by Lynne Jonell
Where had Jamie been that whole day? He was so small; he would have been frightened. And he wouldn’t have even had his stuffed bear for comfort.
The crowd had passed, and the path was empty, dappled with sun and shadow and the marks of many feet. Will scrambled to stand. “I’m not waiting around anymore. We’ve got to find Jamie.”
Nan grabbed his arm. “What are you going to do? Just walk up and knock at the castle door?”
“Do you have a better idea?” Will shook off her hand.
“Well, you could ask her.” Nan pointed to the path as a girl came into view.
She was older than they were, with a pink face and untidy hair. The end of her plaid was untucked and flapping behind her as she broke into a shambling run.
Will skidded down the slope in a flurry of pine needles. “Excuse me,” he called, “but have you seen—”
“Get out of the road, I’m late! I must get these eggs to the castle—” Her gaze swept over Nan and Will, and her eyes widened. “And what in the name of Saint Cuthbert are two lads doing abroad in their underthings? Were you robbed of your clothes?” She stepped forward, peering at Will’s shirt. “It’s fine fabric, too, though a wee bit strange. What dye did ye use to get such a red?”
“Er,” said Will, at the same time that Nan said hotly, “I’m not a lad—”
She stopped. Her face took on an alert, listening look.
After a moment, Will heard it, too—multiple hoofbeats, coming down the path through the trees. The last time he had heard horses coming down a forest track, he had seen murder done.
“Get down! Hide!” Will dragged both girls back with him, off the path and behind a fallen tree. The older girl stumbled and fell into the bracken, and her basket went rolling.
The drumbeat of hooves grew loud; there was a confused impression of powerful muscles bunching under sweaty flanks and an overpowering smell of horse. The riders flashed past in a blur of plaid and bare legs with a glimmer of steel as their daggers caught the light, and then they were gone, cantering toward the castle, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.
The Scottish girl wailed aloud. “Whatever did you do that for? Now I’ve broken my eggs and I have nothing to sell! Mam will beat me sore!”
“Maybe they’re not all broken,” Nan soothed. “We’ll help you find the ones that rolled out.”
But Will stood rigid. “I saw Jamie!”
“Are you sure?” Nan swiveled her head and shaded her eyes. “I didn’t know Jamie could ride a horse.”
“I saw his face.” Will started toward the castle at a run.
Nan hurriedly looked for unbroken eggs—there weren’t any—and took off after Will.
“Hey! Come back!” cried the Scottish girl, hurrying to catch up.
Nan tried to keep Will’s red shirt in view, but she stumbled over a tree root; by the time she recovered her balance, Will had disappeared. Ahead, a small crowd gathered near where some women had been boiling clothes clean in a heated cauldron. Nan edged around the muddy, sloppy ground, poked her head past someone’s elbow, and saw a red T-shirt.
Will’s arm was gripped tightly by a brawny man with tangled, shoulder-length hair and a nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice. The man had a cudgel in his belt that looked positively wicked.
“Let me go!” Will’s voice was not entirely steady. “That boy on the horse was my brother, Jamie!”
The rough-haired man shook Will by the arm. “Jamie, is it? Just because your head’s a little cracked, lad, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t show proper courtesy for the laird’s nephew!”
“The laird’s what?” Will had lost all sense of caution. “He’s my brother, I tell you!”
“He really is,” said Nan, stepping forward.
The man turned in her direction and spoke cheerfully to the crowd. “And here’s another of them, just as cracked as the first! Whatever possessed you two bairns to run about half-dressed? Where are you from, now? Spies from the Stewarts, I’ll be bound!”
“They’re a mite small for spies!” cackled someone, and everyone laughed.
The man gave Will a shove. “Be off with you, before I give you a beating to teach you manners!”
Will stepped back, the blood mounting hot and furious to his cheeks. Then a movement beyond the castle caught his eye. The riders were dismounting and handing their horses off to be led into the stables; one little boy was already out of the saddle and walking toward the castle.
“JAMIE!” Will lunged forward, ducking under the man’s arm.
The man’s foot swept out and caught Will’s shin. Will staggered forward, trying to catch himself, but his body was already falling and he landed in the mud puddle, face-first.
Will got up slowly, dripping with ooze. Everyone was laughing except for Nan and the Scottish girl with the basket, who looked as if she was still mad about the eggs.
Will spat mud out of his mouth. “Just ask him,” he said through his teeth. “Here he comes now. Ask him if he knows me—he’ll tell you.”
The man laughed shortly. “And if he says no, then I’ll give you a beating!” He turned, pulled off his hat, and took a few steps toward the boy who looked like Jamie.
In fact the boy looked almost exactly like Jamie, except that he was wearing what looked like a belted shirt with enormous long sleeves, and a checkered cloak thrown over one shoulder and fastened with a silver clasp. “Yes, Ranald? What do you want?”
Ranald indicated Will with a jerk of his head. “This boy says he knows you, Master James.”
The boy frowned.
Will wiped his muddy face with his palms. “Jamie, it’s me!” He stood up, slipping a little in the muck.
The boy looked uncertain. “Who are you?”
Will thought he might burst from exasperation. “I’m your brother, you goof! Hurry up, we’ve got to get out of here.” He took a step—and hesitated. Something was wrong. Jamie seemed taller than he should be.
A powerful hand gripped Will’s collar. He was jerked back and up and flung through the air like a Frisbee.
He seemed to be in the air a long time: long enough to notice the deep blue of the sky, covering over now with scudding gray clouds, and the dark band of pines at the forest’s edge, and to catch a glimpse of Nan’s shocked face. Then the earth came rushing up at him, and he smacked it with a jolt that made his teeth click down hard.
Will lay on the ground with the wind knocked out of him, trying to breathe. His tongue was a lump of pain where he had bitten it, and he blinked the wetness from his eyes as the crowd laughed. He was not going to cry, not now, not in front of everyone.…
He managed at last to suck in a thin thread of air. Wheezing, he pushed himself up on his hands as the laughing crowd dispersed.
Nan tried to help him stand, but Will shook her off and stalked ahead, back to the forest. He didn’t have a plan except to hide in the trees for a while and try to figure out why Jamie had pretended not to know him. Even though Will’s face had been covered with mud, Jamie should have known his brother.
The Scottish girl followed them, still holding her basket.
“What are you doing here?” Will demanded, as soon as he had gotten enough breath in him to speak. His mouth tasted of blood, and he wanted to spit.
“You broke my eggs!” said the girl hotly. “So I have nothing to sell and no coin to bring home to Mam. I want you to come home with me and tell her it was all your fault. Happen I might escape a beating if you do.”
Nan made an impatient noise. “There’s a lot of beating here, isn’t there? Don’t people ever get tired of it?”
“I get tired of it,” said the girl with emphasis.
“It’s not much fun for me, either,” Will muttered.
The girl put a hand on her hip. “You had to know you’d get in trouble for saying the laird’s nephew was your brother. Why’d you do such a daft thing?”
“Because he is my brother.” Will turned away to scrub at his c
heeks. The mud was drying on his face and his skin itched.
“Will’s brother ran away on this very hill, just a day ago,” Nan explained. “And that boy looked exactly like him.”
The girl snorted. “That lad didn’t get lost a day ago. He’s been here a year, fostering with his uncle, the laird.”
Will whipped around. “A year?”
Nan’s face paled, and her freckles stood out as if her cheeks had been spattered with paint. “No wonder he didn’t recognize you, Will! He was only five, and if a whole year’s gone by…”
Will stared at Nan. “That’s why Jamie was taller. He’s six now.”
4
MORAG
THE GIRL’S NAME WAS MORAG, and she told them the laird really did have a nephew, named James. James had been seven, a year ago—small for his age, but old enough to be fostered at a noble house, to learn hawking and hunting and riding and weaponry, and so his parents had written that they would send him with an armed guard of three men in midsummer.
“Three men?” Nan interrupted.
“There were supposed to be three,” said Morag darkly, “but no one knows what happened to the third. The other two men were found lying in their blood.” She lowered her voice. “Everyone knows that the Stewart clan did it. They raid, they murder, they stop at nothing. Soon enough, they say, the king will have to come and put a halt to it.”
“But what about the boy?” Will asked.
Morag shrugged. “Young James was running about like a mad thing, shouting gibberish and only half-clothed. They couldn’t get any sense out of him for a long while after. In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, “the laird said privately to his lady that he thought the boy had taken a blow to the head, he was so stupid.”
Will exchanged a glance with Nan. “If it was in private, how did you hear it?”
Morag tossed her head. “Believe me or not, just as you like. I don’t want to answer your questions, anyway. I’m hungry, and I want my dinner.”
She sat down on a rock by the trail and took out a small parcel, wrapped in a napkin, from her basket. It was covered in egg and bits of broken shell, and Morag gave Will a reproachful look as she wiped it off with a handful of bracken. She opened the napkin to reveal a round, flat loaf of bread and a lump of cheese, and pulled a sharp knife from her belt. Then she cut thick slices of bread and cheese, clapped them together, and took a huge bite.
Nan swallowed audibly. Will watched Morag’s jaws moving up and down, and his stomach made a sound like a gurgling drain. It had been a long time since Cousin Elspeth called them for the lunch they didn’t get to eat, and an even longer time since breakfast.
Morag wiped her mouth. “Don’t think I’m giving you anything to eat. You already robbed me of the farthing I would have gotten for the eggs, and you’re not taking my bread and cheese, too.”
“Farthing?” said Will. “What’s that?”
Morag tossed her head. “Are you stupid? Where have you come from, that you don’t know what a farthing is?”
Will shifted his weight. What was he supposed to say—that he came from the United States, but it wouldn’t exist for a few hundred years?
“He comes from across the sea,” Nan cut in. “He’s my second cousin.”
“And don’t they use money, across the sea?” Morag said tartly.
Will thought of an answer at last. “Our money is different. We don’t have farthings.”
“Do you have halfpennies? Pennies? Groats?” Morag took another bite of her lunch.
Will put his hands in his pockets. “Sure, we have pennies.”
“Well, then,” Morag said through a mouthful of crumbs. “It takes two halfpennies to make a penny, and it takes two farthings to make a halfpenny.”
Will would have laughed out loud if he had been in a better mood. So a farthing was a quarter of a penny, and a quarter of a penny could buy a whole basket of eggs? He was rich! He dug among the coins in his pocket and found one he recognized. “Would you give us some bread and cheese for a whole penny?” he coaxed, and held one out.
Morag peered at the copper cent on his palm. “That’s not a penny,” she said with scorn. “That’s what we call black money, hereabouts. A real penny is silver. Still,” she added, taking a closer look, “it’s a fine imprint. Who is that man on it? It’s not our King James the Fourth. Is that your king?”
“That’s Lincoln,” said Will. “He’s more of a president.”
Morag turned the penny to the light. “What’s this writing supposed to say?”
“Read it yourself.” Will absently jingled the change in his pockets.
“Do I look like a noble?” Morag demanded. “Or a monk? I can’t read, you daft fool. Next you’re going to be telling me you know how to read—and write, too, no doubt!”
“But I do—” Will began, until his toe was pressed firmly by Nan’s foot.
“You do what?” Morag looked suspicious.
“He does want to know if the—er—black money will buy us some of your lunch,” said Nan. “And I want to know, too.”
“Oh, all right.” Morag clearly wanted to keep the Lincoln cent. “But you still owe me for the basket of eggs.”
Will reached in his pocket again. “You said a penny was silver. Would this pay for the eggs?” He pulled out a small, silvery Scottish coin, about the size of a dime, that said Five Pence.
Morag’s eyes widened. “Eh, that’s a fine bright penny!” She poked at it with her finger, turning it over. “It’s foreign money, but that matters none, so long as it’s good silver.…” She looked at them, considering. “That pays for much more than eggs, though.”
“Well, I can’t break a coin in half,” said Will, irritated.
“What if I could find you some clothes?” Morag gave their shorts and T-shirts a calculating look. “You don’t want to walk around in your underthings, do you?”
Nan glanced at Will. “We could use something else to wear. We stand out too much in these.”
Will nodded slowly. It would help if they could blend in more. “Maybe that big nasty guy, what’s-his-name—”
“Ranald,” Morag supplied.
“Right. Maybe Ranald won’t recognize us if we look like everyone else.”
Morag laughed. “And why would you want to get anywhere near Ranald again? Next time he might not be so gentle!”
Will scratched at his arm where the mud was drying. “We need to get back to the castle to get Jamie,” he said shortly.
Morag cocked her head. “You still think Master James is your brother, when he didn’t even know you? That doesn’t make sense. And if you were robbed of your clothes, why do you still have coins in your pocket?”
Will looked at Nan helplessly. Where could he possibly start?
“It’s hard to explain,” said Nan suddenly, laying a hand on Morag’s arm. “Please, won’t you trust us? We’re not Stewart spies, and we aren’t going to hurt anyone—we’re just two kids.”
“Are you truly not spies?” Morag chewed on a fingernail. “The Stewarts, they’re terrible ones for spying, but I’ve never known them to send children before.”
“I’m not a Stewart—I’m a Menzies,” said Will.
Nan nodded. “Me too.”
Morag narrowed her eyes. “Will you swear on the holy rood?”
Will opened his mouth to ask what a rood was.
Nan put an elbow in his ribs before he could speak. “Yes,” she said firmly, and smiled up at Morag.
It was the full hundred-watt, dimpled, impossible-to-resist smile, and Will watched Morag’s face. It was clear she was feeling the effects of the Dimple.
“Well, all right,” said Morag. “I don’t suppose even the Stewarts would send spies that didn’t know how to dress. Come home with me, and I’ll get you some clothes. You can eat your bread and cheese while we walk, and there’s ale in this skin, if you’re thirsty.”
Will choked. “Ale?”
Morag rolled her eyes. “If you’d rat
her have beer, sorry, I don’t have any.”
“Beer?”
Morag looked at Nan. “Is he deaf, as well as daft?”
“Um,” said Nan. “I think he’s just not used to kids drinking beer and ale, where he comes from. Across the water, I mean.”
Morag hefted the basket so it rested on her hip. “What else would children drink? Wine is too costly for anyone but a noble, and you are not babies, to drink milk, are you?”
“Of course not,” said Will hastily, deciding that he wouldn’t tell her what he poured on his Cheerios. “But doesn’t anybody drink water?”
Morag’s eyebrows went up. “Of course, if you can find nothing better, so long as it comes from a pure stream or a good well. But the streams hereabouts smell too strongly of horse. And you don’t want to drink water with a meal—it chills the stomach.”
“I guess she wouldn’t approve of ice cubes,” Will muttered to Nan as Morag started off along the trail.
They stopped just off the path to swear on the holy rood, which turned out to be a carved stone cross. She made them place their hands on the cross and vow that they were true Menzies and not spies. Satisfied, she pulled the stopper from her aleskin and offered a drink all round. David, hot and thirsty, took an experimental swig. The ale was sweetish, thick, and yeasty tasting.
Nan took a swallow and made a face. “I’d rather have a fizzy drink any day.” She glanced at Morag’s sturdy back and lowered her voice. “Once we get the clothes, what next?”
Will had no clue, but he didn’t want to sound feeble. “I’m still thinking.” He glanced at the stone cross and hesitated. “You go on with Morag—I’ll catch up.”
Nan’s dimple flitted into sight. “No worries, mate. I’ll have to make a trip to the bushes soon, myself.”
Will watched until they were out of sight along the path. But he did not go to the bushes to answer a call of nature, as Nan had supposed. Instead, he placed his hand on the holy rood and closed his eyes. Would God be more likely to listen, in this special place? Will didn’t know, but he couldn’t pass up the chance.
But after he had bowed his head, he didn’t know what to say. Everything he wanted rose up in him like a torrent—his longing for his mother, his fear of Ranald, the desperate responsibility to bring Jamie home, his terror of everything that could go wrong. Could God hear a wordless cry?
