Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (39 page)

"Something's wrong," she said. "It scares me when you talk like this. I'm worried about you."

"Don't worry. I am well." The worry stayed on her face. He tried again. "I'm okay." He thought about Shawn, possibly in the wilds of Scotland, hunted by a killer. How Amy would worry if she knew the truth. He didn't want to see her hurt. He squeezed her hand, put a smile on his face for her sake, and, deep inside himself, fell to his knees before the throne of God, pleading for Shawn.

Anything
, he begged God.
For Amy's sake, for Allene's sake.
In his mind's eye, he saw the innocent boy in the picture and the father who had loved him.
Yes, even for Shawn's sake. You love him. Whatever You want, God, I'll do, if You'll just be with Shawn.

Central Scotland, 1314

Muffled? Sweat prickled Shawn's hairline and slicked his palms; his senses strained. The voice sounded as if it came from another part of the cellar. He couldn't have buried himself so deeply under the burlap sacks. Thumps and pounding came from behind his back. He rose from the fetid sacks, shedding them, as understanding dawned.

"Pray, sir," Fergal's voice floated down through the floorboards, unperturbed, "spare some turnips for your men's stew tonight."

"We'll spare nothing till we find Campbell!"

Shawn sat, a statue, straining to hear every detail of the ongoing sword fight against the turnips, the cheers of the soldiers and the increasingly disappointed reports of the parsnip slayer.

Allene pushed at the bags, rising from their stinking bed to her knees, clutching his arm. He laid his hand over hers. At last, things quieted down. They heard the thunk of the trap door dropping back in place.

"My lord," the innkeeper said, "would you had believed me. I know not how I will prepare your men's dinner with what is left in my root cellar."

The captain's answer floated down as garbled rumblings. Running and swift steps ensued. For a time, chaos reigned above.

Shawn, Allene, and the monk climbed to their feet, shaking the filth off themselves. "We are hidden behind the real cellar," Allene said, having reached the same conclusion as Shawn.

"Praise be to God," whispered the monk.

Shawn let out a long, slow breath. He closed his eyes.
Thank you, God!
It was his first prayer of gratitude in many years. Allene wrapped herself in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder as they slid back to sit on the sacks. He leaned his own head on top of hers. Her body trembled; he touched her cheek and felt a damp trail of tears. "It's going to be okay," he whispered. "I'll get you there. You'll be okay." He vowed he would. He leaned back against the earthen wall, kissing the top of her head.

He tried to remember a time when Amy had turned to him, trusting him to protect her. He had to admit he'd given her no reason to do so. The one time she'd needed him—the time she came to him and told him she was pregnant—he'd let her down.

He felt sick, a tightening of his stomach, remembering how he'd cajoled and bullied, driving her to the clinic insisting it was for the best, while she pleaded. Why hadn't he seen her tears at the time? He'd only seen a woman who couldn't work through her emotions to her own best interests. His best interests. He'd seen a woman threatening him, standing between him and the life he wanted.

He pressed his cheek against the top of Allene's head, holding her close. It felt good to be needed and trusted. So Niall hadn't gotten to first base. But he had something Shawn didn't. He had a woman with utter faith and confidence in him.

Shawn wanted more of what Niall had.

* * * * *

Chapter Thirteen

Glasgow, Scotland, Present

Jimmy reached the James and Barley, a place of dark greens, rich mahoganies, and low lighting, ten minutes before the deadline. He dreamed of his big win, of paying off bills and having a bit extra. He'd take the missus to dinner, and buy that ring she'd wanted for so long. His mate's cousin shook his hand. "I 'ad some talkin' to get the manager to let you in again. I promised there'd be no trooble, like."

"'Coorse not,'" Jimmy promised, heartily. "I'll no tooch a drop. I want to win some money and pay off me bills, is all. I thankee for getting me in. I'll no let ye down." They shook hands, and Jimmy took his place in line to register.

Nine minutes later, the manager had him pinned against the dark-paneled wall, his face red, his ham fist gripping Jimmy's shirt front. The mate's cousin and a policeman stood by, glaring. "What were you thinkin', tryin' to pass dodgy notes?" demanded the manager.

"I wasna...." He scanned the crowd in the dim interior, desperate for a friendly face, anyone who would vouch for him. Rough and tumble men lined the heavy wooden bar, glaring at him. More heads turned to stare.

"Did ye no think we'd be lookin' fer suchlike?"

"I tell you, I dinna...."

"I gave me word for ye!" shouted his mate's cousin, jabbing his finger in Jimmy's chest.

"I dinna...."

"Where'd ye get 'em from?" the constable demanded.

The pub manager interrupted before Jimmy could speak. "Ye've ne'er been aught but trooble!" he said in disgust. "Take him out o' here," he told the policeman. "And dinna waste yer time lookin' further fer who's passin' funny money. Yer man here's been a troublemaker from day one."

The Scot spent the next two days in a small local cell, protesting his innocence, and growing steadily angrier at the American who had cheated him.

Central Scotland, 1314

Several hours later, the trap door opened and Fergal's strong arms pulled them out, blinking and squinting against the fire blazing in the grate. Outside, evening colors streaked the sky red, pink, and orange. "'Twas safe no sooner, my lady," the innkeeper apologized.

"Fergal," Shawn said. Dryness scratched his throat. He forced his head up, made himself meet the man's eyes. The girl cowered against the wall. Her fingers flashed, pulling Allene's hair into a tight plait. She avoided Shawn's eyes. Heat flushed his face.

Fergal glared at him, and thrust a bundle of clothing into the monk's hands. "Haste! Change and go with them!"

The monk needed no encouragement. Stiff from his injuries, he pulled the fawn-colored hose on under his robe, tugged the robe off over his head, and donned a linen shirt and brown tunic in its place—but not before Shawn saw his slender body covered in purple bruises, abrasions, and gashes from the beating the English soldiers had given him: the vicious beating that would have been Niall's, had he disregarded the Laird's orders. He winced.

Fergal snatched the monk's robe and threw it into the fire, and soon all evidence of their stay had become ashes. "The soldiers should be far away," Fergal said. "They've gone back to the Glen, though they left two men in the village. Walk boldly down the lane, look neither left nor right, and be on your way." He thrust a package of food into their hands.

"Fergal." Shawn cleared his throat and added, "Sir." He closed his eyes, not wanting to say those awful words again. Something about them hurt.

"Haste!" Fergal snapped. He glowered at Shawn. His body hummed with angry tension. Allene touched his forearm.

"I'm sorry," Shawn whispered. The words stung, like having a splinter pulled. Or something larger. He found it difficult to pull his gaze up from the floor, but when he did so, Fergal's face had softened.

"You were e'er a good man, Niall. 'Twas the blow to the head. No more will be said on it. God go wi' ye."

"Tell your daughter...." He looked to the girl again, melting against the shadowed wall. She met his eyes and turned quickly away, face red.

"I will," Fergal said. He edged between Shawn and his daughter, and pushed him toward the door. "Go."

A weight lifted from Shawn's chest.

* * *

Out in the road, Shawn felt exposed and vulnerable. His colorful tunic was no longer so bright. The billowing white sleeves were crumpled and gray. But he straightened his spine, told himself he was a minstrel, and put a carefree grin on his face, no different from any performance. No different from putting on his stage persona, or the man who made Amy feel good. Performance, after all, was about making the audience believe what you wanted them to believe. He did it for a living, for far more sophisticated audiences. He could do it here—even if his heart sank in fear.

The night air felt good after the stench of the cellar, crisp and clean. It was Heaven on earth, this fresh air, and he'd never seen it! They sauntered down the dirt road, looking neither left nor right. The few stone cottages stretched further and further; the road seemed endless, with two soldiers remaining behind, and no guesses where they might be. As they reached the last house, Shawn's smile grew. He could do this.

Then he saw the cage hanging from a large and sturdy oak. A dead man—if what was left in the cage could be called a man—blackened with decay, his body picked over by birds, slumped inside. The stench drifted on the evening breeze, sending a wave of nausea roiling through Shawn's stomach.

"You! Minstrel!" shouted a rough voice.

Shawn turned slowly. The nausea grew worse. His heart gave two hard thuds.

Now he knew where the soldiers were.

They sat on a rough-hewn bench, their backs against the stone wall of the last thatched-roof cottage. They wore crisp white tunics. Rounded metal helmets lay at their feet. A wineskin relaxed between them, a third companion. A jagged scar ran down the younger man's face, pulling his lip up into a curl, and his eye down in a permanent glare. He was no living history actor.

Shawn inclined his head, feeling weak all the way down to the toes of his leather boots. "Good even." He tried to imitate the speech he'd heard here. He winced at the poor results.

"What are you called?" the scarred soldier demanded.

Shawn's heart thumped, trying to remember the name they'd given him. He eyed the pike leaning against the wall. The scarred man's thumb stroked the hilt of a sword slung at his side, giving the impression he'd like nothing better than to use it. Shawn's mouth went dry.

"Have you no tongue!" barked the older man.

"Allan a Dale," Shawn rasped. He grimaced. He ransacked his memory, flinging aside one hazily-recalled fact after another. King Edward. Which Edward? Was Allan a Dale before or after the Edwards? Had he even existed? Or would these men know he'd just stolen the name of a character from a book? The dead man, not fifty feet away, jangled his nerves.

The men didn't react to his choice of names. "And who are your companions?" The scarred soldier's good eye roved over Allene's hooded figure and the monk's brown tunic. His hand tightened on his sword.

"Little John," said Shawn, indicating the monk. He jerked his head toward Allene, her face once again hidden in her cowl. "And my mute servant boy, um...Francis Drake. He was dropped on his head as a wee bairn and has not...has no said a...um...a wee word since."

"Where are you from? Your speech is not of these parts."

A plus, Shawn realized, his odd speech. He couldn't possibly sound like the Niall they sought. "From over the sea." He didn't remember what the continent was called, to these people, at this time.

"Spain? France?" The soldier rose from his seat, circling Shawn. Allene lowered her head; Shawn feared they'd push her cowl back. Her fiery long braid would betray them. His eye strayed to the sword; he swallowed hard.

"France." He spoke boldly, stepping forward to draw attention off her. The image of the dead man burned in his mind.

"Allan a Dale sounds very English," said the older soldier. He leaned against the wall, studying Shawn.

"'Tis," said Shawn. "My mother was English." He gave himself a mental kick. His mother would not have passed on her English surname.

The man on the bench swilled from the wineskin. "Who were her people?"

"The Dales," said Shawn. Would this man never stop asking questions! He realized, belatedly, that the Dales would be his father's people, not his mother's. He wished his heart would slow down. A dead body did nothing for his thinking processes. But the men's wineskin, not so full as it had been, did nothing for theirs.

"And this man? What happened to him?" The older man indicated the monk's bruised face.

Shawn lowered his voice, man to man. "His wife caught him with the barmaid." He grinned, nudged the monk knowingly, who laughed and winked at the soldiers. They chuckled understandingly.

The scarred man leaned close, his breath fouling the air. He stroked the hilt of his sword. "Why are you leaving the village at night? Would you not stay at the inn?" He fingered the edge of Allene's cowl. Allene shrank into her robes, bowing her head low.

"The night is warm," said Shawn loudly. His heart pumped fast with the familiar fear of being found out. He'd experienced it often enough with Amy. And suddenly, with his feet on familiar territory, the lies and charm flowed, weaving their spell around his audience. "The innkeeper has no dinner. It seems his turnips were no match for the King's men. We'd lief be on our way in search of food."

The soldier's hand fell from Allene's cowl. Shawn remembered, too late, the food tucked under his belt. But he'd become a person he knew well, and he swelled his chest with confidence he almost felt. If they saw the pouch, he'd deny, deny, deny. He'd feign surprise. It always worked.

"Play for us, minstrel. 'Tis a long night."

Shawn drew in a breath. Confidence aside, he didn't relish this test; especially not with an enemy of the king dead and decaying in his sight. Not with medieval weapons waiting to disembowel him, should he fail.

Slowly, he swung the harp off his shoulder, and seated himself on a rock, taking a moment to review his exercises on the road and in the cellar. He touched the strings, drooping his fingers as Celine had taught him, willing them to stop shaking. The pike hovered in his peripheral vision. These strings had no colors. He plucked a few chords, listening for majors and minors, till he found a tonic. These men, hopefully, knew little enough about music that a few missed notes would not alarm them.