.

"Get him!" Jimmy screamed. "Get the limey bastard!"

The friend hesitated, eyeing the knife. Niall eyed the friend. He grabbed Amy's hand, backing away.

"Get him!" Jimmy bellowed.

"'E's got a knife!"

"Get him!"

Jimmy's friend spurted forward. Niall's knife flashed; the man fell back, screaming, blood streaming down his arm.

"I gave ye fair warnin'," Niall said. He turned and, pulling Amy's hand, ran.

* * *

They raced around the Bishop's palace, past the cathedral's soaring spire, and north, their feet pounding the footpath, away from the theater's steel and glass. The silver ribbon of the River Ness wound along on their right. Inverness Castle rose ahead, a solid dominion of red stone across the river. Amy struggled to keep up, lifting her long black skirt as she ran. "The bridge is ahead," she shouted at his back. She could see it, flat across the top and supported by concrete arches. She hadn't run since her required mile in high school gym. But fear of Jimmy and his friend spurred her on. Maybe Jimmy would find himself a knife.

"The bridge? This one?" he yelled.

She nodded, remembered he couldn't see her, running behind him, and choked out, "Yes! Go!" They skidded past a girl who gaped at his tunic and trews, onto the pedestrian path over the bridge. A boy in a black kilt and jet black Mohawk jumped aside. The river shimmered below. A stitch bit into her side. She didn't want to feel a knife in her back.

"Come on, come on!" Shawn shouted. Only, she realized, with a start, she didn't see Shawn. She saw a man named Niall. She shook the thought aside. Her lungs burned. Her legs slowed, a nightmare dream where she couldn't run, where people swirled around them, slowing her even more.

"Hurry!" he barked. He spun to face her, stooped to push the knife into the top of his right boot, and as she reached him, grabbed her hand, pulling. "Did you no say 'tis but a mile?"

"Yeah, a mile," she gasped. "I can't!" But she made it halfway across the bridge before even fear couldn't push her another step.

"We must get the train."

"We won't...." She stopped cold, leaning with one hand on her black-skirted knee, the other gripping her side, in the billows of her concert black blouse. "We won't make...the train...if...." She took a deep breath. "If I die." She stared at the concrete. Cars rushed past on her left. Afternoon crowds surged around them. Water drifted below,
slap, slap, slapping
softly against the pylons. She fought the cold burn racing up her lungs. "He's going..." Where did Shawn come by such stamina! "...to kill us! Where did you learn...to fight...like that?"

The man in front of her—Niall, Shawn, she saw them both—danced in place. "He'll no be roonin' on tha' leg. Are you aw' right?"

Amy lifted her head to gape. "All right?" She tried to slow her breathing. "I can't...guess what is going on...around me." A woman with a stroller pushed past them, staring hard at his tunic and boots, and at Amy all in black.

He tugged her hand. "We must go!"

"You're not even breathing hard," she said. "How are you in good enough shape...?"

"On the train," he said.

"Promise!" She clutched her side with her free hand.

"Hey!" Their heads jolted up. Across the bridge, Jimmy's friend shouted. He began a stilted jog, clutching his arm, and yelling, "Cops! 'E stabbed me!" People turned, searching the crowd for a knife-wielding villain.

"Come on, come on, come on," he yelled, dancing in agitation.

She drew in air, and shoved herself upright. "I can do this," she gasped. They jogged across the bridge, through the shops of High Street, darting in and out among the crowd. The man's shouts faded behind them. Ahead, something screeched.

"It's the train," she shouted. "It's leaving!"

"Did ye no say there air many?" he demanded.

"But only one to Stirling." She stopped, staring hard at him. "You're speaking with a Scottish accent again."

Central Scotland, 1314

Hugh stood well over six feet, two hundred and fifty pounds, with a broad smile, hearty laugh, and weapons not to be messed with. "Niall Campbell!" he bellowed when the travelers pushed through the last of the maze of thickets and hidden paths. It was a wonder, thought Shawn, that he could remain hidden, if he routinely put out that kind of volume. The volume, however, paled in comparison to the bear hug with which he nearly crushed the life out of Shawn. He shook Brother David's hand with a modicum of restraint and lifted Allene clear off her feet, swinging her around. "How's tha' brother o' mine?" he demanded.

A fire blazed in the clearing, roasting wild turnips. Hugh dragged them to the center of the camp, dominated by a gleaming white wall of rock shooting twelve feet into the sky. "You remember the Heart of our camp," Hugh said, patting the rock fondly. Shawn stepped back and saw that the rock held roughly the shape of a giant valentine. A man in a ragged tartan scrubbed it with a pinecone. "Found Adam napping in the woods on watch," Hugh told Allene.

Men closed in around them, ragged men, men with scars, men of joy. They greeted the wolf meat with enthusiasm Shawn had last seen in his young groupies. They shouted and laughed, and whisked it onto the fire. Shawn's stomach rumbled, anticipating the meal with gusto he'd once reserved for fine restaurants and women. He soon found himself enjoying the company of these men with deeper satisfaction than he'd ever enjoyed his drunken soirees, while Allene gave Hugh a brief account of their trip. He sat back against a tree in the cool evening, listening to their Scottish lilt. It no longer sounded foreign to him.

"Ha' ye a song, Niall!" called Hugh. "I see ye've brought yer clairsach!"

"He traveled as a minstrel till recently," Allene said.

"Clever, though the traitor will note 'tis missin.'"

Shawn looked to Allene.

"Ye sadly underestimate yer brother," she told Hugh. "He built its match months ago, staying up nights when all slept. 'Tis hanging even now on its peg so none will miss it."

"Much good it did," Shawn said. "They figured it out."

"Aye," said Allene, "but it took that much longer. It may well ha' saved our lives in the village. Not to mention, ye never told me...."

Shawn frowned, giving his head a sharp shake. These men loved Niall. They were large and carried heavy weapons. He didn't care to have their suspicions roused with her story of the sackbut. He meant them no harm, but they had no way of knowing that, should they discover he was an imposter.

Hugh roared with laughter at his brother's forethought. "He always was a clever one. The Sassenach will no find ye wi' him lookin' out for ye, laddie! He'll die himself ere he'll let hairm come to ye. Sing for us!"

The men settled around the fire. While the meat sizzled, Shawn began his stand-by. Brother David harmonized, and the men joined in heartily.

He's gone with streaming banners

Where noble deeds are done,

And it's oh in my heart,

I wish him safely home.

He thought of Amy. Self-pity brushed his heart. He lapsed into silence, while the men sang to his harp. She'd sing no such thing for him. She might throw her own party at the Blue Bell, if she realized he was gone. Peter would go, and Jim, and Aaron. He could hardly blame them. He'd had great fun, at Aaron's expense, played cruel pranks on Jim, and treated Peter with the same disregard as he had Fergal. He would have sunk into moroseness, reflecting on it, but they called for more. Niall, he thought, would be cheerful. He smiled and began a tune he'd played in the last concert. "
Where ha' ye been so fine, lad? Where ha' ye been so brankie-o?
"