Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (35 page)

A thump above jolted him from his thoughts. "You've let us down so far," a voice barked. The accent was English.

"He's no yet reached Hugh, o' that ye can be sure," spoke another. "And what o' the rewards I was promised? I've no seen them."

An ugly tingle crawled down Shawn's spine. This was the voice of the man who would betray Niall...Shawn. It sounded familiar. But he'd spent so little time in the castle, he could not place it. One of the lords around the table?

The voices continued, and he realized his musings had distracted him from listening. He needed to figure out how to get back to where he belonged. His mind struggled through his nightly marches. Should he go back to the castle? Did the switch need to happen there? He tried to recall the hills and moors surrounding Fergal's inn. He had no idea which way the castle lay. He was a strong swimmer. He could cross the loch—if he could find it. And if he did, what then? Just knock at the portcullis, announce he wasn't Niall, had no idea where Niall was, and needed to take a nap in the tower, please? He'd be shot, hung, drawn, and quartered, before he ever made it back.

"...a cloak," said the English accent.

Allene shifted in his arm and muttered in her sleep. He put his fingers against her lip. But he'd missed more of their conversation. He tried to lift himself from under Allene's weight, with little success. He could hear nothing from above. But there'd been no sound of departure. Then there came a soft scuffle, and the familiar sifting of dirt on his face. His eyebrows drew tight in irritation. He wanted to be in his four poster with a double tall mocha and—his heart pounded as the realization hit him. He didn't want Caroline. He wanted to be in his four poster with a double tall mocha in one hand and Amy wrapped in his arm. Allene stirred, made a sound in her sleep. He smoothed her hair, whispering, "Shh."

"'Twill do," said the Scottish voice above. There were mumblings he missed, and then, "...quality." The thing he imagined to be a rat scampered closer. Nearby, the monk breathed heavily; a soft thump suggested he'd swatted the rat away. There were footsteps, and finally, the men's words became clearer, as if they'd moved more directly over the spot where Shawn lay.

"From Edward's own tailor. But MacDougall is angry with our failure thus far. He has become consumed with finding Campbell. He'll be at Stirling, if we don't catch him up before. MacDougall wants him, even then."

"For what?" demanded the Scottish voice. "'Twould be too late to do any good."

"Vengeance. He's making fools of us." A long silence stretched above him, before the English voice spoke again. "You'll get the land only if you turn Campbell over."

The Scottish burr rose to an angry pitch. "'Tis not what I agreed to. Ye wanted only to stop him reaching Hugh."

"Have you an attack of conscience now?" The English voice laughed. The sound shot a chill down Shawn's arms. Allene rustled. He tried to be still so she might sleep. "What you agreed to would have led to his death. Surely you didn't think otherwise?"

After a pause, the Scottish voice asked, "What will ye do to him?"

The man laughed again. "What concern is that of yours? If you want the land, point him out to us at Stirling."

Shawn wrapped his arm more tightly around Allene, squeezing out images of
Braveheart
and wishing he could put a face to the voice. He was sure he did not want to be pointed out to anyone at the battle, or any time before he could figure out how to get himself out of this mess and back to the orchestra.

* * * * *

Chapter Twelve

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall woke with his mind churning. All his research only raised more questions. He managed to settle his mind to a perfunctory
Pater
and
Ave
and prayer for Shawn—
God, may Your angels watch over him and guide him
—before Jesus could rummle him again with demands, but his real concern was Allene. He wrestled with the question of what must happen at the Pools to save his people, while he pulled on Shawn's clothes, even the hated tennis shoes.

Dressed for the day—he kicked his leg irritably in the stiff jeans—Niall poured coffee from the machine, marveling at whatever miracle allowed it to be hot and ready, with no human intervention. Well, he corrected himself, Amy had thoughtfully pushed some buttons last night, making it beep, and told him it would be ready. He sipped the strong, black brew, loving the way it brought his senses to life, and wondering how he'd readjust to not having it, if—when—he got back.

He took the steaming mug to the large table with his computer and printer. Papers lay scattered across it. He pushed them around, trying to combine their information with anything he might have gleaned from the model. He'd hoped that last night's studying would percolate in his brain while he slept, and the answer would be clear this morning, appearing miraculously and with no effort like the coffee. But the Scots were as hopelessly outnumbered this morning as they had been last night, and had been seven hundred years ago, and would be in the future, if he somehow got back to fight the battle himself.

He looked back through the bedroom door, at Christ on His cross. "I shouldna ha' expected answers in a dream, should I now?" He spoke his native Gaelic. "Even You dinna get aught for naught."

He raked a hand through his hair, and began organizing the papers into piles. He put maps to one side—hand-drawn maps, maps looking down from above as a bird might see things, maps with symbols and arrows and labels showing the movement of the armies. In another pile, he placed photographs. In a third, he put written accounts of the two days. He sipped his coffee and stared at them, thinking.

"None of it helps," he muttered. He pulled the maps toward himself, and spread them out, once again, comparing the movements of Bruce's army, on the hand-drawn maps, to what he could see of the terrain on the bird's view photos. Did Bruce use what he had? he asked.

He pulled over the sheaf of narrations, and thumbed through till he found an exceptionally detailed one. He studied it, irritated at having to wade through a foreign language in foreign script. What tragedy if Bruce lost because he, Niall, hadn't paid more attention to his English tutors. But he waded through, and, choosing a sharpened pencil from those Amy had brought, jotted a notation on one of the maps. He studied the account again, and made another notation, consolidating details to one source. He sat back in the leather chair, studying the amended map. It helped to see, on the map, what the account told him.

He traced, with his finger, the positions of the opposing forces. Bruce had arrived early and taken the western and northern high ground, a mile or so south of Stirling Castle, forcing Edward's mighty army to pass in small units through a narrow gap. Brilliant. Niall tried to remember the area from the time he'd been there. But he'd been more interested in getting a glimpse of Allene, riding tall on her horse beside her father. He shrugged. He'd been fifteen. How could he have known he'd need an intimate knowledge of the terrain some day? He'd have to make the best of what he had, and with any small blessings, it would bring back some helpful memory.

He turned back to the map, sipping his coffee. Bruce had lined his men up facing the carse bog. He imagined Edward's heavy, proud horses, covered in their nobles' colors, struggling to carry a thousand pounds of armor-covered knights and their array of weapons across that soggy marshland, and admired Bruce's strategy.

He read further, and jotted another note on the map, with little, pointed symbols: caltrops. He nodded approvingly. Bruce had thought of everything. His men had strewn the marsh with the sharp, multi-spiked instruments, a deadly game of jacks sprinkled across the field to pierce the horse's hooves, and tumble them, rider and all, to the ground, cutting down the rumored hundred thousand before combat even began.

Bruce had prepared and strategized brilliantly.

And yet...he lost.

Why? Niall asked again. They'd been hopelessly outnumbered at Stirling Bridge, and triumphed despite it.

They'd chosen their ground well. Bruce had turned the once defensive, immobile schiltrons—the walls of spears that the English found difficult to penetrate—into moving, offensive weapons. Clifford, an English knight leading seven hundred cavalry, had thrown himself and his men at a schiltron and been killed almost instantly. Even mounted cavalry couldn't stand against them, so what had gone wrong?

Niall continued moving his fingers along the lines of writing, going now and again to pin a point on one of the maps, shuffling the papers to find better representations, and occasionally pulling out one of the photographs to check another detail. He drank the last of the coffee and shook his head. There had to be some information he hadn't come across yet, some question he hadn't thought to ask.

He turned to the computer. He pushed buttons, finally managing to bring up the bright desktop as Amy called it, of a Scottish castle. He smiled, trying to imagine the Laird's scarred writing desk covered with images of a castle. Amazing! He moved the mouse. He picked it up and studied it, now that she wasn't here to witness his wonder at what Shawn would no doubt find normal. Nothing happened. He studied the letter board. He hit a few, with no results.

He glanced back into the bedroom, to the crucifix.
Is this getting me anywhere?
He couldn't see that it was, but felt drawn, nonetheless, to search again. He wondered how much longer Amy would help him before asking awkward questions, and no longer believing the wound story. Still, he couldn't remember how she'd made this thing work.

He sighed, and opened his door. Music flowed from several rooms, the musicians warming up before breakfast and rehearsal. He smiled, enjoying the scales and bits of melodies. Such a peaceful life. No fears of death or war. He wondered that all these people didn't seem happy, in their luxurious and idyllic lives: Rob, angry about something, Niall knew not what, every time their eyes met; Conrad so worried about whether a concert would be played perfectly; Caroline upset that he rejected her brazen behavior. What did she really expect!

He walked down the hall to Amy's room and tapped on the door, giving a courtly bow when she opened it.

"Shawn, you don't have to do that," she whispered. "People are staring." Niall looked down the hall, and, indeed, Caroline was regarding him sullenly.

"I'm sorry to cause you discomfort," Niall said, remembering to drop the
my Lady
, which courtesy also raised eyebrows.

"Come in." Amy stood back, ushering him into a sea of calming greens. Unlike Shawn's chambers, hers had only the one room, holding a bed and chest of drawers, with a much smaller bathroom off to the side. He glanced at the parchment in her hand.

She blushed, and lifted it to him. "It's the letter you left under my door in Edinburgh. Sometimes I re-read them." She looked apologetic.

Niall took the letter in his hand, feeling he was stepping into a very private part of another man's life. Her hands gripped one another, less than an inch from his. He scanned Shawn's writing, not as bold and brash as it had been in the checkbook.

Amy, mo ghràdh, Amy, mo ghaol.

He looked up. "I spoke Gaelic?"

She nodded. "Fluently. Your dad and grandmother both spoke it. Have you forgotten it all?"

"No." Niall looked back to the letter.
I loved the underground tour. Thanks for going with me. I hope you had fun, too. Great ghost stories, great excuse to hold you in the dark. I'll remember it forever. Always yours.

A flattened S was etched under the words, centered below them. He touched his finger to it.

"You don't remember?" Amy edged closer, peering up at him curiously. He shook his head. "A visual pun," she said. "It's an S for Shawn, or it's a trombone. You leave me notes and letters all the time, always signed with this." She glanced at the desk in her room, littered with several more pieces of parchment. He guessed they were more of the same. Her hand fell on his. His nerves danced, sending life up and down his arms. "It's one of the things that made me think you were so much more." Her voice trailed off. Her eyes bored a question into his, asking for the truth.
Who are you? Are you the man I believed in?

He dropped his eyes, swallowed and pulled his hand from the thrills she was sending up his arm. "Will you help me again with the internet?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, and opened the door. He offered his arm. She smiled shyly, and took it.

* * *

Niall said a silent prayer with bowed head that God would lead him to the answer. Yes, and for Shawn, too, he added. He studied every motion as Amy pulled up page after page. It was all he could do, still, to contain his wonder at the moving figures! Amy's long, black hair fell occasionally, brushing his arm. "Shawn, what exactly are you looking for?" she finally asked, sitting back.

"Some weakness," Niall answered, suddenly knowing what he needed to find out. "Edward is a fool."

"Is?" Amy asked. "Isn't Edward a 'was?' He crushed the Scots once and for all, and solidified England's hold on Scotland for hundreds of years. Till well after the American Revolution."

"When was that?"

She harrumphed. "You don't remember the American Revolution? Oh, sorry, the amnesia, the injury."

"But why did the Scots lose?" Niall asked. He paced the floor.

"Well, because they were outnumbered three or four or even five to one, depending which site you read. It's not like you can go back and change that." She went to the coffee maker.

Not even all Hugh's men would help that ratio much, Niall had to acknowledge. "Maybe not." He dropped onto a chair. "But every army has its weakness. I
know
Edward!"

She spun, shocked, from the coffee maker. "You what?"

He corrected himself. "I mean, I know what I've read." He rose from his chair, his agitation pushing him back to pacing. "He's a fool and a weakling. He has taken...I mean, he took little interest in Scotland or his armies. He is the last man to be leading an army, but he will, because he is king." He pounded his fist in his hand, and dropped back into his chair.