Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (5 page)

Jimmy scoffed. "I'll never see it. I'll be at your room tomorrow at noon. Wi' me mates." Shawn understood his meaning. The redhead followed the newly wealthy Jimmy out of the pub, while the patrons and musicians passed a deep bucket around.

"Let's make sure Shawn doesn't get beaten to a pulp before he can play the next gig," Rob encouraged them. The barmaid presented it to him, and received a passionate kiss in thanks. Caroline glared at her. She smirked at Caroline.

"Shh, shh," he whispered now, shushing their song as he and Caroline pushed in the castle's towering front door. He tripped up the broad red-carpeted stairs inside, barking his shin on the bucket. She giggled, and stumbled down a couple of stairs, retrieving the bills spilling behind them. Reaching his room, he pulled her into his suite. She looked around in drunken delight, oohing and ahhing, racing through the sitting room to the bedroom, to touch the dark blue velvet curtains hanging from the four poster bed.

"You curtains think...think curtains...." Shawn threw his head back and roared with laughter. The room spun. Caroline looked good. "You think the curtains are nice! Try the bed!" He lifted the tin bucket high, scattering money. Bills fluttered over the velvet comforter. He pulled her down, rolling in it, yanking at her clothes, and indulging in a drunken romp.

"To the king," he muttered, shaking his head when they finished. Sleep began to swallow him. "To the king. What a night. What luck. To the king." He sighed, and fell asleep.

Glenmirril, Scotland, 1314

Deep in the dungeon, Niall, Iohn, and young William Darnley made their way, Niall limping, to the farthest reaches of the dank stone-walled tunnels. They'd ever been together, the three. It wasn't the first time they'd explored the dungeons, but it was the first time they'd come with MacDonald's knowledge.

Niall grinned at Iohn and William. "The Laird was impressed with how quickly I learned my way through this maze."

"'Tis your quick mind among other things that brought you to his attention," Iohn replied. With a friendly nudge in Niall's ribs, he added, "'Tis your good fortune I canna tell him 'twas me who taught you, or I might be the next Laird."

Niall laughed easily. "'Tis both our good fortunes we canna tell him many a thing."

"Aye, he'd no like to know you were messin' with his sackbut," William said.

Niall chuckled at his failed attempt on the instrument. By watching and listening, he could copy anything. He'd had no one to watch. "'Twas a miserable thing, anyway." He turned back to Iohn. "Sure an' you'll be my right hand man, Iohn. As good as being the laird yourself."

"No, Niall," Iohn murmured. "'Tis not the same."

"We are like brothers," Niall replied. "What is mine is yours." Cold sweat prickled his forehead in the cool dungeon. He wiped a sleeve across his brow, raised the smoky torch, and searched the stone walls. The flame trembled, shining, off something metal. He worked his fingers into the hidden ring and tugged. A door scraped outward, revealing the chamber within, feebly lit by two torches. The lords huddled around the circle of light, their faces shadowed.

"Welcome, Niall," the Laird rumbled. The three young men pushed through the narrow opening. Niall bowed all around, and settled his torch in a bracket. It flickered on rugged gray stones and black smoke stains, and over the older men already gathered. They wore leather boots, thick tunics, and heavy surcoats. Cloaks warded off the chill. Heavy gold chains hung around their necks, and rings glinted on several fingers. Smoke crept into nostrils and stung the eyes. The walls trickled with Scotland's eternal dampness. Several men glanced toward the door, wary still of being overheard.

"The cattle are recovered," the Laird said. "They remain undisturbed?" He put his hand to his mouth, coughed forcefully, and wiped his hand on his tunic. The others glanced at him, then turned away, pretending not to notice.

"Aye, my Lord," Niall said. "Are you ill?"

"'Tis naught," grumbled MacDonald, with a heavy-browed glare around the men who might question his health and power.

"We've kept careful watch over them, William and I," Iohn offered, quickly turning the subject back. "There has been no sign of the MacDougalls."

"And Niall's wounds?" the Laird asked.

"'Tis minor," Niall assured him. "I'll not even remember it on the fortnight."

"You were seeing two of me only this morning," Lord Darnley reminded him.

"Aye, but none would object to two of your comely face," Niall said. The men laughed. "And I am seeing less of the two of you as the days go by." He rubbed his head ruefully, where the hair covered the vicious purple bruising of his fall. He didn't volunteer that the walls had swum before him during his passage through the dungeons or that even now, Iohn's face wavered, split, and re-joined.

"To other matters, then," MacDonald said. "I've had news today. Edward Bruce has made a deal with de Mowbray at Stirling Castle."

"The rumors are true, then?" asked Iohn. He turned to Niall, who arched one eyebrow significantly. They'd discussed Stirling, he and Iohn, in late night talks atop the castle tower, and the possibility of Niall being sent for Hugh. Now the future they'd feared was unfolding. Not to his liking.

"Aye." The Laird looked tired. "Edward Bruce's siege of Stirling goes poorly, but de Mowbray knows he canna hold out forever. He agreed to turn Stirling over if King Edward does not send reinforcements by Midsummer's Day."

The men stared at each other in the flickering light. The older men all bore the same bristling beards, in shades of red, gray, and black, and thick, heavy eyebrows. The young men, Conal, Niall, Iohn and William, wore their dark hair loose to the shoulders. Their backs were straight and strong, their eyes direct. Each knew what this meant: more war for Scotland.

"England is sending the largest army the world has ever seen." The Laird paused significantly, looking one by one at each of the nobles. All looked back with forceful eyes. "A hundred thousand, they say. They plan to reinforce Stirling, and crush all Scotland from there."

Lord Morrison scoffed. "Edward is not his father. He'll not take Scotland back. He couldna even keep what was left him."

"Look how easily Roxburgh and Edinburgh were taken from him," added Lord Darnley.

"A hundred thousand," MacDonald repeated, stressing each word. "Edward Bruce threw down the gauntlet. King Edward's pride is at stake. Better if young Bruce had not made that agreement. But it is done. We will send our men, and send also for all our kin, immediately."

"If he is so powerful," suggested William Darnley, "might it not be better to stand with him, that his wrath might not fall on us?"

MacDonald stared at each in turn. Their eyes reflected the flickering torches. "I will risk all," he said, "before I will let that monster take my country."

There was a long silence. A drop of water formed along a ceiling beam and fell to the stone floor with a loud plop in the silence.

"Will you send for Hugh?" Lord Darnley asked. "He has become strongest of us all, with his men and all their clans at his command."

"I will send word," said the Laird. Several men looked at Niall.

"Tell me where he is, my Lord," spoke the small and wizened Lord Morrison. "Niall is still recovering. I'll go."

"'Tis but a scratch," Niall said. "I will do my duty."

"No one doubts your willingness, Niall," said Lord Morrison. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. "But are you able? We must think what is best for Scotland."

"I will think on it," said the Laird. His eyes met Niall's. They held each other's gaze momentarily, the torch flames flickering reflections in their eyes.

"'Tis not good," Lord Darnley persisted, "that so few know his whereabouts. What if aught befall that one or two?"

"'Tis a matter for another day," said MacDonald. "As it is, we must send runners for all of our kin, with greatest haste and secrecy. I am not so foolish," he looked carefully at each man, "as to be unaware there are traitors in this castle who would as soon side with England."

"Who is it!" demanded Lord Darnley, staring around the circle.

"Not me, my lord," said each man in turn. The torches flickered.

"Nor I, my lord!"

Another droplet swelled and fell to the floor with a loud plop.

"Surely not I."

* * *

Smoky torches stood sentry at each side of the heavy wooden door, deeper yet in the dungeon than the lords had been. Flames threw eerie shadows high against the damp walls and far into the soaring roof of what had once been a cave. Shadows leapt and wound around MacDonald, demented spirits casting discouragement on him. On a rough wooden stool, he braced his hands on his knees. A fierce red beard, heavily streaked with gray and white, sprang from his jaw. Matching eyebrows bristled in perpetual anger over craggy, hooded eyes.

For another moment, his head drooped, giving in to the aching back, aching shoulders, aching arms. His muscles begged for rest. The headache, which had raged for days now, pounded at his temples, demanding a good night's sleep. He gave his head a fierce shake, stood, and arched his back. He stretched his arms over his head, flexing still-powerful muscles, and looked to the six foot crucifix hanging on one wall of the cave, back in a recess. He'd carved it himself, the year his son had been murdered by the English. It had given him strength then, and it gave him strength now.

He bent back to the work in front of him, shaping and smoothing the wood to its purpose. It resisted, testing him.

"Like a bairn, aern't ye?" He scraped the plane, curling up a thin spiral shaving. Like the oak before him, people resisted. "Niall, now," he said aloud. He rose again, inspecting his work, stooping to peer at a joint. A fine young man he'd become, just as he'd expected, the day he'd caught him kissing Allene. Capable. Intelligent. A quicker mind he'd never seen, faster than the tiny silver fish darting in the loch. A man who was loyal and inspired loyalty in return. He would make a fine laird, when his time came. "If ye dinna get yerself killed first," MacDonald muttered. Spotting a flaw, he resumed his seat, and set the plane again. His muscles tightened, holding the tool on course. But headstrong, he thought. Niall was headstrong. And overly confident. It would be his undoing. He'd warned him over and over: Trust no one.

No one.

A drop of water fell from the great wooden beam overhead, landing with a loud plop in the silence. He glanced at it. Niall had, MacDonald knew, exempted some people from the class of no one, without looking ugly possibilities in the eye. His confidence extended to other people, when maybe it shouldn't. He, himself, did not yet know who it might be, but a hard life had taught him that no one, ever, was exactly what they appeared. Niall had yet to learn that harsh truth.

The Laird sighed, running his hand over the smooth surface of his handiwork, and deciding on his next step. The torches filled his eyes with smoke. He wiped the back of his hand against them, and thought of his soft bed. But his work was not done. He selected a chisel from his tool bench, and tapped it against the wood. Just a little more, he would do tonight. He thought ahead to Niall's journey. Niall would resist, argue, and, possibly do things his own way, despite the Laird's commands. Young men would be rash. He touched his chest, where the crucifix from the Monks of Monadhliath lay, praying that this young man, this time, would not be.

He sighed, thinking of the many hours of sleep he had not gotten and would not get. "Niall, I've my fears, but I'll do my best for ye if it kills me," he whispered, and once again hefted his wood-working tools. The things in front of him were close to done, but time was short. Maybe, in a night or two, he could sleep.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Shawn woke to steel drums pounding his brain, and a dozen timpani thundering in his ears. All of them out of tune, too. Sun poured through the window, and skimmed past the half-open curtains of the four poster bed, blinding him. He squinted at the clock; groaned; looked at Caroline, stretched cat-like on piles of rumpled pounds. He'd have to count those before Jimmy came. It wouldn't do to come up short in front of the man and his mates. He groaned again, rolled over on Caroline, and woke her with a few playful kisses. She giggled; protested, "I feel so good, I must still be drunk!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him. For a few minutes, the pounding in his head dimmed.

She gave a long, contented sigh and wiggled up to a sitting position, drawing the bed sheets and her knees demurely to her chest. "They were saying a couple of days ago that you were talking Gaelic with a Scotsman," she said. "Is it true?"

"Och, o' coorse it's true," Shawn said, rolling his R's. "And I've got all sorts o' talents ye've only just started to see, wee lahssie! What else will I shoo ye?" He grabbed at her sheets. The motion made his head spin again. He laughed, his face flushed.

"Stop it!" She giggled, pounding his chest. "Come on, I'm serious. I want to get to know you better. I mean, here we are...." she fluttered her eyelashes at him and blushed a dainty blush.

"You got to know me pretty well last night." Shawn growled, burying his face in her breasts and pulling more giggles out of her. "What more could you want?"

"I mean it!" she insisted, pushing his head away. "I want to know you. That's not the same as sleeping together. You really speak Gaelic? You're not pulling my leg?"

"That's not what I'd do with your leg." Shawn lifted three fingers. "Scout's honor."

She giggled. "You a boy scout! Hardly! How do you know Gaelic?"

"It's not that interesting," he said, lying back on the bed. The pounding in his head kicked up a notch. "Not as interesting as other things we could be doing." He cocked an eyebrow at her. She waited. "Okay, if you really want to know, my grandmother grew up on Skye. She met my grandfather during the war, married him, and came over. My father grew up speaking both Gaelic and English, and he spoke it in our house. And he was also big into the re-enacting thing. A Scottish unit, of course. He used to take me with him. Most of them in the unit spoke it fluently."