Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (8 page)

"But he was looking right at me," Amy whispered, conscious of the other tourists. "They both were, and whispering."

The guide led them into the eastern wing, up a narrow, uneven flight of stone stairs, talking all the way about Robert the Bruce, switching his loyalty from the Scots to England and back again.

"They were probably looking at me," Shawn said. "They must recognize me from the posters."

"You're arrogant," Amy muttered, and dropped the subject.

He grinned at her. "Thank you."

"In the 1300's, these were the chambers of Niall Campbell," the tour guide said, ushering the group into a suite of rooms high on the third floor. Tall arched windows on the outer wall spilled in sunshine. Shawn wandered, as she spoke, running his hands along rough stone walls, barely glancing at the four poster bed and the tapestry of a man on horseback.

"Look, Shawn." Amy indicated the tapestry. "That could be you." He glanced at it, and moved on. A short, narrow staircase, carved in the very rock itself, twisted back into a recess, with another window looking down to the loch. Shawn stuck his head out, and pulled it back in quickly. The wall dropped thirty or forty feet, a sharp vertical descent to a small patch of ground at its base. Choppy waters pounded the stones hemming in the little patch of earth. They would not be climbing this wall.

"The laird, Malcolm MacDonald, sent Niall to raise armies to fight Edward Plantagenet at the Battle of the Pools. There, Niall Campbell walks out of history, and we dinna hear of him again. It is believed a traitor in the castle killed him before he could reach his goal. Or he may have died at the battle."

Shawn emerged from the recess, back into the room, where the group hung on the guide's every word. He sidled up to Amy, taking her hand. "Lots of death and destruction for a miserable pile of stones," he said. "They needed to all have a beer and lighten the hell up!"

Amy gaped at him.

The guide turned fierce eyes on him. "It wasn't so simple," she said in clipped tones.

Shawn cleared his throat and grinned at the other tourists. "You heard that?" He didn't have the grace to look embarrassed.

The guide pursed her lips. "I certainly did! Perhaps had Robert the Bruce been thinking only of himself, he would have—" she cleared her throat importantly, "'had a beer and lightened up!'" She uttered the words with distaste. "Although it was not beer they drank, which you would know if you knew your history!"

"Americans!" muttered a German in the back, and snapped a picture of the tapestry.

Shawn took the opportunity to push his point. "What kind of man is always busting at the seams to get into another war?"

"A real man," Amy muttered. "If war means protecting his family."

Shawn stared at her in surprise.

"A real man, exactly," the tour guide snipped. "The lord had others to think about. Those whom he must protect from the English. If they were driven out of the castle, they lost the land, too, their farms, grazing for their cattle. They'd suffer hunger and starvation. Would you 'have a beer and lighten up,'" she spoke scathingly, "instead of protecting your child from death?" She stared up at him haughtily, waiting for an answer that didn't come.

Amy's hand slid from his. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

"Why did you have to say that?" Shawn asked the guide. "You've upset her!" He yanked his tartan more firmly onto his shoulder, glaring at her.

The woman sniffed and moved toward the tower. Shawn fell to the back of the group with Amy, throwing, first, a cocky grin in response to the German tourist's scowl.

"Come on, Amy," he said. "She's an old bag. Don't take her words to heart!"

"Maybe
you
should take her words to heart," Amy said.

He dropped the hand reaching for hers. They finished the tour in silence.

Afterward, the guide waved a friendly good-bye to the others at the gate where the portcullis had once been. She showed Shawn out with a sniff and a stiff, "Good day to you! Hope you learned something!"

* * * * *

Chapter Three

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland, 1314

At the top of the keep, Niall waited for Allene. A light evening breeze lifted his dark chestnut hair off his shoulders. He wore a freshly laundered linen shirt, open at the throat, his tunic, and leather boots. A blue tartan hung on his shoulder. He didn't look forward, particularly, to the meeting. She had chosen the tower for its high walls enclosing the ten foot square area. He had a good idea why she wanted to meet him in privacy, and he would stand his ground. There would be a fight, most likely, as Allene would also stand hers.

He sighed. Nothing he could do about it right now. For the moment, his aches were dulled by far more than the usual amount of ale. He may as well enjoy the quiet evening and solitude of the tower. He would be leaving soon; the trip would be dangerous. His fist tightened on the parapet. If only they knew who was carrying information to their enemies! He wanted to survive.

He relaxed his hand, determined to bring happy memories on the journey, for courage, motivation and strength. He stared out at the heather-covered hills, rising on three sides, where he and Lord Darnley had so often hunted, after his own father's death, and the glittering, blue loch, where they fished. He was grateful for Lord Darnley, Hugh, and the Laird, who had taken him in, and given him the best education to be had, in languages, warfare, music. He would marry MacDonald's daughter and be the next laird.

Laughter and singing drifted up from the great hall. He smiled. Earlier tonight, he and Iohn had sung, his harp and their voices a cheerful addition to the loud conversations and scurrying servants and dogs fighting in the rushes over bones. He and Iohn were a favorite among the people; he knew it with some pride. Iohn played the straight man to Niall's comic remarks, and they sang and played together— sometimes songs of streaming banners and noble deeds, sometimes songs of love and fair maidens and double entendres that raised delicate blushes and knowing smiles from the married women, and sometimes, just for fun, Niall adjusted the lyrics to make them laugh, to see how long it took a lord to notice he was now the subject of an old, familiar song.

He hummed to himself. At dinner, MacDonald had drifted off over his mead. Niall had gradually slowed
Blue Bells of Scotland
from the rousing battle tempo they'd been taking to a lullaby, encouraging the laird's nap. Guilt tickled his insides—he had an idea why the poor man was so tired—but mischief overtook him, and he changed the lyrics.
"Oh, where, and oh, where,"
he sang softly,
"has my highland lairdy gone?"

A couple of ladies at the head table tittered, hands to mouths.

"He's sleeping, he's sleeping, while his minstrel sings a song."

More heads turned toward the unfortunate man. Niall sang a little louder.
"He's drifted off to sleep, falling in his mead."

The laird's head lolled gently and came to rest atop his large pewter cup. A robust snore lifted from his slumbering form into the great hall.

"And it's oh, how the ladies laugh at his mead-covered cheek."

Laughter swept across the hall. Allene, beside her father, met Niall's eyes. She tried hard to look stern. He wiggled his eyebrows at her. She covered her mouth and cast down her eyes. Iohn nudged him, and, with a wink, took over.

"Oh, where, and oh where,

Has my highland lairdy gone?

He's drifted, he's drifted off to the land of nod

He's dreaming such sweet dreams

Though his snores wake all the men,

And it's oh, in my heart, I hope I can sleep again!
"

The crowd burst into full blown laughter. The Laird bolted upright, wild-eyed and shaking his head. Droplets of mead flew from his beard. The crowd laughed harder. He looked suspiciously at Niall.

"My lord!" Niall bowed deeply. "Why do you look at me so?" He took a long draught of his ale, easing his aches.

"Twas me singing," spoke Iohn. "My lord Niall is innocent."

"
This
time," grumbled the laird. "Did I think otherwise, 'twould be another arrow he'd have in his arse!" The crowd roared. Niall rubbed his posterior and grimaced, bringing on more laughter. He winked at Allene, who blushed and lowered her eyes swiftly.

"I sang your praises, my Lord," said Iohn. "You slept through it."

The laird narrowed his eyes. The crowd held its breath. "My praises!" bellowed MacDonald, danger in his eye. "Aye, 'twould be very different praises you'd ha' be singing had I been awake!" He wiped futilely at his beard and let out a big laugh. "Praises to my sweet-smelling beard, aye!"

The people roared in merriment and relief at his good humor, and the meal went on.

"What were you doing looking in on the cattle today?" Iohn asked Niall later, as they ate their dinner.

"I was nowhere near the cattle," Niall said. He speared a piece of meat from their trencher. "I had plenty to keep me busy and would scarce be making such a climb before I must."

"Odd," said Iohn. "I thought I saw you with a lass. She had long, black hair. She appeared to be wearing trews."

Niall shook his head. "A lass in trews! 'Tis me with the head wound, man!" He grinned. "But now, I do indeed have a lass to meet." He took a last gulp of ale, wiped his lip, and slipped away to meet Allene.

At the top of the keep, now, Niall studied the darkening loch. Mist thickened on its surface, swirling like a cauldron. Despite the mirth in the great hall, the ever-present threat of war lay over the castle. If they could stop England's aggression, at least his children, if not he and Allene, could live in peace. He glanced at the moon, just peering over the top of the eastern mountains, and sighed.

The gray stones darkened before Allene arrived. Her lady trailed discreetly behind, and waited patiently, eyes on the ground, by the stairs. Allene extended her hand. Niall bowed over her fingertips, kissing them. "My lady," he said. "You summoned me?" She rose just past his shoulder. Her hair blazed red-gold in the dying sun.

"You know I did." Allene handed him a basket overflowing with bluebells that had graced the hills outside the castle just this morning.

"My favorite." He bowed his head in thanks.

"Aer you still seeing double?" She pushed his hair back, grimacing at the bruises on his temple.

"You're well worth seeing two of, my lady."

"So ye've said. Your jest wears thin."

"'Twas no jest," Niall met her eyes solemnly.

Allene's cheeks turned a delicate pink. She lowered her eyes and spoke briskly. "Aer ye running a fever, Niall? You're sweating on this chill night."

He brushed it aside. "I'm fine."

She frowned and asked, "Ha' ye been drinking? The ale is strong on your breath."

"I hurt, Allene." The extra ale had damped the worst of it.

"Do ye be careful not to get drunk. Ye've an early meeting with my father on the morrow."

Niall smiled, amused at her scolding. "'Tis only to dull the pain so I might sleep well." He touched her hair, leaning his forehead against hers. "The journey will go better on a good night's rest, aye?"

"Niall, you needn't do this," she whispered.

"Meeting you, my lady? But of course I am your servant!"

"'Tis not funny, Niall!" She pulled back. "You needn't go for Hugh. You needn't join the fighting. They say Edward has gathered an army such as the world has never seen. My father would keep you here to defend the castle."

Niall's jaw hardened. "What kind of man runs from war?" He gave his own answer. "A coward! Would your father still find me fit to marry you, an I show myself a coward?"

"There'll no be much left to marry, an the MacDougall kills you the first night out," she said. "You know well someone is giving him information. If he doesn't kill you, the English will, on the road or at Stirling. 'Tis dangerous."

"God will go with me."

"As God went with my brother? Much good it did him." She stared hard at the corner of the tower, blinking back tears Niall knew she would never shed in front of anyone. She was her father's daughter, after all.

He set the basket down, took her hands in his, and spoke gently. "God will grant His protection or not, as He sees fit. I trust Him, Allene." He squeezed her hands. "We all grieve Alexander. An I do my job well, I'll save others from his fate. Think you I've forgotten my own brothers? Or my father at Falkirk?"

"I hate this never-ending war!" Allene said fiercely. "Let us run away into the hills and live a thousand miles from it all and raise our children there!"

Niall squeezed her hands. He'd entertained the same dream. But dreams were useless. "We'd no be safe. If Edward defeats Bruce at Stirling, he'll be in our Highlands next." He led her to the northern face of the tower and pointed out, where the slopes stood black against the last coral streaks of sunset. Velvet blue night touched their pinnacles. Silver pinpricks of stars danced above. Mist floated across their faces. "If we hide in the hills, he'll hunt us like animals. We must fight." Allene said nothing. Niall knew her better than that. More was coming. Into the silence, he spoke again. "I'll go for Hugh, and I'll fight beside Bruce, that our people will not suffer war this time."

She looked up, her eyes bright. "Then I'll go with you."

His heart gave a hard thump. So that was her plan! "Doona be foolish, Allene! You canna go!" He grasped her shoulders. "Do you no mind how Bruce's own sister lived in a cage, on public display, at Roxburgh? And the Countess of Buchan, likewise, on the turrets of Berwick. Think you, they'll treat you better?"

She yanked away from him. "I'll no get caught. I'll pass for a lad as I did last time. I can fight as well as you. Doona make me wait at home again!"

"No, Allene," he said, gently. "You'll stay, and pray for me day and night. You'll set the example for the other women, by tending the children and keeping their spirits up, and fighting here if need be."