by Julianne Lee
As for Robert Bruce himself, the man appeared to be a strong enough leader. Alex found himself drawn to follow, and even found himself admiring the man’s decisiveness and personal charisma. It made him think the army Bruce was gathering would hold together firmly, and Alex knew there was a certain safety in a cohesive unit where the men had faith in their commander. The more he learned about their leader, the better he felt about having pledged himself.
He gestured to the wine skin hung on the tree behind John, who gladly accepted the offer and took a long draught from it. Then he announced, and Lindsay’s attention perked as she translated. “I may have a horse for your squire.”
“How much for it?” Alex wanted Lindsay to have her own horse, but not enough to go broke for it. He had no idea when or if he would receive anything more for his service in this venture than the silver and jewels he’d lifted from the dead guy. Having fled Edward’s court, Bruce and his followers were on the run from the English king, and Robert’s toehold in Scotland was tiny, new, and untried. There was no telling what the immediate future held for any of them.
“Naught. I’ll give him to you for nothing.”
Alex shook his head and reached into his decidedly gamy flight suit to scratch a maddening itch inside his even more disgusting skivvies. He said to John, “No. I’ll pay. I have a sapphire for it.”
Lindsay frowned, but Alex insisted she tell John.
John’s eyes narrowed. “Unwilling to be in my debt?”
“Unwilling to be beholden to any man, save my liege.” He stood. “Show him to me. If he’s worth having, the stone is yours for a fair trade. If not, I’ll as soon not have to feed him.”
The other knight rose, and led Alex to his own camp where John’s squires maintained several horses for battle and burden, and the knight’s weapons as well as his shelter. The beast in question was a type of horse the locals called a “rounsey,” smaller than the courser Alex rode. The wealthier knights had one of these for everyday riding, to save the larger, trained horse for battle. But Alex’s lack of land made it unlikely he’d have more than one horse for himself and one for Lindsay, for they were expensive to maintain as well as costly to buy.
“As you can see,” said John, “he’s a fine animal.” Even had Alex not understood the words, the meaning came through in John’s salesman’s voice.
Alex didn’t reply, but lifted the upper lip and found the horse tolerably young. Then he went to each leg and lifted the hoof for a look inside. He was no vet, but there didn’t seem to be anything obviously amiss here.
“Are you sure you won’t take him gratis?”
Alex pulled his purse from its pocket, fished his smallest sapphire from among the silver, and handed it over. “I’m sure.”
“Very well. And your squire shall have the peytral as well.” Lindsay pointed to the huge, quilted drape as she translated.
Alex’s eyes narrowed at the generosity and he was inclined to reject the offer, but the quilted skirt would have been another hit to his purse and was important protection for his investment if there should be a battle. He grunted acceptance.
John held the blue stone to the sky for examination, then slipped it into his own purse. “You’re a strange man, Alasdair MacNeil.”
More strange than you could ever imagine. Alex smiled and took the horse’s reins to lead it back to his own tent. That itch in his crotch was back, and he poked at his flight suit to relieve it. He muttered to Lindsay, “Dang, I wish they had showers here.” Or even a lake that wasn’t frosty around the edges. But it was March, and bathing wasn’t a good idea in this cold. Washing his clothes wouldn’t happen until it was warm enough for them to not freeze before they dried, and the best he could do was hang his shorts out to air for a while every couple of days.
Halfway back to the tent an angry argument rose behind them, and they turned to see what was going on. John was being accosted by his cousin Roger, who shouted at him without regard to who might be listening. The shouting was about a woman John had bedded the night before, who Alex gathered was an injudicious choice for the lower-ranking knight, for she’d been Roger’s mistress.
John spoke calmly, attempting to smooth his cousin’s ire, but was slapped in the face for it. Anger flared, and John raised his fists, hut still didn’t swing at his higher-ranking cousin. He backed off, and Roger followed, shouting his intention to kill any man who would dare to encroach on his woman. Never mind that the elder Kirkpatrick was married to someone else, the mistress was also his territory. That amused Alex, and he found rising in himself a perverse urge to test the mistress himself just to mess with Roger, who seemed entirely too arrogant about her. But he shrugged off the idea as a pointless risk, and watched the fight progress.
Except it wasn’t much of a fight as Alex would call it. Roger slapped John a few more times while the younger knight continued to reel away with conciliatory raised palms, bleeding from his nose now. Roger came on, then called to a young man standing nearby to toss him a mace. The weapon was handed over, and Roger went after John with it.
With a short cry, John raised his arm to defend himself. Alex heard the bone crack under the iron head of the mace, and John hunched over his injured arm as he backed in a circle. He talked fast now, begging to be let alone. Roger came on, mace raised and threatening to kill his cousin. Appalled, Alex watched Roger land another blow on John’s shoulder.
“Do something, Alex.”
“I can’t.”
“Roger is going to kill him.”
“No, he won’t.” Nobody else came to John’s aid, either, and Alex knew why he himself was powerless to intervene. Roger was John’s cousin and his superior. This was between them, and anyone butting in would be subject to merciless retaliation from not only Roger, but anyone loyal to him. That much Alex had learned in school yards in his childhood. Many different school yards. He could only watch and hope Roger really didn’t intend to kill his cousin.
Relief washed over him as the elder Kirkpatrick finally threw down the mace and walked away, stiff with rage. John sank to the ground and knelt there, dabbing blood from his nose as he watched his commander withdraw, and moved only when he was certain the action wouldn’t draw another attack.
Before John could look around to see who had been watching, Alex and Lindsay moved along with their new horse.
* * *
The next day the company of Bruce’s men, still no more than sixty knights, followed by the lesser folk, approached the abbey at Scone. As nearly everything Robert did, the event went smoothly, exactly according to his intent. Alex and Lindsay watched from their horses as the brown-robed abbots came from their crumbling abbey and the entire contingent trooped to the top of a nearby hill. It wasn’t more than a flat-topped mound, covered in grasses and low, spongy heather of dark green, nearly black, and Alex wondered why this spot was such a big deal. But as he watched, several of the men attending to the Earl of Carrick drew small pouches from their clothing and scattered the contents on the ground. It was done with great solemnity, and it was plain this was a long-held tradition, whatever it was.
Then, barely having time to find a spot to hobble their horses, Alex and Lindsay hurried to the rear of the onlookers to see. He took Lindsay’s hand in his in order to not lose her in the milling crowd at the foot of the little hill, and she held his tight in return. Her face was flushed with excitement, and he began to feel it himself.
A bagpipe among the brown robes played a single note, quiet but growing, a sustained sound that seemed to reach out to the crowd and bring it together. Then a low chant rose from the monks, voices riding the single note like an acrobat on a wire, soaring above it then swinging below it, and the pipes ever present and never changing that single note. The gathered Scots listened in silence, tension gathering for what was to come.
Despite his ambivalence about the Scottish throne—or any throne—Alex knew the event was important history and its gravity not lost on him. Over the past week he’d learne
d the kingdom had been up for grabs, more or less, for decades. Lindsay had informed him that even though it would take Robert the rest of his life to reclaim the entire country from the various Edwards of England, this ceremony today was to bring a measure of stability to the Scottish succession that would last for centuries. Alex found that impressive, and had to admit to himself that Lindsay had a point about the long history of her country.
Now came Robert Bruce from the abbey, dressed in a dark red robe beautifully trimmed in white fur and embroidered in gold thread. Even wearing the vestment of coronation, the Earl of Carrick had not taken the time to remove his chain mail, and the jingling beneath the robe as he walked to the center of the mound was a dark, dull reminder that Robert was beginning the fight of his life. The music swelled, voices raised to the sky, and the crowd tensed as he made his way toward the men who waited to bestow his crown. With no coronation stone on which to sit, he knelt before them. With great solemnity, they placed on his head a circlet of gold with points of fleur-de-lis. Then, with the fanfare of a single trumpet, a banner of scarlet lion rampant on a background of gold-yellow was planted behind the new king.
Alex expected the crowd to burst forth in applause, but there was only a collective sigh and murmur. For himself, something shifted inside his chest, and his gut tightened for a moment. The feeling took him by surprise. He’d never thought much about his Scottish heritage; his identity had always been American and his loyalty pledged to a red, white, and blue flag. But today there was a stirring in his core that baffled him. The sight of this man taking on the job of freeing Scots from English interference moved him in an odd, primal way. He had to look away for a moment.
He turned straight into the face of a man wearing a hooded cloak, the one he’d spotted a week ago, close enough to smell his breath. Deep within the shadow of that hood, two eyes glowed. Not reflection of light, but they actually glowed on their own. Like two red coals that lit the inside of the hood.
It was the face Alex had seen in the vortex just before coming to this time.
Chapter Four
The figure ducked into the crowd. Alex tugged on Lindsay’s hand. “Come.” They went after the hooded cloak as it slipped among the gathered people. Lindsay shifted the bundle of belongings slung over her shoulder and followed. But the crowd shifted around them and hid the fleeing man, so when Alex saw him next he was headed for a stand of trees in the direction of the river. The cloak fluttered as he hurried, and the man’s feet appeared to be bare. But he skipped over cold, rough, rocky ground as if wearing hoots.
“What’s going on?” Lindsay trotted beside him.
“I don’t know. I’ve got to find out something.” It was a thin thread of possibility, but he now burned to find out who this guy was.
They plunged into the woods, close enough to keep sight of the quickly moving cloak but not close enough to catch his attention. Or maybe they did have his attention and he was only making certain they kept up without getting closer. Alex pressed onward, through dense bracken and prickly gorse. Finally they burst out on a glade by the river and found a small knoll. Perfectly symmetrical and conical, it was the strangest land formation Alex had ever seen outside of the Mojave Desert. A stand of birch trees grew at the top, the winter-leafless trunks looking like white hair on a pointed mole. The hooded man was nowhere to be seen.
Lindsay, breathless from the run, said, “What on God’s earth are you trying to do? I’m a pincushion from this gorse!” She examined a spot on her hand, in search of blood or a small thorn.
“There was a man in the crowd. I thought I recognized his face.”
“There were a lot of men in that crowd you should recognize; you’ve been traveling with them for a week.”
“No. I saw his face just before the plane went down.”
Dry humor crept into Lindsay’s voice. “We’re running after God?”
Alex peered at her, annoyed, but a lift of the corner of her mouth told him she was joking. “Very funny. That guy is around here somewhere. I want to ask him some questions.”
“All right, then, where is he?”
They went toward the knoll, skirting the foot of it. The hooded man didn’t seem to be in the glade, and Alex searched for signs he may have gone back into the forest. But then Lindsay squeezed his hand and urged him to stop. He turned, and found her staring up at the knoll.
“Look.”
It was a door, flat against the side of the hill about halfway up. Framed by mortared stones, it was made of gnarled, knotted wood bound and studded with iron. It had a heavy, wrought iron latch. A thin path switched back and forth up the steep slope between patches of heather.
Alex didn’t hesitate, but went to climb the little hill. Lindsay hung back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to see if he’s in there.”
She made an impatient, clucking noise. “You’re such an American. Just barge right in and look around.”
“You have a better idea?”
“We could mind our own business and return to the coronation. We’re probably missing the best part. There may be food.”
He glanced back the way they’d come, for she had a point. The first thing he’d learned in this place was that missing an opportunity to eat—particularly for free—was always a bad idea.
But he turned back to her and said, “I thought you wanted to get home.”
A shadow crossed her eyes, and he saw her game face slip. She lowered her lids for a moment, then looked at him again. “I do.”
“Well, right now this is what passes for a lead in finding out what happened. We’ve had nothing better so far. I want to go up there and see what I can find.”
She sighed and relented, then followed him up the slope.
The door was small, only about chest high to Alex. “Short people.”
“Doors are always small. It causes intruders to bend over when they enter a house, so the unwelcome become vulnerable to beheading.”
Alex nodded. That made sense. He knocked on the door, and it eased open on well-oiled hinges. He whispered. “Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.” Deep within was a faint glow of fire, flickering against the sides of the entrance. He looked over at Lindsay, who was peering inside as if trying to see what was on the other side of the door without actually opening it. Alex gave it a shove, and it opened wide.
Through the opening they could see a short tunnel. Firelight flickered on its walls, from a chamber ahead. Quickly, before he could talk himself into prudence, Alex stepped inside with Lindsay’s hand in his. She resisted, but followed him anyway.
The chamber was large. Much larger than Alex could have expected, from the size of the knoll that enclosed it. A lively fire danced on the hearth in the middle, its smoke rising to the ceiling and disappearing in a maze of large, gnarled, exposed tree roots above. Around the fire were cushions, silken mattresses for lounging and sleeping, and by the fireside were wooden platters piled with food. Fruits and vegetables, many of them not known to Europe in this century. Steaming corn on the cob and baked potatoes lay alongside the usual cabbages and lentils, bananas and mangos beside oranges and apples. An entire lamb was spitted over the fire, and appeared ready to be eaten. “We’re expected.”
“Or we’re interrupting.”
“That’s a lot of untouched food.” Alex picked his way across the floor between the pillows. “You think there were people here a minute ago, who heard us coming and just walked away from it?”
“Alex, let’s get out of here.”
“Wait.” He reached down to one of the platters, where a tumble of brown chunks was piled. He picked up one of them, and found a word stamped on the side. “Hershey.”
Lindsay came to look. “Really?”
He handed her the chocolate, then bent to take another and popped it into his mouth. “It’s real, too. Someone here has tapped into our world.” The chocolate was heaven on his tongue, and his eyelids drooped with pleasure.
&nb
sp; As Lindsay savored hers and bent to take another. Alex explored the dim corners of the chamber. There was a corridor, and he gestured to her to come. The tunnel was dark and winding, nearly a corkscrew as it wended its way between tree roots and lumps of granite. There were whispered voices and giggling up ahead, almost musical, and tantalizing for its art, so he pressed onward quickly. But the voices stayed just ahead and out of reach, no matter what pace he kept or which way he turned. Shadows dashed away from them, and others crept up from behind to draw attention. A shift in direction only caused a shift in the traffic flow of the owners of those voices. Alex and Lindsay came to another chamber, this one empty. But as they crossed it, he caught a glimpse of the hooded man from the corner of his eye.
“You!” Alex turned, but the figure was gone. Perhaps he had never been there. Alex poked around the chamber and discovered another tunnel, and he followed it. The guy must have gone this way.
But no, it was another empty chamber. Nothing but a concave dirt floor and walls formed by thick tree roots that wound in and out and around like Celtic knots. There didn’t seem to be another exit from this room.
Alex stopped in the middle of the floor, an area darkened by what appeared to be the ashes of an old fire. He said to the walls—to the roots and trees that made up those walls, “Hey! You! Quit hiding, I know you’re in here!”
Silence.
Lindsay said, “Alex, how come we can see in here where there’s no fire?”
He looked around. Good question. It was as if light were coming from nowhere. From the air. Or as if they were able to perceive without actually seeing. He waited, and when there was still no reply he pulled out the tin of matches from a pocket of his flight suit and said, “How about I set fire to this place? Lots of wood here.” He wondered what light might do for their perception, and whether any of this was real.
