by Julianne Lee
The room burst into color, a high fire roaring in an enormous stone hearth opposite where Alex and Lindsay stood. A figure wearing a black cape trimmed in white fur lounged on a wide chair before that fire, elbows rested on the high arms of it. The face was dark with rage. His tunic was blood red, and he held a long, narrow, silver dagger in one hand gloved in fine calfskin. His tall boots were as fine, and splayed thighs were covered in black woolen tights. Almond-shaped eyes. Long, straight nose. Thin lips. Short, well-trimmed beard that sharpened his chin to a point. Also, if Alex wasn’t seeing things, tips of pointed ears poking from shaggy, dark hair. Elfin, or something. A really tall elf. “I would strike you dead where you stand.” The voice was smooth. Regal.
Lindsay’s grip on Alex’s hand became like iron, and he squeezed hers to give her reassurance. He was glad this guy was speaking modern English, with a broad, Scottish accent, for Alex had begun to tire of deciphering the language around here. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Who are you? You’re a gremlin, right?”
Lindsay murmured, “Gremlin?”
“Yeah. Gremlins are little guys with goggles who damage fighter planes so they crash. They’ve been around since the Battle of Britain in World War Two.” His eyes narrowed at her. “You’re English: how come you don’t know that?”
Her voice lowered so it was barely audible, as if he were embarrassing her. “Alex, this is 1306.”
But he ignored her and addressed the elfin fellow. “So, where are your goggles, gremlin? Where’s your drill? You’re the guy who trashed my plane and brought us here to the past. I mean, I figure you’re the one who did it. What did you do it for? What’s the deal?”
“No deal. You’re to die.” The elf, or gremlin, or whatever he was, sounded tired as well as angry. It made for an implacability that gave Alex the creeps. He now knew for a certainty he was talking to an enemy.
“Die?” Lindsay’s grip tightened even more, and she began pulling him away. But he stood his ground and swallowed his apprehension. “Why? What did we do to piss you off?”
“It was a costly spell.” The voice trembled with barely controlled rage, and he leaned forward on his throne. “Too much power at stake to be thwarted by a single human. Too high above the earth. You had no business there. No right. No place.”
“I was flying my friend home.”
Hatred seethed in the voice until it choked him. “You should not have been there. You were clumsy. Thoughtless. Humans are a scourge on the earth, just as the Tuatha Dé Danann, and always will be. Despicable creatures. You should all die. I should destroy you all.”
“Then why haven’t you done it yet?”
More silence, and Alex’s heart thudded in his chest as he wondered whether the spell he’d interrupted had been to that very end. Finally he said, “Okay, listen man, how about you send us home, then do whatever it is you’re going to do?”
“It was a costly spell.” Each word carried a weight of trembling horror. Alex would swear the guy was about to cry.
He waited for Red Eyes to elaborate, but an explanation never came. Alex prompted him. “Yeah. It was costly.”
“I will deal with you in my own time, for I rule it. Live with your terror. Steep in it. Meanwhile, leave my sight. You sicken me.” Then, at a gesture from the cloaked figure, a hole blew through the wall opposite and a mighty wind from nowhere took Alex and Lindsay tumbling through it. Sunshine blinded them as they rolled and slid downhill.
They slowed to a stop on the rocky ground at the foot of the knoll, and Alex groaned as he lay still to assess the damage. No broken bones, and that was a relief, but he figured he was going to turn up black and blue if he ever saw his skin again soon. He reached for Lindsay. “You all right?”
She rose to her knees and looked around for the parachute bundle, which had rolled away. “Yeah.” She located it a few yards off, and climbed to her feet to get it.
“What bug got up that guy’s butt?” Alex sat up and looked back up the little hill. “The door is gone.”
“Not very surprising. It was a wall he tossed us through. The door is probably on the other side.”
But Alex knew they’d walked much farther underground than the other side of the knoll, and was puzzled how they’d ended up still at the foot of it. He climbed to his feet and looked around, and that was when he noticed the weight of his purse was gone. He slapped the pocket in alarm, dismayed to feel only the empty leather pouch inside. “Crap! It’s gone!”
“What’s gone?”
Fingers fumbling, he drew the purse from his pocket and opened it to find every penny, half-penny and farthing, every one of the jewels, was gone. “Our money. He took it.” Alex turned and hurried up the side of the knoll in search of a way back in. But there was no sign of where they’d come out. “Sonofabitch.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just drop it?”
Alex showed her the purse and turned it upside down to demonstrate its emptiness. “He took the money, left the bag, and I didn’t feel a thing.”
Lindsay looked as dismayed as he felt. Then he looked around, and his stomach dropped as he noticed the local landscape had changed.
Lindsay continued. “They’ve not just fallen out of your pocket?” Her voice drifted off as she also noticed the rolling hills around them. No forest, and the river seemed to have sunk into its banks.
Alex stared. “Where are we?”
Lindsay was turning, trying hard to get her bearings. “I don’t know. This is definitely not Scone. Or anywhere near it, by that muir up there.” She gestured to a flat-topped hill not far away. They moved away from the knoll, toward the river.
“It’s not March anymore, either.” The weather was warm, and more sunny than he’d seen in Scotland since the day they’d flown over it. When they entered the knoll, the weather had been overcast and misty. Now there were mountains close in, where there had been none before, and the river was blue and ran freely, with no frost clinging to the sides. Alex began to sweat inside his chain mail and was glad to feel his bones warm, but it bugged him the weather had changed so drastically and so quickly. Last time that happened, they’d been displaced seven centuries.
“Think we’re back in the twenty-first century?”
Lindsay, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, said, “No. I recognize this place. And you should, too. We passed through here about three days ago.” She pointed, and Alex saw a cathedral perched above the river, surrounded by a cluster of thatched houses. He remembered this place, for it was the closest thing to a town he’d been to since landing. Not that it was actually a town. More like a loose collection of houses near a church.
“Dunblane,” he said.
“And that,” she pointed to the muir, “would therefore be Sheriffmuir. Three days’ ride from where we were. There’s no chance we could have walked it underground. We were only in that knoll for half an hour.”
“Well, let’s head on into town and see what ol’ Murphy’s got in store for us today.” They began to walk toward the cathedral, but hadn’t gone far when they turned at the sound of snorting horses behind. It was a large contingent of knights, commandeering the narrow track and raising dust for what seemed like a mile.
Lindsay took Alex’s hand and was pulling him toward a copse of trees, but Alex held her back. “Look. It’s Kirkpatrick.” The banner of Roger Kirkpatrick flapped and snapped above the riders, and Alex recognized John’s helm, riding in front with Roger. Alex’s heart lightened at thought of seeing a familiar face, for it meant they couldn’t have come too far from where they’d been. With a wide smile he trotted toward the column and held up his right hand in greeting, and John returned the salute, but with a gawking look of surprise and wonder. When Sir Roger recognized Alex, his expression darkened under his iron helmet and he gave the order for the column to halt. John pulled up his mount next to his cousin.
“MacNeil! You astonish me by this brazenness!” Sir Roger addressed Lindsay. “Squire, tell your master t
o explain your absence!” Roger’s voice was ugly. Angry. John’s face was impassive, but he didn’t seem any more cheered at seeing Alex than Roger was.
Alex stood, speechless, with no clue what to say, until it dawned on him that these men had also somehow come all this way since the coronation half an hour ago. Something else weird had happened, and Alex began to wonder just how much time had passed since he’d last seen these guys. At the silence, Kirkpatrick drew his sword and ordered his men to take Alex and Lindsay prisoner. Four knights dismounted, and John also drew his sword. Alex backed off, not eager to let them have him but not yet sure enough of his moral ground to fight. When they grabbed him by the arms he surrendered, hoping to talk things out. Kirkpatrick’s men took Alex’s sword and dagger from his belt.
“Ailig,” said John, “I hope you haven’t spent these seven years past in England.”
Seven years. “John, friend, what is wrong?”
“Where were you?”
Two of Kirkpatrick’s men yanked Alex’s arms behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulders. The others did the same to Lindsay, and she snorted rather than cry out. They were both tied fast, hands and feet, and the rough, hempen rope cut into their wrists. Casting about for a reply—any reply—Alex blurted the first thing that came clear in his mind, and he could only hope the story wasn’t riddled with holes.
It was a struggle to make his voice casual, as if this were an easily cleared misunderstanding. He didn’t bother with trying to speak directly, and let Lindsay translate modern English for him. “We sailed for the Continent. Had to. There was word my foster father had died, and my squire needed to return to claim his birthright. A stepmother gave him some trouble, and tried to have him murdered. It was an ugly business, and we’re not entirely certain she isn’t responsible for her husband’s demise. And there were two sisters on whom to settle dowries, so complications kept us away.” For seven years. Alex knew he needed to pad the story, and sighed as he continued. “On our return we were waylaid. Stripped of our horses and funds. It’s only by perseverance and devotion to duty we made it back at all.”
A horse was brought, and Alex and Lindsay were both lifted and heaved across its back like baggage.
“John, you’ve got to listen to me!”
John said nothing, and looked away as they proceeded into Dunblane. Secured to the horse’s back, swaying with the gait.
Alex watched the ground below go slowly past. He whispered to Lindsay in modern English, “You figure that guy in the knoll knew where he was sending us?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Reveal yourself.”
“No.”
“They won’t kill you if they know you’re a woman.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll talk them out of it.”
“Yes, we’ve seen your powers of persuasion. Besides, I’d rather die like a man than live as they would have me.”
Helplessness overwhelmed him. Alex wanted to smack her sideways for being so stupid. He fell silent and pressed his face against the horse’s salty-smelling flank.
The town lay on the slope between the muir and the river, its muddy street more like a hole around which stood a few earthen huts. A single stone building clung to the slope above the cathedral, and that was where Kirkpatrick took Alex and Lindsay. Knights, squires, and foot soldiers filled the area, staking out space to camp among the surrounding trees and between the thatched houses. It appeared an entire army was descending on the little village. Alex and Lindsay were hauled from the horses and their feet freed before they were manhandled up the hill and shoved through the door of the stone house. Alex was light-headed from riding upside down, and stumbled as he went.
The place was dark as a cave, the ceiling of arched stone, and light from the outside coming only from the door and one small window; it was furnished with a rough-hewn table and two chairs. As many Kirkpatrick men as would fit crowded into the rear of the place to watch. Others watched from the doorway, straining to see over each other. The men holding Alex stood him before the window.
They released his wrists, but the relief to his shoulders was short-lived. One of the men yanked Alex’s mail shirt from him, and before he could stand upright again another ripped his flight suit down the front and off his hack, then tore off the black T-shirt he wore beneath, exposing him entirely to the waist. Then each wrist was held by two strong men. The four pulled on his shoulders with all their weight, and he wondered whether they meant to dislocate the joints, or it would be an accident when it happened. In resisting them it was all he could do to keep his arms attached to his body. Sir Roger stepped before him, swinging a heavy chain from one fist, a twisted look of rage on his face. Fingers of terror skittered over Alex’s body.
“All right, then. MacNeil, tell us where you’ve been.” Lindsay didn’t need to translate.
“I told you.”
The chain jingled, then whooshed through the air and made a solid blow to Alex’s side. His knees buckled and he cried out in astonished pain, then struggled to get his feet back under him so his shoulders wouldn’t pull apart when the four men yanked on them again. A fiery throbbing licked across his belly, and the need to protect it with his arms was maddening. He yanked at the men who held him, but only succeeded in straining his own shoulders even more. The men hauled back against him until he stopped struggling. Ragged breaths snorted through his nose to contain the pain.
Roger said, “You told me naught.”
Alex gasped to find his voice, then fixed his gaze on Kirkpatrick and croaked, “It’s the truth. We were forced to leave. That’s the plain truth.”
Another blow across his belly. Alex grunted, and now there was blood trickling down his side into his flight suit. His mind scrambled for another story, or an augmentation of the one he’d told, which might make this stop, but nothing came. His knees trembled to keep him upright.
“You left your horses, but you left no word.”
Lindsay spoke up on her own, her arms wrenched behind her back and her voice betraying the pain and fear. “In the excitement of the coronation we went unnoticed. I mean, the king is more important than a landless knight and his squire, yes? We couldn’t take the horses. We sailed off down the Tay, on a boat too small for them.”
“You sailed from Perth?” The ominous edge to his voice made it plain a “yes” answer would be a bad idea. One thing Alex had noted about knights in this century was that they were not very subtle. Easy to read. Besides, Alex knew they’d circled Perth the day before because it was English-occupied.
Alex of course replied, breath coming hard, “No. We were never in Perth.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you told the English—”
A voice boomed from outside. “What in the name of all that is unholy is going on here?” The onlookers near the door shifted to accommodate the newcomer, who shoved his way in when the men didn’t move fast enough. It wasn’t the king’s voice, and Alex was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone he knew in this century. The accent was even weirder—broader and more rolling—than the ones he’d heard, but oddly more understandable. Less archaic. It sounded...Irish. Sort of.
“Hector!” Roger straightened, twirled the chain end in his hand so it jingled and clanked. A spot of blood from it flew and landed on his cheek, but he didn’t appear to notice. He said cheerily, “It’s good you’ve caught up with us. We’ve discovered your father’s by-blow in a plot against the king, and you can come have a look if you like before we kill him.”
Lindsay murmured the gist into Alex’s ear, but he had understood on his own and panic fluttered in his gut. He struggled for breath. Lindsay’s eyes were wide and frightened. They both believed for a dead certainty Kirkpatrick would carry out his intention.
A short, burly man with a dark beard elbowed his way to where Kirkpatrick stood, and peered at Alex held by the four men. “Who, ye say?” The man seemed half undressed, wearing only a loose tunic and a long drape of plaid
wool slung over his shoulder, with nothing covering his legs. His feet were shod, but with leather shoes that resembled moccasins, not like the pointed-toed shoes worn by everyone else here. “What by-blow would this be?”
Alex’s stomach flopped and his gorge rose. The jig was up. Even Lindsay wouldn’t be able to talk their way out of this.
Kirkpatrick said, “The son your father sent to the Continent.”
“Which one?” The man called Hector tilted his head as if trying to recognize Alex, but failing.
“My name is Alexander. MacNeil.”
Hector laughed. “Alexander? One I’ve not heard of!” He turned to Kirkpatrick and Lindsay continued to murmur translation as he said, “Well, a pox on you, Roger! If he’s a MacNeil, then he’s my business! He’s not the responsibility of a Lowlander such as yourself. Give him over!”
“I tell you he’s the traitor who brought on the attack at Methven, seven years ago.” Hector gave Alex another appraising stare. Kirkpatrick continued. “Nearly all was lost that night, for it was hard on that defeat the queen was captured and the king forced into exile.”
Robert in exile? Alex threw Lindsay a faint, puzzled frown, and she responded with a shake of her head that said, Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain later.
Hector nearly bellowed, in high dudgeon, “Had he pledged his loyalty to Robert?”
“Aye,” said Alex. “And I have never betrayed it.” In Middle English he repeated, “I swear I’ve never betrayed the king!”
That brought silence. Then Hector said, “He swears an oath, Roger. Let him go.”
“Easy enough—”
“If he’s a MacNeil as you say, and he’s my brother in the bargain, then he’s of my clan and he’s either a man of honor or he’s mine to hang so he can he judged by God.” He leaned in toward Kirkpatrick and spoke as if talking to an idiot. “Do...you...understand?” Kirkpatrick was much taller, but by force of personality Hector seemed to dwarf him.
Sir Roger didn’t seem to have any reply to that, so he gestured to the four at Alex’s arms to let him go. The relief was immense as they released him. He collapsed to kneel on the floor, crossing his arms and holding his aching shoulders so they might not feel as if they were about to fall off. He looked up at Lindsay and told them, “Let him go, too.”
