Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (37 page)

"He's a genius," Shawn whispered. The soldiers might look right at the robe, hanging with a dozen others, and be none the wiser.

"So he must still be wearing it," the soldier concluded. "A monk should be easy to spot. We did find one."

Shawn breathed in relief. He, a minstrel in a fine-feathered hat, would pass unnoticed.

The voice above laughed. "Poor devil was half dead before our friend told us we had the wrong man." The monk, somewhere in the dark, rasped, and Shawn's relief dimmed. They would indeed find another monk. And that monk would die that Shawn might live to rouse Hugh and save Scotland. In a flash, he saw all the old Laird had done to see Niall safely through. He closed his eyes, sinking deep into himself, and suddenly he understood why Allene prayed.

He did so, himself, in agitation. God, get me out of this! I didn't ask to be needed by these people! It isn't my responsibility! And I can't help them.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

The bus whisked Niall, with the orchestra, through a drizzly Scottish morning to the great hall. Amy sat beside him this time. He closed his eyes, trying to quell the discomfort of his stomach. Her hand, in his where she'd put it, gave him some comfort. How these people laughed and sang inside this hurtling beast, he couldn't guess. The thought of the rehearsal did nothing to ease his stomach. The only upside was that it distracted him from the images of Amy and Shawn that had come with his new knowledge of their relationship. What disturbed him most was that Shawn didn't deserve her.

He hurried with the musicians through the rain, into the warm concert hall. Onstage, beside the harp, he squinted over the lights glaring up from the edge of the floor. A black cavern yawned beyond, its ceiling soaring up out of sight. He settled himself at the harp, a jangle of nerves.

Today, however, went much better than the first rehearsal. Thankful for the Laird's rigorous instruction, he played through his pieces, with only half of the previous rehearsal's mistakes—and only half the snickers. His confidence surged; he enjoyed the fine instrument leaning on his shoulder, and the magnificent music swelling from the orchestra behind him. He'd always done his best thinking while his fingers moved through well-known pieces, and his mind roamed freely across the battle as he played.

After the second piece, a young woman came onstage. Red hair swirled around her face. She reminded him of Allene. Pain seared his heart. He shouldn't be here! He should walk off this ridiculous stage right now, because this concert didn't matter! He glanced at Conrad, and feared he'd have him locked up, or, worse, fired.

And he wouldn't know what to do if he left, anyway.

"We'll do it with Megan today," Conrad said, and, with a swoop of his baton, he began the song Niall had worked on with Celine. He played an introduction and the first verse, rich chords rolling from his fingers.

Megan joined, in a throaty voice.
"Ian MacGregor a friend betrayed, a friend he did betray."

"No, no, no, no!"

Niall jumped as Conrad's voice smashed through his reverie. The music behind him crashed to a halt. He heard a snicker, and sighed.

"He's an angel of music!" came a man's voice. "The angel of death!" Laughter came from the brass section. Niall turned. Rob polished his trumpet, not bothering to hide a self-satisfied smirk.

"Listen to the words!" Conrad shouted, waving his baton. "You're playing this thing like a battle march. It happens in the middle of a battle, but it's a ballad. A ballad! A man is betraying his friend!"

"Shawn knows about that," came the same voice. Niall clenched his jaw, but refused to acknowledge the comment in any way.

Conrad shook his head in despair, raised his baton, and said, "Try it again."

Niall placed his fingers, waiting for Conrad's downbeat. He played the intro, the first measure, and continued this time through the whole song, listening to the words, and feeling the betrayal. He knew it all too well, in recent weeks as he and MacDonald had discussed who might be carrying information from the castle—and especially now, knowing it was Darnley. He bowed his head, hurting, remembering so many days in the hills and by the loch with the man who had become a second father to him.

A crimson cloak he was paid

To sell his dearest friend

Lord Campbell charged that very day

He fumbled a string, looking up at his own name, but found his place and continued.

From out the wooded hill

But oh, Ian, his friend betrayed

In swirling crimson cloak.

There were lots of Campbells in Scotland, he told himself. His fingers ran through the melody and chords, while he scolded himself he did not know the piece well enough to let his mind wander. He glanced up as Megan started the next verse.

Lord Campbell thought that very day

To fight by Ian's side

As their fathers had before them done

To save auld Scotland

But Ian raised his voice in song

A greeting once they'd shared.

Besides, he told himself, forgetting his own admonishment to keep his mind on the music, he knew no Ian. And he'd seen Darnley's coat of arms at the Two-Eyed Traitor. Ian might belong to any of Scotland's many wars. He hit another wrong note. The singer cast a look of concern, but kept singing. He smiled back in reassurance.

With the very song they'd shared,

He called the Sassenach laird

Never suspecting till the end,

Lord Campbell met his friend

And now he lies beneath the sword,

A-dying at Ian's feet

And oh, Ian his friend betrayed

In swirling crimson cloak.

Niall played through the chorus one last time, the violins tremoring on chords, and flutes singing a descant over his melody. He rolled up an arpeggio, and dropped to the lowest string to finish with a long gliss. His right hand hovered near his head, letting the sound resonate. Behind him, the orchestra poised like deer spotted in the forest. When the last reverberations died away, he looked up.

Megan smiled. "To think you don't even play harp." She shook her head. "You scared me once or twice, but that was wonderful!"

Conrad stepped down from his block. He pumped the young woman's hand, and slapped Niall's shoulder. "Great job, Shawn! I don't know how you do it! Always more surprises from you!" The musicians laughed knowingly. "I'm very happy with this one!" He turned to the orchestra. "That's the kind of emotion I want!" he said. "These two," he gestured to Megan and Niall, "had me feeling someone was going to stab me in the back any minute!"

Several musicians nodded appreciatively, and they moved to the next piece. Niall played alone, or with vocalists, pieces that he'd played many a winter night in the castle. They danced and skipped easily from his fingers, patterns he'd known for years, while the orchestra played Conrad's hastily-arranged accompaniment behind him. The familiarity of the pieces freed his thoughts to turn back to the upcoming battle. Make that, he corrected himself, the battle that had happened seven hundred years past. His mind drifted over the writings, pictures, and maps he'd studied in every spare minute, while his fingers moved through the music. His head bowed in concentration, but on the Pools. What had been the Scots' real downfall, apart from the little matter of being severely outnumbered? He'd studied warfare with the best tutors. Numbers alone need not dictate victory or loss. Conrad's baton swooped to a finish.

"Nice job," Conrad said. "Maybe a little quicker next time, but I'd swear you've been doing this all your life."

Niall smiled. "On to the next?" he asked. He watched for Conrad's signal, and began the song that always made Allene blush, sitting by her father, in front of the great roaring fire of an evening while he played, and gave a roguish wink when MacDonald wasn't looking. The memory warmed him. Judging by the gentle violin accompaniment Conrad had conjured, Niall thought he had no idea of the bawdy double meaning of the original lyrics.

His thoughts drifted back to the battle. Where had it really turned against the Scots? He reviewed the information again, pausing only when Conrad stopped the orchestra to work with the trombones. "You, timpani." He pointed to Aaron. "Imitate the trombones here. Back and forth. Heavy." Niall stared at the great, copper kettle drums in the back. He'd seen something similar once, when Longshank's army had marched across his foster family's land. An enormous horse with feathered feet had borne a rider and heavy drums. Lord Hayes said they were used to signal the army. It didn't help. He couldn't bring back a timpani. He couldn't produce a heavy horse, and they would be no good on that carse, anyway. Keith's cavalry would be light. Ponies, really. And he didn't know what to signal Bruce's army, to turn the tide of battle.

"Shawn. Shawn, are you with us?"

A snicker rose on the heels of Conrad's sharp words. "The tuner's on, but it's a little flat." He recognized Caroline's voice.

"My apologies," Niall said, and lifted his hands. He returned to the song Allene loved, but his mind stayed caught, a bird thrashing in briers, on Keith's cavalry. His hand drifted, during a rest while the flutes took over the melody, to the crucifix around his neck.
Pray for Shawn.
The words leapt, unbidden to his mind. He dropped the crucifix. "May your angels protect him," he thought, without enthusiasm.

What have horses to do with it?
he asked himself.
All they'll have is light cavalry against Edward's war horses. What am I missing?
He brought his hands back to the harp and joined the brass on the refrain. He smiled, remembering exactly where he'd winked at Allene. He frowned, thinking about the horses. He missed a note, and glanced up. But Conrad was focused on a violinist behind him. "A love song! This is a love song," he shouted over their playing. "Hearts, lace, cupid!" He imitated an archer, pulling his baton back like the arrow. A few musicians laughed. Niall stared, unclear what archers had to do with love, or why anyone found this funny. His fingers moved; the harp rested solidly on his shoulder. He lifted his eyes into the black abyss beyond the stage, seeing drums and horses and arrows and.…

The answer hit him. He fumbled a note, and a second note, and rushed the next few to catch up. Conrad threw him a questioning look. He kept playing, but his heart raced. He knew the answer!
He
knew!

"Slow down, Shawn," Conrad said. "A love song, not a race." Someone snorted in the trumpet section. Niall's fingers slowed, though his heart and mind sped. He had his first answer: how to turn the battle of the Pools.

* * *

Niall played through the rehearsal, impatient to get back to Amy and the computer for his second question: how to get the information back to Bruce and Keith.

After another hour, Niall's back and fingers ached. He grudgingly admitted some admiration for Shawn if he could play a sackbut for so many hours on end. He sighed with relief when Conrad put down his baton, shaking his fingers and stretching his back. "Until tomorrow," Conrad said, and the musicians began packing up.

Niall lowered the harp and turned to Amy, seated behind him. "Beautiful playing," he said. "You're very talented."

"About time you noticed!" The concertmaster harrumphed.

"The song." Niall turned to Peter. "You're knowledgeable."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "What do you want, Shawn?"

"What battle was it? Who were Ian MacGregor and Campbell?"

The concertmaster regarded him suspiciously for another moment. He polished his violin, and finally said, "Could’ve been anything. These folk songs get corrupted over the years, names change, they get mixed up with new verses added after another battle. Hundreds of years later, it's only guesses what they originally referred to, or whether anything in them was ever real."

"So maybe no one was betrayed?" Except he knew there was a traitor in the castle. So if this Ian in the song was not a clue, then it must be Darnley as the story said.

"Not your usual interest, Shawn." He wiped his violin, with slow strokes. "I'm glad to see the change," he added. "A lot of us are. You just might be the man Amy's thought you were all along."

Niall gave a slight bow—it was a habit he found difficult to break, though it drew odd stares—and turned to go.

"Pray for Shawn!"

He heard the voice audibly this time! He spun around. Peter polished his violin. Niall slid the picture from his back pocket and studied it. Compassion rushed over him, for the boy in the picture. He'd lost his father. He'd grown to be a man whom few really liked, not even those he called friends; a man whose peers did not respect him; a man who had now, most likely, been thrown into a wild, cruel world with none of his money or power to help him. Niall crossed himself and prayed with heartfelt compassion for the boy in the picture and the man he'd become. A flute fluttered and trilled, sailed away to a high note, and drifted off. He searched the orchestra. Caroline and the other flutist chatted while tucking their flutes into black cases.

Central Scotland, 1314

Time dragged like a funeral in the cellar. The flute started again, low and soft, barely audible. For the first time in years, Shawn was alone and sober with his own thoughts: no television, no parties, no women, no concerts to prepare. Nothing to distract his attention and keep it darting to anything but what mattered. The question of how to get back to his own time raged in him. His wounds ached. The innkeeper's daughter worried the edges of his mind. He thought of his father, suffering as his blood drained away. He tried to push the girl out of his mind. It was her father's choice, after all. The flute trembled and fluttered. But with each new ache of each bruise, he thought of her, nonetheless, and wondered if she hurt as badly as he did. With each sting of his body, grew the sting of his conscience.