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 (7 page)
He wasn’t that lucky. Against his will he came to and found himself facedown in the rain, on grassy ground with his face pressed against a hard, black fungus. The drizzle was light but insistent, and rivulets ran from him here and there over his body. The realization he was naked seeped into his brain, and it made him feel even colder. When he tried to move, his stomach heaved. It hitched and rolled, and he swallowed hard to keep the bile down, but in the end was forced to raise his head and vomit on the grass. That made him sicker, dizzy as well, and he rose up on his hands to vomit again. Gummy strings dangled from his mouth to the ground as his stomach continued to heave and jerk. Now he was glad for the rain, and he wiped his face with his wet fingers. He spat as he struggled to keep from throwing up a third time, and turned away from the steaming puddle before him.
There would be no standing up for him. Not for a while. Elbows trembled under his partial weight. He continued to shiver and his stomach hitched in an effort to rid itself of whatever might be left in it. This time he was able to keep the heaving under control, but knew it was probably because there was nothing left to hurl. Rain ran from his hair down his face, down his back, down his arms. It sprayed from his lips with each shivering gasp and dribbled from his chin to his chest.
He looked around. It was a small clearing, and it appeared familiar. He’d been here before. Grass mingled with black fungus patches and a line of toadstools.
Toadstools.
The familiarity of this place clicked, and he looked around to find the toadstools surrounded him. He was in the middle of a faerie ring, one he’d seen before. And off to his right was the log. The one eaten up with moss, that had graced Danu’s place on Eilean Aonarach. Not only was this his island, it was also his time. Or near to it, in any case. Within a few decades.
The familiarity of this place clicked, and he looked around to find the toadstools surrounded him. He was in the middle of a faerie ring, one he’d seen before. And off to his right was the log. The one eaten up with moss, that had graced Danu’s place on Eilean Aonarach. Not only was this his island, it was also his time. Or near to it, in any case. Within a few decades.
Excitement surged in him, causing his stomach to hitch again, and he choked up dregs from his gut. Nothing there to speak of, and he spat mucus onto the grass in front of him. Then he sat up. Hunched over to keep the rain from his eyes, he thought he might yet collapse back onto the ground. Deep breaths seemed to help the pain, and he took several long moments to settle his stomach. But the cold was monstrous and the shivering uncontrollable. He needed help.
“Danu?” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed to clear it.
His query was met only with silence. He tried again.
“Queen Danu? Are you there?” He hated the pathetic sound of need in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her. But she wasn’t responding.
“Bitch.”
Neither did that bring her from hiding. So he looked around in hopes of finding his clothes, but those damned faeries had left him nothing. Not even his tote bag with the medieval clothing, which was probably still in the twenty-first century. They’d thrust him into this time, more than likely almost killing him, with not so much as a swatch to cover himself. And if he didn’t get to shelter soon, he might end up dead in any case. Painfully, the shivering voiced with each breath, he began to pull himself together and rise to his feet.
His knees buckled, and he knelt in the soggy grass. The rain had increased and now was beating his back rather than just dropping on it. A steady stream came off his chin, a smaller one from his nose, and he gasped for air as he watched the water dribble to the ground. It was miles to the castle, and he had no guarantee there would be anyone there. An equal distance in the other direction would be a farmhouse, but without knowing the year he couldn’t say whether it was occupied either. No telling what the year was. He recalled that before he’d taken possession of his award there had been a long-running feud over the island between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods. God knew who was in control just then, and he wouldn’t put it past that crazy little freak Brochan to have set him in the midst of a war in this condition.
But Alex wasn’t getting any stronger just sitting there. He had to do something—go somewhere—and dear sweet-heart Danu obviously was not going to be of any help. So he pulled himself together once more and rose to his feet. This time he was able to stand without collapsing, feet splayed like a colt, his concentration on keeping himself off the ground. Then, though he knew it was risky, he took a step. The leg failed, and he went to one knee. Okay, it was going to be harder than he’d thought. Once more he struggled to both feet, then took another step. This time he was able to keep from falling. Another step, and again he didn’t fall.
It was going to be a long walk at this rate. But he took another step, knowing if he didn’t the alternative was to lie on the grass and die of the cold. He kept going.
The rain was relentless, leaching from him the little heat his body was able to produce. He stuffed his hands into his armpits and huddled his arms against himself, but it made little difference, as exposed as he was. He followed his old running trail toward the castle, and it heartened him that it seemed unchanged from the last time he’d come through here, in 1315.
Hours passed. A couple of times he knelt to rest, but the cold at his core encouraged him to press onward. Mud at his feet became slippery, and that made his progress more difficult. His concentration focused on putting one foot in front of the other. His entire existence narrowed to the single task. Soon it seemed he’d never done anything else but this and would never do anything else again as long as he lived. But he hoped that would be longer than just today.
A glance at the dimming sky told him the afternoon was nearly over, and soon it would be dark. He stepped up his pace.
Finally, just as the darkness was about to swallow Eilean Aonarach, he emerged from the forest and onto the plain that lay before the inland gate of his castle. Almost immediately there was a shout from the crenellated battlement ahead. The castle was occupied. On one hand that might be good, but on the other it could mean his death. Painfully he made his way across the field, hoping that if they killed him it would be quickly. Just then hell sounded toasty warm and inviting.
By the time he reached the portcullis, a line of silhouettes in the dusk had gathered along the battlement, most of them bearing crossbows. None of them were pointed at him yet, and Alex figured he wasn’t such a threat in his state of dress. The gathering was probably more curious than alarmed at a naked man wandering about in the rain. He halted at a distance and eyed them carefully, but knew if he was close enough to be heard he was close enough to be shot. The men up high waited, letting him make the first hail. He obliged right away, for there was little time for him to be fooling around.
He ventured in Middle English, “Ho! Castle!”
“Who goes there?”
Alex might have just blurted his name, but wanted first to know how it would be received. With all the strength he had left, he stood as straight and confident as he could. His vulnerability was obvious; bluff was his only option. He didn’t even bother to put a hand over his crotch, but stood as if he had no need for the clothing he so plainly lacked. He responded in a voice that rattled with shivering, “Give me your name, guard, so I can praise you to your master for your alertness. You saw me the very moment I came from the forest.” His eyes shut against the rain and against his own exhaustion, then he looked up again to the dark shapes above.
The guard had a nonplussed moment. Alex saw he was scanning the forest edge, more than likely in search of any indication this stranger was a decoy bringing invaders to attack if the gate should be opened. But then the watch shouted, “Sir Henry Ellot, stranger. And, as my master is away, I think you’ll tell him naught.”
Relief washed over Alex and he nearly collapsed for it. Ellot was one of his own household guard, from the Lowlands and brought to the island by himself after Bannockburn. He nearly laughed. Those blasted faeries had come through, in their own, weird way. He swayed as he shouted, “Open the gate, Sir Henry! Your master has returned!”
Alex’s bluff quite left him, now that he knew they would not kill him, and his strength failed completely. As he collapsed to the muddy ground and his mind faded to haze, he heard a shocked cry. “MacNeil!”
He remained conscious enough to be aware of further shouting and the chain clatter of the gate being raised. Dimly he knew there were hands lifting him, then carrying him into the bailey and on up the winding path between the various castle structures, then finally there was warmth. Good heat from the fire in the great hall, where a call for clothing and plaids and cushions went up and was repeated at full voice throughout the keep. He half lay over the side of the long fire pit that ran much of the length of the room, where an enormous pile of burning logs kept the large hall heated and often fed the troops with roasted meat. Alex lay his face against warm stone and groaned. His skin felt on fire with the heat, and it was a welcome pain.
Servants gathered, shocked. There was much talk in Gaelic, which Alex understood in a rudimentary way, but just then he was too sick to figure out what they were saying. Soon a cup was put to his lips, and he tasted mead. Hair of the dog that it might be, he turned his head away as his stomach heaved and he choked. “Broth. Bring some broth.” There would be some in the kitchen, the building just down the slope.
Someone was sent to get it. Someone else was dispatched to ready the laird’s chamber.
Alex’s shivering grew more violent. His pulse picked up, and he was in a misery of uncontrollable shaking. Like a grand mal fit. The warmth felt like burning, as if he were flaming and freezing at once, on fire but shivering for it like fever. If only he could fall unconscious again. It would be so sweet to pass out. He was wrapped in wool blankets, nearly like a mummy, and he gathered them in to himself. No matter how bundled he became, the cold seemed to radiate from inside him. The shaking continued.
Soon another cup was put to his lips, and he tasted beef soup. Much of it spilled as they tried to get it down him, but enough of it made it into his mouth that he could swallow. It made a heat trail down his throat and into his gut, which heaved at the outrage. He held his breath and made it stay down. Then he took some more. Warmth. The soup tasted like pure heat, and it was delicious.
Once the soup was in him, the shivering calmed to a bearable trembling that only made his breathing stutter. His eyes closed, he lay at the side of the hearth and let the warmth seep into him. When he finally felt something other than cold, it was exhaustion. From somewhere in the incomprehensible distance the announcement came his chamber and bed were ready for him. Hands lifted him in his bundle and carried him down the stairs from the hall to the laird’s apartments. They unwrapped him from the plaid and laid him in the elaborately carved bed, on silken sheets, beneath a thick comforter stuffed with goose down. The shivering calmed some more. The fire in the hearth was high and bright. The wall of living rock at one side of the room ran with water from the rain outside, making a trickling sound that brought to mind the nights he’d shared this bed with Lindsay. It soothed and warmed him, and he fell into oblivion.
When he came to again, it was in a red haze of fever. Shivering took him again, this time in a rage of heat. Faces hovered before his eyes, and he thought he recognized them but the names escaped his pain-wracked mind. One was a priest—Alex knew by the tonsure—dabbing oil on his forehead and muttering in Latin. Father Patrick. It was Father Patrick, the young guy from the castle chapel. There was a boy. A blond kid. Another man stood at a distance. Short and bearded, Alex felt he should know who that man was. But the struggle to remember brought more pain.
“He’s still with us,” said the man with the beard. Then it came to Alex who he was. Hector. This was Hector MacNeil, Laird of Barra. The one who owned him as half brother, though he knew Alex was a distant descendant from the future. Alex tried to sit up, and the boy stepped back. The blond kid, seven or eight years old. Gregor. Alex remembered now. Gregor MacNeil. Hector’s nephew, the son of Hector’s deceased brother, and Alex’s foster son. His page. The boy’s eyes were wide, and he looked as if he were about to cry. People around here thought it was okay for guys to cry. Alex had never been able to figure that out, but just then he didn’t give a damn whether Gregor bawled himself red in the face or laughed and danced a jig.
The room spun, and Alex groaned. A woman came to press him back onto the bed. His wife’s maid, Mary. “Lie back down, sir. Ye’re in no condition to be sitting up.”
The room was sweltering. The high fire threw light to the most distant corners. Alex shoved the bedcovers from himself, then lay back, panting. Every inch of his body ached to his bones. He wished he could slip back into the darkness from which he’d just come and stay there, even if it meant never coming back. “Somebody kill me,” he said, and he wasn’t sure whether he was speaking modern English, Middle English, or Gaelic. A hard shudder took him, then stopped, then for a moment there was respite before the shivering began anew. Mary tried to restore his blankets, but he pushed them away until she compromised with only the silk sheet.
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