In the Time of Kings (23 page)

I race up the stairs of the tower, treading as lightly as I can. Then I hear a man’s voice reply to hers. It’s Alan. I slow my steps, steady my breathing.

“Blacklaw should have been ours, Mariota,” he says. “You would have been so much happier with me. We were always meant to be together.
Always
.”

“We were young then, Alan,” she says.

“And in love.”

I stop dead. Moments crawl by in silence. I should either leave or let myself be known, yet I can do neither. I want to hear what she’ll say back. I need to know.

From somewhere in the bailey, Malcolm calls for me. Did he see me enter the tower? I say nothing, pressing myself closer to the inner column of the stairway.

Still, she hasn’t answered him. Finally, she murmurs something and then ... she winces. Or is it a moan? I fly up the stairs three at a time until the back of Alan’s surcoat comes into view. Mariota’s back is to the wall, his body pressed to hers. He’s gripping her arms, his mouth seeking hers.

I snag the back of his surcoat and yank hard, slamming him against the opposite wall. He flails a hand out. One foot slips on the smoothed edge of a stair and he tumbles back, landing several steps below.

Before I can get to him he’s already on his feet again. Anger blazes in his eyes. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t left my sword in the bailey. I’d gore the bastard.

As if reading my mind, Alan reaches for his blade.

“No!” Mariota screams. “Alan, stop!”

I wheel around to her. “Why? Did I interrupt? Why not let him run me through? Does your conscience trouble you?”

She’s nothing but a silhouette against the light from the open door above. Her face is concealed in shadow.

Then, Malcolm’s voice calls out more clearly from the bottom of the stairs. “Sir Roslin? Are you there? Sir Henry has called a meeting — at once.”

“I hear you,” I answer.

“The time has come,” Alan says behind me. As I turn to him, he releases his hilt. A gloating smirk tips his mouth. “We are to leave for Berwick today.”

With that, he goes, leaving me alone with Mariota. She trails a hand over the stones of the outer wall to steady herself as she descends. Her other hand is pressed to her lower ribs as she tries to control her breathing. She’s almost past me when I grab her wrist and pull her to me. I don’t want to leave her.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have —”

“Say nothing, Roslin.” With a light twist of her arm, she frees herself from my hold. “My heart is yours. It will always be so.”

For several minutes I remain there, alone and adrift, listening to hurried footsteps on the cobbles outside and the faraway cry of seabirds.

––––––––

W
e’re afforded but a few hours to make final preparations and assemble in the open stretch of grassland beyond the outer wall. Several hundred men have already gathered there, packs stuffed full with the barest of necessities, carts piled high with supplies and spare weapons. A column of thousands is marching off into the distance. Whatever I may think of Alan, the man has made a great show of organizing all of this. His correspondences to Sir Henry were detailed and frequent, complete with the name of every lord and chieftain promising men and weapons, the date of their arrival and the breakdown of their numbers into foot soldiers, cavalry, and archers — although I know it’s in that last respect that England will show their strength and so be our undoing.

There’s a curse in knowing what is to come. I’d rather
not
know. It robs me of hope and hope is a precious thing.

As I take my place in the column beside Sir Henry and we head south, I twist in my saddle to look back. A skeleton of sentries is posted on the wall, but I see no one else.

She’s not there.

My heart is yours. It will always be so.

Small consolation, considering that I won’t be coming back.

Sir Henry and I ride side by side in silence for hours. I’m thankful he hasn’t spoken yet; it would be impossible to answer him about anything without sounding like I want to snap his head off — or anyone’s, for that matter. I’m mad as hell at myself for a lot of things. For not being more clear with Alan to keep his distance from Mariota. For keeping her at a distance myself.

If I hurt right now, it’s my own damn fault.

Every time I glance at Henry, his jaw is clenched tightly, like he’s holding back words. Sooner or later, he’ll open his mouth and I’ll have to deal with whatever he’s brewing beneath that gruff exterior.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” he finally spits out.

I flick the ends of my reins at a fly and give him a questioning glance. The less I say the better.

“The Abbot of Melrose has levied accusations of heresy,” he says.

“Mine or yours?”

“Don’t be flippant, Roslin. This is a grave matter.”

I clamp my teeth shut and inhale deeply through my nose. There are so many things I could say, the least of all how ridiculous this is. I don’t eat meat. So what? How can that be a crime?

“Does he have proof?” I say, sure he doesn’t. Short of me standing up in public and mocking God or the Church, how could they prove anything?

“They don’t need evidence. Just enough witnesses to speak against you.”

I don’t need to wonder who he’s talking about. Alan could probably conjure witnesses by the dozens and they’d be sure to distort mere rumors into fantastical lies.

“What’s going to happen, then? A trial? Excommunication, maybe?”

He snorts loudly. “Excommunication would be a kindness. Death by fire is more likely. It’s your good fortune there’s a war to be fought right now, or else you’d be on your way to Edinburgh to stand trial. I’ll speak to Lord Archibald, arrange a delay. But once matters are settled in Berwick, there’s little I can do to stop the course of events. If you prove yourself there, however, it’s possible they may be lenient.”

“Lenient how?” Maybe instead of burning me at the stake, they’ll take pity and grant me a quicker death by lopping my head off.

“Penance, perhaps? A pilgrimage? I know very little about such things.” He falls quiet, his eyes set squarely on the road ahead, but I can see something’s still eating at him.

“I had so much hope for you on the day of your birth, Roslin,” he finally says. “Since then, you have done nothing but bring shame upon the Sinclair name. Berwick is your chance to return honor to the family. Do not disappoint me again.”

Wow. How am I supposed to reply to that? Short of singlehandedly saving the town, there aren’t enough hoops I could jump through to change his mind. So I’m not even going to try, let alone argue with the grumpy old goat.

––––––––

Berwick, Scotland — 1333

“T
hey are many,” Lord Archibald proclaims, grinning faintly. “But we are more.”

I’m not so sure I share his optimistic outlook. The journey from Blacklaw Castle had taken the remainder of yesterday and almost all of today. Some of the supply wagons would be trickling in for another day, with more reinforcements yet to come. But the flood of so many Scottish forces all in one day must have stirred some concern on the part of Edward III and Balliol. From where we stand on a hill well beyond Berwick, it appears impressive to me: the gathering of forces before an epic battle on which hinges the course of history.

Sir Henry squints against the brightness of a setting sun, emphasizing every wrinkle and fold in his face. “How does the town fare, my lord?”

Several other nobles have convened on the hill with us: Menteith, Atholl, Keith, Moray ... It’s taken a lot of tutoring from Mariota and Duncan, but I’ve learned their names and histories. Knowing family politics and personal alliances is critical in this era. Without that knowledge, I could unwittingly offend a lot of people and I’ve already done that without even trying. The crisis we’re facing, however, seems to have erased a lot of those lines. Scotland is only just now learning how to stand as one against a common enemy. It took years for the Bruce to make them see the value of solidarity.

Archibald gazes eastward across the valley to the town. “The English have smashed the water conduits. Even if Berwick has enough food to last weeks more, without water ...” He lifts his eyes to the sky. No possibility of rain. Not even a wispy white cloud gracing the horizon.

I hear a ‘thump’ and shoot a look toward the northern wall. A dark object hurtles through the sky in a low arc. As it sinks in its trajectory, every man there falls silent. It crashes through the roof of a house barely visible over the top of the wall, crumpling the framework on the side nearest us. We can’t hear the screams, but we know innocent people have been hurt, if not killed.

It’s all I can do not to bend over, grab my knees and vomit. Finally, I say to Duncan beside me, “What was that?”

“A stone launched by a trebuchet. But that isn’t the worst of it.”

“Oh. What is?”

He slaps my back. “The severed heads.”

Gulping, I close my mouth. Suddenly, all the weeks I spent preparing with Duncan don’t seem to amount to much. Futile, in fact. It’s hard to remember humanity’s potential for kindness when so much senseless cruelty exists.

In the days following, we wait and watch from a safe distance while the atrocities continue. Messengers shuttle back and forth, to no avail. Neither side will yield. They will have all or nothing.

Amazing how little things have changed in seven centuries.

LONG, LONG AGO

Berwick, Scotland — 1333

I
wake to the scent of ashes. I should be used to this by now, I tell myself. There are always campfires burning. Food must be cooked. But it’s a different smell. More acrid. And not just wood smoke. It reminds me of the grassfire in the field outside of Balfour when I was a kid, the summer of the drought.

I emerge from my tent and follow the flow of traffic on foot to the ridgeline. A stiff wind blows from the west, making it hard to hear what others are saying. Day has barely broken, but it’s not the sun’s light blazing strongest.

The roofs of Berwick are burning.

Archibald pushes his way through the crowd to take in the sight. The River Tweed is choked with English ships. The points of more masts can be seen further downstream, toward the sea. Ladders have been thrown up against the town’s walls. Men are amassed at the breeches. The fighting is furious.

“What happened?” Archibald says.

Close at his shoulder, Alan gives an account. “The English sailed upriver in the middle of the night, surrounding the town to the east and south. Edward dispatched his men from the ships along the riverbank, while his archers took aim at the walls. Seton was expecting such an assault. Faggots soaked in tar were set to be dropped onto the assailants, but as you can see, the wind wreaked its havoc. Flaming ashes blew back into the town, setting it alight.” He points to the tower at the town’s gate. There, a white cloth has been flung over the wall. “Seton will beg for a truce. If we move quickly, my lord, we can attack their remaining forces to the north. It will cause confusion. Give us a temporary advantage.”

Arms crossed, Archibald peers intently at Berwick.

“My lord?” Alan urges impatiently. “You must decide — and soon.”

“No. Let Seton negotiate. We will choose our course then.”

“But —”

“Has the Earl of Ross arrived with his Highlanders yet?”

Swallowing, Alan shakes his head. “No, my lord.”

“And you said there are another thousand due to arrive from Strathbogie and Mar in the next few days?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Good. We wait then. A truce will buy us time. Haste would cost us dearly.”

I can see the disappointment in the men’s faces. Many do not agree. They’re impatient to get this over with, yet fearful that their resolve to defeat the English will be compromised by diplomacy. They want to fight, not volley words.

They’ll all have their chance. Just not today.

––––––––

F
ifteen days. That’s the length of the truce agreed to by Alexander Seton and King Edward of England. Ross has arrived with his Highlanders, as well as the others, but upon hearing that battle is not imminent, they’re more riled up than relieved.

With each day that slogs by, the mood becomes more sullen, tempers sharper. Yet beneath the edginess, there’s an undercurrent of camaraderie unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Then again, I’ve always been a geek, a bit of an outcast, rather than a team player.

In the evenings, we gather around the cooking fires and the men share stories, mostly of battle, but sometimes about fishing adventures in tiny coracles on storm-tossed seas, or forays into blowing snow to gather lost sheep from treacherous mountain landscapes. The lines between noble and commoner become blurred at these times, the connections deeper.

I gaze into the bubbling waters of a cooking pot, watching the steam rise and swirl across the faces of those standing around, bowls in hand. To my right, there’s a small commotion, but I don’t pay any heed until I hear her voice.

“Roslin?”

I blink in disbelief at Mariota. Both joy and anger surge in my chest.

I grab her hand and haul her into the closest tent. “What are you doing here? As soon as Malcolm finds out — or Henry or Archibald for that matter — they’ll send you back. You know that?”

“I had to come.”

“
You
didn’t have to. I did.” I’m trying to be forceful with her, but it’s beyond hard. “Now leave. It’s too dangerous for you here.”

“No. Not yet.” She burrows against my chest. “I needed to see you again.”

How can I be angry with her? The sound of her breathing fills my ears, surrounds me, calms me. It would’ve been better if she had stayed away. It was hard enough to leave her at Blacklaw. But ... I needed this, too.

When I was first dropped into this world, I was sure it was only a dream. But day after day I woke up, still in the fourteenth century, running from an enemy I did not claim. I have been cold, starving and exhausted to the bone. Yet I have survived this far and in that triumph, in many ways, I feel more alive in this world than I had in my own.