Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (40 page)

The scarred soldier resumed his seat, but he scrutinized Shawn's every move. His hand stroked his sword.
You're a performer
, Shawn reminded himself, tearing his gaze from the sword, and tugged that persona firmly about himself.

He plucked the strings, starting with his old standby,
Blue Bells.
The melody flowed, as he'd practiced it over and over in his mind, carrying him to a place with no fear. A missed note here, a step too high there, but nothing that would alarm anyone. In these days, his music history classes had taught him, music changed with the memory and style of each minstrel.

"Do you not sing?" demanded the second soldier. "What kind of minstrel are you?"

Shawn grinned slyly. "I usually sing for the ladies, my lord."

The younger man half-rose, knuckles white on his sword.

Shawn held up his hand, as he'd seen others do. He hoped they didn't see it trembling. "Peace, my lord. I'll sing. 'Twas but a jest, and a poor one at that. My apologies."

The man sank back on the bench, sipping from the wineskin.

Shawn began again, giving himself an entrance, and sang.

Oh, where, and oh where

Has my highland laddie gone?

Oh, where, and oh where

Has my highland laddie gone?

He's gone with streaming banners

Where noble deeds are done,

And it's oh, in my heart, I wish him safely home.

He ran through another verse on the harp alone, playing the melody with the chords underneath. He hit a few notes that made him cringe, but the men seemed not to mind. The scarred man's shoulders relaxed. The soldiers took turns gulping from the wineskin, leaning against the cottage. Shawn started the second verse. Beside him, a clear tenor joined, the monk at his side harmonizing.

Oh where and oh where

Does my highland laddie dwell

Oh, where, and oh where

Does my highland laddie dwell?

He dwells in merry Scotland

Where the bluebells sweetly smell,

And all in my heart I love my laddie well.

He played through the melody once more. The scarred soldier's hand slipped from his sword. The lip relaxed and looked less fearsome. Shawn moved into the triplet section. Allene stiffened beside him, at this twist, and he moved back to the melody. The man beside him sang alone.
"And it's oh in my heart that I wish he may not die."
Shawn finished with a gentle arpeggio, running the length of the harp, and just for fun, gave a gliss up the strings.

The soldiers' faces were solemn. Silence hung between them, while Shawn's heart pounded. Sweat slicked his palms, and the pike loomed large in his vision.

Finally, the scarred man spoke. "It 'minds me of my own lass waitin' at home. Would that she is thinkin' o' me so. I thank thee. A good journey to ye."

Shawn inclined his head. These men were real. These men who wanted to kill him had died hundreds of years before his birth, but here they sat, man to man, before him. They feared dying as he did. He stared at them, museum exhibits come to life.

Allene tugged his arm.

"I thank thee," Shawn said gravely, and with a lingering glance at the gruesome corpse in the cage, the three of them set off into the countryside.

* * *

With the never-ending hills and valleys rolling before him in the late evening light, the weight of his situation settled on Shawn. He'd somehow ended up here, with Niall's problems dumped in his lap. It wasn't his deal. He had a life to live. Niall would just have to get himself back here and take care of his own business.

"'Twas not your usual playing," Allene commented.

"Very different," Shawn agreed, pleased nonetheless. Glancing back and seeing that the village had disappeared and they were far out of the soldiers' earshot, Shawn risked asking the question burning on his mind: "What's with the cage?"

"Did you no hear the soldiers while we were in the cellar?" Allene asked. "He was hung there to starve to death, as a warning to others."

"A warning about what?"

"Standing against King Edward."

"Isn't that..." he swallowed hard over a tight, hot knot in his throat, "what we're doing?"

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall downed a quick lunch with Amy in the castle's dining hall after rehearsal, grateful for Rob and Dana's absence. Celine and Aaron waved from their table. He smiled back.

"She seems much happier," Amy commented. "What happened when you were playing her harp?"

Niall waved a deprecating hand. "She realized Aaron's a fine man, that's all." Amy stared hard at him. He grinned, pushing in a mouthful of the brown pudding he was coming to like very much. "You don't believe me? There they are."

A smile spread across Amy's face. "You did something," she said. "I know you."

"Not so well as you think." Niall couldn't resist grinning at his own joke. And he liked seeing her smile. The ghost of the tingle he'd felt, when she took his hand, crawled up his arm. He had to fight his face out of a ridiculous grin. Romance was not on his list. Finding a way back was. He'd had no control over coming here, and feared he'd have equally little over getting back. But looking at Amy, he thought he might suffer worse fates. He could be content with her. More than content.

He touched the crucifix, thinking of Allene, and what awaited her at the hands of the English.

He stood abruptly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll be in my room," he said. "You'll summon me for dinner?"

"Summon you? Sure, your highness. Or maybe I'll just call you."

At her assent, though her attitude baffled him, he excused himself from the table, and hurried to his room, giving waves and nods to those who greeted him. As he entered his chambers, the tubby chug-chug of the tuba began down the hall. He closed the door, dulling the sound, and settled himself at the computer. It took only minutes this time, only a few mistakes, to remember how to reach the internet and Google.
Google
, he said to himself.
Google, google.
Iohn would get a good laugh out of that. He imagined himself back in the castle, with the Laird and Allene and Iohn. Only to them would he tell this adventure. No one else would believe him. Not even William. He did, he thought somewhat ruefully, have a reputation as a bit of a prankster. It would not stand him in good stead, did he tell this story.

But, he had to get there, first. He studied the small box under the word Google, wondering what to enter. Time travel. That's what Amy called it. He closed his eyes, searching his near-perfect memory for the words. Seeing them, he leaned over the letter board, and hunted.

T-I-M-E. He tapped them in, one by one, time travel, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Through the walls came voices and the sound of that overgrown shawm they called a bassoon, playing an old folk song.

He stood, pushed a hand through his hair, marched to the window and back, trying to remember how she'd made it work. The blank screen mocked him, silent and unhelpful. He stalked to the coffee maker, picked up his big black mug with the gold trombone—Shawn's mug, he corrected himself—filled it and drank. It was cold. He threw it down the sink, hit the button to start the machine, and went back to stare at the Google page again.

Then he remembered: the square underneath, that said Google search. He moved the arrow over the box and clicked. The image—the page, he reminded himself, determined to use correct terminology and remain inconspicuous—changed instantly. He smiled, appreciating the legacy Shawn had left him, which had acquired this fine high speed internet in his own chambers where no one would question his search on time travel.

He studied the listings, trying to recall how Amy had reached them. He needed her help. But he'd already pushed his credibility with her. Besides—he leaned back in his chair—new temptations swirled around her, rousing his imagination and senses, now that he knew the possibilities. No, safer all around to do this on his own.

He stared at the mouse, picturing Amy's motions in her many hours of helping him. He moved the mouse. The arrow onscreen moved with it, and settled on the first word. He clicked the button.

The screen turned purple and yellow, like heather and gorse in the hills around Glenmirril. He blinked hard and faced the bright colors again, running his finger under the words, and reading slowly.
Sagan on Time Travel.
He wondered what a Sagan might be.

He clicked, bringing up a new page, and continued plodding through unfamiliar spellings of what was still a second language to him. He couldn't guess what the letters P-H-Y-S-I-C-I-S-T meant, or what worms' holes had to do with time. Maybe it was similar to walking into the dwarf king's cliff? That, too, had been inside the earth. He grimaced at the thought of a worm whose hole was large enough for a man to walk into. There had to be a better way.

He pushed on. This, surely, was no worse than MacDougall's arrow. He grimaced, twisted on the cushioned chair for more comfort, and scrolled down. His brain hurt, trying to make sense of so many strange words. Then again, he decided, maybe he would rather be astride his horse, laughing back at the enraged MacDougalls. At least that had been fun for a moment.

A knock sounded on the door. Both relieved and irritated at the interruption, Niall raised his head and called, "Enter!"

The door swung open, admitting a stern-faced Conrad and two blue-clad men. "The police have a few questions," Conrad said. He pursed his lips. Niall eyed the men, hoping neither he nor Shawn had done anything that would get him locked up or fired, and joined them at the sitting room's table.

They set their hats with the black and white checked bands on the table. The older man came straight to the point. "We canna find any sign of the man who shot ye."

Relief coursed through Niall. He stuck to his story as they fired questions at him—he remembered nothing—till they stopped pressing. But when he rose to bid them farewell, they remained seated. Their expressions hardened.

"There's more," Conrad said. His white eyebrows bristled. "A man was caught with counterfeits down in Glasgow." Niall thought he must look as blank as he felt, for Conrad leaned forward, biting out each word, "Fake money." He paused. "Says he got it from you." They all stared at him.

Niall's eyes widened, understanding. He shook his head. "I'd do no such thing!"

Conrad stood, and marched back and forth across the room.

"You gave him a thousand in cash," said the younger man, with short black curls and ruddy cheeks. "Where did ye get it?"

Niall closed his eyes. "I remember nothing," he said. But he had a niggling feeling. Then, suddenly, he knew where Shawn had gotten money. Opening his eyes, he crossed the room swiftly to Shawn's jacket and dug out the parchment that had identified the ring.

The police took it, murmuring to one another, and nodding. Excitement grew on their faces. "Don't leave town till we've talked to you again," the younger man warned, and they took their leave.

Relief flooded Niall, till he turned and saw Conrad staring at the computer. A word of which the Laird did not approve slipped through Niall's teeth. He stepped forward, casting for an explanation.

"Amazing!" Conrad burst out. He turned to Niall, beaming. "You never fail to surprise me. Who would think you'd have such an interest?"

"I...." Considering Amy's distress at his interest in time travel, he didn't understand Conrad's pleasure.

"Fascinating subject!" Conrad said. He jabbed a finger at the screen. "Sagan, now!"

"What's saggin'?"

Conrad laughed. "Funny, Shawn. Not what. Who. Fascinating man. What do you think of his grandfather paradox?"

"I know his grandfather?" Niall asked. "The wound," he explained. "I've forgotten so much."

Conrad frowned. Niall suspected he'd made another mistake. "Not Sagan's grandfather. The grandfather paradox. What if you go back in time and kill your grandfather before he sired your father?"

Niall stared, shocked at the imbecility of such a question. "Nonsense! Why would anyone do such a thing?" he snapped. He had no desire to kill anyone! These people led lives of such ease they had to think up problems! "What if you wished to save people?"

"Well," Conrad drew the word out. "Save them from what? Does that mean somebody who wanted to kill them dies instead? Now their descendents are wiped out, and the person you saved has descendents he wouldn't have had. Everything changes."

Niall strode to the window, looking through heavy diamond panes to the riot of color in the garden below. If he succeeded, would this entire world appear instantly different? He shook his head. It did no good to think of such things. He'd do what he could for Allene and Scotland, let come what may. He had not their luxury for such games.

"Stephen Hawking," Conrad continued. He tapped at the letter board, making little clicking sounds like the scurry of rats' feet down in the dungeons. "Smartest man in the world. Says time travel is impossible—as proven by the lack of time travelers."

Niall turned from the window, grinning broadly. "I'd like to meet this man," he said. He doubted Mr. Hawking would believe him, could he introduce himself.

Suddenly, Conrad snapped his fingers. "You know who you should talk to! Aaron!" He jumped from the chair and dashed out of the suite, white hair flying, yelling for Aaron, before Niall could protest.

He sighed, and went to the coffee maker to fill his mug.

The door flew open. Conrad ushered in a startled-looking Aaron and flashed out again, seeking other targets for his energy.

Aaron pushed a lock of black hair off his forehead. It promptly fell back. He scanned the opulence around him. "An unlikely scenario, me being invited into your room," he said. "Is this a new interest or what? Something to do with what happened in the castle?"

It seemed a fair explanation. Niall nodded. "I saw and heard...things. People."