Authors: Julianne Lee
Tags: #Kidnapping, #Science Fiction, #Fantasy fiction, #Married people, #Scotland, #General, #Fantasy, #Children - Crimes against, #Fighter pilots, #Fiction, #Time travel
Knight's Blood (10 page)
That day they headed south, which was no surprise. Though it didn’t seem that information concerning their prospects for action was ordinarily forthcoming from An Reubair, it stood to reason they would head for the West March, where the pickings would be good and there was convenient retreat to the mountainous western territory held by Robert. Even Lindsay knew Scone was too far north for any action that wouldn’t attract the ire of the Scottish king. It was the Borderlands where the fighting was hot and sanctioned by Robert, and there was plunder to be had from the English who strayed too far into Scotland.
Along the way, it didn’t take long for someone among the raiders to challenge Lindsay to a fight. She’d seen it before and knew it was inevitable. One morning as they neared England, one of the knights she rode with shoved her when she knelt by a stream for some water to wash down her breakfast bread. She held her ground.
“Out of my way, Pawlowski.” Simon shoved her again, and she landed in the grass on her rump. He was not the largest guy in the company, but he was the most arrogant ass. He bore more scars than anyone else, and his nose had once been caved in so it lay flat and squat on his face. From his boasting around the fires at night it was plain he wore his scars like badges of honor, but Lindsay knew they were the mark of a man who had lost many fights. The bank of this stream was open and there was plenty of room, so it was plain this guy intended to challenge.
She sighed. Fighting was her least favorite thing, and she was more annoyed that she was now going to have to clobber him than that she would have to wait to get her drink. She stood and turned to him. He faced off against her, not kneeling to get his own drink, and they both knew that was not his purpose here. A grimace of disgust twisted her mouth. Men could be so stupid. Why this guy wanted to fight her was a mystery, though she accepted on an intellectual level that this was a test she needed to pass. He needed to put her in her place to determine what his own place was, and now she was going to have to beat him up to show him she was worthy of his company. As if she cared how worthy she might be to be graced with the company of this clod. Cutting right to the chase, she dispensed with the ritual belligerent talk and shoved him right back.
He tried to backhand her, but she stepped deftly out of his way and kicked him sideways. Long ago she’d learned her disadvantage of upper body strength could be mitigated by her unusually long legs and hip strength. Kicking was admired less than punching, but anything that was effective seemed fair to her. She turned and kicked him again before he could recover his balance. Her boots were heavy, modern leather, with arch support, and fit her better than Simon’s did him. He staggered sideways with a yelp. She followed him and hauled back to punch him hard in the face. He went over entirely and splashed into the stream.
“Are you finished?” she asked. “If you’re done, I’ll let you out of there, but if you want to fight some more I’ll keep you in there until you’re good and cold and you’ve gone all wrinkly. So . . . are you done?”
He hauled himself to his feet, knee-deep in the water and looking sheepish. “Aye. Have your drink. I’ll take mine here.” And he bent to scoop a handful of water to his mouth.
Some onlookers chuckled, then went along about their business. Lindsay took her drink, then reached to help Simon from the stream. Though he wasn’t pleased to have lost the fight, he didn’t seem to bear any animosity from it, and that was good. Simon was a loser, but he was a good loser.
The company proceeded into England, where Lindsay knew she would face her first real challenge, in battle.
CHAPTER 6
Without a word, Alex turned to make his way from the parapet to the bailey, where he mounted his horse among the cluster of his fidgeting knights. Colin handed up his sword and dirk, which Alex belted around his waist. With a couple of gestures he indicated only five other men who would ride out with him. He wore no armor, not even his helmet, but the knights with him were fully equipped, and he was in no shape to fight in any case. This was a parlay; it wouldn’t do to approach it with more than necessary arms.
He rode from the bailey and onto the field at a trot, and stopped in the middle, a fair distance from the group. Their leader spurred his horse, and five of his men, half by Alex’s count, accompanied him to the middle of the field with the United States flag flapping in the breeze.
As the strangers approached, Alex eyed their leader, whose armament was excellent. New and shiny, and with more plate than was common this far north. The helmet, left under the arm of one of the men who stayed behind, was of an uncommon design. Italian, perhaps, or French. Or as if it had been made in a different period, like a movie anachronism. Alex himself owned very little plate, for it was expensive on a level real ivory and python skin would achieve in the late twentieth century. The horses were also fine animals. This guy had money.
When that leader came close enough to see his face, Alex’s heart leapt. It was his brother’s face. He looked just like Carl, and Alex smiled and took a breath for a joyous welcome.
But it died on his lips, for it wasn’t Carl. The shaggy hair tossed about his head was way too dark, and the lips too thin. Too red. This man was older than his brother. Now Alex peered hard at the guy, who trotted to a halt before him and gave him a hard stare. It was eerie. Even close up, this man, slightly younger than himself, looked so much like him but wasn’t. Same jawline, same nose.
“Who are you?”
“You can’t tell?” Modern English, and the accent was American. Southern U.S., just like Mom, who was from Kentucky. That was why he and his brothers all sounded Southern, though they weren’t. Alex blinked in confusion. This guy even talked a little like Carl. Same speech. Same voice, and it sent a shiver up his spine.
“No. I can’t,” Alex replied. An ancestor? But with that accent? A cousin on Mom’s side? “Stop screwing off and tell me who you are.”
“They named me Trefor. I’m Trefor Alasdair MacNeil. I’m your son.” There was a bright heat of anger in his eyes, and he raised his chin as if to challenge Alex to deny it. His horse picked up the tension in his voice or in his knees, and pranced as if ready to bolt. The man could ride, and held in his restive mount.
No words came, of denial or acceptance. Struck dumb, Alex could only stare. Of course it wasn’t possible. This man was no more than a couple of years younger than himself. And his son was still a baby.
Then realization came. His son had been born in 2005. This was 1316. Since he could have come to the past at any moment during his lifetime, all timeline bets were off and relative age was meaningless. It could be true.
He reached out to brush aside the hair covering the stranger’s ears, who ducked away and reined his horse to the side. But not before Alex caught a glimpse of one elfin, pointed ear. Those ears. Nevertheless, the guy still looked like a MacNeil. Not like Nemed at all. Surprise overlaid shock, and Alex stared hard, still speechless.
“So, Dad, what do you think?” The glint in Trefor’s eyes caught Alex’s attention, and he saw they were green. Just like his own, the crystalline green that was so rare, and unique to himself within his own family.
Alex finally found his voice and said, “How?”
Trefor’s mouth pressed closed and he glanced off to the side for a moment. “Well, you see, when a man and a woman fall in love they want to be close—”
“How did you get here? What happened?”
“I was kidnapped.”
“I know that.”
“By faeries.”
Alex’s jaw dropped open. “Faeries?”
“Yeah. You know, the wee folk. Leprechauns and all that.”
“Well, who was it? Faeries, leprechauns, elves, what?”
“How the fuck should I know? They dumped me on a doorstep in Tennessee and left me there until about a year ago.” The barely controlled anger began to sputter from him, and his voice rose. Alex’s men didn’t understand modern English, but they understood rage, and the five of them reached for their swords. Alex put back a palm to stay them, and they stood down. Swords snicked back into their scabbards. Trefor continued. “I lived in foster homes my whole life.”
“What, they just took you, got you out of the country and all the way to the U.S., then left you? Why?”
“Why do they do anything? I think it was just one big joke to them. Like, ‘Haha, let’s see if ol’ Alasdair an Dubhar is as powerful as he thinks he is. Let’s put the guy to the test.’ Or something. I never got what they were after; all I got was dumped on.”
“And what are you after?” This man couldn’t be his son. His son was a baby. His baby was only a few days old. Alex wasn’t old enough to be this guy’s father.
Trefor’s jaw clenched. “I wanted to meet my father.”
“Now you have.” Probably. Alex wanted to deny but was faced with a resemblance that was far too strong for that. Trefor was a MacNeil, and closely related, by those eyes. He looked up at the flag drifting back and forth on the pole. There was no denying he was from the future.
“And I want to join your household knights. Me and my men.”
“Who do you think I am, Trefor? What is it you want?”
“I think you’re a knight on the fast track to the peerage. I want my birthright as your son.”
“Are you nuts? You want to be my son here?”
“I was denied it my whole life. I want it now.”
“How old are you? Twenty-eight? Thirty?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“I’m only five years older than you. Who’s going to believe I’m your father?” Alex’s heart sank that once again he would be stuck pretending his son was not his own.
“Call me your brother.”
“I can’t. Everyone here already knows me as having no brothers except MacNeil of Barra. The closest relative you could be is a cousin on my mother’s side. A Pawlowski. You couldn’t even call yourself MacNeil here. No relation in the male line, no birthright. That’s how it works.” Alex realized he wanted this guy to go away. He wanted to get rid of the man, and return to searching for his baby son. The reality of this faded for him, and suddenly he wished to push the “reset” button and go back to when his son was still missing and still a child.
“You can’t get rid of me.”
“I don’t want that.” It was a lie, and Alex was ashamed of it.
“Then call me your cousin, if that’s all you have to offer. But I’m not leaving.”
Alex thought that over hard. Trefor looked him straight in the eyes, and he returned it. This was too weird. Incomprehensible. He wished Lindsay were here to take some of this pressure. And blame. He was faced with only one honorable choice. Finally he said, “All right. Join my household. We’ll figure this out.”
Trefor nodded, gestured to his men, and followed Alex and his escort to the castle at a walk. As they rode, they stared at each other hard, until Alex finally looked away and focused on the gate as they approached. Hector wasn’t going to bloody believe this.
They climbed the path to the Great Hall and dismounted outside the entrance. Standing once again, Alex’s aching body reminded him how deathly ill he’d been and how weak he still was. But now he didn’t reach for Gregor’s shoulder. Damned if he was going to let this Trefor guy know how vulnerable he was. So without a word to his newest knight he went into the stone building and strode on his own to his chair at the head of the room to resume his interrupted breakfast. At that end of the long, narrow hearth down the center of the floor, the fire was well lit and warming. Alex sagged into his heavy chair and took a lounging attitude to watch Trefor and his men enter. The flag stayed outside with the horses, and he was glad for that, for he had no clue where or how he might have displayed it among his own banners and his men’s shields. Just as well not to have to decide. Trefor’s contingent hung their weapons on the pegs provided at that end of the room, and looked around at their new post. There were ten besides Trefor, and Alex wondered who they all were. Locals or Americans? He had quite a few questions for this guy.
“Trefor!” The dark-haired, pointy-eared stranger looked across the room to him, and Alex gestured to the chair next to himself. The one Lindsay would have used, had she been there, he couldn’t help thinking. “Come sit, and eat.”
“What about my men?” Trefor shouted from where he stood, and the sound echoed among the timber rafters above.
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