Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (42 page)

Through the rest of the program, through his solos, through the piece about Ian's swirling crimson cloak, Niall's thoughts simmered, deciding where he might reasonably expect to find Shawn. He could be anywhere! What would he have done, waking up in a strange place as Niall had? Niall made his best guesses, his fingers dancing a lively jig on the strings. And, as the music flowed around him, a plan formed. No matter what he did, he was taking a chance.

Conrad stopped the orchestra to lecture the percussion. Niall waited patiently. His plan might not work. He knew that. But the only other choice was to do nothing. If it didn't work, he'd try something else. He listed, in his mind, what he would need. He'd need Amy's help, for starters. He couldn't do it on his own. He would need to figure out....

"Shawn?" Amy murmured behind him.

Her voice brushed over him, a soft caress. Hadn't Shawn been lucky. Niall wished for a few more days of her gentle voice. If time was fluid, after all, he could enjoy this life for awhile and go back when he wanted. Maybe he'd ask her....

"Shawn?" she said again.

"Hmm?" He shook his head, knocking away the images. Allene needed him. He would never turn his back on her where the least hope flickered. Scotland and Bruce needed him! What was he thinking!

"Your solo. They're waiting."

Niall looked around. Conrad and all the musicians stared. Embarrassment washed over him. He coughed, lifted his hands, took a moment to put himself in the mood, and began. It was a piece he'd learned from MacDonald and played while Iohn sang, a lament for the men who had died at Falkirk.

He closed his eyes, and found himself on a winter's night in Glenmirril's great hall. Tapestries warmed the stone walls. Stars twinkled through high arched windows. The survivors of Falkirk listened quietly. Never did the song finish without some eyes being wiped. Niall began humming as he played, feeling the great fire roaring in the grate, driving back the winds that howled outside, and his mother and the other widows setting down their goblets, leaning close and clutching one another's hands.

Almost without realizing it, he began to sing, softly at first, in his native Gaelic. His voice grew stronger, as he saw the battle his song described, as he felt the sorrow, death, and loss. He lived because of his father's sacrifice at Falkirk. He swallowed, letting the harp sing alone when the lump in his throat stilled his voice. He could almost smell the peat fire and feel the rushes under his feet. The Laird would not approve of letting emotion overtake him.

Pushing aside thoughts of his father—protecting his family was what a man did after all—he breathed deeply, and sang the second verse, full of hope for Scotland, and tribute to her heroes. His voice drifted off. He repeated the verse alone on the harp strings.

He finished, and sat with closed eyes, thinking of those men, of his father, of their sacrifice for Scotland; thinking of his plan. The silence behind him was complete.

Then he heard a sniff.

He opened his eyes, disoriented to find himself on a stage in the future Inverness. Lights glared down on him. Heavy blue curtains soared high at the edge of the stage. An older woman in the cello section brushed her eye. "That was the most extraordinary thing I've ever heard," she said, meeting his eyes. Murmurs of agreement whispered around the orchestra.

"Amazing," Conrad agreed reverently. "Do it just like that at the concert tomorrow." He lifted his head to the orchestra. "A round of applause for that truly phenomenal performance!" Everyone stared at Niall, smiling and clapping. He stared back, still half in Glenmirril's great hall, feeling disembodied and out of time. He had to figure out where Shawn would be, and he had no idea how.

Peter, the concertmaster, stood. Others rose behind him, hands reaching out. Peter took Niall's hand, and shook it, the other hand gripping his shoulder. "I'm honored to play with you," he said.

Central Scotland, 1314

The next day passed without incident. The moor swelled once again to hills, which in turn gave way to more forest. Oaks and pines soared, springing from the slopes like gazelles. They followed trails overlooking deep gullies. Forest greens bordered aquamarine and diamond splashes of stream twisting along their route, snaking sometimes nearer and sometimes farther away. Rays of sunlight skimmed down through the trees, glinting off Allene's copper curls. Shawn's eyes lingered a moment before his thoughts drifted back to Amy.

They finished Fergal's provisions, and turned to berries and roots Allene and Brother David found. This seemed to be second nature to them, and she fretted that Niall had lost such knowledge. Their stomachs growled, but hunger in the open cathedrals far surpassed hunger in a dank cellar.

This war business, this was Niall's problem. Shawn wanted to get back to Amy. But he had no idea how. He barely even knew what was going on around him. Knowledge was power, and for once, he was the one who knew nothing.

"Will you humor me?" Shawn finally asked. His harp bumped against his back. They pulled themselves up the steepest parts of the trail by roots and tree limbs. The ache in his thighs faded, as his body strengthened. The ache in his chest dulled, and the sting in his hand came less often.

"Humor you?"

"Play along," Shawn explained. "Let's say it's not this head injury. Let's say I'm from another time and place."

"Well surely you can't be, as I've known you all my life." Allene marched steadily under the dappling trees.

"What if you could go back to the time of..." His poor memory of history left him grasping for an example. "When they built Stonehenge."

"What is Stonehenge?"

"You've never heard of Stonehenge?"

"It's a stone circle built by the Druids hundreds of years before Christ," Brother David supplied. A grunt escaped him as he climbed a small incline.

"Why would I want to go to such a time?" Allene asked. "There can be naught worth seeing or knowing before Christ!"

Inspiration struck Shawn. "The time of Christ, then. What if you woke up in the time of Christ?"

Allene stopped, searching the wood for Shawn knew not what, glanced at the stream on their right, shaded her hand to scan the hills on their left, and moved toward the stream with confidence. "Alright," she said. "I wake up in the time of Christ. 'Twould be witchcraft, surely."

"What if that happened...to me?" Shawn asked.

"'Twould be witchcraft still," offered Brother David.

"Never mind what it would be!" Shawn smacked his forehead, earning him a worried look from his companions. "That's not the point! Wouldn't you feel lost? Not understanding what was going on?"

"But I know the Bible well. My father reads from it every night. I would recognize my Lord and Savior."

"Well, what if you didn't end up right next to Him? What if you landed in Herod's court, say, and you didn't understand the wars and battles going on, or who people were, or how to do things?"

Allene considered. "'Twould be confusing," she said.

"Pretend that's me."

"In Jesus' time?"

"No, in this time."

"But you know what's going on in this time." She stopped again, studying a rock formation and a massive fallen tree blocking the path.

Shawn boosted himself onto the log. He reached down for her hand. "Pretend I don't. Pretend I lived all my life hundreds of years from now."

"I thought we were pretending you went to the past." She gripped his wrist, hoisted herself up, and yanked her robe back over the flash of calf and knee. Her eyes met Shawn's, seeing that he'd seen. A small smile touched her lips.

He swallowed. It had taken flashes of more than Caroline's leg to make him feel this way. It was a different world. He looked away and cleared his throat. "But if you pretend that I spent my whole life, till last week, in the future, then for me this is—would be—the past." They both reached down to help Brother David up, and the three of them sat for a moment, contemplating the short jump down on the other side.

"I see," she said. He was sure she didn't. A bird trilled above. "Why are we pretending this?"

He was beginning to wonder, himself. "Let's just say I was," he repeated. "What would you tell me about your time?"

She turned suddenly to face him. "The story of King Herla! Is that what you're thinking?" At Shawn's nod, she looked pleased with herself. "But as if he went backwards," she mused. Shawn jumped down, landing silently in his leather boots. He helped Allene and Brother David, the monk landing with another grunt of pain, and they resumed their hike.

"I would say," said Brother David, gripping his side, "that we are blessed with many churches. We are Christians."

"That wasn't quite what I meant."

"But you asked...."

"How would you describe it, then?" asked Allene.

"Brutal," Shawn shot out. "Vicious and brutal."

"Certainly not!" Brother David sounded indignant. "We do not worship false gods like the pagans and druids. Nor do we offer human sacrifice or slaughter helpless babes, as did they."

"You kill people! You hit people. You stab people!" He stared pointedly at Allene, and wondered what had brought on those warm feelings toward her. Amy would never do that to him!

Allene gave an indignant toss of the head. "And this time you might come from? Did you dream about it in a delirium from your wound, Niall? Is it a time when men treat women like trollops to be pawed and groped, and force themselves upon them like enemy soldiers?" She pushed aside a branch and let it snap back in his face.

Shawn caught the branch, glared at her and fell silent, giving up hope of getting information. They followed a level track now, with ferns rising to waist height and spilling over the path. Birds sang from the treetops and undergrowth. A deer stood frozen in the underbrush, hoping not to be seen.

"Would I had a bow," Brother David sighed.

"'Twould be a fine meal," Allene agreed.

"See, this is what I mean," Shawn burst out. The deer's head sprang up, alert to the gunshot of his voice in the still wood. It turned in one graceful motion and leapt, its tail flashing white fear. Allene and Brother David sighed at the loss of their venison dinner. "In this time I'm...I imagine...what if people were shocked by that?"

"By what? Eating a fine meal?" Allene pulled her sad gaze from the retreating deer.

"No, getting back to nature, seeing a deer, and the first thing you both want to do is kill it! What's up with that?"

"We're hungry," Brother David said. "Would it be wise in this time you imagine to starve rather than eat what God provides?"

"Such a people would not long survive!" Allene stopped again, listened—this time Shawn heard the burble of the stream, louder than it had been—and chose a barely-visible path climbing steeply uphill.

"So imagine again." Shawn started over, not wanting to argue the point. "Tell me who the king is."

"Robert the Bruce, of course."

"Of England."

"Not of England, of Scotland." She squeezed through a heavy growth of ferns.

Shawn strove for patience, something he'd never had much of. "I
mean
, who is the king of England?"

"The king of England is Edward. Everyone knows that."

"Not someone who just got dropped in and doesn't know what's going on. Which Edward? The first, second? How many were there, anyway?"

"Only the two, of course, and he's the second. His father was Edward Longshanks. A far better king, they say. At least for the English. For us, he was brutal and cruel." She stopped to pull berries from a bush. Shawn and Brother David each accepted a handful.

"How long has Bruce been king?" Shawn tossed a berry high in the air, threw his head back, and caught it. He had years of bar peanuts to thank for the trick. Allene was not, however, as impressed as the women in bars usually were. He sighed.

"Nigh on several years now," said Brother David.

"And they're going to war?"

"Scotland and England have long been at war. 'Twould have been fine, had Alexander not insisted on going home to his bride that night."

"Who's Alexander?" Shawn asked.

Allene gave him a funny look. "You know far more than I. It is you with whom my father discusses these things."

"Pretend, remember? What would you tell a stranger about Alexander and his bride?"

"'Twas a dark and stormy night," Brother David began.

"You have got to be kidding," said Shawn. "Jesting," he clarified at the monk's blank stare.

"No jest, Allan a Dale. It was snowing, a ferocious storm. The ferryman told him 'twas no safe to cross, but he insisted. Men told him to put up for the night. He would go on. In the dark, his horse went over a cliff and he was killed."

"What was so special about Alexander, that his death sent England and Scotland to war?"

"'Twas not Alexander himself," said Allene, "but that he left no heir. There was only his granddaughter, the Maid of Norway, and she died on the journey to Scotland to take the throne."

"So how did Edward get involved?"

"Longshanks saw a chance to take Scotland," said Allene. She spotted a large, flat stone, incongruous in the midst of forest, quickened her step, and made an abrupt right when she reached it. Shawn slowed to help Brother David over the rougher patches.

Brother David took up the story. Of twelve contenders for the throne, John Balliol and Robert Bruce had the strongest claims. Fearing war, the abbots asked Longshanks to choose. He chose Balliol, expecting to set his puppet over Scotland. And so it was, until Balliol refused to send troops for England's war against France. Longshanks stormed north and subdued the Scots.

"So then he gave the crown to Bruce?" Shawn gripped Brother David's hand, helping him up the steep incline.

"No. Bruce and John Comyn fought over the crown. They met in Greyfriars Church. Bruce slew Comyn there before the altar. He was excommunicated for it."

"For killing someone?" Shawn couldn't hold back his sarcasm. "That seems to be the national pastime around here!"

"Dinna be foolish," Allene said. "He was excommunicated for killing a man on holy ground."