Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (43 page)

"My mistake," Shawn muttered. "So how did he become king?"

"He took himself hence to Scone and had himself crowned king by the Countess of Buchan."

"And that's that? How does Edward the Younger come into it and this war we're raising an army for?"

"Longshanks died. His son, Edward the Second, is not the king nor the general his father was. Under his reign, we have regained most of what Longshanks stole, but for Berwick and Stirling. The English still hold those. Nigh on a year ago, Edward Bruce...."

"Bruce is Edward's last name? Not Longshanks?"

"Edward Bruce is Robert the Bruce's brother."

"So there are three Edwards running around: senior and junior over in England."

"Edward Longshanks...."

"That's the senior?"

"Longshanks, the father, is dead," David said.

"Ed, junior, is top dog now. And there's Edward the Bruce Brother here in Scotland?"

"Yes." David looked at him peculiarly. Shawn understood he should know these things. "He raised an army to take Stirling."

"Who raised an army?"

"Edward."

"Which Edward?"

"Bruce."

"Gotcha," Shawn said in English. He had no Gaelic equivalent.

"Bless you!" Allene handed him a handkerchief.

David continued the story. Edward Bruce laid siege to Stirling. The commander, Philip de Mowbray knew he couldn't hold out forever. He promised to surrender if reinforcements did not arrive by midsummer's day. Being perhaps overconfident, Edward Bruce allowed de Mowbray to request help from King Edward. David crossed a stream. "Edward is angry."

"We're back to Ed Junior?"

"The King of England, yes. He has raised the largest army ever seen, to crush the Scots once and for all."

"And the Bruce Brothers are going to stop him?"

"God willing." Brother David crossed himself. "But every clan is needed."

"And we're risking our lives to let one man know? What good is one man? What is he, like...the
Terminator
or something?" Shawn laughed.

"The
termi
...what?" Allene looked at him in puzzlement. "What nonsense is this?"

"The
Terminator
. It was….never mind." Shawn held aside a low-hanging branch while Allene slipped through. Her hood fell back. Her golden-red hair, having escaped its braid, tumbled down her back. He could almost believe it was a pleasant walk in the woods with a beautiful girl. If he could get Brother David to move on ahead, maybe she'd hold his hand again. Maybe he could manage a little kiss, behind a tree, if he didn't let his hands wander. Maybe.... He thought of Amy, and wondered if maybe he could go without a kiss this once. Amy would have liked this walk.

"I don't understand why you question us going for Hugh."

"Well, one man won't make much difference against the largest army ever seen on earth, will he?" High above, a bird trilled.

"Do you mean...?" Brother David stopped, stared in amazement, and laughed out loud. "My Lady, he seems to think Hugh will come alone! Just Hugh!"

Allene, too, laughed. They reached a stream and dropped on the bank to drink. "Of course he'll no come alone! He'll bring his men."

"What's that, like another twenty?" Shawn leaned into the water, splashing his face and hair.

Allene stared at him. The humor left her face. "Niall, I thought you were regaining your senses."

"I am," he reassured her, sitting up and shaking the water vigorously from his hair. "I mean," he touched his temple, where he understood Niall to have hit his head. "Mostly. But do you see, to someone who doesn't know the time, they'd ask that."

"Hundreds, then," Allene said. "Hugh's men number in the hundreds, including horsemen and bowmen. And his word carries great weight. Other clans will follow him."

"And each clan is hundreds of men?"

Allene nodded.

"Explain this, then." Shawn sat back on his heels. "Edward is coming to crush Scotland. Why would any clan not fight for Bruce?"

"The Comyns will fight against Bruce," Brother David said, "because he killed their kin. They'll not have him as king."

"Others, like the MacDougalls, and Robert de Umphraville, Earl of Angus, will stand with Edward because they have lands in England they wish to keep. The Buchans and Dunbars will stand with him because they wish to be on the winning side."

"If that many Scots will fight with England," said Shawn slowly, "how do you know what our man Hugh will do?"

"He will stand with my father," Allene said. "He is my father's brother."

The sting shot, sharply, through Shawn's hand and up his arm. He remembered all too clearly the Laird's threat, on the window sill. Maybe Allene wouldn't see the need to tell her uncle what had happened, back there by the stream. He wanted to ask,
Is he as bloodthirsty as your father?
but dared not. Maybe, if he behaved himself, she'd forget that little incident. Maybe, with the looks she'd been throwing his way, she already had.

"And once we deliver the message," Shawn said, "we'll go back to Glenmirril, right?"

Allene looked at him in surprise. "You, and perhaps Brother David, will fight with Hugh."

"I'm—" Shawn stopped dead in the forest. "I'm supposed to fight?"

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall shook numerous hands, working his way offstage after rehearsal. Conrad pumped his hand, nearly taking his arm off, crowing, "Tomorrow will be your finest moment!" He rubbed his hands together, chuckling, and relishing the moment when people discovered the great trombonist Shawn Kleiner could also play harp like a master.

Niall moved through the crowd, stopping for those who pressed in, wanting to talk. In the wings, he met a violist whose daughter had taken ill during the orchestra's tour. "How's your lass?" he asked.

"Doing better," the man assured him. "Any chance you could sign a recording of tomorrow's performance? She'd love to hear you play harp."

"I will," Niall said. He planned to be gone immediately after the concert. He filed a mental note to leave something, anything, signed with Shawn's name and best wishes to the young girl. Such a thing, apparently meant a great deal in this time. It was a small enough favor.

Dana sidled up to him. "You're incredible, Shawn," she said softly. "I wish your memory would come back." She squeezed his arm and left, lugging a heavy round snail of a case.

When the last musician walked off, rapping drumsticks against the concrete wall, Niall found himself alone in the narrow hall, but for Amy, waiting at the stage door. A single bare bulb illuminated the white cinder block walls.

"That was amazing," she said. She drew close, half an inch between them, looking up at him in the dim light. A scent of flowers drifted off her. Her hands rested on his chest.

A jolt shot through him. He swallowed. She expected things of Shawn. Anything he wanted could be his. His hands covered hers.

"Your mother said you were so different before your father's death." Her eyes, full of hope, held his. "She's waiting for that man to come back."

She was beautiful and kind, and he wondered what it would be like, up in that big four poster bed. The thought inflamed him.

"Where did you learn to play like that?"

Niall studied her intently. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to share his life and himself. But he smiled sadly. "Just something someone taught me." A shadow crossed her eyes, and he realized she thought he meant Celine. He couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't kiss her. He touched her cheek; only because he must play the role, he told himself. They studied each other, awkwardly, neither knowing what to say.

She smiled uncertainly, finally. "Well, I guess I'll see you at dinner." She pulled away and headed down the hall. She looked back, once, over her shoulder.

He watched her go. He'd disappointed her. He wondered if he'd disappointed himself. A kiss, just a kiss, with no laird to anger. He didn't think Conrad cared what he did with Amy. Would it really have hurt anything? A bar of light appeared at the end of the hall, as she opened the door. Her silhouette hesitated, then slipped out, and the door shut, leaving him alone under the bare bulb.

He boosted himself onto the forlorn table that had held musicians' cases during rehearsal, contemplating his decision. It seemed insane, suddenly, to seek one man in hundreds of miles, separated by seven hundred years. If Shawn and Allene were in the wilderness, they may not have even survived. He might find he'd gone back for nothing. To find those he loved already dead and gone. Maybe God, for reasons Niall couldn't fathom, had given him a second chance here.

But he wasn't one to second guess himself. He would move ahead with his plan. He would play this concert, as they called it, as he'd played so many nights while the people of Glenmirril dined and laughed and talked and threw bones to dogs. It was easy enough. He'd done it hundreds of times since his youth. Amy would have his things ready—he was sure she'd help, when he asked—and things would start to happen.

A humming sound caught his ear. He looked up to the source: pipes running along the ceiling. His eyes traveled from the pipes to the rest of his surroundings. Bare walls, like the monastery, but stark and pale, rose around him. A large wooden crate held costumes for some sort of mummery. Isolation engulfed him. He shook off the prickling along his arms. Nothing in this day and age compared to the dangers of his own. A tingle shot down his spine nonetheless. He started down the dim hall. He was quite capable of protecting himself. Just then, the lights flickered off, and he found himself in darkness broken only by the green glow of the EXIT signs far away at the ends of the hallway.

A dark figure emerged from a passage on his left.

Niall's heart quickened. "Who's there?"

"Lousy luck, the lights going off," said a hard voice.

Central Scotland, 1314

As morning sun flooded the dirt street, brightening the few cottages, the captain of the guard pushed his foot against the two English soldiers. Their heads lolled on one another, their backs against the stone wall of a small cottage. A red stain dribbled down the older man's white tunic. The empty wineskin hung from his hand. Gentle snores rose from the scarred man. Far away in the hills, a cow lowed.

"Fine guards Edward has!" sneered the Scot.

"Wake up!" the captain barked. He swatted the older guard with the flat of his sword. The man jerked on the bench and straightened himself, blinking. "What do you mean, sleeping on duty!"

"Drinking on duty." The Scot spit into the muddy road. The scarred man stirred; both guards shook their heads, rubbed their eyes.

"On your feet!" roared the captain.

They leapt up, arms stiffening at their sides, chins up, and looked almost like England's finest in the pink rays streaming over the eastern hills. "'Twas a long night," the scarred man defended himself.

"'Twas a cold night," said the other. "We but tried to keep warm."

"Hold your tongue! You drank on duty and fell asleep. Suppose the Scottish traitor came through, sneering at Edward's men as he danced by."

"We stayed awake through the night," protested the man with the wineskin.

"No monk came through," added the other.

"How would you know?" demanded the Scot. "Did ye think a wanted man would wake you to announce himself? Did you patrol the village as ordered?"

"Aye," said the older man. "We checked the forest and circled the village. We went to the top of yonder hill each hour."

The Scot's face darkened. The captain of the guard appeared likewise skeptical. The soldier with the wineskin suddenly brightened. "There was a minstrel, my lord."

"A minstrel?" queried the Scot. "Why did you not say so at once?"

The men squirmed. A bird trilled in the silence. The captain spoke for them. "They were told to look for a monk."

"Aye, that they were." The Scot glowered. "But you knew 'twas Niall Campbell we sought. Tell me about the minstrel."

"He wore a plumed hat," said the older man.

"Naturally." The Scot spoke dryly. "And mayhap colorful trews as well?" He slapped the side of the man's head. "Tell me something helpful. What instrument did he carry?"

"The harp, my lord." The man rubbed his temple. "He played the harp for us."

"The harp." The Scot's face turned red, inch by slow inch. "But his harp is still at Glenmirril."

"My Lord?" The captain inquired. When the Scot did not speak, he waited, a statue, for his orders. The soldiers shifted from foot to foot, looking anywhere but his face. More birds began to sing as they waited; sheep bleated on the hill.

"He can't have another harp," the Scot muttered. "Nor could he have eluded me in the Glen. And yet...." The Scot made his decision. "Gather your men," he snapped at the captain. And to the soldiers: "Which way did he go?"

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Green lights shimmered off white-blond hair. Niall let out his breath. "Rob."

"Yeah, Rob. Or do you call me the Stooge when I'm not around? Or Good Old Rob Who Will Do Anything? Rob Who Can Be Sent Fishing."

Niall edged toward the exit sign. He didn't wish to fight Rob. Every sense told him that was what the man wanted.

And Rob would get hurt.

Rob stepped farther out, blocking his way. "Rob." Niall held up a hand. "I don't know what I've done to you." The smirk, back by the bus yesterday had been unnecessary, Niall chastised himself, but that seemed poor reason for Rob cornering him in the dark.

"Bullshit, Shawn," Rob snapped. "I know all your tricks. This is just one more, pretending you don't remember anything. Did you hit your head on purpose, or are you just taking full advantage of the situation like always? Either way, you've fooled them all. You've pulled off another coup. Isn't that enough?"

"Enough what? Let's talk outside."

He stepped to his right. Rob's shadowy figure stepped with him. "Out where you can play Saint Shawn for all your new admirers? You know I won't say what needs saying in public."

Niall was confused. "Why not?" He stepped back to the left.