by L. L. Muir
But it also meant she was as aware of him as he was of her…
No. He had to leave her to her own quest, and discourage her from getting in his way.
An American. What had Soncerae been thinking? Or had the young witch intended to throw them together? Surely, she knew she had sent a mason’s son to a place in dire need of a mason. But why send the woman?
A dreadful thought occurred to him and he silently turned to God once more.
Please, I beg ye, tell me she was not sent to help!
CHAPTER NINE
Sophie momentarily forgot about her bladder as they headed across an actual drawbridge and under some pretty menacing looking gates. Above her head, a metal contraption, complete with spikes, hung high inside the gate as she passed under it. Even if it were some replica made of resin, it would still kill somebody if it fell.
She had to hand it to them, the place looked absolutely authentic, as did the peasants. Their ratty clothes looked like they had dirt clinging to them for twenty years. She was a little surprised there weren’t more smudges on faces. In fact, they all looked freshly washed.
Some people smiled and nodded. Others looked impatient as they waited for the horses to pass. And she realized that there were hundreds of people in Inverbrae that probably had nothing to do with her “immersion” tour. Maybe they were just folks who didn’t want to live in the real world.
Or maybe it was a reenactment set. The small city, splayed out on the hillside, was so immense that half a dozen movies could be made simultaneously without anyone stumbling onto somebody else’s set.
Luckily, that meant there was plenty of space, enough room that she could spend the whole weekend there and never have to deal with Lord High and Mighty.
The breeze that had been blowing at their backs died as the drawbridge lifted back into place. Unfortunately, all possible smells—smells that could have been created by those hundreds of people—gathered together and punched her in the nose. She looked around her quickly, searching for the source. An outhouse was close enough she could taste it, and yes, she was desperate to use it, but the idea of going inside something that could smell that bad dried her bladder up instantly.
If she had to hold it for two days, she’d do it.
Her lord husband’s face contorted when he got a whiff of the same stuff. His nose twitched and his hand rose to cover his lower face. Apparently, wherever he was from, they weren’t used to stagnating outhouses either.
It was almost worth it. But not quite.
A balding man hurried up to their horses and started bowing to the Scotsman over and over again. “Beg pardon, yer lairdship, but we’ve had a rather odiferous accident this morn. Let us get you inside quickly and out of the stench.”
An accident? Excellent. At least it wasn’t the normal smell of things.
Her disturbingly handsome husband hopped off his horse and slowly came around to the side of hers. He lifted his arms up in a gesture that clearly said jump or I’ll make you regret it.
She pretended not to read his threat and pushed off, happy to run for the hills if necessary, so she could breathe again. He grabbed her waist and lowered her gently to the ground. She was floating, but the cloud she was floating through was neither white nor fluffy.
Gentle landing or not, it was enough to trigger her bladder again.
“I need to pee.”
He frowned for a second, then nodded. He looked at Peg. “Lady Ogilvy needs to be taken to her chambers immediately, to relieve herself.”
Sophie begrudgingly smiled at the guy who had no appreciation for Americans. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she hiked up her skirts and followed Peg, careful not to make too much eye contact on their way up the wide stone staircase, for fear that somebody might stop her.
If anyone stopped her, she’d pee her pants. Or lack of pants.
The cool air swirling around her bare legs didn’t help. Frantic now, Sophie hardly noticed much of the scenery as they hurried through a large entry hall and ducked through a doorway. But it wasn’t her promised chamber, it was more steps, a spiral staircase. It took all her concentration to keep her dress high enough so she wouldn’t trip over it as they climbed.
After what felt like two stories, they stumbled onto a wide landing. Peg hurried to open a set of double doors, then stood back to let Sophie enter first. She then pointed to a folding screen against the wall. When Sophie got to the other side of it, there was a stool with a hole in the top and some sort of bucket hanging just below the seat. No bathroom door. No toilet. No sink.
“Are you kidding me?” Her so-called lady in waiting stood just behind her. “I don’t think you understand. I need a restroom, a water closet, whatever you call it. I need to pee and I need to pee right now.”
“I understand, my lady.” She scooted around Sophie, grabbed a large gravy boat from the small table next to the stool and came toward her.
Sophie started backing away. “Just what are you planning to do with that?”
“Stand still, my lady.” She grabbed the bottom of Sophie’s dress, yanked it up, then swung the gravy boat up toward Sophie’s crotch. “Feet apart, madam.”
Sophie’s reaction was automatic, thanks to the drill sergeant in Peg’s voice. Without thinking, she took a step to the side, stared up at the ceiling, and allowed this perfect stranger to press cold porcelain between her legs. There was no time to argue. There was no time to blush. All she could think about was the size of the gravy boat and whether or not it was going to be big enough.
They both avoided eye contact while they listened to the pot fill. By the time her bladder was empty, she was sure that every drop of blood in her body had rushed to her face. She pulled her skirts up out of the way and turned her head to the side while the other woman carefully removed the gravy boat.
“Well,” Sophie said, “now I know why they wouldn’t let me wear underwear.”
~ ~ ~
After the ladies left, Bram remounted his horse for two reasons. First, he had to rise above the stench that seemed more pervasive the closer he was to the ground. Secondly, he needed a better view of the men around him.
“Who is in charge here?” He glowered from one man to the next waiting for one to speak up. An elderly gentleman with a rounded back struggled to raise his head high enough to meet Bram’s eye.
“That man would be you, sir.” He smiled quickly, then lowered his head again, his shoulders drooping in relief. Both of the man’s hands were gnarled fists holding tight to the tops of a pair of canes.
Bram showed pity and addressed his next question to a man on his left. “And before I arrived?”
The man’s eyes widened nervously. “No one, yer lairdship. We’ve been waiting for the king to send another.”
Bram struggled to hide his frustration. “And if I hadn’t arrived, from whom would you have taken orders?”
“That would be The Bull, sire.” A young man, perhaps sixteen years, rested his shoulder against a post while holding his nose closed with two fingers. Obviously, he thought the morning’s mishaps were too amusing to allow a bit of stench to chase him away.
“Who are ye? And where is this Bull?”
The young man laughed and pointed at the reeking privy house. “In there, sire. And I am Jericho.
Bram smiled, pointed to the crooked wooden structure, and nodded at the lad. “Go and fetch the man to me, Jericho.”
The lad’s amusement ceased immediately, but he obeyed. Though he covered his nose and mouth with both hands, his feet shuffled quickly across the way. He paused at the door as if he might dive inside but his courage failed him. He took a quick breath and shouted into the abyss. The poor lad held his breath and waited only long enough for a response before sprinting back to the safer side of the road. He pulled his shirt up over his face and took deep breaths, assuming his duties were done.
From inside the privy house, a large form emerged. It was immediately evident why the man was called The Bull. His shou
lders were nearly twice as broad as the lad’s had been, yet his height was average. And even then, the most bull-like feature was his broad head. The distance across the man’s face was impressive, and Bram had the immediate thought if a woman ever cared what her children would look like, she would steer clear of this man.
Protruding from both his generous nostrils were bits of white cloth. And the dark stains dripping from his forearms sent onlookers running.
The Bull glanced about, finally found Bram seated on the back of the horse, and nodded. “I assume, my laird, that ye’d prefer I bathe before we talk.”
Bram breathed carefully, determined not to run, not to scurry away like the rest. “You assume wrong, sir. There is little time for niceties. Though you may wash your hands if ye’re quick about it. I require that ye ride with me along the outer wall. And our master mason as well, if someone can find him.”
The elder man lifted one of his canes in the air, though he did not look up. “That would be myself, laird. Though I must confess I do not sit a horse well these days.”
Bram turned to Jericho. “Fetch a wagon for the mason. And afterward… Do ye fancy yerself a strong lad?”
“Aye, laird.”
“Can you find me two dozen others like yerself? Strong lads, all. Young and fit?”
Jericho straightened, drew his shoulders back, and nodded. “I can.”
“Assemble them in the lower bailey. I will meet you there in an hour.”
The lad nodded again then took off running, easily dancing around others in his path, then shooting like a cannonball once the way was clear. Bram wouldn’t be surprised if he had all twenty-four young men lined up in the bailey within the quarter hour.
Harris gestured to his own horse. “Would ye like me to come along, my lord?”
“Aye, I would that. I may need a bit of translating from one century to another. It has been a long time since I’ve spoken the native tongue.”
Harris’ brow furrowed in confusion, but he said nothing. Bram worried that perhaps his new attendant was unaware that he and the American were not from his century. And if so, that might prove to be a problem. As soon as he saw her again, he would have to warn Sophie to watch her tongue, or he would have to waste his noble deed on saving her from a witch’s pyre.
While he waited for the cart to arrive for the mason, his mind wandered to what might be transpiring inside the walls of the keep. If there were no garderobe available, he wondered just what his temporary lady wife might be thinking about piss pots.
CHAPTER TEN
The curtain wall was in better shape than Bram expected, at least from the outside. The small wagon rolled and bumped along behind the horses, but he only stopped to inquire of the mason three times during their circuit.
“What would you suggest here?” Bram pointed to a crack in the wall that was deep enough to accommodate the fingers of the enemy and tools that might pull the wall down.
“We have shored up this area on the inside of the wall, my lord. But perhaps we should come chisel away the rough bits, aye?”
“And re-pointing as well?”
“Yes. Wise. But we are sorely in need of materials for mortar.” He threw a meaningful look at Harris before lowering his head again.
Bram was satisfied that the old codger at least knew his trade, even if he were too old and twisted to accomplish any of it. “Tell me, sir, how many apprentices have you?”
“I had three until last year. After one of them was crushed to death, the other two decided to earn fat purses at the coliseum. And, as ye can imagine, I have had a difficult job of finding their replacements.”
“Well, sir, ye shall soon have two dozen.” Bram turned to The Bull. “Unless you have an excellent reason why it should be otherwise, every available man, including half of whatever men at arms we have, shall assist the mason for the next two months. Few other occupations will be necessary if there is no Inverbrae. And in two months’ time with concentrated effort, Inverbrae can be a castle worth wanting. Let us give our neighbors something to covet.”
“Aye, my lord.” But The Bull looked doubtful.
“If ye have reservations, sir, I would hear them now.”
The Bull shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I worry that ye are expecting our army to number more than it does. I fear ye will be disappointed when half of nothing is less than nothing.”
Bram frowned. “How many, then?”
The Bull sighed. “One hundred thirty-eight. Not a strong man among them.”
Bram laughed. “Not so bad as I expected. After all, there is little here worth defending, aye? And if the truth be told, I have fought these last years in an army of seventy-nine only.” He laughed again. “Cheer up, Bull. Never underestimate what a bit of mason work will do for a weak arm, aye?”
He turned to Harris.
“Now. Tell me about this coliseum.”
~ ~ ~
In the center of Inverbrae sat a large stone coliseum that had obviously been built with the resources the city was lacking. It was small in comparison to its Roman namesake, but its purpose was the same.
Hundreds of men, women, and children sat on long stone benches and watched four men wrestling in the center, which was covered in grass, not dirt. Their bodies were greased, and their only clothing was a dark pair of leather short pants that served as the only reasonable way to hold onto one another, to try to control one’s opponent.
Grease wrestling, from Turkey. The oldest competition in the world. And judging from the size and enthusiasm of the crowd, Bram realized he now held the town of Inverbrae right in the palm of his hands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sophie sat on a chair in the corner of the room and waited for the floor to open up and swallow her. She was never going to walk out the door and face anyone ever again. She would never leave that room, or let anyone inside.
But she also wanted out of there. So, if she didn’t want to face anyone, she’d just have to sneak out in the middle of the night.
Yeah. That’s it. I’ll leave when it’s dark.
If she ever saw Peg again she would literally die of embarrassment. Maybe she would blush so hot and so fast, she would just go up in flames, and no one would ever see her again. When she never returned home, her friends and family would be more than happy to fight over what was still in her bank account.
She’d been an idiot not to tell anyone where she was headed. These people could make her do all kinds of stuff, pee in all kinds of containers if they wanted her to. And there was nobody to stop the madness.
For a minute there, she’d hoped Bram was ally material in this silly survival game. If it came down to it, she thought she might be able to count on him to get her out of there. But it seemed he was not just a fellow victim but part of the cast. His suggestion had been a dead giveaway—that Wickham was some sort of time traveler who had delivered them both to the seventeenth century.
Hah!
Obviously, she’d been blinded for a little while by that kiss. But the glittery haze of that moment was gone and she could see clearly again, thank you very much. He was one of them, and she was all alone, stuck in the Twilight Zone. And to keep from really freaking out and making a scene, she would keep on believing that they were going to let her go home after the weekend.
She groaned and rubbed her eyes with the balls of her hands.
Why couldn’t she have just gone on a Jacobite tour of Loch Ness, whatever that was? Take a nice boat ride, tour a castle, or the whisky distilleries? But no, she had to go to the most backward spot in the Highlands where you had to choose between a broken outhouse and peeing in a gravy boat.
She would never, ever, for the rest of her life, have gravy.
Every time she thought about it, she could feel that cold thing between her legs. She could hear it filling. If she’d have had one more cup of coffee that morning…
She glanced around the room. There wasn’t a phone, that was for sure, so she couldn’t call room service
and ask them to please bring up a bigger gravy boat. And she sure as hell was not going to eat any solid food until she was back in civilization.
There was a knock on the door. She didn’t move. Maybe they would think she had gone back outside, and go away. But apparently, in jolly old Scotland, people didn’t just knock and wait. They knocked and came in. What if she’d been changing her clothes or something?
It was Peg, so she immediately blushed. Of course, it wasn’t Peg’s fault she’d done what she’d done. If Sophie had peed her pants, or rather her no-pants, then Peg might have been the one who had to clean up the mess. She’d probably just saved herself an even grosser job.
Sophie grasped for something cheerful to say, but when she opened her mouth the only thing that came out—and the only thing that had come out since the incident—was, “I’m so sorry.”
The woman made a hissing sound. “Go on with ye, now. Nothing to be ashamed of here. Ye’ll get the hang of things soon enough. ‘Tis a new place after all, and every castle has its own ways. And when ye are in less of a hurry, I can show you where the garderobe is.”
“Garderobe?”
“Aye, there is a privy inside the castle. The previous Laird Ogilvy was an odd sort, but he did have some interesting ideas, and one of them was to have a permanent place for relieving himself. It is all very complicated, but there is a hole, and ye sit above it, and when ye’ve finished, ye pour a bit of water in after. It is for keeping down the smell, ye ken?” She pointed to Sophie’s clothes. “Now, if ye’d care to change out of yer riding habit, we can get ye smartened up for the evening meal.”
The woman may have said evening meal, but all Sophie heard was solid food. And she still didn’t know exactly what a garderobe was.
“I am not very hungry. And I didn’t bring any other clothes with me.”
“Yer own things should arrive in a week or two, but we’ll find something passable in these trunks. The previous lady of the castle was a tall woman, like yerself.”
