by Pam Binder
“How did you…” Irene began.
Ann stood and handed Irene her diary. “You’ll need this.” She then walked past Irene.
“Okay, that was strange,” Irene said. She clutched the diary and scrambled after the woman. For some reason, Ann seemed to know exactly where she was going.
At the threshold, Ann’s son was waiting for them. He scooped his mother into an embrace and gave her a gentle hug before releasing her. “Mother, are you sure you want to do the tour? I know it was your idea, but we can always do it another time.”
She lifted her head toward him. Her eyes focused for a brief moment, then clouded over as she turned and walked toward her husband’s waiting arms.
“I guess that was a yes,” he said under his breath.
Lady Roselyn appeared out of the mist. “There you all are. We must hurry,” she said in a frantic voice. “We are late.”
Ann’s son held back and extended his hand to Irene. “I’m Logan, by the way. Thank you for helping my mother. Where did you find her?”
“She was sitting in the locker area. It was odd. It was almost as though she was waiting for me.”
He lifted an eyebrow, adjusting the leather belt and sword that hung at an angle at his hips. “This tour has been odd from the beginning. It’s not at all what I expected, and I’m starting to think this is only the beginning. You’re dressed as a high-born lady from the thirteenth century, and I look like King Arthur.” There was laughter and then another smile. “I’m loving it.”
She grinned, drawn to the smile that lit up his face. All the men she’d dated treated laughter as a sign of weakness. He wore it as naturally as others would wear a pair of socks. “I think you mean you’re dressed like Scotland’s leader William Wallace.”
“You’re a history geek.”
“Guilty.”
“People,” Lady Roselyn shouted, clapping her hands. “Hurry, or we’ll leave you behind.”
Chapter Seven
Irene held back as Logan disappeared into a mist filled with twinkling lights that danced like thousands of fireflies in time with the haunting notes of bagpipes. Logan had suggested that he’d thought the tour odd. She knew why he’d said that. How many tour directors asked people to dress in costume? Not many, was her guess, as they’d fear open rebellion. Most adults thought they were too grown up. The last one she’d worn was when she was a child in grammar school. Her mother had loved making costumes.
The gowns Lady Roselyn provided reminded her of the style and colors of dresses her mother had spent months sewing for the three of them. While most children dressed as ghosts or action heroes or heroines for Halloween, she and her sister had looked like they’d fit into the court of a medieval king or queen. Those were happy memories. Irene smoothed her hand over her sleeve. She loved the feel of the silk, but the dull color didn’t seem right. The dresses her mother had made were more vibrant, more alive.
The bagpipes grew louder, as though beckoning her to hurry. She picked up her skirts. She changed her mind. She didn’t think anything was odd. Quite to the contrary.
Irene quickened her steps as she plunged into the mist. She heard voices over the music, so at least the tour group hadn’t gone very far, but the mist was so thick it was like being caught in a blinding snowstorm. Visibility was near zero.
“Concentrate,” she said aloud. Her headdress prevented her from turning easily, and her gown was too long—or she was too short, which at five foot ten seemed unlikely. Yet another indication that she’d chosen incorrectly.
The first step caught her off guard. Irene wobbled back and forth, feeling disoriented. She thrust her arms out like a tightrope walker. The maneuver worked. She regained her balance and brought her breathing under control. Now all she’d have to worry about was tripping over the hem of her gown.
She gulped in air. Somewhere in her memory banks she remembered that stairs in medieval times were made uneven to slow down an enemy’s advance if they breached the walls. The whole notion had seemed glamorous until now, when she’d almost broken her neck.
She refocused on navigating down the stairs. They should have installed handrails or running lights. Then she reminded herself that this tour company wouldn’t be so foolish as to create a dangerous situation. If there was an accident, a law firm, like the one she worked for, would sue them out of existence.
Irene reached out for a wall to help guide her. The sudden movement caused her legs to get tangled in the fabric of her long gown. She twisted around, but that only made it worse. Her veil wound around her face. She screamed in frustration as she tried to peel it loose and lost her balance again.
Her feet landed on the lip of the next step with a jolt. She slipped and pitched forward into the darkness. Flapping her arms like a crazed baby bird learning how to fly, her eyes squeezed shut. She was going to break every bone in her body.
Strong arms wrapped around her. “Don’t worry,” Logan said. “I’ve got you.”
She clung to his neck as he gathered her closer. She could feel his heart beat against her chest, or was that hers? Random thoughts popped in and out. How had he reached her so fast? Did he think she was clumsy? Too heavy?
Pathetic. He’d saved her, and all she could think about was her weight. Still…
She squirmed in his arms. “Thank you, but you can put me down.”
“And blow my one chance to rescue a beautiful damsel in distress? Not a chance. Besides, we’re almost there.”
Although the bagpipes were louder and she could hear the haunting notes of a flute, the mist was as dense as ever. “How can you tell?” she said.
She felt a rumble of laughter rise in his chest. “It’s a guess. I haven’t a clue.”
Chapter Eight
At the bottom of the stairs, the mist thinned and the Highland melody drifted to an end. Whispered conversations filled the void left by the music. She had the sensation that she’d entered another world. Irene clung to Logan as they entered a wide, circular alcove.
Mist cleared, as though chased away by the torch lights that hung in brackets on stone walls. The double doors closed behind her and locked, which did nothing to calm her nerves. Standing in the clearing was Lady Roselyn and the other tour guests.
When her rescuer set her down, Irene’s legs buckled, and Logan kept his arms around her a moment longer than seemed necessary before he released her. He shielded the diary from the group as he handed it to her. “You threw this when you tripped.” He rubbed his neck and grinned. “It hit me in the head.”
She grimaced. “Sorry, but thank you,” she whispered as Lady Roselyn approached.
“Yes, thank you, Logan, for saving Irene,” Lady Roselyn said. “First steps on this journey can be tricky if you’re not careful.” She turned toward the group. “Please stay close together as we proceed to our destination. It’s easy to get lost, which is the reason we selected an entrance near our activities.” She motioned for everyone to step in line behind her as the corridor narrowed. “As we proceed toward the Great Hall,” she said, “feel free to look around. This is not one of those tours where you’re instructed not to touch. Touching is part of the experience. Stirling Castle played a major role in the Scottish struggle for independence from England’s rule. As a result, the castle was constantly under attack. To our left is a hallway that leads to the castle’s Chapel Royal, where our weddings take place, and further down are housed the bedchambers for our guests. And here we are.”
Lady Roselyn stepped aside, extending her arm to present the entrance to a banquet hall. Banners hung from the ceiling in alternating shades of reds and greens. “Welcome,” she said dramatically, “to the thirteenth century.”
There was a flurry of activity in the Great Hall. Men were bringing boughs indoors from pine, holly, and fir trees and placing them in piles, while women turned them into garlands and wreaths. Musicians warmed up their instruments, and an artist sketched a wolfhound puppy chewing on a bone. A fireplace large enough to roast
a full-grown cow blazed happily on the far side of the room, and over the mantel were crossed swords and a shield so highly polished it shone like a mirror. The smell of baking bread laced with herbs danced in the air. The scene was equal parts overwhelming and thrilling.
Irene spun around. Everywhere she looked was a buzz of activity. Because of the detailed journal entries in her mother’s diary, the setting before her felt like a scene from a well-loved book. Her mother’s words had come to life. Irene pressed her arms against her waist to control her excitement, wishing her sister were here.
Lady Roselyn raised her voice to get everyone’s attention. “My sisters and I will each lead a group of you to your rooms. Bridget is in charge of escorting the men, and Fiona will escort Irene and Julia. I will escort Sean and Ann to their suite. We’ve stretched the rules a bit to make your accommodations as comfortable as possible. Although we have a full schedule and our time here is limited, we’ve learned that having private quarters where you can relax and get away from the new sights and sounds is a welcome opportunity and helps make your experiences all the more enjoyable.”
“It is as I’ve always imagined,” Ann said.
Stunned, Irene turned to look at her. Sean and Logan looked as shocked. For a brief moment, Ann seemed happy and engaged, and her eyes focused. But then, just as before, her animation didn’t last. In the next moment she was leaning on her husband, Sean, as Lady Roselyn guided them down a corridor. Unfazed, Bridget motioned for the men to follow her in the opposite direction.
“Ann and Sean are truly a lovely couple,” Fiona said to Irene and Julia. “We have great hopes for both of them. Are you ready?” Fiona’s sunny expression was contagious. She’d changed from the modern clothes she’d worn at the ticket booth to a more century-appropriate gown. While Lady Roselyn wore blue, and Bridget a shade of forest green, Fiona’s gown looked like it had captured the firelight, which brought out the red highlights in her blond hair. Like her sisters, Fiona wore a red-and-green tartan sash over one shoulder.
“Your rooms are not far away,” Fiona said. “In this century, they are referred to as chambers. That reminds me. For our female guests, the bathrooms, or garderobes, as they are called in this century, are connected to your quarters. That said, and even though they were scrubbed and cleaned this morning, they are basically holes in the wood plank benches and empty into the streams below the castle.” Fiona gave an apologetic shrug. “We’ve set a bowl of oranges stuffed with fragrant cloves nearby, as there might be an odor. Actually, count on a smell and be pleasantly surprised if there isn’t one. Sorry. Oh, good, here we are. Irene, this is your chamber. Julia has the one further down the hallway.”
Inside was a four-poster bed with vibrant red velvet curtains hanging from the top of the bed’s square frame that cascaded like a crimson waterfall onto the wood floor. The bedspread was the same shade of velvet, its hem braided with alternating green and gold threads. The bed looked so inviting, Irene yawned in response, and caught Fiona smiling.
“For some reason our guests are tired when they first begin the tour,” Fiona said. “Make yourself comfortable while I show Julia to her chamber. We gather for the first feast of the day after you’ve rested, and the meal will also include games my sisters and I have planned for our guests’ entertainment. Would you like me to send someone to help you find your way back to the Great Hall? We’ve made quite a few twists and turns along the way.”
Irene sat on the side of the bed. “No, thank you. I never get lost.”
When the door shut, her room felt even more cozy and warm. A fire blazed opposite the bed, and a tapestry hung near a leaded-glass window. The tapestry was as welcome as the room. It pictured a meadow frosted with snow and a path that led to a cottage with the image of a Scottish thistle painted on the door. A wisp of smoke trailed from the cottage’s chimney, and its windows glowed with warmth.
Irene yawned again. Maybe she’d take just a short nap.
Chapter Nine
An hour and a half later, Bridget checked on the guests. They were still asleep. At least something was going right. She raced into the Great Hall and slid to a stop on the polished floor just as her sister, Lady Roselyn, was finishing her speech.
Half listening, Bridget waited until her sister had finished. Those gathered were a handful of castle inhabitants who had direct contact with the guests, while many more who were not present acted as support. The matchmakers believed that everyone, from cook to knight to invited guest, should have the opportunity to be part of the magic. There were always variations on the speech, depending on the group, but over the years the theme hadn’t changed. It always began with: “Put your troubles and worries aside, enjoy the adventure,” and finished with, “Let love in.”
Bridget remembered listening to her grandmother and mother as they made this speech. In those days, she had dreamed of the time when she and her sisters could step into the family tradition. Her grandmother and mother had made it look easy.
As Lady Roselyn finished and was answering questions, Bridget stepped forward and lowered her voice. “Can I speak with you privately?”
Lady Roselyn kept her smile in place. “Can’t it wait?”
“We have uninvited guests.”
To her sister’s credit, Lady Roselyn’s expression never wavered. The only indication that she understood the severity of their situation was a slight narrowing of her gaze. “How many?”
“Three.”
“Are they…contained?”
Bridget gave a sharp nod. “Fiona has them under guard.”
Lady Roselyn apologized to the group with a promise that she’d “Be right back.”
Bridget motioned for her sister to follow her. That Lady Roselyn’s farewell had been clipped as well as cliché had not escaped notice. A few of the staff exchanged glances or rolled their eyes before heading toward their assigned stations.
Bridget and her sister entered the chamber, behind the Great Hall, that the sisters used as their office. At first glance it resembled every other chamber in the castle. There was an oversized fireplace, period furniture, and rolls of parchment documents and maps, as well as books that had been handwritten and illuminated by nuns or monks. The tapestries that hung on the wall to chase out the damp and cold completed the illusion that this was a chamber like all the others in the castle.
Things were not always as they seemed.
The images on the tapestries weren’t of pastoral scenes and people frolicking over meadows, or recreations of gruesome battles, they were of doors and gateways. Entrances to gardens, to Egyptian pyramids, to castles, to Asian and European palaces… From the ornate to the plain, the woven images of doors, so life-like in every detail, looked as though they could open.
When the sisters entered, Lady Roselyn walked calmly toward her desk. “I’ve decided you’ve overreacted. These people you and your sister have detained will turn out to be part of the castle’s staff. We’ve all been working too hard. We need a vacation. Someplace warm.”
Bridget understood her sister’s reluctance. There was no room for mistakes. The slightest deviation had a domino effect. But facts were still facts. “If we get through unscathed, I’ll hold you to your vacation speech. When the men were apprehended, Liam locked them in the dungeon.”
“The dungeon?” Lady Roselyn’s response came out in a squeak.
“We didn’t have a choice.” Bridget spread a tapestry aside, revealing an entrance to one of the passageways that crisscrossed behind the castle walls. Taking a torch from the wall, she descended the staircase.
“I don’t like this place,” Lady Roselyn said behind Bridget. “I think these passageways are haunted.”
“There aren’t any ghosts. Mother said she checked.”
“We were children,” Lady Roselyn said. “What was she supposed to say?”
A short time later, they reached the dungeon, which spread like a rabbit warren beneath the castle. Sword drawn, Fiona kept watch over an iron grate on
the stone floor. The grate was placed in the ceiling of a large cell. Below, three men, dressed in costumes of the thirteenth century, feasted on pork roast, ham, and an assortment of breads and cheese.
“For the love of chocolate,” Lady Roselyn said, “Fiona. Put away your weapon. I swear you grow more like our grandmother every day.” Lady Roselyn peered closer. “I recognize those beady eyes. Those are the men who caused so much trouble in the café earlier today. I had them removed. How did they get back in here?”
Fiona set the sword on a wall bracket next to other medieval weapons. “They pretended to be part of the staff. It wasn’t until they were here that someone noticed and reported them to Liam. We didn’t know where else to put them.”
“You’ve made them comfortable, at least. Can they see us?”
Fiona shook her head. “They’ve been quiet so far. Liam said they gave up without a fuss.”
“Well, what’s done is done. They’ll just have to remain here until after the wedding on Christmas Eve.”
“They’ll want to sue us when this is all over,” Bridget said.
“Tell them they will have to stand in line.”
Chapter Ten
Irene awoke with a start and had that momentary, “Where am I?” feeling before she realized where she was. She slid off the bed and stretched. From the window, she noticed that it was already dusk, and the room, no, the chamber, Irene corrected, remembering the name Fiona had called it, was dimly lit. A cheery little fire did its best to chase away the chill air, and a bouquet of lavender stood on a table nearby. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a nap in the middle of the day, but she felt refreshed and looked forward to exploring the castle. She reached for the diary and headed out into the quiet hallway.
