Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (57 page)

Long before dawn, on the morning of departure, the men on night watch woke the others to the mountain mists. They gathered their food, supplies, weapons, and cloaks. Brother David led them in prayer. Beside him, on her knees in the mist, ready to march with the men, Allene clung to his hand as they prayed.

They tethered the ponies behind the men, and set off on their long trek down the mountains to fight for Stirling Castle and Scotland. By some miracle, no one saw what Shawn had done during the cold night hours.

Shawn sang with the rest, his heart light. He had left a message. It wasn't much, but somehow, he was sure, Amy would know.

Trossachs, Scotland

Niall woke in the gray before dawn, too keyed to sleep. He shook cold dew from his plaid and emerged from the small tower room into the misted forest. Gray ghosts of trees stood sentinel around the castle ruins. Wisps of fog drifted across the courtyard, wrapping tentacles around the tombstones.

After praying, he threw the plaid over his shoulder and turned north: past another waterfall, higher than it had been in his time. No sign remained of the maze that had hidden the camp. He closed his eyes, seeing his last trip here, the formation of the land itself, of rocks and jutting outcroppings and hidden waterways. More sure than ever this was the place, he broke into a run, through underbrush, past boulders, among trees, leaping streams.

And suddenly, the forest fell away.

He stopped, panting, on the edge of a clearing. The pines reached higher here than anywhere else, centuries-old cathedral spires stretching for God's face as they circled a floor of beaten earth. Their incense filled the forest sanctuary. Pale shafts of diaphanous emerald light shimmered through the stained glass of leaves far overhead, stabbing down into the cauldron of mist boiling in the clearing. He stepped in, gripped by the sense of age. It was utterly still, utterly quiet.

He knew what he'd find. He turned, staring in awe. It was unmistakable even with centuries of forest debris covering its white surface: the huge boulder, taller than Hugh, narrow at the bottom and five times again as wide at the top, the Heart of Hugh's camp.

His own heart pounded in elation. A smile tore across his face! He threw his head back, shouting, "Deo Gratias!" It echoed through the still clearing, as through an ancient ruin, calling life back to it.

"Hugh!" He touched the stone, Hugh's Heart, cool under his palm. Tingles dashed up his arm. "Adam!" Adam, with his missing tooth and seven daughters and a bairn on the way, had scrubbed the Heart almost daily, for sleeping on duty.

"Roger!" Niall spun to the center of the camp, where Roger had tended the flames. An indent marred the earth. Mist wreathed his wrist as he stooped to touch the cool spot.

"Owen? Angus!" They'd wrestled by the stream, till they landed in it, drawing the men's hoots.

There, through the trees, shining pink in the dawn light, was the blue shimmer of loch where he and Allene had sat under the not-so-discreet eye of her uncle's men.

"Allene! Shawn!"

He held his breath, waiting, and spoke again, more softly. "Allene? Shawn, I'm here."

Silence came back to him. Not even birdsong.

Niall's heartbeat slowed to the sluggish rhythm of disappointment. It was only a ruin, after all. There was no life here, and hadn't been for a very long time. Whatever had stared at him with yellow eyes, he was not in 1314.

He circled the camp, searching for he knew not what. A scrap left on a tree, a cooking pot forgotten, any evidence that they had existed and laughed and sung under the trees here, hiding from the Sassenach and biding their time.

He found nothing.

He came back to the rock and knelt, his forehead pressing its cool, grimy surface. God, grant me wisdom; show me what I must do to help Hugh and my clan. Be with Allene.

His gaze traveled over the clearing again, choosing his next step. Would falling asleep here bring him back? Did he and Shawn need to be in the same place for the magic to work?

Was Shawn here, even now? He stilled himself, trying to feel the spirits of the men who had been here in June of 1314. A breeze whispered past him; he imagined James' cloak brushing his shoulder. A sound boomed far away, and he fancied he heard Hugh's volcanic voice echoing back over the years. He opened his eyes to the empty clearing.

He sat back against the rock, deflated, trying to decide what to do next. But his mind stuck, like a boat caught in a current, on the mysterious Shawn who looked just like him. The man was a coward, a liar, a cheater, a ne'er-do-well. A genius, apparently. But a ne'er-do-well, all the same. What had he achieved of any importance in his life? What good had he done for anyone?

And if he was here, he had traveled alone with Allene. Niall closed his eyes, feeling the pale green sunlight shine through his lids, and tried to imagine how it must have been. The Laird had an intense need to reach Hugh, only Allene who knew how to find him, and only Niall—Shawn—whom he could trust to accompany her. He wondered, judging by Shawn's reputation, how long it had taken him to try his dirty tricks on Allene. Allene would have her knife. She would be safe enough, unless Shawn was not only a ne'er do well, but a vicious one, too. He didn't seem to be.
God
, he prayed again,
what more can I do! Help me protect Allene.

By his calculations, it was now the twenty-first of June. The battle would happen in a matter of days. Time was running out.

He stood and stretched, touching the rock, and circling his hand over the old surface, wondering what to do next. A layer of dirt sifted off. It stained his hand and fluttered to the ground.

* * *

Furious with his failure, Niall attacked the Heart with the rough edges of a pine cone. It was foolish, but Hugh had taken ridiculous pride in keeping the stone shining, blinding, pure white in the sun. At the very least, in Hugh's memory, wherever he might be, it would be clean again as long as Niall was here.

He wore down the first pine cone. Dirt blackened his hands and caked his nails. Thirsty, he turned to the stream meandering around the edge of the clearing, and found himself looking into the face of a stag. It stared back, its eyes large and liquid with unnatural intelligence, still as the marble statues that graced the hotel's gardens.

Unnerved, Niall skipped his drink. He found another pine cone, and scrubbed more. He glanced over his shoulder. The stag still watched.

He turned back to his job. The boulder brightened to a murky gray. Years of dirt smeared under his hands, while he chided himself he ought to be finding some action to take. But there was none. He looked over his shoulder again. The stag had vanished without a sound.

He stripped off his tunic, and, doubling it over, filled it with water at the stream. A small puddle survived the short trip to the rock. He flung it on, and made another trip, and another. He used his hands and leaves and pine cones. He scrubbed in fury at his own failure to find a way back. He threw in all his anger at God's silence. He was out of ideas.

Finally, he stopped, breathing hard, his hands planted on the rock. It was white now, but scratches marred the beautiful surface Hugh had loved. He sighed. Hugh wasn't here to object. Whatever reward that noble and courageous man had gone on to hundreds of years hence was surely great enough he'd not worry himself about a rock.

Hugh's love of order, however, was not hundreds of years distant to Niall. It was last month. He touched the marks. They must have been deep and ugly long ago, but had softened with age. He ran his palm over them, and leaned his forehead on his hand, missing Hugh and Allene and MacDonald, and all of them. If wishing had any power, they'd burst to life around him.

The sun grew warmer as it rose to the tops of the pines. He went finally, in discouragement, to the stream for a drink. Maybe he'd lie down a bit, rest his aching arms, and decide what to do next. The place the stag had stood drew him. He waded across the burn, dropped to his knees in the same spot, and stared back into the clearing, curious what had captured the stag's attention.

And gasped.

The Trossachs, Scotland

Shawn marched with Hugh's men through the forest. Trees swayed overhead, cooling the air. Tunics swished, swords clanked. Ponies trotted behind, loaded with food and weapons, whickering as the men sang of victory. Now and again, deer flashed away from them, or a fox darted into the underbrush. Shawn felt tougher, stronger, fitter than he ever had, in body and spirit. In his mind, now, rather than music, he practiced battle skills.

Thrust, parry, feint, jab. Thrust, parry...

He made the sign of the cross and remembered a few words of the
Hail Mary
his father had taught him years ago. Edward would outnumber the Scots three to one, four to one, maybe more.

But odds didn't matter. They would fight, whatever the outcome. A bird trilled in song, and his spirit soared, inexplicably, with the notes. He'd learned his music sometimes two notes at a time; he would work his way through the English army one knight at a time. ….
feint, jab
. He'd stop them reaching Allene.
Thrust, parry, feint....
And somehow, when he was done, he'd get back to the castle, and go up in that tower and wake up where he belonged, and find Amy and beg her forgiveness.

He had to believe that.

Hugh's Camp, the Trossachs, Scotland

Shawn K Stirl C 6-21-1314

A- so sorry

Iona J

The words jumped off the white stone now. What had been only a marred surface close up, spoke eloquently at a distance. The word
so
was underlined three times.

Niall's breathing slowed. The damp of the burn crept into his knees, barely noticed. He shook water from his hands, rising slowly. Shawn had been here, right here in this clearing, on this very date seven hundred some years ago. Why, then, had no switch occurred?

He scanned the clearing and the forest beyond, as if the men might materialize. The sun blazed high in the sky now. Only thin mist remained, ringing the trees and skating across the clearing.

No one appeared.

He turned back to the words.
Stirl C.
could only mean Stirling Castle. Niall's heart sang, seeing the deeper implications. Shawn had not only gotten this far, but had convinced Hugh to throw his considerable weight behind the Bruce. It improved Scotland's odds greatly.

A- so sorry

He waded across the burn, back to the rock, touching the marks. Seven hundred years! He stared in awe. They were dulled and eroded, like the carvings on old tombstones. How long must it have taken to do even this little bit?

He traced the letters of
Iona
, perplexed at Shawn's meaning. The letters were soft and rounded under his fingertips. They must have been deeply etched, to survive so long. And on Hugh's precious stone, under Hugh's very eye. He smiled slowly. It was an insane thing to do. Did he expect Amy to somehow find this rock, isolated and hidden even today?

A- so sorry

He must indeed have been sorry to have dared this feat, let alone managed it. He had hurt her, callously, over and over. The Shawn Niall had come to know would not leave such a message, and yet—there was no doubt this was from Shawn. Something had changed in him. Niall wondered what could have wrought such a miracle.

One way or another, he vowed, Amy would get the message. And he laughed out loud at the realization. Yes, it had been insane of Shawn, expecting Amy to get this message, hidden under layers of dirt in a deep wilderness. And yet, that's exactly what was going to happen! He crossed himself, offering a wordless plea that God would open a way for him to keep that vow. Amy deserved that much.

Till such a means appeared, he must do what he could to find Shawn and Hugh. He knew which way Hugh would take his men. But he could only guess whether Shawn had carved the message in the wee hours of June 21, or the last, waning ones.

Niall stood midway between the two. Had the men left early this morning, seven hundred years ago, or did their shadows move purposely about the clearing, even now, preparing for departure in the small hours of the morrow. He closed his eyes. His hand rested on the cool stone, the etchings clear under his palm, now that he'd seen them.
God
, he prayed,
lead your servant right.

Shawn would have carved in the night, Niall decided, while Hugh slept and the night watch roamed the forest. It had been the wee hours, he decided, not the waning. The clearing felt empty. The men were gone. He knew it was nothing more than a guess. But he needed to believe something.

He searched the clearing one last time, for any clue at all. He saw nothing. So, with a last drink from the chirping stream, he girded his belt and set off east, across the mountain, listening for the ghostly echoes of footsteps that had fallen seven hundred years ago.

The Trossachs, Scotland

The woods echoed with bird song and the cry of the stag, the bubbling of the burn beside their trail, and the men roaring songs of valor as they had around the campfire, and talking of their loved ones at home. The ponies rustled behind.

But there was something else.

Shawn felt it, a shadow stalking them through the forest. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, peering into the brush. Could it be the English? Surely they couldn't be so quiet?

"A wraith followin' you, Niall!" shouted Will, clapping his back. "'Tis the forest spirits. Think naught upon it!"

"You're strangely nervous," Allene whispered, her hand creeping into his. "What is it, Niall?"

"We'll talk about it later," Shawn said, and she fell silent.

"'Tis but hours," shouted Hugh, from the head of the column, "and we'll be shoulder to shoulder with our kin, drivin' the English into the sea!"

A great shout went up, echoing up and down the mountain trail. Swords and pikes waved in the summer sun, bouncing bright bits of light back in his eyes. Sweat streamed off the men in the warm day. As the sun tipped past its zenith, they chewed dried meat, or ate berries from the bushes. Rowan leaves hung heavy and still in the afternoon heat. Shawn looked behind again. Heat shimmered, forming a ghostly figure of a man that wavered and dissipated.