Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (32 page)

"And ye know I can take care of myself! I'll not be brought to shame by any man ere my wedding night. That includes you, Niall Campbell." She climbed halfway up the bank and glared back at him. "One more try like that, and there'll be no wedding night for you. Think ye my father would stop at a mere flesh wound had he seen that?"

Shawn stumbled a step or two up the slope after her. "He wasn't serious...." he began. With time and distance, the old Laird's threats had become idle words. Shawn gripped his hand more tightly, shutting his eyes against the burning. The Laird, he feared, was not only serious, but very capable. Already, he felt ghost pains in places other than his hand.

"Shit!" he spat the word. Allene promptly slapped his face.

"Damn, what was that for!" he shouted.

"The language!" she said. "And there's for the other word!" She swung again. Shawn stepped back to avoid it, and tripped on a stone. He found himself tumbling down the bank, and landed with a splash in the stream, soaking his finery. Several words formed in his mind, but between her knife and her right hook, he dared say none.

He'd let go of his hand, and the blood flowed freely in the water. "Give me something to tie this up with!" he shouted. "I need stitches, you deranged woman!"

"Ah, go 'won and quit bein' such a wee bairn," said Allene. "Next time, keep your hands to yourself.

"How am I supposed to play harp with my hand sliced up by your Ginsu knife?"

"Naught has ever stopped ye before," Allene said. "And now ye've delayed us so. Get out of the water, ye great oaf." She picked up her pack, and stomped away. Shawn scrambled from the water, snatching up the soaked hat with its sadly wilted feather, and jammed it on his head. Water dripped in his eyes and ran down the back of his neck, dribbling inside his shirt. He wiped at his eyes irritably, then yanked his shirt tails from under the tunic, struggling to tear a piece off. The material was strongly woven and wouldn't give.

"Come on, Allene!" he yelled. "Help me out!" A large bead of water fell from the hat, hitting the end of his nose and dripping off.

"Keep your voice down! Would ye have Edward's men join us?"

He stumbled up the dark bank, tripping again on the same stone. He snatched up the harp, still trying to staunch the blood. "Cut a bandage off this shirt for me! Are you going to leave me here to bleed to death? Who will warn Hugh?"

"Ye'll no bleed to death from that small cut," Allene scoffed. "An you do, I can certainly get to Hugh myself. Have ye forgotten, I am the one who knows the way?"

"Haven't you got a streak of human decency?" he demanded.

She stopped, stamped her foot, and whipped out her knife. It glinted. Shawn jumped back. "Wee bairn!" she said in disgust. "I'm only doin' as ye asked. Give me your shirt." He edged closer, warily, gripping his hand. She cut a long swath from his shirt, and helped him wrap his hand. She tied it so tightly he thought he was going to faint. "What has happened to you?" she asked. "Is this the same Niall who with an arrow in his backside turned back for one more cow, laughing the whole time?"

"Sure doesn't look like it," Shawn said in disgust. Who was this Niall, anyway, he wondered. And why the hell did everyone think he was so great? He hadn't even gotten past first base with his own fiance!

He elevated the injured hand above his heart, hoping to slow the blood loss. Damn Amy for bringing this on him. He swung the harp onto his back, and followed Allene across the moonlit moor, glaring and hating the sight of her, stiff-backed, ahead of him. He hit the chords on an air guitar, hard, and belted out improvised lyrics. "Come on, Allene! Why are you so mean?"

She turned violently, hissing, "Do you wish us both killed? We know not who's about!"

"Come on, Allene!" he crooned, his eyes narrowed in anger.

Tears glistened in her eyes. Her lip quivered. She turned and strode away, ignoring him.

His anger simmered for a good hour, thumping along behind her in silence with his hand aching and the harp banging his back mercilessly with each step. Staying with the blithering shrew had certainly not turned out to be the dream vacation he'd thought he'd won, back there in the foyer of the monastery. He may as well head to Inverness. He stopped, looking around. Hills stretched as far as the eye could see.

"Aer ye comin'?" Allene demanded.

He had no idea which way led to Inverness.

"Not the way I'd like to," he muttered, and started after her again. They'd reach a town eventually, and he'd find a phone. Out of habit, he passed the time by going through his small repertoire in his mind, but his deepest thoughts dwelt on wishing evil on everyone in any way remotely connected with his troubles.

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven

Central Scotland

Early in the morning, with pinks and grays streaking the eastern sky, they reached a squat, stone inn with a thatched roof. Allene had said not another word to him for the rest of the night, hiking without pause. There had been no more water breaks. She led him around the back of the inn, and tapped on the door. A great, robust man opened it a crack. As before, she lifted the cowl off her face. The man's blue eyes darted side to side, he pulled the door wide, and whisked them in. "Henry of Forth," he addressed Shawn. "And your poor, mute serving boy. My weary inn looks ever forward to your music. I've a meal fer ye, and a place to rest yer heads. Come!" He clapped Shawn's shoulder and pumped his hand. Shawn winced. His hand throbbed painfully even without the greeting. The man leaned in and whispered, "Welcome, my lord! May God go wi' ye."

"Henry?" Shawn asked. He looked the man up and down, from his baggy pants past his flour-smeared apron to his ruddy, bearded face.

Allene, the mute serving boy once again, with her hood covering her hair, gave him a piercing glare and nodded, raising a silencing finger to her lips. "D' ye no remember Fergal," she whispered.

The huge man led them into the dining room, empty but for a serving girl, up early to cook and clean. "Maeve," the man said. "We've a visiting minstrel who may entertain us tonight if we feed him well. Dish up some bacon and neeps. Be quick, girl."

"And something to drink." Shawn glared at Allene. His heartbeat pulsed in his hand. "A beer would be good."

Allene shook her head.

"What do you mean, no?" Shawn demanded. "What, do you only have ale or mead," he bit the words out, heavy with sarcasm, "in this primitive place?"

The man shushed him in alarm.

"I'll pay for naught to drink for ye," Allene hissed.

"I've had a rough night," Shawn hissed back. "Primarily thanks to you and your silly knife. You da...." He re-thought his language and tried again. "I'm wearing tights, for Chr...for Pete's sake, and you butchered my hand. I haven't slept in a decent bed in two nights! You can buy me a drink. Buy me a couple."

Allene pursed her lips, barely visible under the hood, and shook her head one smart, angry shake.

Shawn stood up, threw the plumed hat on the floor at her feet, and stormed out. Allene and Fergal didn't stop him. He slammed the wooden door as hard as he could, and stood outside, looking around. A few houses lined the dusty road. A cock crowed. Pale morning light silhouetted endless black hills, rolling like rough seas in every direction. Storming out became less effective with nowhere to go.

He wandered to the stable at the back. It was a small, wooden structure. A bony horse nodded sleepily in one stall. A wagon sagged drunkenly in a dark corner. By the far wall, a girl in a heavy woolen dress pitched hay. She turned to him with a pretty blush and lowered her eyes. He leaned against a heavy post, his arms crossed over his colorful tunic, watching. She turned to him again with the same blush and lowering of eyes.

A lazy grin drifted across his face. "Want some help?" he asked. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't be doing all this heavy work yourself."

"No, sir!" she giggled. "I couldna accept help from our guests."

"Oh, now, don't think of me as a guest. There are only friends we haven't met. Do you have another pitchfork?"

"Only the one, sir."

"A shame," Shawn said. "Maybe I could—help you—somehow. Like this?" He closed in behind, reaching around her to grasp the pitchfork. She giggled, as they clumsily tossed forkfuls of clean hay into a stall. "I didn't know hay could be this much fun!" he whispered, brushing his cheek against hers.

"Aye, sir, and sometimes even more," she said.

"Mm, how could that be?" Shawn asked, playing the game. He nuzzled the back of her neck as they tossed another forkful of hay.

"'Twould no be my place to tell a gentleman such a thing!" The girl pretended shock.

"So I'll have to try a few things and figure it out myself?"

She giggled. He kissed her ear, thinking of Allene by the stream. His bandaged hand slid up her front, tugging at the leather thong binding her dress. He turned her around, dropping his lips to hers.

And suddenly, a heavy blow landed on his shoulder, flinging him to his back in the hay. The pitchfork pointed dead center in his chest. And pressed hard. The big innkeeper stood over him, face red. The girl cowered at the back of the stall, clutching her dress.

"I offer you safety, Niall Ca...."

"Sh!" hissed Allene behind him. "Nobody must hear!"

"I risk my neck for you,
Henry
," the man roared in a harsh whisper, "and this is how ye repay me?" He gave the pitchfork a sharp jab. Shawn gasped, throwing his hands up for mercy. "An' I dinna ken ye for a braw laddie aw these years, I'd run ye through right now," the man said. "Count God on your side my Lady warned me of your strange behavior! Whatever MacDougall's injury did to ye, let us hope it is cured soon, afore another does run ye through. 'Twould be a waste of what has been...
till now
...a good and noble life."

He raised the pitchfork. Shawn rolled from under it, jackknifing to his feet. "No such thing as a little fun in these parts," he muttered, rubbing his chest. He could feel welts rising. He glowered at the man and started for the door.

"An apology is in order!" Allene snapped.

Shawn sized the man up. Now that he was on his feet, it would be a fair match. Except for the pitchfork. "My humblest apologies,
sir.
" He sketched an elaborate bow to the man, with a black look of contempt.

Allene gasped. The innkeeper growled and jabbed the pitchfork at him.

"Peace, Fergal." Allene laid a hand on his arm. "All of Scotland is at stake. He must get through, though he hardly deserves it. See to your daughter. You." She addressed Shawn. "Come and eat. It may be the last meal we see ere we reach Hugh."

She led him back to the inn's rough wooden table, piled high now with fare. None of it was the hot omelette or black coffee Shawn wanted. But it satisfied his hunger. They ate in silence, but for the cries of the girl out in the stable. At last, she fell silent.

Allene slammed her knife down, looking at him in disgust. "Have ye no shame?" she asked. "Bringing such a thing on the girl? Ye were so kind to her, like a brother, the night her mother was killed."

Shawn's head shot up. An image of his father, the image from his dreams, slapped him full in the face. Hatred shot from his eyes. "Don't talk to me about parents being killed."

"'Twas long ago." Allene frowned. "Ye're no the only who's lost a father."

"How do you know...?" Shawn stopped. Understanding flashed across his mind. Niall had also lost his father.

The innkeeper returned, throwing a stony glare at Shawn.

Shawn stared at the table, his jaw clenched. His hand throbbed. And now his chest ached with the sharp pain of punctured skin and newly forming bruises.

"Maeve," Fergal called to the serving girl. "Go to the Grants for a basket of eggs!" When she'd left, the man checked the windows quickly, and then dropped on the bench beside Allene. "In my lower guest room," he whispered urgently, "lies a monk, your height and size." He indicated Shawn with a nod of his head. Shawn noticed he was no longer my lord. "He was found by travelers, just south of the Great Glen. He'd been set upon and beaten. 'Twould appear to ha' been Edward's men. 'Tis a miracle he lives."

Shawn's insides went cold. He understood all too well.

Fergal stood. "Under the table," he commanded.

Shawn grumbled, his chest and hand aching. "I thought I was supposed to be the visiting entertainment."

"Ye dinna take this seriously, Niall," Allene said. "What e'er the head wound has done, we fear ye'll tell the English soldiers who ye are, or do summat equally foolish."

"So I'm supposed to sleep in a cellar?"

"Would ye rather die?" Allene snapped. "Perchance ye
like
being drawn and quartered?" They glared at one another.

With a last glance at the window, Fergal shooed them under the heavy table that ran the length of the room. He brushed aside straw, revealing a hidden door, which he pried open. "Give the monk a bit o' this to help him rest quietly." He slipped a package into her hand. "Edward's men stop here often enough. They may be supping directly above your heads."

Shawn dropped into the cellar first. Darkness opened its mouth for him, a dank cloth pressing in on his senses, and closing over his eyes. Fergal helped Allene lower herself. Out of necessity, rather than kindness, Shawn caught her. He winced as her weight dropped on his injured hand. He was too disgusted with her stabbing trick to even try for a glimpse up her robe.

She landed with a soft thump at his side. Fergal lowered a heavy skin, bulging with water, then pushed the trap door into place above their heads, and darkness swallowed them.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

As Shawn dropped into the musty cellar, Niall rose from his magnificent four poster. Sunlight shafted through the leaded glass windows and over the rich velvet bedspread.

His thoughts were as dark as Shawn's. The late night studying did not bother him. But he saw with dismay that he'd slept later than usual. The sad medieval eyes of Christ, hanging above his bed, gazed down accusingly. Shaking himself from the deep pile of blankets, he cast guilty eyes to the crucifix. Despairing accounts of the battle filled his mind.