by Diane Darcy
What was he doing?
She was, no doubt, using her wiles and enchantments upon him—whether a witch or woman, it mattered not. All the same, moving away from her, watching her eyes fill with disappointment, was one of the most difficult things he’d done in his life. He released her and a sharp breath left his lips as he backed to the stairs.
She swallowed. “Are you going to let me out?”
“Nay.” Turning he hastened down the steps. “Ye’ll stay here ’til I can take you away from this place. For your own safety.” And my own piece of mind.
“You know,” she yelled after him. “You have a lot of nerve accusing me of being a witch when you’re the one casting spells around here.”
Truly? She thought him a caster of spells? She sounded so disgruntled—about missing out on his kiss?—he couldn’t help it. He laughed in unabashed wonder, even as he locked her in and hurried away.
Chapter Nine
Jerry woke slowly, the ale from the night before making him groggy and listless. A man, late thirties or so, with brown hair, a hooded cap, and wearing what looked to be medieval priest’s garb stared down at him. Jerry blinked, uncomprehending.
“Oh, good, yer awake.”
Jerry, confused and muddle-headed, slowly sat up, aches and pains protesting all over his body as he looked around. He tongued his broken tooth and pulled his knees to his chest. It hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t even been a nightmare. It was all too real.
“Where do you come from, my son? You look...” he waved a hand around to indicate all of Jerry, “different.”
Jerry glanced down at his crumpled linen shirt and slacks, then slowly stood, groaning as more pain throbbed and shot through him, sensations he’d never suffered in his life. He disturbed a dog, who also sat up to yawn, the sharp white teeth completely displayed for a moment, before the animal closed its mouth and licked its muzzle. It came back to Jerry then. It had been the worst night of his life, freezing cold, hard-packed earth, but it could have been far worse without the dog to keep him warm. Asking around for a blanket had earned him a swift kick to his calf, and another man had spit on him, so he’d lain in the dirt on the outskirts of the others, curled up, and tried to conserve body heat. When the dog had come by, he’d tried to keep the dirty thing away from him, but after a while, cold, and the realization that becoming filthy in this place was inevitable, had him snuggling close to the animal.
An unexpected spurt of gratitude for the beast rushed through him. As it gazed up, he patted the dog’s head. The mutt—brown, medium-sized, straggly fur hanging in its eyes—wagged its tail. It seemed strange in the clear light of day, but in the middle of the night, without the dog’s body heat, he felt he would have died.
“Are you well?”
Jerry glanced down at the grime on his formerly immaculate clothing and grimaced. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Come then. We’ll break our fast together. Everything will look better ere ye’ve some food in your belly.”
Jerry stayed on the edges of the large room where a ton of people had bedded down the night before among straw, blankets, and pallets. Men lifted and set out tables and benches, serving girls carried in bowls of food, and Jerry realized he was starving. He hadn’t eaten a thing since...since the bag of honey-roasted peanuts on the airplane.
The priest beckoned him onto a bench, exposing a chubby leg as he lifted his gown and climbed over the bench, seating himself. He pulled a bowl and spoon out of his robe, held it up, and a girl came by and ladled a gruel-like substance into it which looked disgusting, but smelled divine.
The priest glanced at him. “Where is your bowl?”
Jerry shrugged helplessly. “I don’t have one.”
“Don’t have a bowl? I suppose you’ve naught a spoon either?”
When Jerry shook his head, the priest asked, “Stolen, were they?”
Jerry shrugged helplessly, not even surprised by the strange turn of conversation. Everything here was strange.
The priest turned to the girl. “There’s a good lass, get the poor man a bowl and spoon.”
The girl’s brows pulled together in irritation. “Yes, Father Thomas.” She turned and headed to the kitchen amid shouts from the other diners. Quickly returning, she shot Jerry a dark look and said, “Cook says he’ll carve out your liver do you lose these, so ye’d best be about keepin’ ’em on yer person.”
Jerry took the humble wooden bowl and spoon with a nod, and a meek, “Thank you, I will.” He was no longer surprised they seemed to value such meager possessions. One thing was for sure, Scotland was struck off his list of places to visit in future. He didn’t vacation in third world countries. He liked his amenities.
The priest beamed. “I’ll find you a new kit to carry such items about.”
“Thank you.”
While filling his bowl, the girl smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “What nice manners you have, and such a pretty face too.”
“Thank you,” but he was looking at the gruel, feeling pathetically grateful for the food.
With a laugh, she sauntered off to fill more bowls.
He scooped the food into his mouth, a runny concoction with some sort of unsweetened grain, and had to stop himself from groaning aloud at the wonderful taste. He took another few bites, then heard a soft whimper. He looked down to see the dog. He took another bite, and then another, and then, with a fourth of it left, he did something completely uncharacteristic. He lowered his dish to the ground and let the dog lick the last out of the bowl.
When the animal had finished, it looked up, and Jerry patted the dog on the head.
The priest chuckled. “Now, you’ve done it. She’ll not leave you alone and you’ll have to name the little lady.”
Jerry was still patting the dog. “You think it’s a girl?”
The man raised a brow. “’Tis obvious.”
Jerry gave her one last pat. “Then I’ll call her Lady.”
The priest laughed. “A less noble-looking creature would be hard to find, but suit yourself. Now, are you feeling better? You look less rattled, to be sure.”
“I am feeling better, thank you.”
“How came you to be here?”
Jerry glanced around the room, but no one seemed to pay them any attention, and thankfully, Mad Malcolm was nowhere in sight. He considered whether or not he could trust the priest, but decided to take the chance. In a low tone he said, “I was brought here against my will.”
The priest didn’t look surprised. “From where?”
“Near Inverdeem Castle.”
“You’re no MacGregor. What did you there?”
“I drove there from the Edinburgh Airport. I was with a friend who’s doing some archaeological work, and I was assisting.”
The man looked confused.
Jerry swallowed. “I need to get back to her.”
“Back to MacGregor land?”
He considered all that had happened since he’d arrived. “Maybe Edinburgh would be a better idea. I could contact the police there and take them with me to try and retrieve my friend.” He just couldn’t, wouldn’t, face the possibility that Samantha might be dead. Not unless he had to.
“Depending on conditions, Edinburgh is a sennight or fortnight journey from here. You’d need Laird Campbell’s protection to travel so far.”
Jerry stared at the man. “Inverdeem Castle was just over an hour from Edinburgh.”
The priest laughed. “As the crow flies, perhaps. And if it were a fast crow at that.” He laughed again.
Jerry was getting a very bad feeling about this. He looked around at the dirt and the filth. The clothing the others wore, the lack of anything modern, and allowed himself for the first time to entertain the idea that maybe he wasn’t where he thought he was. “What is the year?”
“The year of our lord, 1260.”
Jerry stared at him. “That would make this medieval Scotland.”
“Eh?”
“Are we in
the 21st century?”
The priest laughed. “21st century, indeed. Christ will come long before then.” When Jerry didn’t respond, couldn’t, the man asked, “Were you bashed about the head, my son?”
Jerry didn’t answer.
“Do you come from money?”
Again, Jerry didn’t respond, too caught up in the possibility—the horror—that he could really be in medieval times.
“I only ask because, by yer clothing, it seems you might come from money. I thought perhaps that was the reason Laird Campbell kept you unharmed. Is he hoping to ransom you? Who are your people?”
If this actually was medieval Scotland, what had happened to Samantha? He swallowed hard. Had she truly been burned at the stake, or had that been some sort of weird, sick joke? Perhaps by a...a...historical society or something. That made more sense than medieval Scotland. Maybe they were angry about Samantha digging up the crown and wanted to teach her a lesson? He should never have run away and left her yesterday. He should have protected her. He shouldn’t have let fear turn him into a coward.
But his own situation had been precarious. Still was, for that matter. How could he have helped her when he couldn’t even help himself?
Couldn’t this all be an elaborate trick of some kind? If he just walked down the road would he find himself back in the 21st century, or would he simply find himself still unprotected in medieval Scotland, a target for more bandits? He pressed his hands to his face for a moment, then straightened.
He looked up to find Mad Malcolm had entered the room and watched him. Fear trickled up his spine.
“Your family?” prompted the priest.
Jerry lowered his gaze. “The Callahans. My name is Jerry Callahan.”
“Ah. You’re Irish then? No money there, I’d wager.”
Was he really in medieval Scotland? Could he be?
His stomach clenched, threatening to dislodge the small portion of gruel he’d eaten.
He was in so much trouble. If he—if they—had actually somehow traveled through time, that meant Samantha was probably dead, burned as a witch. The memory of her begging him to return was like a knife in his chest. He had run away. He pressed his palms to his eye-sockets. Like a coward, he had just left her there to die. He should have stayed. But if they’d killed her, then they would have likely killed him too. He just wished that excuse gave him any sort of peace.
He needed to get back to MacGregor land and find out for certain. And then he...no, they needed to get hold of that crown. It had to be the key. They’d been fighting over it, he’d placed it on his head, and it had gone from night to day. If he could just get that crown, they could go home again. He wanted his life back, and he hoped to heaven that Samantha still had hers.
~~~
At mid-day Ian sat at the dinner table, but he wasn’t eating. He was thinking of the woman. Samantha. He liked her unusual name. He liked quite a bit about her, and was still wondering what it would have been like to kiss her plump lips. To pull her close. Would she have kissed him back? Would she have—
“Ian, dear,” Janetta said. “Are you well? D’ye have enough to eat, dearest?”
He squelched a flare of irritation. “I’m fine. I thank you, though.” He was grateful for her care, he reminded himself. She’d been as a mother to him, the first he’d had since his own died. His father’s wife had picked at him until his father had finally sent him to live with his English uncle for most of the year. Certainly his uncle’s wife hadn’t taken the slightest interest in him, but at least she hadn’t wished him dead. By the age of ten he’d been farmed out to de Burgh for his training and visits to his English and Scottish homes had come farther apart, and then disappeared altogether.
“Weel, yer not eating enough to keep a body alive, are ye? If you’re worried about poison, you should know I spoke to Cook earlier. No one is allowed near your food. I brought it out myself, and I’ve not moved from this spot.”
Ian suppressed a sigh and threw Janetta a tight smile. He’d also found being fussed over had its disadvantages. She meant well. It was just that he found her mothering to be both blessing and a curse at times. “I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry.” He’d actually eaten something earlier. A loaf of bread he’d filched from the kitchen when he’d dropped in unexpectedly, and could be reasonably sure was untainted—after all, ‘twasn’t for him especially.
“You might wish to try as Cook and wee Jeannie have gone to much effort. Look at Brecken, then. He’s got a hearty appetite, has he not?” She watched Brecken cram his gullet, a pleased expression on her face.
Brecken laughed. “I don’t know how you got so large, Ian. As much as I eat, I should be the more sizable cousin.”
Beth, sitting on Brecken’s other side, passed a bowl of butter. “There are only so many people the poisoner could be.”
Ian glanced up. “You suspect someone?”
Beth shook her head. “We hate to think it could be one of our own, but a stranger would be out of place, noticed and remembered. Only so many have the necessary access to the kitchen to do the deed.”
Ian looked at the food on his own plate. With a sigh, he threw some of the meat to the dog waiting nearby. A few minutes later the dog was still alive and looking hopefully for more. Ian finally took a bite. ’Twas better than listening to them go on about it.
“There, now.” Looking pleased Janetta went back to her embroidery. “Now that that concern is behind me, I’d like to discuss the witch in the tower.”
“She’s no witch. What about her?”
“D’ye honestly think it a good idea to keep her?”
“What else was I to do wi’ her?”
“Mayhap you should not have interfered with the villagers. Now I worry they will rise against us and try and take the witch. I doona wish anyone I love getting hurt over such a female.”
Ian’s lips curved. “Think you they’d dare act against me?”
The men within hearing laughed. “Not likely,” Brecken grinned. “They fear ye too much.”
Janetta’s jaw tightened. “Don’t tempt fate.”
“I don’t believe she’s a witch,” Beth spoke up.
“Nor do I,” Ian said. “But she is interesting. I need to question her more. After I have the answers I want, I’ll escort her to her destination.” But the thought of her leaving had his jaw tightening. Mayhap he’d not get all his answers until after the snow fell. She’d have to stay until spring. Perhaps even summer.
“But her hair. I’ve heard ’tis depraved.”
Beth snorted. “She’s just been trying to pretty herself up, same as any girl will do. I remember the time I caught my Tori smearing ashes on her cheeks because some of the other girls did so. And I asked her what she was thinkin’ about? Would she dig a hole and lie in it if the other girls did? I ask you.”
“I agree,” Ian said. “’Tis just a woman’s trick to make herself more beautiful. Not everyone is like you, Aunt, with natural beauty.”
She smiled, as he’d hoped she would.
“When do I get to see her?” Brecken asked.
Irritation flashed through Ian but before he could say anything, Tori slammed a platter onto the table beside Brecken and everyone turned to see Tori stomping toward the kitchens.
Brecken half-rose to go after the girl, then looked at his mother and subsided, but he continued to glance at the entry.
As they quieted, Ian could hear some of the single men at the next table. One man described the witch to his companions. The men listened with rapt attention, and a bit of fear, mayhap, but when the speaker lifted his hands to his chest, exaggerating curves, Ian cleared his throat loudly, capturing their attention, and sending them back to their meals, quiet now, eyes averted.
He sighed and realized if he wanted peace, he might have to uncover the female’s mysteries and send the woman on her way. Who was she? Where did she come from? Why did she have the crown? And most nagging of all, how had she truly known where he’d hidden it?<
br />
The girl might be intelligent, but the falderal about the claws on his mother’s monument being obvious didn’t set well with him. She’d only just arrived in the village and the grass was well grown over the spot. He’d have the mystery solved before she set foot off his property.
Again he remembered the way she’d cursed the villagers. The girl didn’t have an ounce of fear in her. She’d been the one tied to the stake, but the villagers were frightened for their lives when he’d arrived.
“Cousin,” Brecken called out. “What’s happening to your face? Your lips are turning upward, an occurrence I’ve not witnessed before. Are you well?”
Ian’s brows slammed downward and he shot his young cousin a glare as he stood. Had he been smiling? Over the woman? Perhaps he was turning as idiot as the rest of them. The last concern he needed was the lot of them thinking him besotted. “What’s that cousin? Ye find yourself in need of training? Come, let me teach you a lesson or two.”
Brecken laughed and waved his hands in front of him. “Nae, leave off. Never did I see you smile, I’ll swear to it. Besides, I’ve yet to finish my supper.” He glanced toward the kitchens once more.
Ian narrowed his eyes. “Gather the men at sext. I’ll see you soon.” He bowed to Janetta and Beth. “Ladies, if ye’ll excuse me?”
He headed toward the front doors, still determined to question Samantha, but unwilling to climb the stairs with everyone looking on. He’d wait until everyone cleared out. He’d have his questions answered. The sooner the woman left, the better.
He sighed. Mayhap that was a decision best left for another day.
In the meantime, perhaps in a hard training his men he’d find peace.
~~~
Hours later, when the sky started to darken, Ian released the men from their training and headed up to the tower. There was a silent crowd standing in the gloom beyond view of the door, balancing on the steps, and listening. The bread baker stood, his ear cocked to one side. Two of the spinners stared at the locked door, one clutching a wooden cross. One of the minstrels, the clerk’s assistant, and even the boy who turned the spit for Cook stood still, all attention on the tower door.
