by Diane Darcy
Jerry managed to recapture her wrist and glared down into her face. “Let me do the talking—”
She clawed at his wrist. “I will be the one doing the talking.”
Jerry screamed, but didn’t release her so she didn’t let up. She just kept digging her fingernails into him and he finally jerked his hands back, releasing her, his expression contorted as he shrieked, “You bloody, awful witch. Let go.”
She didn’t have time to be offended. She needed to get that crown before he claimed it for his own.
“She be a witch, ye say?” The guy, probably security, asked, this time in thickly accented English.
Jerry, arms up, blocked her attempts to grab the crown. “Yes, she’s definitely a witch. And a lot of other things, as well. Stop it, Samantha. It’s over. I’ve got witnesses that the crown is mine, and you hopping about and acting like a kangaroo isn’t going to change that. Enough.”
She jumped for the crown again, this time knocking it to the ground.
They both dove for it and Samantha got there first. She skipped back, holding it up in triumph. “Now who’s got possession?” She turned to run, determined to reach the gate before Jerry could stop her, when strong, burly arms closed around her from behind, effectively trapping her arms at her sides, forcing her to drop the crown.
An older, wizened man with crazy white hair picked up the crown, studied it, and then lifted a malevolent gaze to Samantha. He thrust the crown into the air and in a strong voice said, “Ye heard her, did ye not? From her own mouth, she admits she’s bedeviled, a possessed witch. Gather the firewood.”
Chapter Four
Samantha tilted her head to look at the guy behind her, and got a glance of a big, frightened face, before he jerked his head out of her view, leaving a brawny shoulder encased in a dirty white shirt within her line of vision.
“What...what are you doing?” She wiggled against the tall, hard-muscled body, and fought to free herself. “Seriously,” her voice rose in pitch. “What are you doing? Let go of me!” Her hands clenched and unclenched, trying to find some part of the guy to claw or pinch, but she couldn’t move, the bear hug effectively trapping her.
Jerry reached for the crown, but was thwarted as the old guy held it behind his back.
Jerry straightened. “Now, see here—”
“See, what?” A young, dirty, unkempt man, shorter and stockier than Jerry, loomed beside the old guy, his chest and chin jutting aggressively.
Jerry, eyes wide, took a step back. “It’s just that the crown belongs to me. Sir,” he added, and swallowed audibly. “If you could please give it back, I’ll just be on my way.”
Samantha struggled. “Jerry, you lying thief.” She bent her upper body forward, but her captor tightened his hold, squeezing like a boa constrictor, leaving her breathless. “The crown is mine,” she gasped out. “I found it. I claim credit for finding it.”
Jerry’s face was visibly sweating. “Don’t listen to her, she’s delusional.”
Ignoring them both, the brute advanced toward Jerry, forcing him backward.
The old guy lifted the crown into the air like a trophy. “Do ye see? The riches of the devil are hers for the taking.”
With a sound more rage than fear, Samantha tried to tug away, but the man standing behind her was solid, twice or more her weight, and forcing him to let her go just wasn’t happening. She was trapped. She let out a breath and relaxed against the unbathed barbarian at her back, letting him take her weight. He didn’t let her go, just continued to smell strongly of onions, woodsmoke, and body odor.
She tilted her head to get a look at the behemoth, but again, he ducked his face out of view, his shoulder hunching. “Are you the police? Is this some sort of sting operation? Because I assure you I wasn’t stealing the crown. I was going to call the Edinburgh University at first light. I’m Samantha Ryan. You can check my credentials if you want. I’m sure you’ll see that—”
She glanced around and suddenly realized police floodlights weren’t illuminating the area.
It was daytime.
The light was sunlight.
Full light. As in midday. Not just sunrise, though she’d labored for hours to unearth the Crown of Scotland.
Confused, she glanced around and found herself standing in the middle of a medieval village. Jerry’s jaw slackened, his eyes confused as he gazed from one place to another, taking everything in.
“Jerry? It’s daytime...the huts...their clothing...” Her voice quavered. “How did that happen?”
He finally turned, shrugging helplessly, his eyes wide, his mouth working. He looked more out of his depth than she’d ever seen him.
Eyes on Jerry, on the only person making any kind of sense to her befuddled brain, she shook her head slightly. “What is going on here?”
“I... I really don’t know.” He started backing away, toward a wooded area. “Maybe we should get going. Get back to our cars. You know what, Samantha? You’re absolutely right. You found the crown. I was just a bystander at the event. You figured out where it was, you dug it up, the find is yours.” He backed up a few more steps, away from the village and into the vegetation.
She glanced around. The men wore stockings, tunics, and leather boots. Women and children wore long skirts, sleeveless tunics, and wimples covered the ladies’ hair. All the material appeared to be wool.
She viewed the fifty or so homes, the village. There was a blacksmith shop, and a church, complete with graveyard. Further on, a mill stood at the edge of the houses next to a stream. She looked out into the fields, heavy with crops.
She turned to her left to gawk at the castle, higher up on the hill, surrounded by trees, a ruin no longer.
Then she examined the monument, not ten feet away, smack in the center of the village square, the birds freshly carved, and the ground at the eastern base undisturbed. Just beyond, three men stacked wood on a bare spot on the ground. She tensed. Surely they were kidding about burning her. They only wanted to scare her. Right?
The noise level rose as more and more villagers walked over to see what was happening. Occasional shouts of witch, and sorceress rang out.
Jerry stood just inside the bushes and trees at the edge of the village. Her heart thudded hard in her chest as she stated calmly, “Jerry, please don’t leave me here. At least stay with me as I try and sort this out.”
Another man came forward, an ax over his shoulder. His muscle and bulk were impressive, his feet bare. He headed to join the men splitting wood.
Jerry chuckled nervously as his eyes darted about. He gestured her forward, both hands beckoning as he backed away. “Why don’t you just come with me? Leave the crown. We’ll sort the whole thing out later, all right?”
Samantha studied the two men in front of her, the young man’s eyebrows drawn down, his face set in determination, his arms crossed. The older man stood still, stern-faced, craggy, and unforgiving.
“That’s a good idea.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sir, if you could just release me, my associate and I will be on our way.”
“The witch is no free to leave.” The old man glared at her. “We’ll no have a witch wandering about the wood cursing our land, livestock, and children.” He jutted his chin at Jerry. “Ye may go. Within the hour, her influence over ye shall be ended. Go in peace and gratitude for this boon, else share her fate.”
Sweat broke out on Samantha’s back and her heart pounded against her breastbone. “What do you mean, share her fate. What fate?”
The old man turned back, his face hard, his wrinkles accentuated by his frown. “Thou shalt no’ suffer a witch to live.”
She swallowed. “Is this some sort of joke because I was trespassing? Because I dug up the crown? I’m not a witch and this isn’t the 14th century.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye. ’Tis the 13th. And wi’ hair the color of sin, think ye that ye can fool us into believing ye other than a witch? And a gown such as yours serves no purpose but to tempt man into si
n. Think ye we do no’ have eyes in our head to see such?” He pointed at Jerry, still at the tree line. “This man, yer own companion, named ye such. We all heard him speak it.” He waved a hand at the gathering crowd. “Did we no’?”
She glanced down at her dress, but it was modest and covered every inch of her. What was the man talking about?
There were murmurs of agreement and, as they studied her, actual fear on the faces of the men, women, and children moving closer. Most women hid their children behind their skirts.
She swallowed again. The 13th century?
Samantha shook her head, putting that thought aside. “You’ve got it all wrong. Jerry and I are colleagues, competitors. Sometimes things get a little heated. Tell them, Jerry.” Samantha looked to the tree-line, but he was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at the crowd, pressing closer, and felt a trill of fear race up her spine. “Jerry?” she yelled, unable to believe he’d left her. She could only hope he’d gone for help.
The man holding her pressed her forward and spoke for the first time. “Come, witch,” the man’s deep voice was slightly breathless, fear lacing his tone. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we put an end to yer miserable existence.”
She kicked back at him with her running shoes and he squeezed her tight, cutting off her air until she stopped. “Okay.” She gasped. “Okay. But I’m not a witch. And I’m certainly not living a miserable existence. I like my life just fine.” They were taking this way too far. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have rights, you know. I insist on talking to the person in charge.”
She looked at the grizzled man in front of her, at his sinister, hostile expression, and really hoped it wasn’t him.
Another man, this one thin and anxious, stepped forward to confer in Gaelic with the two in front of her. The way they gestured toward her made her nervous.
Were they trying to frighten her? Teach her a lesson? If so, she was learning it really well. Never, ever trespass on MacGregor land. These people were crazy.
The crowd watched—interest, fascination, and fear in their gazes.
The three men ended their conversation and the old guy straightened importantly, his chest puffed out. “Witches have no rights.”
Apparently that was all the man behind her needed to hear. He shoved her forward again, closer to the monument, closer to the guys playing cut-and-stack-the wood just beyond.
“Wait!” She tried to resist the immovable object behind her and the guy actually stopped. “I’m not a witch.” Desperation tinged her voice. “Just because you say I am does not make it so. Anyway, why are we arguing about this? There are no such things as witches.”
“Nae such things?” The old man repeated, his tone full of scorn. “Only a witch would make such a claim.”
She struggled again. “Let me go. Do you guys know how freaky you’re being?” She tried to shake off the man’s grasp, but he simply shoved her forward, through the crowd of people who scurried back, women pulling their children and skirts aside, as if fearful of contamination. “Look, can I please talk to someone in charge? Don’t I have that right?”
“Himself does no’ have time for the likes of ye. Think ye to fool us?” The old guy’s lips curled, showing missing and yellowed teeth. “Look to your hair, your dress. ’Tis obvious ye serve the dark one. Hair that color could only have come from the realms of Satan himself.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the gathering crowd.
“Or from a bottle of hair dye,” she said loudly, deciding to withhold the fact that it was called Hades Red. “Look. Some guy I had never met was hired to color my hair. Normally it’s more like,” she looked around and spotted an auburn-haired teen. She jutted her chin forward. “That boy’s hair color. This is supposed to fade quickly back to my natural shade.”
The old man’s stone-faced expression said he didn’t really care. “What of your dress? Only a temptress of Satan would wear a gown that reveals her enticements.”
Enticements? She finally noted the other ladies in the crowd wore loose fitting clothes. Who were these people? Religious fanatics? She could literally feel herself sweating with fear. “I didn’t choose this dress. It was selected for me, just like the hair color. I may have come here without an invitation,” she thought that sounded better than trespassing and theft. “But I’m innocent of consorting with Satan, I can tell you that for certain. Now, again, I have to ask, who is in charge here?”
“The MacGregor is in charge, but we dinna wish to disturb him over such a small matter.”
She let out a breath. The MacGregor. Okay. Good. Someone else in charge was wonderful news. Hopefully the man had a little more sense. “My life is not a small matter to me. And you don’t know for sure how the laird will feel about your accosting me. You could get in big trouble for something like this. Big trouble.” She stressed.
“Laird MacGregor is like to be hard wi’ ye.” The thin, anxious man spoke up. “He isna a merciful man. He’ll likely be glad to see you burnt so as to keep ye from causing trouble to the land. Better that we should just end yer existence quickly and mercifully.”
She wracked her brain to try and remember what, if anything, she knew about the current Laird MacGregor, but came up blank. As usual, she’d been much more interested in the past than in the present. But what she did clearly hear was that they didn’t want Laird MacGregor finding out they were about to commit murder. Even if the anxious man was right, and it was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire—in this case literally—what did she care? Either way she was cooked. This way gave her more time to figure something out.
“Bring her,” the old guy stated, his tone implacable.
“Wait. Wait a minute,” she shrieked as she was manhandled forward again. “Get Laird MacGregor!”
The man at her back stopped again. “Willie, mayhap we should—”
“Listen not to the trickery of witches.”
“Willie, sir.” Samantha made her voice as placating as possible. “If you could please just—”
“Silence. Bring her.”
As if to make up for his doubt, the man at her back shoved her past the monument to Ian MacGregor's mother. She could see the birds carved into the side of the rock, clear, deep, and fresh. She could see the base at the east side with very little grass, the dirt undisturbed.
Fear and begging for her life had kept her from analyzing the 13th century comment, but really, what was going on here?
She looked up the road to see the castle, what she could spot of it anyway, hidden by trees the way it was. The glimpse didn’t tell her much.
She quickly considered the facts as she knew them.
First, she’d found the crown. Second, she’d fought with Jerry. Third, Jerry had placed the crown on his head. Fourth, night had turned into day. Fifth, the monument was different, newer. Sixth, the same monument was now in the middle of a medieval village. She knew for a fact that there hadn’t been a village here before. Not for centuries, anyway. And seventh, she was about to be burned alive if she didn’t think her way out of this.
She analyzed the area. It looked authentic. It smelled authentic. So, she was in the same location, different time of day, and, from the looks of the crops and vegetation, a different time of year.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think she and Jerry had time traveled to the past.
She tried to scoff at the notion.
Time travel was impossible. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t like she’d studied the science or anything, but she was in intelligent woman. She’d certainly have heard about time travel if it was available.
And yet...all the facts fit.
On the other hand, they might not have heard anything about it if it meant people just time traveled and ended up elsewhere, burnt as witches, never to be seen again. If she and Jerry didn’t turn up, they might simply be written off as victims of foul play.
If she really had traveled through time, if this actually was the 13th century, cou
ld that mean Ian MacGregor, her Ian MacGregor, was Laird? Doubtful. The guy had only been laird for three or four months.
Was she going insane? Was she buying into this madness?
She was pulled to a stop in front of the freshly dug hole, deep, but small in diameter.
She swallowed hard. There was no way this could end well.
~~~
Three men set a debarked tree pole in the hole, then gestured her forward.
She fought as the man at her back pushed her. “Let go of me! You have no right.”
Three men subdued her and she didn’t stand a chance. They quickly tied her to the pole. Wood and straw were briskly shoved around her feet, scraping and poking at her legs. It seemed like everyone in the village helped. Again, the phrase out of the frying pan and into the fire came to mind. These people truly were going to burn her.
She felt her body break out in a cold sweat as she glanced helplessly around at the pressing crowd. She realized she was crying, her lips and chin trembling. They couldn’t do this. People just didn’t do this. “I...I demand to see Laird MacGregor. Laird Ian MacGregor.”
The men stacking wood seemed to pause. Several looked toward the old man, Willie, who shook his head. “Listen not to the tricks of this Jezebel.”
Did that mean they knew him? “Please, stop this. You’re making a huge mistake. Huge.” She saw a man holding the crown up to the sunlight, watching the gold and the jewels sparkle. As it was Ian MacGregor who’d buried the crown under the monument, and if she’d actually traveled through time using the thing, maybe Ian MacGregor was the draw? Maybe he really was here? Tourney winner, champion; if anyone could save her, he could. A desperate girl could hope, right?
A man walked across the square with a burning torch and fear made her voice shrill as words spewed out of her before she knew what she was going to say. “I was sent here by King Alexander III to deliver The Crown of Scotland to Laird Ian MacGregor, a man who protected the king and has earned his trust. If you kill me, if you prevent me from delivering not only the crown, but the message whispered to me directly from the king, he and Laird MacGregor, together, will burn this village and everyone in it to the ground!”
