In the Time of Kings

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “Roslin?”

  I blink in disbelief at Mariota. Both joy and anger surge in my chest.

  I grab her hand and haul her into the closest tent. “What are you doing here? As soon as Malcolm finds out — or Henry or Archibald for that matter — they’ll send you back. You know that?”

  “I had to come.”

  “You didn’t have to. I did.” I’m trying to be forceful with her, but it’s beyond hard. “Now leave. It’s too dangerous for you here.”

  “No. Not yet.” She burrows against my chest. “I needed to see you again.”

  How can I be angry with her? The sound of her breathing fills my ears, surrounds me, calms me. It would’ve been better if she had stayed away. It was hard enough to leave her at Blacklaw. But ... I needed this, too.

  When I was first dropped into this world, I was sure it was only a dream. But day after day I woke up, still in the fourteenth century, running from an enemy I did not claim. I have been cold, starving and exhausted to the bone. Yet I have survived this far and in that triumph, in many ways, I feel more alive in this world than I had in my own.

  Until now, my only goal had been to get through each day, so I could get back to where I had come from. But how? When? I don’t even know how I got here. Or maybe ...

  It’s as if someone launched a kick to my gut. The realization sucks every last drop of denial out of me.

  I am Roslin Sinclair — and I can never go back.

  This is my life now. She is my reason for living it.

  My fingers wind through the hair loosely gathered at the back of her neck. I tilt her head, bring her trembling mouth to mine, and press a kiss upon her plump lips, then another and another, until finally her mouth parts.

  In that moment, my world changes.

  Mariota returns my kisses with an urgent passion. Her hands slide around my neck, her hold on me decidedly possessive. Blood thunders through my veins, propelled by a racing heart. I steal a much needed breath between kisses and look deep into her eyes.

  “Roslin,” she whispers breathily, “there is something I need to tell you.”

  I love the sound of my name on her lips. I touch a finger to her mouth, trace around its edges. “Mariota, I —”

  “Sir Roslin?” Malcolm pulls back the tent flap. The heat in his gaze flares, then dampens as his eyes flick from Mariota to me and back again. “Mariota, you should not be here.”

  So I’ve told her.

  “Sir Roslin, Lord Archibald requests your presence.”

  I break away from Mariota. “What is so important it can’t wait five bloody minutes?!”

  He pushes the tent flap wider. Firelight spills around his hulking form, casting his face in wavering shadow. “Edward has reached an agreement with the citizens of Berwick.”

  I nod. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  A few moments pass before he lets the flap fall shut. In the now dimmed light, I turn to Mariota and wrap her in my arms.

  “There’s something I need to tell you first,” I breathe. “Something that will make sense of everything I’ve said or done until now. But you have to believe that I’m in my right mind and what I say is true. I have no reason to lie.”

  She turns her face to mine, her fingertips exploring my jawline, my cheek, my forehead as if she means to impress the memory of my features upon her touch for eternity. “I already know.”

  “You can’t possibly —”

  “You believe in their teachings, don’t you? You believe, as the Cathars do, that another life awaits you.”

  “Something like that, yes.” I press my hand against the back of hers, then bestow a kiss in her palm. “But I’m not done living this life, Mariota. Whatever this agreement is concerning Berwick, it won’t last. It won’t solve anything. There will be a battle. I’m afraid I may not sur—”

  She clamps a hand over my mouth. “Do not say it. Do not even think it.”

  I draw her hand down. “Mariota, Mariota ... Listen to me. There will be a battle. The bloodiest one Scotland has ever seen. Far more lives will be lost than at Bannockburn and it might not turn out in our favor this time.” I couch the truth in that statement. ‘Might’ is a boldfaced lie.

  Shaking her head at me, she retreats, crosses her arms. “No one knows the future.”

  “I know. Believe me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I come from the future. I have lived another life, seven hundred years from now.”

  With a scoff, she whirls away. Why had I insisted on telling her? Why now? I should have kept it to myself. No one has ever believed me.

  “Roslin?” someone calls from outside.

  “What?!” I bellow.

  “Sir Roslin?” It’s Duncan. “Lord Archibald —”

  “I know,” I say tersely.

  I pop my head out and tell him to wait for me. When I look back at Mariota, her countenance is such a storm of emotions I can’t read it. Is it confusion, fear, disbelief? I’ve certainly shattered any hope she might have clung to.

  “Go,” she says softly. “You must not keep Lord Archibald waiting. When you are done here, I will be at Blacklaw, waiting for you.”

  I kiss her once more on the forehead and murmur, “I love you, Mariota.” Then I part from her and step outside.

  A hand clamps my upper arm in an iron grip and spins me around. Just inches from my face, Malcolm’s eyes blaze with contempt. “I swear, if you have brought shame upon her, I will see that you pay for it — dearly.”

  Before I have a chance to tell him I’d never do that and never had, he storms away. I have no idea why he’d even think it.

  31

  LONG, LONG AGO

  Berwick, Scotland — 1333

  I’ve never seen Archibald’s face so grim. His shoulders are rolled forward, his elbows on the table where maps are scattered about. He holds his head in his hands, not even looking up to see who’s there. Several enter the cramped tent after Duncan and me, some seething with anger, some cautious, others appearing concerned, but none of them looking hopeful.

  Menteith and Atholl congregate in the corner opposite Archibald, quietly discussing something. Finally, Menteith clears his throat and speaks the question everyone else is avoiding. “Will Berwick surrender — or will you wage battle?”

  “It may come to the latter,” Archibald says, his voice strained with fatigue. Slowly, he lowers his hands, looks up. Bloodshot eyes gaze blankly ahead. Several moments pass before his chest heaves with an inhaled breath. When he lets it out, his shoulders relax. “There is one hope left. One small, small hope.”

  Glances are exchanged. There is no hope. I know that. Everyone does.

  Alan shoves his way between two men to stand at the table’s edge. “And what is that?”

  Only he would be so bold. It has become abundantly clear that he wants to be the next Guardian. He’s made no secret of his disdain for how Archibald has handled this every step of the way. Unwilling to risk the wrath of Archibald’s supporters, he’s stopped short of outright criticism so far.

  Archibald scoots his chair back and half stands, his palms braced on the table’s surface. He scans the maps, draws one toward him and peruses it for a good half a minute before answering Alan. “We can relieve Berwick.”

  “How?” Alan plants his hands on the table, too, his stance defiant. “How can we relieve Berwick? It’s not possible. Whatever route we choose, they’ll swoop down from that lofty hill and cleave us in two.”

  “Not the whole army, Alan.” His tone is almost chiding, as one would correct an infant. “Two hundred men. The number required by the terms to constitute a relief.”

  “What then? You think they’ll just turn and leave, slink off to England?”

  “No, but Berwick won’t be forced to surrender.”

  “So the siege will continue indefinitely,” Menteith remarks. “You’re only buying time, my lord.”

  Archibald slams his palm down. “If time is all we can ge
t, we’ll take it!”

  “But to what end?” Menteith continues calmly, trying to counter Archibald’s desperation. “There are only two outcomes: Berwick surrenders and we withdraw. Or we fight and leave the fate of Berwick to God.”

  Atholl speaks. “How do we relieve Berwick with two hundred men, my lord? How do we gain access to it?”

  “The bridge here.” Archibald points to a faded slash on the map. “We can use the existing framework for men to climb across carrying supplies on their backs. Once across, the town’s walls are accessible. This must of course be done under cover of darkness ...”

  “I’ll do it,” I hear myself say. What do I have to lose? I’m supposed to die on the day of the battle, not before. If we’re successful in relieving the town, I reason to myself, then maybe history can be changed? Even though I might never be able to return to the twenty-first century, if there is no battle, maybe I won’t die that day after all? By now everyone’s looking at me — everyone except Sir Henry. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, though. I have to do this. I have to try to take charge of my fate. Otherwise, I might as well lead the charge on Halidon Hill bare-chested and with a bull’s-eye painted on my forehead. “I’ll take part in the relief. Just tell me what to do.”

  “Thank you, Roslin.” Archibald slowly lowers himself back into his chair. “Sir William Keith will lead the mission. He knows Tweedmouth and the bridge well.”

  Keith nods in acceptance.

  “I’ll go,” Sir Henry says.

  I don’t look at him just then. I’m still in shock as much that I’ve volunteered, as he has. It’s done then. We’re both fools. I’ll scramble across the broken remains of an old bridge, in the dark, carrying whatever is supposed to constitute relief, while the English lob stones and arrows at us. Brilliant.

  Archibald conveys details to Keith, but nothing registers in my brain from that point on. I’m now wholly, stupidly, irrevocably involved. I remain unmoving as men begin to leave the tent. It isn’t until I hear my father’s voice that my trance is shattered.

  “Suicide,” he utters from behind me, his mouth inches from my ear. “But if there’s going to be any chance of my only son getting through the night alive, I’ll do my best to make sure of it.”

  I don’t respond, don’t turn around as he walks away. What am I supposed to say? Thank you for not letting me kill myself? Or — you’re stupid for risking your life alongside mine?

  The truth is, I don’t know how this is going to turn out, if it will even have any impact on whether or not the Battle of Halidon Hill occurs at all.

  One way or another, chances are good I’m going to die in the service of Scotland.

  Keith is the last to exit. He waits at the flap, holding it aside for me. In a daze, I move toward him. He holds out his arm. I clasp it in brotherhood.

  I realize that I’ve come to care as much as Keith or any of the others about what’s happening outside Berwick’s walls and within them. It shouldn’t be happening. Men should never believe they can take someone else’s lands or possessions through force. And yet it’s gone on since mankind began.

  What I’m about to do, I do not for myself, but for children not yet born. For posterity. For the hope of peace.

  What a selfish, cowardly life I’ve led until now.

  A million stars glitter above. I crane my neck to take it all in, feeling at that moment very insignificant, yet somehow connected to every event that has ever occurred through time and every person who has ever lived. I’m thinking of Claire and wondering if she’s pulled through or ... or ... No, I can’t go there. I’ll never know. But these stars, they make me think of her. We had walked beneath these very same stars, laughing and holding hands, the night before the blood clot changed everything. The last time I saw her she was comatose in a hospital bed. I understand now what it must be like to have a loved one disappear without a trace and to never know what became of them. It means hanging at the cusp of grief, while being taunted by hope. There’s guilt in letting go and moving on.

  Yet I have. Being here has made that easier. My one regret since arriving has been in keeping Mariota away. So much time wasted. I should have lived these last two months to their fullest, uninhibited, unafraid.

  There are so many things — in this life and my future one — that I should have done. Like standing up to my dad. Telling my mom I loved her more often. Spending more moments enjoying life and less working my tail off.

  Too late for all that now.

  I roll over onto my side and stare down the line of men waiting with me. We’re lying in the grass on the crest of a hill, overlooking the shambles of a village. In packs slung over our backs, we carry sacks of grain, dried meat, fresh fruits and vegetables, and sheaves of arrows. My pack is stuffed with leeks and turnips, but Duncan’s has several small bags of salt. It will be a help, but still, it all seems so insignificant. Like trying to wipe out hunger on the continent of Africa with one airplane drop of vitamin-enriched protein bars.

  The smell of smoke lingers in the air. Earlier that day, Archibald sent men into the village of Tweedmouth ahead of us, and — as the English watched from the opposite bank across the River Tweed — the town was sacked. With fire spreading from rooftop to rooftop, Archibald made a show of retreating; yet still Edward did not move from his spot.

  Keith scoots along behind us on his hands and knees, whispering last minute instructions. As the first man in line creeps down the hill crouch-backed, no one makes a sound. The longer we go without being discovered, the better our chances at crossing the bridge and reaching Berwick.

  We lurch forward in groups of four or five. Ours is one of the last. With me are my father, Duncan and two men I’ve never met: a slight-framed man named Adam who left his farm near Aberdeen to come and join in the fight, and a boy of seventeen named Christian with platinum blond hair. I have to remind myself that in this age, Christian is hardly a boy. He has more battle scars than most people I used to know had tattoos.

  Doors of houses gape open as we descend into the village and make our way along a narrow alley, climbing over charred timbers, scattered heaps of straw and trampled midden heaps. We dash across a main thoroughfare and even though it stretches emptily, the remnants of life are everywhere. The inhabitants had abandoned their homes and businesses at the first sign of Scots this morning, leaving behind all their belongings. They must have known the moment Balliol encamped outside of Berwick that this busy port village would eventually become the object of a Scottish raid — and yet they had remained, going about their everyday activities. Plucked fowl dangle by their feet from the window of a butcher’s shop, the meat growing rancid in the thick summer air. Feral cats feast on overturned baskets of fish. The gates of sheep and pigpens hang open, their herds driven back to the Scottish camp to feed the men.

  Somewhere a lamb, trapped in the ruins, bleats. I slow, keening my ears, and finally see it, its pink nose pressed between the bars of a wooden fence that has been pushed over. The small building next to it is still on fire. Adam sees it, too. He glances at me, shrugs in pity and goes on. A gap opens up between us and I dart after him, the lamb forgotten.

  Suddenly, a hen bursts from atop a barrel, startling me. Duncan plows into me, nearly knocking me flat, then mutters a curse and shoves me forward. The alley narrows even further. In its middle runs a gutter of sewage. I have no choice but to walk through it, muck and filth sucking at the soles of my boots.

  A hundred yards later, the alley jags around a corner and opens up into a wider street. I can see further ahead now. At the end of the street, the River Tweed writhes lazily like a bloated snake. The men are moving more quickly, twisting back and forth as they wind their way around broken down carts and toppled market stalls.

  Wisps of smoke drift through the night air. Sparks crackle in a clump of thatch at roof’s edge of the building next to us. The smell of ash claws at my throat. I swallow, but a cough tears free so hard I nearly gag. A calloused hand clamps over my mouth
. I stiffen.

  “Hush!” my father growls. He grabs my elbow and jerks me onward. Toward the river.

  We creep past the last building onto a sandy beach. That morning, the beach had been littered with boats, but as Archibald and Keith descended with their hundreds, the villagers had run here and rowed out into the mouth of the Tweed and along the shore, away from the mayhem. I had watched them from a distance, their oars dipping in frantic rhythm while the town went up in flames.

  Across the water, the shore climbs sharply upward, the base of Berwick’s walls meeting with a steep, rocky hill. Occasionally, a face peeks between the crenels, watching. I wonder if they see us, know we’re coming to help. I hope to God they don’t start shooting at us.

  A pair of ducks paddle upriver — two black silhouettes bobbing on a sea of silver. I follow their course and see, to my left, the bridge we are to cross. Or what’s left of a bridge, actually.

  “Oh my God.” I crouch next to Duncan. A shiver spreads from my chest, quickly engulfing my entire body in tremors. “We’re supposed to cross that ... bridge, climb that hill ... and somehow get inside Berwick?”

  “You were the first to volunteer,” Duncan says, “were you not?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And you were expecting what?”

  I have no answer. At least nothing that won’t sound entirely idiotic. Everything had looked different from so far away. But up close, I can see the gaps in the planks of the bridge. Some of the stones that make up the piers have been jarred loose, too. I’m not sure how two hundred of us are supposed to get across the river, up the hill and over the walls unassaulted. Sounds like a death wish to me.

  Then I noticed the ropes coiled over the shoulders of those in the fore. Hope zings inside my chest. A dozen men are already scaling the framework of the bridge underneath, securing the ropes wherever they can. Soon, another dozen men scramble up after them, passing along more coils of rope. The rest of us huddle at the base of the first and second piers, hidden from view. While we wait, I scan the hillside on the opposite bank. Every stone stands immutable, every blade of grass unwavering in the still night air.