Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (2 page)

"And I love you!" he boomed. His voice reverberated through the microphone clipped to his shirt, ricocheting from the speakers around the auditorium. "Every last one of you!" He searched the audience for the girl flailing her arms and blew a kiss. She screamed again. "You're a wonderful audience! You are truly the best of Scotland! We'll be back, right Conrad?"

The conductor, his wild white hair almost tamed for the evening, beamed and nodded, bringing on more applause.

"Thank you," Shawn said, again and again, nodding to various sections of the audience. He blew kisses to women. "The pleasure is mine. I've loved every minute!" He gestured to the kilted bagpipers lining the balconies. "The best of Scotland!" he beamed. "Show them your appreciation! I know you'll all want to buy them a drink or two afterward." The bagpipers bowed gravely. Smiles passed the lips of several at mention of a drink. The crowd cheered. Shawn swept his arm over the orchestra, who stood, as one, to bow. "They deserve a hand, don't they? They're a great, hard-working bunch." He gestured toward Conrad, stiff in his tuxedo. "Conrad Schmitz, our fearless leader! Show him you love him!" Conrad stepped down from the podium. They shook hands. Finally, with a last bow and wave to the girl still screaming his name, he stepped off stage into the black void of the wings.

"Well done, Shawn," Conrad said.

"Of course!" Shawn gave his usual cocky grin, listening to the applause. There would be curtain calls. There always were. He lifted the double tall mocha, left backstage after each concert for him, in a toast. Conrad smiled tightly, lifted his own water glass in salute, and sipped. Shawn and Conrad stepped back onstage, bowing again. They went through the routine several times. This audience was especially generous, loving both the concert's theme of traditional Scottish music, and Shawn's skillful arrangements combining bagpipes, lutes, harps, uilleann pipes, and singers with a classical orchestra.

A girl burst onstage, her hair in green spikes, and skinny legs in striped stockings. Security floundered after her. She threw herself at Shawn, pelting his face with kisses. He kissed her back with gusto, and the audience cheered. The guards dragged her away, still yelling, "I love you, Shawn!"

"I love you, too!" He blew kisses after her, much to the audience’s delight.

Bows. Applause. More bows. Smiles so broad his face hurt. A wave of the hand. An encore.
Blue Bells
, of course. They never tired of it. Finally, loosening his bow tie, and removing his cummerbund, Shawn signaled with a good-natured smile that the night was really over. He pushed backstage, swaggering and slapping high fives, yanking at the buttons constricting his throat, eager for the night's real fun to begin.

Glenmirril Castle, On the Shore of Loch Ness, Scotland, 1314

Flames crackled in the great hall's fireplace. Flickering red shadows danced over gray stone walls. Voices called across the room, and laughed nearby. At the head table, one of the Laird's great, shaggy hunting hounds nudged Niall's elbow. He patted its head and tossed a bone.

"That's a greedy one, that is." Allene laughed at his side, shaking her copper hair. They watched the huge animal skitter across the rush-strewn floor after the bone, and settle down, gnawing. Allene leaned close. Her red hair tickled his cheek. "How's Gil?"

"The laddie's no well," Niall answered. He watched a juggler in multi-colored tunic spin knives in the air. "I brought him a bannock an dram, and played for him a wee bit. But the fever's no broken."

"And you?"

"I've been better." Niall leaned close and whispered with a wink, "as has my arse." He laughed at her shock and shifted uncomfortably on his thick cushion. MacDougall's arrow, by excellent aim or dumb luck, had caught his exposed parts.

It had been a nightmare ride, unable to sit, and the arrow jolting his posterior with every hoof beat, through a labyrinthine moonlit glen, following a glittering silver ribbon of stream, and circling back to the hollow where his men and cattle hid. He'd bullied a stray cow over the lip of the hollow, bellowing to his men, "You louts left one behind!"

His attempts to distract them from his growing weakness had worked all too well. When blackness swamped him, tumbling him from the pony-like hobbin he rode, they were too slow to prevent his head striking a rock.

He hurt everywhere. But they'd be telling the tale for years, how Niall Campbell, even with an arrow in his arse, turned back for one more cow. Just today, he'd heard them around the corner, regaling young boys, who had gazed with awe, when Niall limped into view.

He laughed, rubbing his posterior with an exaggerated grimace. "'Twas a small price to pay to bring home our cattle."

"And for yer own vanity in mocking the MacDougall," Allene replied. She lifted the hair at his temple, studying the vicious purple-black bruise. Her fingertips grazed rough lacerations. "Aer ye still seeing double?"

"'Tis a fine thing to see two of ye, my lady." Niall smiled, hoping she wouldn't press, for at the moment, three of her swam before his eyes, three heads of fiery curls, three freckled faces, three pairs of bright blue eyes.

"Wheesht!" spoke Lord Morrison on Niall's right, and he was glad for the interruption. "Rabbie's a-goin' to tell a story." Voices died down around the hall. Rabbie was a favorite. As the old man pulled up a stool facing the Laird, Allene and Niall fell to their meal, spearing bread, turnips, and slabs of meat from platters lining the table.

"The tale of King Herla," old Rabbie began in his ancient voice. Whispers of appreciation swept around the room from older folk who knew the story. Children fell quiet, leaning in close to hear how Herla, after a hard day's riding, rested in an ancient forest. Exciting, mysterious things always happened in ancient forests. "But as he dozed," Rabbie creaked, "a noise woke him." More children left their seats and eased into the circle at old Rabbie's feet.

"I'd wager he saw a dwarf," Niall whispered to Allene, under cover of lifting his tankard. "With cloven feet."

"And what did he see," said Rabbie, "but a dwarf. With cloven feet!" The children gasped.

"Go for your sword," muttered Niall.

Allene lowered her head, covering a smile.

"He went for his sword!" Rabbie leaned toward the children, reaching for his belt. They drew back. Older ones giggled, wrapping protective arms around younger siblings. "But the dwarf smiled and said," and Rabbie imitated the dwarf's voice, "'I've heard o' your wisdom and would feign call you friend. I'd make a bargain wi' ye. I'll attend your wedding, and ye'll attend mine.' They sealed the promise with a drink from a gilded hunting horn."

The story wove through King Herla's adventures, to his eventual marriage, attended by the dwarf king. Niall rose from his seat, unable to sit on the wound any longer, and stood behind Allene's chair. "Did the dwarf marry within the year?" he whispered, leaning close to her ear. Lord Morrison lowered dangerous eyebrows, daring him to speak again. Allene stared down into her dinner, tightening her mouth against a laugh.

"Within the year, the dwarf announced his marriage," said Rabbie. "The king and his men, carrying gifts worthy of a fellow monarch, traveled to a great cavern, where they celebrated for three days with the dwarf's people."

The sun sank, leaving velvet blue sky peering through the eastern windows, and streaks of pink and orange through the western. The loch lapped softly outside. Insects hummed. Niall rested his hands on Allene's shoulders, stifling his aches. He needed more ale.

"When the celebration ended," Rabbie said, "the dwarf king gave them gifts, including a bloodhound. 'Ye're no longer safe in your world,' the dwarf said. 'Carry the bloodhound on your saddle. Doona get off your horses until he gets down. Then will ye be safe.' The king and his warriors rode out, full of fine food and ale. Imagine their surprise when they reached their world and dinna see the forest."

Rabbie leaned down, opening his eyes wide. The children stretched forward, waiting.

"There were fields, and villages," Rabbie whispered. "King Herla rode on, seeing naught he knew. At last, they found an old man—even older than me!" Rabbie tugged at his long, white beard. The children giggled. "They asked him what had become of the forests and the Kingdom of Herla. The old man stroked his beard." Rabbie matched action to words. "And at last remembered an old legend, about a king who had disappeared. But that, the man said...." Rabbi stopped, looking from face to eager face, making them wait. "That was three hoondred years ago!"

The children's eyes grew round. "Could tha' really happen, Grandfaither Rabbie?" piped a little girl with straw-colored braids.

"Och, who's to say?" said the old man. "The fairy folk, they like to play tricks on us poor humans. There's many a story of fairies takin' a man to fairyland, an hoondreds o' years passin' ere he leaves."

"Fairies!" scoffed Niall.

"Do ye be careful, Niall Campbell," Allene murmured. "Ye doona want to be temptin' them."

He winked at her. "No, I doona want to be tempting the fairies."

"Niall!" roared the Laird. Niall jumped. A shock of pain crashed through his head. "Get your harp, laddie, and play for us!"

Niall nodded obediently, still smiling at Allene's concern. Taking his harp from a peg on the stone wall, he scuffled through the rushes and settled himself gingerly on Rabbie's stool. Men chuckled; women blushed. He grinned, rubbing his posterior in jest at his own foolhardiness, and began one of their favorites, a ballad of love lost. Iohn drifted to his side, harmonizing. Some people watched. Others returned to their conversations; the hum of talk swelled gently.

He liked it this way, playing in the background. A dog sniffed his knee and wandered away. A few children remained in the straw, watching. Some played games with their hands, bits of string, or marbles. The youngest slept in their mothers' arms. Sitting beside her dozing father, Allene smiled at him. His world was complete.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

The hall backstage filled with laughing musicians in concert black, drunk on a fine performance, and well-wishers from the audience. They packed the narrow passage between white-washed concrete walls, bumping tables and brushing tall wheeled crates of ballet costumes. Most strained toward Shawn. He lifted a hand to friends over the press, signed programs, called a greeting, laughed, chatted, and shook hands with ardent admirers he'd never met before.

"Where to, Shawn?" Dana called. She hugged her French horn close to her body in the crowd. Her ginger red hair shot in short spikes in all directions from her head. Several others slipped through the press of people, squeezing through the green room door.

"Shawn! Got a party going?" shouted Rob, the principal trumpet player.

"Ask Amy," Shawn called back. Amy, his girlfriend of two and a half years, would deal with it. He turned his attention back to a short, elderly man with traditional kilt and a bristling mustache. Smiles, more handshakes. Shawn thanked him, turned to an elderly woman spangled with diamonds, congratulated her on her son's own musical success, and edged toward the green room.

He signed a boy's program, patted his shoulder, and encouraged him in his up-coming audition; got two steps closer and greeted a young woman. His eyes lit up. He clasped her hand in both of his, stopping his pursuit of the green room.

"Beautiful playing!" she gushed. Her hand fluttered to her chest. Shawn's eyes followed. "Just beautiful!"

"Likewise," Shawn replied. His gaze slid up past auburn curls brushing her shoulders, to green eyes. "Just beautiful!" She blushed, glanced at the floor with a giggle, and returned her eyes to his with a bold gaze. "Come to my party tonight," he murmured.

"You don't even know me." She dimpled. "I'm a stranger."

"There are no strangers," Shawn crooned. "Only friends we haven't met. The Blue Bell Inn." She simpered. With a slow smile, he eased his hand, palm against palm, from hers, and turned the doorknob behind him. She'd be at his party. He didn't waste time wondering.

In the green room, he surveyed his domain. Despite the name, the walls and carpets were pale blue. Fluorescent bulbs flooded the room with light. Coffee burbled on a counter against the far wall. Bouquets of roses and mixed flowers lay between the percolator and a tray of cookies. Men and women sprawled on comfortable couches and chairs scattered around the room. Some spoke quietly. "...called my son," said the concert master, Peter, as Shawn passed. And the young man—Shawn didn't know his name—who'd just joined the violas: ".... meeting my wife at the airport."

The excitement of the hallway carried into the musicians' private quarters. A boisterous group of men in tuxedos and women in black dresses surrounded Amy. She, too, wore a flowing, black skirt, and long-sleeved black blouse that set off her cobalt eyes, long, dark lashes, and pale skin—unusually pale tonight, he thought. Thick, black hair hung to her waist. "The Blue Bell Inn," she repeated. "As soon as people get there."

Heads turned as Shawn pushed through. Cheers went up, calls of friends, hands raised in greeting. The volume rose, swallowing the irritated glances of the concert master and several others. But Shawn didn't bother about the opinions of those who didn't know how to have fun. The good cheer of the more lively crowd reached out and drew in their king with hand shakes, congratulations, and back slaps.

Shawn reached for Amy. He pulled her close, kissing her enthusiastically to catcalls from his friends. "Hey, what was with your playing tonight?" he asked, pulling back. "It was a little off."

She smiled weakly, and twisted away.

"She played great. As always," the concertmaster snapped, turning from his conversation. "Ignore him, Amy."

"You coming to my party?" Shawn asked her.

"Not tonight," she said.

"Oh, come on, Amy." Dana squeezed her shoulder. "I want my best friend there."

A couple of the men hooted. "Losing your touch, Shawn?"

He grinned at them, unfazed. But Conrad arrived, tugging at his bow tie and staying Shawn's comeback. "Fine job, as always, Shawn," he said. "We sold out all five performances. Dan suggested scheduling a Saturday matinee. Big bonuses for everyone as usual."