Warrior and the Wanderer (24 page)

He slowly lowered the branch toward the boy.

“Hold the end, Blaze,” he directed her.

“Aye,” she said.

After she grasped the end of the sapling, Ian worked his way carefully forward, walking his hands along the wood.

“OK, lad,” he said. “Take the end and hold tight. We’re going to fish you out of the bog. But you have to hold on very tight if you want to get out.”

“M-my hands,” the child chattered, “I canna feel them.”

“Bring them up, lad,” Bess said. “Out of the water. The air’s no’ as chill as the water.”

The boy tried to do as she said but he sank deeper into the mire of roots, leaves, and black water. He screamed as he sank to his neck.

“Don’t move!” Ian shouted to the boy.

He turned to Bess. “No matter what happens, don’t let go of my boots.”

“Ian, what’re ye gonnae—”

“No matter what happens don’t let go of my boots.”

“I hope ye’ll still be in them,” she said.

He grinned. “Me too.”

Ian tossed his plaid and jacket to the drier ground. He wore the linen tunic instead of his t-shirt. It was tucked haphazardly into his jeans, and puffed out like a pirate shirt. He knelt down on the edge of the bog and crawled forward on his belly like a newt, using the sapling as a guide toward the boy.

“Listen, lad,” he said trying to sound firm and friendly at the same time. “If you move or struggle we’re both going to drown. Stay still and very calm, and I’ll get you out of this. What’s your name?”

“J-James.”

He floated on top of the netting of roots as he made his way to the boy. Chill was not the right word to describe the paralyzing wetness that quickly soaked his clothes.

“Well, then, Jamie, m’lad, after we get out of this mess, you’ll tell me and the good Lady back there how you came to be here. We deserve that at least for saving your life.”

The boy nodded shakily.

“Blaze,” Ian said. “Take my ankles.”

He felt her tight grip through the boot leather. “I will never let ye go.”

“Good.” Ian took a deep breath, and slowly fanned his arms straight out from his body. He let them slide over the net of roots. And slowly, his body began to sink.

This task could not be accomplished with finesse.

“Pull, Blaze!” Ian shouted. “Pull as hard as you bloody can!!!!

He threw his arms forward and grasped the boy’s thin upper arms. Before he and the child sank beneath the black water, he shouted, “PULL!” His life and the brawn of a warrior princess depended on it.

He felt her gripping his ankles, pushing the leather into his flesh. Despite the fact that they were under the plant-choked water, he did not release the squirming boy. The little bastard had not listened to one word to remain calm. Ian held the child while holding his breath and praying like mad that Bess’s adrenaline would kick in and he and the boy would…

…Slip right out of danger.

Her strength was more than impressive. It was unbelievable.

He held fast to the child, who had suddenly and frighteningly ceased his struggle, as he was pulled backwards from the bog. He worked his arms around the boy and held him tight to his chest as they were dragged out from under the roots and leaves covering the surface of the water. When most of him was on relatively dry land, Ian turned, holding the boy, coughing up the black water.

“Ian!” Bess cried. “The boy! He’s—”

“He’s no’ dead.” Alasdair’s voice sounded above him.

Ian opened his eyes and released his hold on the boy. The lad coughed and sputtered. Water sprayed up from his mouth and landed on Ian’s face. The child slipped from his chest and into Bess’s arms.

She gasped and held him protectively close.

“Och!” Alasdair grunted. He immediately fell to his knees, bowing his head.

“What?” Ian asked sitting up, and wiping the child’s spray from his eyes.

He looked at the boy. Despite the fact that his clothes were soaked and dotted with leaves and bits of root, Ian could tell they were of fine fabric and lush embroidery. His thin legs covered in dark hose protruded from waterlogged, puffy short pants. The boy’s shoes shone golden in the torchlight and were embellished with large polished metal buckles. Ian knew the wee sod. And the wee sod knew him.

“Bard,” the boy whispered.

Ian nodded. “Aye, Your Majesty.”

“We thank you,” he said with a weak smile.

“It was a group effort.” He gestured to Bess and Alasdair.

“Aye, ’twas.” The young king looked up at Bess as she held him and smoothed back his reddish hair.

“If I may be so bold, Your Majesty,” she said. “Ye need to get out of these wet clothes and warm yourself.”

“And then you can tell us why you were taking a bath in that bog,” Ian said.

Bess widened her eyes at him. She looked down at her king. “I apologize for the bard’s insolent manner, Yer Majesty.” She looked up and glared at Ian. “He didnae mean to order ye to tell us that which you may wish to keep to yerself.”

“We just rescued him from drowning, Blaze,” Ian said. “I think we deserve an explanation.”

King James shivered against Bess.

“And His Majesty deserves no’ to catch his death,” she countered.

King James looked at Bess, lips blue. He was a lad of thirteen or so. Little wonder the boy looked to Ian, a man, to see how he should react to a beautiful woman’s suggestion that he remove his wet clothes. All the young king probably knew were old maids helping him, not hot Highland babes like Bess.

“Blaze,” Ian whispered. “I’ll help the King. You and Alasdair go make a nice warm fire.”

“’Tis done,” Alasdair interjected. “And there’s rabbit on the spit.”

“Blaze, I think Alasdair may need you to help him see the camp is ready for His Majesty.”

She stared at him, before looking down at the boy. “Your Majesty?”

King James nodded up at her. “Please.”

Bess let her king slip from the warmth of her arms. She rose to her feet and curtsied. With a wary gaze at Ian, she and Alasdair left him alone with the king.

Ian watched them disappear into the woods before rising to his feet. He offered the King his hand. The lad took it and rose on his thin legs. He was a boy on the cusp of manhood, realizing that women were in fact women.

“OK?” Ian asked.

The king nodded, hugging his body with thin arms.

Ian reached down and took up the plaid and his jacket.

“Get out of those clothes and put these on.”

The King stood there.

“Shy? I’ll turn around.”

James shook his head. “I’ve never undressed myself before.”

“It’s quite easy, just unfasten whatever is fastening your clothes together.”

“You will not undress me?”

“There are some things a lad should learn to do for himself.”

James glanced off to the forest as he reached up to the top of his doublet just below what used to be a stiff ruffled collar, and now was a limp mess.

“She’s not there,” Ian said.

“I wasn’t—”

“Aye, you were. And I bet you would like to stay in those breeks a while until that stiffy you’ve got goes away.”

The king straightened his shoulders. “You cannot speak to me in that manner.”

“I just did. Now, off with those clothes or I’ll tell Lady Campbell about your randy thoughts.”

“You would not!”

“Try me.”

Ian tossed the plaid and jacket at the boy, ignoring the fact that he was freezing, and this wee monarch was keeping him from drying himself in front of Alasdair’s fire. He turned his back on the King to allow him to dress and hide his embarrassment in private.

“Tell us,” James said. Ian could hear him fighting to free his body from the wet clothes. “Where did you learn such unusual music?”

“From listening—.” He refrained from mentioning his I-Pod. Only one person in this time knew his truth, and she didn’t believe him. “Music is not what I want us
men
to talk about right now.”

“You do not know how to speak to your king. We will discuss what I wish to discuss.”

“Aye, well, I did help save your life, so you at least owe me something.”

“What?” The boy grunted from behind Ian’s back, still struggling with his clothes.

“That woman, Lady Campbell to you, Your Majesty, needs your help.”

“My councilors will—”

“If your councilors were so important to you, you wouldn’t have run away from them. This is the road to Stirling, and I’m sure that you are going to see the same person we are. Am I right?”

“Aye. They do not wish me to see my mother. She needs me. I wish to see her.”

“And Lady Campbell can help you get to her, only if you agree to help her.”

“A common bard does not order the King.”

“That may be true,
Jamie
, but I’m not a common bard.”

“Quite true. You are most uncommon. You may turn about now.”

Ian turned about. The king faced him, a bold scowl on his face. The leather jacket hung low from his delicate shoulders. He had wrapped the plaid around his waist and over the jacket. Most of the wool hung to the ground. He still wore the stockings and the golden buckled shoes.

Ian bowed low only to hide his smirk. He straightened his expression, stood upright and stared down at the king.

“Have we an agreement?”

“Of course, Bard,” James said with a curt nod.

“The king’s word,” Ian said. “Bess will be more than pleased.”

Chapter Fourteen: Can Life Get Any Better? Or Worse?

T
he king promised to help Bess, and she still had the ring that pledged the queen regent’s favor!

Ian had to be responsible for gaining her the king’s promise. When they had warmed themselves by Alasdair’s fire, neither His Majesty nor Ian had admitted to any particular agreement. She knew by the furtive glances over bites of roasted rabbit exchanged between them after His Majesty told her he would be “most delighted to escort Lady Campbell to his mother and her court.” Ian’s crooked and confident grin had confirmed her suspicions.

Now he sat once again behind her on her mount, and the king shared Alasdair’s horse. At sunrise they had departed for Stirling. They rode as the sun illuminated the forested landscape that gave way to rolling open countryside. Clouds grew thicker blotting out the light as they rode westward in silence. Wrapped in Ian’s plaid, the king slept against Alasdair’s back.

Ian didn’t speak anymore of not being from her time. But she was hardly grateful as his strange admission was firmly embedded in her thoughts. She had compared everything he had told her with everything she knew about him. She could have easily declared to herself that Ian was mad, but she knew that was a falsehood. He had secured the favor of both royals, a task not possibly accomplished by a madman.

They reached Stirling Bridge late in the day, the clouds dark with the promise of rain.

“Stirling,” Ian said breaking the silence. “I was here once, at a club in Connery Close.”

Bess reached back and gripped Ian’s leg.

“Wheesht,” she whispered harshly. “None of that odd talk. The king is stirring.”

The lad was confused enough as it was after last evening best not confound him more. But to Bess last night had been rewarding and heart wrenching.

Young James had told of being kept from his mother by councilors who had their own interests to heart. Bess had tried to comfort him with soothing, assuring words, telling him that she would make it her sole mission to unite him with his mother, the queen regent.

While his clothes had dried by the fire the king slept, lulled to slumber by Ian’s soft singing. Bess had fallen asleep soon after in Ian’s arms. Alasdair had given them a scowl before drifting off to his own, quite noisy, sleep. Bess did not care what her champion thought. Her life was taking a more agreeable turn. She had to admit Ian was the reason.

“I remember getting stage fright in Stirling, Blaze.”

Now he was speaking that odd-speak as she concentrated on crossing Stirling Bridge with the king. She tried to push trepidation from her mind.

“You can do it, Blaze,” Ian whispered as if reading her thoughts. “You are in control, and you have two royal endorsements.”

“Your confidence in me is impressive,” she said. “Stop with yer future-talk. I have accepted that ye arenae mad, but I fear no one else in Scotland would be so charitable.”

“That’s because you’ve gotten to know the
real
me,” he said giving her waist a squeeze. She could just feel him grinning that crooked grin of his.

“Wheesht!” She suppressed her own smile.

Alasdair lead them through the covered bridge, the gloom illuminated from peat burning in iron cages bolted to the massive wooden trusses. Bess glanced up at the soot-blacked ceiling of the archway the end of which held a mighty portcullis and a trio of able-looking guards.