Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (59 page)

Horses whinnied. Men in tunics and bushy beards, quilted gambesons and a variety of plaids, moved among the camps, hailing one another, trading jests and news, hefting pikes and comparing swords. The clash of steel on steel rang across the grounds as men tested each other's strength and trained in the final hours before battle.

Like a giant family reunion, Shawn thought, except these men were marching, not to a chicken dinner, but to their deaths. He'd heard enough of England's might. They didn't stand a chance. And he'd had a long walk to search his memory; he thought he remembered The Pools now, and felt sick. The word slaughter took on a pungent odor when it jumped off the pages of history, into his own life.

The scents of cooking and meat and turnips and horses and leather and sweat and heather and bluebells hung on the summer air, thick with anticipation. Amy filled his thoughts—how he'd failed her, the message he'd left. It was crazy, he realized, to think she would happen across that rock in their own time. Stark, sheer raving mad insanity, he berated himself. There was no reason she'd ever go into such wilderness. And his scratches would weather and fade over the centuries. Yet, he felt at peace. Niall was with her, and somehow, Niall would make it okay.

He moved to the edge of the forest that sheltered the Scottish troops. He looked east, over the field. Men in tunics and trews and rounded helmets worked the boggy carse. Evening mist rose around their ankles, making them float, ghost-like, over the ground.

"What are they doing?" he asked Brother David.

"This is where the Sassenach must come through. Bruce has chosen our ground well. See there, and there." He pointed to a hill on their right and a bog on the left. "They've only this narrow spit of firm ground to bring their great army through a bit at a time." He pointed to the men in the field the English must cross. "They've dug holes and filled them with spikes and covered them over. Now they're dropping caltrops on the ground, between the traps."

"Caltrops?" Shawn didn't remember the word from his re-enactment days.

Allene spoke. "They've sharp spikes that stick up, no matter which way they're dropped."

"Like a giant game of jacks," Shawn murmured.

"They'll pierce the horses' feet," Allene said. "The cavalry is the deadliest part of Edward's army. This will stop many of them."

"Hard on the horses," commented Shawn.

"Hard on our men, should the horses reach us," returned Brother David. He hefted the sword Hugh had given him. "Hard on the Scottish people and our country."

The evening mist rose higher, dancing over the field. Shawn startled at the sudden appearance of men in jeans among the tunics and trews. A bobby's helmet bobbed among the bassinets. He blinked, and they were gone. A trick of the evening light. A trick of a worn and exhausted mind, pent up with nervousness and anticipation over a coming battle he was in no way qualified to be fighting.

"Shawn!"

He spun. Beside him, Allene jumped, staring at him in concern.

He searched the faces, his eyes hard. He gripped his sword hilt.

Apart from Allene, no one paid him any heed.

No one had called his name.

* * *

Sunset found Niall atop a ridge, looking north across fields and hills, to Stirling Castle. Even from this distance, it inspired awe on its towering rock. It was good to see it standing strong, still.

The smell of campfires reached out beckoning hands. In Amy's time, he'd seen only electric lights. He ran, cantering and sliding down the hill. His faith, his hope, his persistence had been rewarded!

Sheep ambled out of his way, as he raced toward his own people, huddled even now around their campfires, toward Allene! The aroma of wood smoke grew heavier. Skirting another stand of trees, he splashed through a stream. His heart picked up speed. It had to be the Bannock Burn, on the southern edge of the battlefield. He bolted across a dirt road, the ground hard-packed under his leather-clad feet, and pushed through a hedgerow. A sharp escarpment rose before him. Trees sprang from its crown.

A string of campfires glowed at the top. They flickered far back into the woods. He could smell turnips cooking. Hope erupted! He scrambled up the hill, into a swarm of men and tents.

His heart thudded with excitement. He'd walked right back in time without feeling a thing! "Just like Aaron's stories," he breathed. Two bulky men in gambesons and trews slammed weapons against one another in practice. Sweat streamed down ruddy faces. Horses whinnied. He reached for his crucifix to thank God, touching bare throat. "Thank you," he whispered, all the same.

And out loud, he shouted, "Shawn!" He pushed through the crowd, shouting Shawn's name. But would he find him, or had Shawn simultaneously disappeared back into his own time? Was he, even now, wandering an empty field on midsummer's eve in the twenty-first century? He reached the first campfire, breathing a little harder. "Where is Hugh Campbell?" he demanded in Gaelic. And Lord Darnley, he added silently to himself. He must stop Darnley's treachery.

"Hold on there, pardner," the man in the gambeson answered. "Where's the fire? What are you sayin'?"

Niall stared.

These were not Highlanders. They were not even Scotsmen.

They spoke the same peculiar English as the orchestral musicians. His eyes opened wide with understanding. These were reenactors.

The full weight of the word settled on him.

From their rounded metal helmets past their tunics and plaids, to their leather boots laced to their knees, they were, every inch, medieval Scotsmen. He drew a breath, trying to settle his nerves, and asked, in English, "Where's Clan MacDonald?" Jim had raved about their accuracy. Perhaps there would be a unit where Hugh and the Laird had been in 1314. The man pointed. There, under a tree. A man sat, his back against the rough bark. Fiery shadows flickered over his harp.

Niall moved to the group, studying their faces. There was no Hugh, no Laird, no Owen or Angus or Adam or anyone he knew. He dropped to the ground against a tree, defeated, while the man continued playing the small harp. Niall had played the same song for the concert, though it sounded different under this man's touch.

The music washed over him. Scotland the Brave. But bravery wasn't everything. He had the knowledge which could turn the tide for those brave men, and he was trapped here, on the wrong side of an uncontrollable causeway between times. He leaned his head against the tree, staring up into leaves blackened with the dying of the sun. So many brave men had gone before him, fought and died; so many would march to their deaths on the morrow. And he couldn't use what he knew to save them. He'd done everything in his power and failed. He was out of ideas. There was nothing left even to try, despite all his prayers.

God had abandoned him.

The harp played, men sang, and he sank, bit by bit, into the gray, grizzled arms of the same Hopelessness that had met him, standing beside the messengers, when they'd told MacDonald of his son's death, when his mother wept for his brothers and father, when Gilbert lay ill.

Those times were tapestries woven from the same skeins. Messengers, women keening, pipes skirling. And the thing that kept a small flame burning through the dark nights of grief: each time, he'd comforted his people, and himself, with music.

The man finished playing.

Niall sat up, leaned forward. "May I?" he asked.

It was all that was left.

* * *

As the sharp fingers of the western hills pulled down the last coral streaks of sun, campfires began to glow, up and down the length of the ridge.

Shawn and Allene stood on the isolated fringe of the camp on Coxet Hill. Activity buzzed like night insects behind them, old toothless women and butchers and coopers, children, town folk of every variety, girls cooking on their campfires, mothers settling children for the night. "There must be hundreds," he said in amazement.

"A thousand or more." Allene turned, dismissing them. "They'll watch the battle from here."

"It's getting late," Shawn said. It was a poor substitute for all he needed to say.

"Yes, I must be off with the women." But she lingered, holding Shawn's hand. Together, they stared at the eastern sky, a rich, velvety blue. Now was the time to tell her. But she'd never believe him. Finally, he squeezed her shoulder and turned to face her. She reached up and kissed his cheek. His pulse pounded; he thought of Amy and his journey with Allene, and touched the side of her face.

"I'm sorry for everything," he said.

"'Twas not you, Niall," she answered. "I have always loved you, and I love you still. God be with you on the morrow." She threw her arms, suddenly, around him, and kissed him full on the mouth.

His eyes opened wide. His pulse raced, and every nerve stood on exuberant end. Caroline and Celine and Amy and every other woman swirled in his mind, and he wanted them all! He leaned in, kissed her back, but...he'd left a message for Amy. He'd meant it. He pushed Allene gently away, his face flushed, and his breath still coming deeply. He shook his head, said, "Whew!" and laughed in pleasure, surprise, and shock; not the least was his shock at himself for stopping her.

Her face fell.

"I know it's a surprise," he said. "You have no idea! We have things to talk about when this is over." He pushed away thoughts of how it might end. He'd deal with that when it happened. He pulled her close, held her tightly, his hand pressed in her hair, and said, "I'll do everything I can for you. And you'll pray and do what you can for the women there. And in case any Sassenach get through, you'll have shown them a few tricks with their knives, right?" He pushed a tendril of auburn hair from her face.

She laughed; then her lip trembled. She clung to him, shaking. "'Tis not funny, Niall!" He held her tight. He swallowed hard, wondering whether he'd die slowly or quickly.

He looked over the small band of Scots. The English would outnumber them severely. If only he could fool the entire English army the way he fooled so many others when it suited his purpose.

An idea sprang on him, crouched on his shoulder, whispered in his ear. It was ridiculous! But it touched the edges of his mind, pulled at him relentlessly, till he looked at it more closely. It would be in the midst of battle. How clearly did men think in the heat and dust and confusion?

It might work.

"Allene," he said abruptly. "You need to do something." He told her, his voice rising in excitement.

"'Tis crazy," Allene said. "You were ever over-confident."

He smiled. Maybe he and Niall weren't so different after all. "Would there be anything to lose at that point?"

"No," she admitted.

"Then do it. If anyone can convince them, you can."

As the eastern sky folded over them, chasing the last resisting streaks of sunset into the west, he pushed her away, and turned her, with a kiss on top of her head, toward Coxet Hill.

* * *

The man handed him the harp, a small one, like Niall's own. Niall touched the strings, and let the comfort flow into the night. He pushed lyrics over the swell in his throat. Something in the air echoed the music back strangely to him, creating harmonies not of his own making. He sang till the grizzled arms of despair loosened their grip; till an ember of hope reignited. He sang to those who could appreciate the authenticity of his music and his accent, and questioned him endlessly on his sources.

"An' do any of you know a Shawn?" Niall finally asked them, when he'd tired of their questions. "Shawn Kleiner? I must find him."

One of the men looked harder, and said, "Aren't you...?"

"No," Niall said. "But I expect him here."

Shawn's name was repeated around the campfire, and spread to the nearby camps, up and down the ridge:
Shawn, shawn, shawn,
like a whispered breeze ruffling the trees. But no one had seen Shawn.

Finally, Niall wrapped himself in his tartan, and fell asleep, hoping to wake to Hugh's men.

* * *

Shawn and Brother David threaded among fires, tents, and banners. Shawn's thoughts and emotions churned. He didn't want to think about any of them, especially the big one: could he change history? Because he didn't like the ending he thought he remembered.

From under a tree, Hugh's men beckoned. "Niall, Brother David, sing for us!" A cheer went up. Shawn grinned, pulled down the harp, and they sang and played one last time for the men. There were now hundreds more, all attached in some way to the men of Hugh's camp, and they still poured in, from north and west. The music echoed here, in a way it hadn't back in the hills, as if someone sang, just out of sync, with them. He wondered if someone was playing for another clan farther along. The men seemed not to notice. But then, thought Shawn, they weren't musicians.

As he played, a man rode a pony up and down the ridge. The rider stopped and raised his hand to Hugh, who, with all his men, rose, dropped to one knee and lowered his head.

A hush fell over the camp. Shawn saw the thin ring of gold circling the man's head, around fiery auburn hair. His fingers slowed and stilled on the strings.

"'Tis the man who will save Scotland," whispered Brother David. A cold chill crawled down Shawn's spine. He knew this man's future. He, too, fell to his knee. He lifted his gaze to meet the king's. He saw a face with fifteen years of age over his own, and a hundred years of wisdom, gleaned from hard living and the care of a battered nation.

But it was the eyes that jumped out at Shawn. He knew them. They were the eyes of his kindred spirit: the twelve year old Shawn, when he was told
You can't
. They were eyes that laughed in the face of the word impossible and announced, firmly, "I will."

Everything in Shawn reeled against the thought of how this man with the straight spine and fiery eyes would die tomorrow. He breathed a silent prayer,
They say You can do anything. Will You save him? Will You save us?

"I hear something in your music," Robert said. His voice was deep and sure. Shawn looked all around the men, but it was he to whom Bruce spoke. "It is music that sees the future. Play for me."