Bannockburn, Present
Even from as far away as the tall pole bearing Scotland’s blue and white Saltire, Amy recognized Angus’s solid form under the red and gold trees fringing the Heritage Centre’s parking lot. He stood there with Mike. She scuffed through leaves in leather boots that had reminded her of Niall’s, and buried her hands in her new fall coat of soft, fawn-colored leather.
Instant comparisons between Shawn and Angus jumped to mind. It came, she thought, from having just left church. She’d sat through a good part of the morning, arms resting on the pew before her in the empty sanctuary, mulling over her reading on the infidelity forum. The more she sat in the quiet church these past weeks, under the colored beams of light jetting through stained glass, the more her thoughts steadied. Or maybe it was being free of the sticky web of Shawn’s lies and smooth persuasion. But she’d admitted to herself that Shawn had likely had multiple affairs, despite what he’d told Celine, despite Rob claiming to have been with Caroline.
She wanted to believe he was the one who didn’t follow the pattern she saw over and over on the infidelity forum. He was one of a kind, after all. But they’d reminded her on the board, You saw what he was from the start. The real question, she thought, was how she’d gotten so stupid, how she’d let him convince her that the sincere, loving man she saw in private was the real man, and the man she saw in public only the act.
Because, she defended herself, he’d shown her that good side for so long, never giving her reason to doubt, until the past year. The rage had returned, growing slowly and steadily, deep within, till she’d wanted to race home and smash his trombone, rip his shirts to shreds. A deep breath, and a fist clenched around Niall’s crucifix had slowly calmed her. He’d apologized, he’d redeemed himself in giving his life for a child. And if he’d cheated, they reminded her on the forum, it was his own brokenness, not a fault in her. She had a good life, a talent she loved, a child on the way, and Rose’s visit to look forward to.
Nonetheless, she’d resolved to walk home the long way, through the fallen leaves scattered over the battlefield, letting the cool fall air blow away the last of the hot rage. It had to be healthier than smashing things.
Angus lifted a hand as she approached. “Hello!”
Mike, too, greeted her with a wave. “Found more on our Niall?”
“Bits and pieces.” She joined them under the trees.
They stood, their feet scuffling in red leaves, smiling at each other, before Angus asked, “Was the information I sent helpful?”
“Oh, very,” Amy assured him.
“You’re being kind.” A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I did tell you I’m an amateur historian. Most information is useless on its own. It’s only when you get enough to form a big picture that it helps.”
She blushed, glanced at the ground, and back up. He stared at her intently, his head cocked to one side, as if a question burned in his mind. His eyes were dark blue, almost black, and piercing. Her blush deepened. “Caught,” she admitted. “But it’s still one piece I didn’t have before.”
“It’s important to know the whole history of the time,” Angus said, “to really understand a person. It’s chilly out here. If you’ve time for coffee, I know a fair bit of Glenmirril’s history.” He glanced at Mike.
Amy followed his look.
“Aye.” Mike nodded vigorously. “He knows Glenmirril well. Verra interesting events up there. I think you’d like to hear it.”
Amy rifled through a mental calendar. It didn’t take long to review another commitment-free day. She’d already taken a long walk and visited the church. There was time to play her violin later. And Mike and Angus seemed pleasant company. “I’d love to,” she said.
Smiles passed around the trio, like a theme from instrument to instrument, and as one, they turned to cross the parking lot, past the white stucco museum, and out to the main road. “Enjoy your bridies,” Mike said, as a bus slid up to the stop. A golden leaf swirled from the tree above, danced around his face, and floated to the ground. He climbed up the step. “I’m off to a well-deserved rest in the twenty-first century.”
“Have a good one.” Angus waved.
Amy looked from Angus to the bus doors sliding shut behind Mike. “I thought he was coming.”
Angus grinned. “I’m verra safe, but if I misled you and you don’t want to go, I understand.”
She bit her lip, hating the blush that warmed her face. “Just surprised, that’s all. Of course I’ll go.”
Dundolam, 1314
Niall bolted up off the hewn log, jarring Joan’s hand from his hair. As if the motion jolted something out of the very air, the idea dropped into his head. Faolan needed a musician, Niall needed a way into the castle, and his alter ego, Fionn, needed work.
“Now, then, did something sting you?” Joan asked in surprise.
“Not at all!” Niall’s thoughts spun in excitement. He backed away from Joan’s reaching hand. Faolan’s musicians would be visible in the gallery for all to see. He shouldn’t risk having someone recognize him. Especially not with Duncan already warned to watch for him.
But the idea had taken root.
“What is it, then?” Joan took another step toward him.
“’Tis only....” He looked for a reason he’d be backing away, his germ of an idea growing with his excitement. This feat, though only he and Allene would know, would be his own.
“’Tis only what, Fionn? You’ve such lovely hair.”
There were ways, he thought, to make himself less recognizable. “No!” He took her hand as she reached for it again. “’Tis dirty and long.” He almost smiled, thinking of Shawn’s sweet smelling French shampoo. Jhirmack. But he kept his face grim. “I’m no fit company for a lass, since I took to the road.”
“’Tis not too long,” Joan objected.
“Very much too long,” Niall insisted. “I’m wont to being clean-shaven.”
“Now, if that’s all,” Joan said, “I can shave you and trim your hair.”
“Could you?” Niall asked, his eyes wide. “Still, you being accustomed to a fine Norseman....” He sighed. “If only I had the fine golden hair you love.”
A smile spread across Joan’s fleshy face. “Why, Fionn, if it’s golden hair you’re wanting, I can do that, too.”
“You wouldn’t!” he said, and this time, let her grasp his hand.
“I would!” She twined her fingers in his. “Really, Fionn, ’twould be great fun!”
“What a grand idea! You’re very clever!” he said. He didn’t care to think of Allene’s reaction, but there it was. Better Allene’s displeasure than MacDougall’s gallows.
“Verra! I’ll get things ready, and we’ll do it this afternoon!”
His mind jumped to the next problem. He couldn’t return to the inn with his changed looks. “Joan, will Faolan be by again, d’ you think?”
“He often comes in the evening.”
“Will you introduce us?” Niall asked.
Joan smiled coyly. “I’d be pleased to do anything you like, Fionn.”
~
Niall knelt in the small kirk of Dundolam, praying Faolan would accept him as a musician, and that he would get the information Bruce needed. He prayed for his own safety, thinking of the messenger sent to Duncan, and Allene waiting at Glenmirril, and asked forgiveness for using an obviously lonely girl. He would have to ask his confessor, when he returned to Glenmirril, did the greater good of Scotland justify it, or should he have looked for a kinder way, even at risk to an entire nation, to get what Bruce needed? He wondered if Shawn would have dared further, giving Joan all she obviously wanted, and learned more.
With a glance at the sun climbing high outside the kirk’s windows, he rose from his knees, feeling no more at peace than when he’d gone in. Intent on entering Duncan’s castle as a musician, he threaded back to Joan’s through the town’s narrow streets, sidestepping bairns, horses, and garbage being tossed out windows.
His past experience with the MacDougalls really ought to have cured him of such recklessness, he thought, as to put himself on public view. But then, it was the very daring of placing himself under his enemy’s nose, in plain sight, that appealed to him. He smiled, skirting a fishmonger’s cart. They’d be talking about it for years, back at Glenmirril.
And this feat would be his own. It stung, knowing his reputation was largely Shawn’s doing. Forgive me, he addressed God silently. I remain a wee bit vain. ’Tis for Scotland and should not matter whose doing it is. It could hardly sting less for Shawn, he supposed, knowing someone else reaped the glory for all his efforts.
Joan waited in the courtyard behind her mother’s house. She giggled and blushed when he rounded the corner, thinking—well, he knew she imagined a great romance between them. She noticed very little, so fast did her mouth move. That he kept coming back, kept listening, and smiled now and again, had led her to see what she wished. Still, he didn’t care to lead a lass on, even such a one as Joan.
“There ye are, Fionn!” she cried. “Come over here, now.”
She seated him on a rough-hewn log, and pushed his head back over a tub of water. She leaned in close, her bosom in his face, talking and giggling. Niall tried to listen—one never knew what scrap of information might save one. But her fingers massaged his scalp, and she’d anointed herself with a delightful rose perfume. Against his will, he relaxed into the scent, the warm water, and the fingers working through his hair.
It would have taken her great effort to build the fire and have the water so pleasantly warm for him—her elderly mother couldn’t have done it, and her father had died in the wars some time ago. Guilt gnawed. He tried to say an Ave for her, a dozen Aves, but the massaging fingers relaxed the words right out of his mind. The warm bosom in his face gave him need to swallow his natural impulses, ones that had not risen when that bosom had been at a greater distance. He wondered if Shawn had it right after all. What could it hurt? He snapped his eyes open, trying to pull himself from the pleasant trance, but the sight was too much, and he slammed his eyes shut again.
It would hurt Allene, he reminded himself sternly. It would break her trust in him. It would harm his faith in his own character. It would damage the respect between himself and the Laird. That’s what it would hurt. He tried to think on his mission.
“Och, now, relax that jaw!” Joan purred. “Why are ye so tense? Does the warm water not feel good?” She poured something into his hair, the feel of it flowing in a slow drone under the quick tempo of her words, its flowery scent reminding him of Shawn’s shampoo. She worked it in with strong fingers, murmuring, her words becoming softer.
He caught Bessie and knew they were back to her favorite subject, the Lord and his trysts with the kitchen maid. Insight flickered across his relaxed mind. Shawn would have seen it sooner. “He loved you once.”
“Aye,” Joan agreed on a sigh. “He came himself to get his shirts washed. He tossed me aside for her.” Her voice took on a brittle edge. “I hate that man.” She was silent a moment, before speaking more softly. “’Tis neither here nor there. He’s a fool, not like you. So smart and handsome. ’Tis a wonder, sure, ye’ve no lass waitin’ for you at home.”
“Not to worry.” Niall avoided an outright lie. Her fingers kneaded his skull. Guilt gnawed at him, for Allene, for Joan herself, as she poured warm pitchers of water, slowly, tauntingly, over his hair. Her blouse brushed his cheek, soft as a down pillow, and stayed there. Something else flowed through his hair, her fingers tugged and pulled, and her rose fragrance enveloped him.
Her fingers moved to his lip, working through his mustache, tugging down along the sides of his mouth. “There now, let it sit a wee bit. I’ll shave that beard, and we’ll have a fine Norseman. Hold still.” The warmth lifted off his cheek, something cool slathered his chin. With each scrape of the blade, Niall felt himself shedding, becoming a new man. He wondered what he’d look like, wondered for the hundredth time what had become of Shawn and if they’d found him; how MacDonald would react to losing his secret twins. Of course, his hair and beard would grow out and he and Shawn would look alike again—assuming they found Shawn alive and well.
Joan droned on, a descant above his thoughts. She was back to Duncan, telling how he’d watched her wash shirts, how he’d spirited her away into the house while they soaked.
“Ye’re no shocked now, are ye, Fionn?” she asked. “I know what they say, but really, I’ve not done such horrid things, no matter what they say. He said he loved me. He said Milady kept at him day and night, and knowing there was a gentle soul here, loving him, was all that kept him going.” The blade scraped an ostinato beneath her story.
Guilt swam high in Niall’s chest, along with the memory of Celine at the harp. For all Joan lacked the harpist’s fragile, wide-eyed looks, with his eyes closed, he heard the trusting, wounded girl inside her, no different from Celine. He wanted to tell Joan men had used the same line for a thousand years, and would for a thousand to come. He consoled himself he’d used no false words. He’d only come back and listened. But then, he admitted with a stab of pain in his heart, he’d known that was all it would take to get what he wanted. For Scotland, My Lord, he prayed. I’d not have hurt her for my own pleasure.
“Then one day, after I’d given everything, thinkin’ he loved me, he had Bessie drop off his shirts. I sent messages to him. He didn’t answer. And one day he rode by on his big, black horse and looked down at me and told me I was to stay away from him and stop spreadin’ stories, lest he have me whipped in the square.”
The blade stopped. Niall opened his eyes. She stared down at him, the long blade hanging limply at her side, flecked with soap. Her eyes were dry and red. What you did for the least of these, you did for Me. She didn’t look so rough and uncouth as she had that first day.
“I’m not so awful as all that, am I, Fionn?” she asked.
“No,” he said. And he meant it.
“Hold still, while I rinse you off.” She leaned forward, fingers stroking, warm water flowing, words caressing. His desire fled, leaving in its wake only compassion for her search for love. And anger at the younger MacDougall.
Bannockburn, Present
A strong breeze tugged at Amy’s thick braid on the way to the coffee shop, but the brisk walk warmed her.
“The bridies here are not to be beat,” Angus said, placing an order when they entered.
“It smells great.” Amy slipped off her coat. The aroma of lattes mixed with the pleasant smells of meat and pastry and chocolate. She and Shawn had loved searching out new coffee shops. He would have liked this place.
Angus collected their food and coffee, and they chose a table just big enough for two. “Tell me about the States,” he said. “I’ve always hoped to go.”
“Which part? They’re all different.” She emptied a long, thin packet of sugar into her white ceramic mug.
“Where are you from?”
“New York, originally.”
“Big place.”
She stirred milk into her coffee. “You mean New York City? A lot of the state is farms and hills and small towns just like anywhere. Very beautiful.”
“I hear lots of Scots settled there.” He sipped his coffee black, watching her over the rim of the mug.
Amy frowned. “No, it was more the Dutch, really. New Amsterdam, you know.”
“Are you of Scottish descent? I swear I see a bit of Scots in you.”
She tasted her coffee. “Because of the black hair? That’s Italian and a sixteenth Cherokee. The rest is German, Dutch, and a touch of Swede. No Scots at all.”
He picked up his pastry, his head cocked to one side. “You’re sure? I’m usually a good guess of these things.”
She laughed. “Of course I’m sure.”
He blushed. “Of course you are. That was foolish of me.”
She studied her bridie, wondering how to eat it. Deciding Angus’s method must be correct, and noting napkins aplenty in the holder, she picked it up. She could almost taste the pastry oils through her skin. Spices filled the meat, making her tongue tingle with the flavor. “I hope it’s not a strike against me,” she added.
“Not at all.” He smiled. “Tell me about where you live now.” He had a dozen questions about life in the Midwest, and being a symphony musician, adding, “I play bagpipes myself, with the police drum and pipe band.”
Her eyes lit up. “You didn’t tell me you were a fellow musician!”
He grinned, glancing at his food. “I’m not of your caliber now, am I?”
“You play with a group. I’m sure you’re very good.”
He waved the compliment off. “Just something I enjoy. But I promised to tell you more about Glenmirril.”
She found herself once again comparing him to Shawn, as he talked. Shawn would have elaborated on any skill, embroidering it into great accomplishments regardless of facts.
“Records only start in the mid to late 1200s, but some excavation work on the foundation suggests there was a structure there much earlier.” Angus spoke with the same animation that had always come over Shawn when he arranged. A minor seventh there, she could almost hear him saying, his eyes alight. Then follow it right away with a thirteen chord. Listen! It’s perfect!
“The earlier structure would have been wood, so there’s nothing left, but we can see the foundations.” He leaned forward, his eyes intent. “A Pictish chief lived where Urquhart is now, in the time of Columba.”
A customer entered, letting in cool air that swirled around Amy’s leather boots. She sipped her coffee, enjoying its warmth, but sadly aware of Shawn’s legacy on her life. Angus seemed nice. But Shawn had convinced her he was, too, and she found herself wondering who this cop really was, behind the pleasant mask and sincere eyes. She wondered if she’d ever trust another man.
“But if you really want to know about Niall Campbell, Glenmirril’s the place.” Angus swallowed the last of his coffee. “You said you’d think about it, in your e-mail.”
Before Amy could answer, the waitress appeared at Angus’s elbow, refilling his cup. She raised questioning eyebrows at Amy, and at her nod, poured her coffee, too. Amy added sugar and milk, stirring to cover the sudden quiet.
“They’ve a verra nice archives that’s not open to the public.” Angus leaned forward, his big hands wrapped around his newly-warmed cup. “But my mates would let you in.”
She bit her lip. Everything associated with Glenmirril hung like a storm cloud around her—the argument with Shawn, dark, hovering feelings of anger and helplessness, worry and guilt the next morning, thinking he was hurt because of her. And guilt that she’d left him to disappear into a brutal time and get killed. “People were looking at me strangely there.” It slipped out. It was the least of her concerns. She shook her head. “Of all that happened there, I don’t know why I’m worried about that.” She dared a glance up at Angus.
His eyebrows furrowed, as if puzzling over an ancient code. “Sometimes it’s easier to focus on the small things. Who was looking at you strangely?”
Her hands scrambled, under the table, twisting Bruce’s ring. “It’s silly. Never mind.”
“No, who?”
“One of the living history actors. The guy with the horses.”
A thoughtful frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. “I imagine so,” he murmured.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” She forcibly stopped her fingers twisting the ring, placing her hands on the tabletop.
“Nothing.” Angus stared at the crumbs on his plate.
Amy gave her coffee one last, unnecessary stir. The spoon clinked against the cup and dribbled a small mocha stain on the napkin as she set it down. She spoke with bravado she didn’t feel. “Look, you know, it happened. I left him there and he disappeared.”
Angus looked up, his black eyebrows knit.
“I mean, he came back strange and disappeared later. I can’t expect everyone to pretend around me forever. The thought of going there makes me kind of uncomfortable.”
He was silent only briefly before asking, “Did the Stirling police keep in touch with you? Do you hope to find him?”
Amy shrugged. “He’s not coming back.” Even before the words left her mouth, she felt herself diving after them, snatching at them, but they slipped between her fingers and hung in the air. Her lip trembled; tears stung her eyes. She swallowed. She’d lived too long with her own thoughts, forgetting the rest of the world knew a different story.
“He’s missing,” Angus said gently. “Missing people are often found.”
Her hands crept back under the table, alternately twisting Bruce’s ring and clenching one another, trying to stop the habit. “I just feel it.” She gave a weak laugh. “Women’s intuition, maybe.” Shut up, she remonstrated with herself. He’s the police. He’ll think you killed him. She tried for a better explanation. “He had everything. I know he caused a lot of trouble, but one thing about Shawn, he loved life. He lived every minute to the fullest.” For better or worse, she thought cynically. “He’d never willingly disappear.”
Angus said nothing. She removed her hands from under the table, but found them still clutching one another, elbows on table, hands pressed against her lips. She forced herself to loosen her grip.
“You’re absolutely sure he’s not coming back?” Angus leaned forward. His dark eyes pierced hers.
She nodded, swallowing; avoiding his eyes. “It wouldn’t be like him to disappear.” She couldn’t explain—really, Angus was just someone she barely knew—wouldn’t tell him the whole truth about Shawn. She gulped the last of her milky coffee and stood abruptly, fumbling for her coat. “I have to go. I have, um, I really need to practice.”
The look on his face told her he knew it was an excuse. He rose, a hand on her arm. “I understand about Glenmirril. I didn’t think. Really, I didn’t. But if you still want to research Niall Campbell, I’ve a friend at the archives in Edinburgh, if you’d like me to get you in there. This research seems to give you some peace.”
Her discomfort settled. She was able to meet his eyes again. “Thanks.” She hesitated. “You’d do that for me? I’m a stranger to you.” A nervous laugh fluttered up from her stomach, thinking of Shawn’s favorite line. There are no strangers, only friends we haven’t met. She’d rolled her eyes at him often enough, hearing him say it to one of his backstage bimbos, her hands between both of his and his eyes burning holes in hers, lighting up the space between them. It’s all show, he’d reassured her constantly. We sell another twenty albums every time I do it, to her and all her friends. Don’t worry.
Amy’s laugh died away. “If you would, yes, I’d like that.”
Creagsmalan Castle, 1314
Up in the musicians’ gallery, looking down into the great hall, Niall’s fingers danced on the recorder. He thought with longing of the hundred strong orchestra in Inverness’s twenty-first century. Faolan had been quick to take Niall on, and a days’ practice with the trio had left Niall increasingly confident on the instrument, even with the distraction of the long, blonde mustache tickling his chin. Piping the simple melodies of folk songs, dances, and reels was easy enough, as was singing ballads to the accompaniment of Faolan’s lute.
Candles glittered from wall sconces and chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. Fires roared in great braziers at either end and either side of the hall. Men and women swirled in all the colors of a king’s gems, bathed and powdered and jeweled for the occasion.
Christina was as beautiful as Joan had said, no more than twenty, with regal bearing, and finely sculpted cheeks. Black hair spilled from under her barbet, down her back in a heavy braid that reminded him of Amy’s, but for the silver cord woven through it, punctuated with small jewels. A kirtle of deep blue, with sleeves drooping halfway to the floor, emphasized the color of her eyes. She moved among her guests with graciousness stamped on every graceful lift of her hand to a man’s lips, every elegant incline of her neck in greeting a lord, every leaning in to an older woman to better hear her words.
“Lovely, is she not?” Faolan noted Niall’s gaze. “There’s not a man who’s not enchanted by her. But though Milord has a wandering eye, he dislikes another man’s eye on her. He has a jealous temper.”
“Does he now?” Niall murmured. It explained why she was never in the company of a man for more than a moment, and always with one of her women close by her side.
Faolan lifted his lute, tapped his toe, and they started a lively strathspey. A man who must be Duncan MacDougall entered. Though shorter by many inches, he bore a startling resemblance to the MacDougall Niall knew, the hair as thick and dark, and sweeping back from a high forehead. The teeth were the same, strong and even, though not yet yellow. The nose was hooked and proud. He moved with the unmistakable air of the lord of the manor, and swept across to Lady Christina, taking her arm with a possessiveness that Faolan’s words suggested none but MacDougall himself would dare. He brushed through the crowd with her, to the center of the floor, swinging her into the strathspey. Niall piped, sweeping his eyes across the crowd, but always coming back to Christina. A smile sat in carved place on her features. She kept her eyes fixed on her husband’s chin, swinging and spinning in excellent form, the smile never growing nor fading.
She was as unhappy as Joan, Niall thought, while his fingers danced. He gulped air and skipped through the next phrase, adding a little trill to the already lively tune. Christina’s eyes lifted to his. Her smile quivered, and settled back to its frozen carving. Her gaze returned to MacDougall’s thick, black beard. The bodhran beat out the last cadence, and Niall and Faolan skidded to an abrupt stop. The nobility stepped back, ladies pressing delicate white hands to their breasts, eyes alight with exertion, and lords smiling all around.
Christina’s head bowed as she dropped a curtsy to her husband. Niall’s eyes lingered on her. He had kept alert before the festivities, listening to servants and nobles alike, for clues to MacDougall’s intentions. He’d heard no more than a passing scathing reference to Bruce. It might have reflected the speaker’s feelings, or the lord’s. It was not enough to raise Bruce’s army. But Christina: if anyone would know, apart from MacDougall himself, it was Christina; or possibly Bessie, down in the kitchens.
Faolan tapped his toe, and they started a graceful piece, with the men and women executing mincing steps at a more stately tempo. Niall’s eyes drifted back to Christina. Her smile had not changed. MacDougall gripped her delicate hand in his like dungeon irons. When the dance called for him to hand her off to another man, his eyes followed, hard and warning. Niall drifted up a step in the melody. Christina’s gaze stayed low on her companion’s chest, until he handed her back to her husband.
As Niall drew in air, his thoughts returned to Bessie. He knew only that she worked in the kitchens, a servant like his own new persona. Would a girl being wooed by the master of the castle be foolish enough to speak even to another servant? Would she know anything? Would Duncan be as jealous of his mistress as of his wife? No, he wouldn’t, Niall decided. Bessie was indeed the safer path to try for information. But Christina was the surer.
The smell of cooking drifted up from the kitchens. Boys gathered at the far end of the hall, bearing great platters of food. Niall’s stomach rumbled. It had been hours since the minstrels had been fed. He scanned the crowd again, and started, to find Christina’s eyes on him, intensely blue across the room. She dropped her gaze at once. The bodhran sounded the end of the piece. Faolan turned to Niall. “Ye’d best hope,” he warned, “that MacDougall does not notice his wife’s eye on you.”
Edinburgh, Present
The Edinburgh Archives stood at the head of Princes Street, a grand old building with wide stone steps soaring up to a portico edged by massive stone columns. Inside was a large center of scholarly study, dizzying in its many floors circling the entrance, spiraling up to the ceiling, all lined with endless shelves.
“It’s like something out of a sci-fi movie.” Amy craned her neck, staring up to the ceiling far above. Excitement and awe hummed side by side in her at the treasures of information waiting to be unearthed.
A morose and gaunt man, who looked as if he belonged in one of the archives’ drawers himself, met them in the foyer and shook Angus’s hand with an attempt at a smile. “Nice to see you, Inspector.” He shook Amy’s hand with even less enthusiasm, before leading them to a large, bright room full of tables and files. “Cameras watch everything,” he warned. “What is it you’re wanting?” He sighed. His long face fell, as if asking how she planned on doing him in.
Amy’s mouth twitched in amusement, curious if her answer would provoke a deeper sigh of resignation. “Anything about Niall Campbell from Glenmirril. He was at Stirling Castle in 1314.”
“Well, then.” He did indeed seem resigned as he shuffled to wide marble stairs, and up to one of the floors circling the foyer. Row after row of shelves, papers, and old leather books filled the space. “Edward took many of Scotland’s records about that time, you mind.”
“Edward the Second, king of England during Bannockburn,” Angus clarified. “He wanted to destroy Scotland’s history and culture.”
“Many were never recovered.” The librarian eyed Amy sternly, as if she herself bore responsibility. “But these are the years you’re wanting.” He handed them each a pair of gloves. “Wear the gloves, mind.” His tone left no doubt that he was sure her fingers were as sticky as a three year old’s. She glanced up at Angus, covered a smile, and pulled them on.
The old man took a folder full of papers from a shelf, rifling through with long, bony fingers, and mumbling to himself. He pulled two more files before he was satisfied, and left them, checking carefully they hadn’t smuggled in food or drinks.
Amy glanced at Angus again.
“’Tis his way.” His mouth twitched and his eyes danced. “He means no harm. Shall we?”
Amy pulled a notebook from her purse. She and Angus sat side by side, rustling through their piles, silent but for the scratch of their pencils, noting all they found. After some time, she sighed. “Court records about who took whose pig. A comment on the damp season. There’s not much.” She pushed aside a photocopy of a page from an old book.
“It takes time,” Angus said. “And a great deal of patience.” They returned to silent reading, shuffling photocopies and older originals. Some time later, he spoke again. “To Robert, King of Scots, salutations.” He edged a modern copy of an ancient document toward her, and his voice rose in excitement. “There’s some that’s cut off, then he tells how they’ve been through Durham.”
“Where’s that?” Amy set her papers down.
“Northern England. They raided there.” Angus leaned in, squinting for a moment, before reading again. “We’ve captured many treasures to finance our fight against our oppressors. My Lord Niel Cambel.” Angus stopped, turned to her, and raised his eyebrows significantly. “Of Glenmirril.” He smiled at her gasp of breath and finished. “Has been invaluable in his courage and quick thinking. I tell you, Your Grace, he is a man after your own heart, of great compassion and mercy.”
Angus scanned the letter silently, while Amy’s nerves grew taut with excitement. Compassion and mercy sounded like Niall. “Is there more?”
Angus shook his head. “No. It mentions a Ronan and two Williams—at least, I think it’s two—and tells of their plans to head home.” He handed the piece to her. She typed it, word for word, into her laptop, along with his summarized translation. It wasn’t much. But then, her heart leapt—for it was everything! She checked the date. September, 1314. Niall had survived Bannockburn, despite a hidwys wound, and gone with the Black Douglas! She could trace a man like Douglas, and maybe learn more of Niall’s fate.
Angus was scanning the next sheet. Amy leaned close. The scent of his soap caught her attention. She re-focused on the document he studied. “You can read that?” she asked.
“Minimally.” A smile spread across his face, his eyes locked on the paper. “I picked up a bit of this and that, working on James’ palace.”
“What are you smiling at?”
He raised his head, meeting her eyes. He looked pleased with himself. “How much would it be worth to you to know?”
She laughed. “Not fair! You offered to help, and now you’re withholding information.”
“Ah, but this is very good information.” His eyes twinkled.
“I’ll buy lunch,” Amy offered.
His smile grew. “This information is worth far more than lunch.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened. Her heart fluttered. “Dinner?”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He grinned, tapping the parchment. “It seems your Niall was knighted by Bruce himself.”
“What?” She leaned closer, scanning the words for any she recognized. She wanted to cheer for the man she’d known and half-loved, just months ago. And it left a glow, a bold streak of confidence she’d lost with Shawn, that a man who could earn knighthood from one of history’s greats had felt something for her. Her smile grew so broad her face hurt. “He deserved it.” She stopped herself saying, He was kind.
“I’m sure he did.” Angus looked askance at her. “You speak as if you knew him.”
Amy shook her head quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her heart gave a hard thump, and she bowed her head over the papers.
Angus cleared his throat. “We’ve only the few more things here. Then let’s go celebrate his good news with a nice lunch.”
They worked through the last documents, Amy with excitement over what they’d found. At the same time, with a lunch, just the two of them, it began to niggle at her that she should mention to Angus the little issue of pregnancy. But it wasn’t as if he had any interest in her. He might take it wrong. By two, they’d covered everything, with no more mention of Niall. At lunch, she told herself, she’d just casually mention that she was pregnant.
“Well isn’t that interesting?” Angus murmured.
“What?” Amy leaned close, but the ancient script told her nothing.
Angus slapped his notebook shut. “Lunch, aye?”
“Did you find something?” She reached for the notebook.
He snatched it back, holding it out of her reach, grinning. “Aye, I found I’m verra hungry.”
Creagsmalan Castle, 1314
The festivities lasted for days, with the minstrels playing for dances, dinner entertainment, and in sunny courtyards on clear mornings. Niall found Christina’s eyes on him more times than could be accounted for by chance. Though he loved playing, musicians were not men of stature, as in Shawn’s day. They were servants. A lady would no more take note of a musician than of a baker. He thought uneasily of the messengers sent to Duncan. But it was impossible that Christina should recognize him.
Between rehearsals and performances, Niall wandered the castle, as much as he dared, talking to servants, and listening for bits of conversation that might prove useful. He heard a rumble of deep voices talking about repairs to the galleys. The men stopped when Niall rounded the corner, staring at him sullenly. It wasn’t enough. Any man with half a brain kept his ships in order, with or without plans for war.
After playing for dinner, Niall wandered to the dim kitchens, and did his best impression of Shawn, flirting with the maids there. He quickly picked out Bessie, a slender girl, younger than Christina by several years, her dark hair tucked into a kerchief, safe from the flames roaring in the large hearth. She answered his questions in monosyllables, her eyes on her work. She looked to have been bonny once, but her face carried the mark of fear, lining it with worry all wrong for one so young. Regardless of who was safer, he was sure he’d get no information from her, even if she did know anything.
To the other girl, Ellen, several years’ Bessie’s senior, he hinted, “Things will settle down when the master takes his men away, no?”
“Oh, aye, one hopes.” She looked him up and down, leaving no doubt she approved of his height, broad shoulders, and golden-blonde hair.
Buoyed by her appreciation, a smile spread under his drooping blonde mustache. It was easy to see why Shawn liked this sort of thing! “You’ll be having plenty of free time, then, with less work.”
“Oh, aye, there’s always work to be done, sure.” She was none so forth-coming as Joan, but downright talkative compared to Bessie. “But I could find time to get away even now.”
His heart kicked up a beat as he took her meaning. “Faolan says the gardens are quite lovely. Would you want to show me?”
She studied his cropped golden hair, and smiled broadly. “Oh, aye, ’twould be lovely indeed. I’ll be through here soon enough.”
Taking his leave, he threaded through the dark hall, rising steadily back to the surface. He found the walled garden, quiet in the night, and paced among the flowering bushes and bowers, hands clenched in prayer, wary of where he was going. He’d charmed women in London with mere words. But he was pressing for specific information this time, alone, in a place of mortal danger. The lives of men and the survival of a nation outweighed false words, but he still didn’t care for what he was about to do.
“Fionn?” The soft voice caressed his ear.
He spun, startled, and was immediately taken aback by her fair face. Moonlight shone on her thick, long curls, and cut a swath of silver along her cheek. She was much prettier, here in the garden, than he’d noticed in the kitchens lit by roaring fires. He swallowed. He was here to get information.
Clearing his throat, he led her to a bench, beating back his conscience. He held her hand, thought of Allene, and spoke softly. “My Lady, you’ve captured my heart. I believe one could sooner dry up the sea than stop me loving you.”
“You’re having me on.” She smiled up at him. “Is that not a song they sing in the north?”
“Aye, you’ve caught me.” Niall grinned, while his mind scrambled to recover. He hadn’t expected her to recognize the words. He spoke as he thought Shawn might, lowering his voice. “’Tis only that your lovely eyes addled my mind and made true poetry fly from my tongue, for how could a thought stay in a man’s head in the presence of such beauty?” He hated himself and gloated all at once. Shawn could hardly have done better!
Allene would have kicked him good and hard. Or thrown a bucket of cold water on him. That’ll cool you down, he could hear her saying. He smiled. Ellen dimpled, thinking it was for her. The night breeze rustled the bushes behind them; it was cool enough to give him an excuse to remove his cloak and drape it around her shoulders. He left his arm there. She laid her head on his shoulder.
Shawn would have been proud.
Niall himself felt small and mean. But Bruce must know what Duncan MacDougall planned. He swallowed his distaste for his methods. “’Tis a job, preparing for Milord’s departure.”
“Aye, we’ll be drying beef and baking bannocks, day and night. Two thousand men, off to re-take Man, with his kin John of Lorn.”
Niall’s heart jumped. Bruce held the Isle of Man. This was what he needed, real evidence, at last, of MacDougall’s plans. He forced his voice to casual interest. “Is His Lordship taking on men?”
“Aye, Fionn.” She laughed, gazing up at him. Her eyes shone. “He’s great need of a piper. Sure ye’ll enchant his enemies.”
“Sure my music can inspire Milord’s men. The truth is,” he confessed, “I’ve swung a sword in my day, and miss it. When does he leave? Might I yet sign on?”
“Time aplenty,” she assured him. “Not till winter.”
“Winter is a broad swath of time.”
She shrugged. “’Tis neither here nor there.” She lifted her face to him. The moonlight carved her features in ivory. She was bonny, out of the hot kitchens, with her hair flowing free—and waiting. His insides lurched. He’d managed not to be unfaithful to Allene in his prior attempts at charming information from women. But then, he’d never been alone inside the enemy’s castle, pretending to be someone else.
And he’d never found those women attractive.
She touched his cheek, and spoke playfully. “Surely ye didn’t ask me here to speak of war.”
Options chased through his head in swift succession. His heart pounded a painful staccato, thinking of Allene. But there was no fury like a woman scorned, and a furious woman could mean the end of his days here on earth. He might never see Allene again.
Ellen pulled back, frowning. “Fionn?”
Wanting or not wanting had no bearing. He lowered his lips to hers. She was soft and willing, melting into his arms, her head upturned, her eyes closed, and her body warm against his. His pulse went double time as his hand sank into her thick hair.
Then again, if Joan heard of this, she’d be equally furious. And he liked kissing Ellen all too much. He hated discovering he could be so faithless. Maybe it was enough that Ellen wouldn’t be furious. He pulled back. “I’d not take advantage. What would your da say?”
Ellen smiled, a sultry curve of her lips in the dark. “’Tis but a kiss. I’ll keep quiet, if ye do. My da will never know.”
“How quiet will ye keep?” He stalled, seeking a way out, wishing he had his crucifix. “If ye tell one person, the whole town is like to know by dawn.” Meaning, Joan.
“I’ll tell no one.” She tilted her head. “D’ ye not wish to kiss me?”
Then again, he’d be safe from Joan’s fury once he got out of the castle. “Verra much.” It was easy to say with half-lowered eyes, because it was true. Everything in him wanted her. She was attractive and soft, and kissing her turned his insides warm. She would mistake his husky whisper of guilt for one of desire. He swallowed his loathing at betraying Allene, and kissed her some more. MacDougall and Lame John would attack the Isle of Man. Niall must survive to tell Bruce. And to get back to Allene.
Edinburgh, Present
Angus took Amy to a small pub brimming with a lively lunch crowd of businessmen and tourists, and the rich, warm smells of meat, potatoes, and fish. “My treat,” Angus insisted. “The fish pie is the best. Or maybe you’d like haggis?”
“I’d love haggis,” Amy said. “I had it the first night the orchestra got here. Like meatloaf, only better.”
“I’ll not remind you what’s in it.” He laid down the menu.
She grinned. “I appreciate that. Now. What was so interesting?”
After he’d placed the order, he reached for her notebook. “First, let’s see your notes. Sometimes when you read through again, connections jump out.” He flipped through the book, paused at a page, and looked up, eyes wide.
“What?” Amy reached for the notebook.
He turned it, revealing her sketch of Peter bowed over his violin.
“Oh, that,” she said.
“Oh, that?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve quite the gift.”
Amy studied it, critically. “I guess it’s okay.” The pencil strokes were fluid and smooth, moving the shading subtly from light to dark. She’d caught the shadow on his sleeve and face, half lit by a spotlight. “Most people could do that, though.”
Shawn had never actually criticized her drawing; only glanced, grunted acknowledgment, and turned the conversation to other things. His silence spoke volumes. Her work was no good. And he was too nice to say so.
Angus was scratching away in the notebook.
She leaned forward. “What are you doing?”
He held it up, showing a stick figure gripping a bulbous, out-of-proportion stringed instrument jammed up against what might be its nose. Rays poured from the spotlight in straight lines, like a kindergartener’s sun, smacking the unfortunate stick figure in the head. “You’re right.” He beamed. “Mine is just as good.”
Amy burst out laughing. “Really. You’re joking.”
He became serious, studying his work. “Yes, I am. Usually, my drawing is much worse, but you inspired me to greatness.”
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh again. “Really,” she insisted.
“Really.” He shook his head sadly. “That’s about the best I can do. D’ you not recognize your own talent?”
Amy blinked down at her hands. Shawn’s opinion shamed her. And it angered her, to see how he’d twisted her views—about reality, relationships, even herself. While practicing the previous week, she’d remembered what it was to like the sound of her own violin. She’d attended Juilliard—on a full scholarship. She’d won her first audition for a professional symphony. Peter had already hinted she would be concert mistress when he retired. Yet she doubted herself. She heard only Shawn’s voice. What was up with your playing tonight? A little off?
Angus turned to another page in the notebook. A colt danced in a field with pine trees in the background.
“I haven’t seen that in years,” she murmured, touching the sheet. “This was with the things my mother sent over. I hadn’t even looked.” Even in charcoal, the morning dew twinkled on each blade of grass. She’d drawn it the weekend she and Shawn had helped his mother move into her new house. They’d wandered on a long, early morning walk, down a dirt road, to a field. Shawn had been perfect that day, that whole weekend—the man she kept believing was the real Shawn.
It never would have changed, she realized, because of those moments, and knew she still cherished a fantasy that the man who left the apology would have made it back to her, that they would have lived an endless life of morning walks and perfect weekends. Maybe he would even have looked at her drawings with admiration, as Angus did. She gave her head a sharp shake. It was foolish to put the dead on a pedestal. The living could never achieve the perfection of a fantasy.
“’Tis beautiful,” Angus said.
She became aware of their fingers touching at the edge of the pad, and pulled her hand away. His dark eyes flickered to hers, boring into her soul, and returned to the notebook. He flipped the page. She let her breath out slowly, shocked at the flutter that shivered through her when their eyes met.
Angus cleared his throat. “Two horses shod; dispute between cartwright and blacksmith heard by William Hayes.” He scanned the rest silently, before looking up in triumph. “Not much here!”
She pulled back. It stung of Shawn’s criticisms. “You did say any little bit might fit with something we find later.” Her words, we and later, jumped out at her. She hoped he didn’t notice them, or the defensive tone that crept into her voice.
“I meant no criticism,” Angus said hastily. “Only that I’ve a surprise!” He handed her his own small notebook. His eyes danced with excitement. “The physician’s records from Stirling Castle, June and July of 1314.”
The significance of the dates struck her. Her eyes widened. “That would be....” She stopped. It would be not only when Niall had been at Stirling, but when the dead and wounded had been carried off the battlefield. There was no way to ask if the records might, somehow, concern Shawn Kleiner, twenty-first century musician.
“Yes.” He grinned. “When Niall was there.”
She drew in a slow breath. Her words came out little more than a whisper. “You didn’t...find a mention of him...did you?” She looked up at the sudden, warm, smell of haggis.
The waitress appeared, laughing over her shoulder and calling back to someone still in the kitchen. Balancing a heavy tray, she leaned over the table to set fish pie and a Guinness before Angus. Amy smiled, remembering the waitress at the hotel, pushing up against Niall, and the look on Niall’s face.
“What’s so funny?” Angus smiled back.
“Nothing.” It was Niall’s shock at such brazenness, at what Shawn would have loved, that made it funny. She could hardly explain.
The woman set Amy’s haggis in front of her with a pleasant, “Enjoy your meal, then! I’ll be right back with coffee!”
“What did you find?” Amy leaned forward.
“Read it.” Angus indicated the notebook with a nod of his head.
She read, scanning the words a second, and a third time, before lifting her eyes to his. Her insides flipped and flopped, remembering each detail of sitting beside Niall at the computer for hours on end, his arm around her on the train, his shirt and trews smelling of heather, his chestnut hair bound back with a leather thong, and his gentle bass voice telling her about life in medieval Glenmirril.
“Seems our Niall’s a bit of a mystery man.” Angus leaned forward, his eyes alight with excitement.
Amy cocked her head, the steaming haggis forgotten. “It makes no sense. It says Niall Campbell from Glenmirril?”
“Aye, whoever wrote the records was quite clear on that.”
Excitement grew in her. “I think this joust is mentioned in the books in my house! But not about the physician being called.” She read it again, her finger running under as if to verify, then raised her eyes to Angus. “So first he gets knocked out cold and has to be carried off the field. According to the professor’s book—if this is the same incident—he immediately sweeps out of his tent waving and blowing kisses to the ladies.” You are just like Shawn, she’d said to him on the train. Maybe they were more alike than she’d realized.
“He’s fine at dinner,” Angus continued. “Chatting up lasses and playing his harp. Malcolm MacDonald—there’s a song about him.”
“There is?”
“Old MacDonald.”
Amy groaned. “I thought we were being serious here.”
“Aye, verra. Old Malcolm insists the physician must bleed Niall, though he’s quite healthy at dinner. When the physician appears at the chambers, Niall himself answers, the picture of health, and says all is well and his services are not needed.”
The smell of haggis drifted, tantalizing, to Amy’s senses. She glanced down, thought of Niall praying before meals, and, even as she said an internal thanks, took a forkful.
“Good?” Angus asked.
“The best.” Amy savored the taste.
“So what d’ you think that was all about?”
“Well, it is strange,” Amy said. “But you said records can get corrupted. Could there be a mistake in the way it’s been handed down?”
“This was one of the few originals from that time.”
“A mistake in reading or translation?”
“I’m familiar enough with medieval English.” He paused, blinked at his meal as if suddenly realizing it was there, and took a healthy bite.
“Maybe the Laird was just flat out wrong.”
“Malcolm MacDonald was no fool.” Angus stabbed at his fish pie. “Glenmirril’s history says he was wise and level-headed, well-respected. Yet he insists a physician come for a perfectly healthy man?”
“Maybe the physician got it wrong,” Amy suggested. “Maybe, with a battle just over, and lots of injured men, he was being pulled in ten different directions. I mean, there can’t have been a lot of physicians in those days, right? Maybe someone else needed bleeding. He went to the wrong door, wondering why a healthy man needed bleeding, and sure enough, because he was wrong to begin with, a healthy Niall Campbell opens the door and says he’s fine.”
“This was weeks after Bannockburn.” Angus washed down his pie with a swallow of frothing Guinness. “Things would have settled down by then.”
Amy smiled. “You’ve got yourself a mustache.”
Angus laughed self-consciously and wiped it away with a napkin. “And,” he said, “I’d think he’d not make a mistake about Niall, for that’s not the first thing he had to say about him.”
“What else?” She leaned forward, every muscle taut.
The waitress appeared with coffee, smiling brightly. “There ye are, then. How’s the haggis?”
“Great.” Her insides churned at the delay, desperate to know what history said about Niall. “Thanks.” Her feelings jumped like a drunken bow careening off staccatos, thinking of him, worrying about him, hoping Angus didn’t see it in her face. But what she felt for Niall wasn’t real, she reminded herself. She’d barely known him, and everything she’d felt for him was mixed up with having believed he was Shawn. Still, what she’d loved in him was the good she’d seen in Shawn—strength, tenderness, determination, love. That love was ultimately for Allene, and that fidelity was appealing.
“Amy?” Angus asked. “Would you like more cream and sugar?”
The waitress stared at her, waiting for an answer.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Amy laughed, releasing the tension that had risen, thinking of Niall and her constant need to be on guard against saying the wrong thing. She lifted her fork. “What else did he say about Niall?”
“He was cut nearly in half at Bannockburn.”
“No, that was....” Her fork clattered to the plate. She stopped, feeling the same blow to her gut she’d felt at the unexplained women’s names in Shawn’s cell phone. Something didn’t fit.
“No need to panic,” said Angus, and she became aware of the heightened pitch of her voice. “It was seven hundred years ago.”
The sword slashed across her mind, clear as a big screen movie, swiping across Shawn’s midsection. She felt sick. But Angus was talking about Niall. Her hands flew under the table, her right hand tightening around the Bruce’s ring. “How?” It was impossible they’d both received such similar injuries. Her mind reeled. It must be the hydwys wound to which the book referred.
“The physician didn’t say, except they didn’t expect him to live, but sewed him together, all the same, at the Laird’s insistence.”
Amy covered her mouth with her hands, her elbows resting on the table, horrified at the thought of such an injury to Niall. In her mind, he was alive; healthy and strong as he had been behind the theater fighting Jimmy; on the train; and heading into the mountains, barely three months ago. “But he was jousting in July. And fighting with Douglas in August. Wouldn’t an injury like that kill him or at least permanently cripple him?”
“More remarkable than jousting a month later, he was fine the day after Bannockburn, out riding, preparing to leave for London with Lamberton.”
Amy shook her head. “That’s not possible. The physician’s report must be wrong.” The answer came to her in a flash. The man must have treated Shawn on the battlefield, and later, seeing Niall, thought he’d witnessed a miracle recovery. She sighed in relief for Niall.
Angus shrugged. “It seems unlikely.”
“Yes. Well.” It was likely enough, knowing there were two men who looked alike. But she couldn’t tell him that. She took a bite of her dinner. With thoughts of Niall swirling in her mind, of Barbour’s wild reports of his accomplishments, jousting, battle injuries, fighting with James Douglas, and earning knighthood, she barely tasted her meal. The thought of Shawn being stitched together with the crude supplies of medieval Scotland made her feel ill. A quick death under a sword had been bad enough to contemplate. Imagining the drawn-out suffering of their attempts to save him was far worse.
“An arrow in the arse, cut in half at Bannockburn, and knocked out in jousting,” Angus mused. “Let us hope the next year is better for poor Niall.”
Amy took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. The up to the minute news of seven hundred years ago was turning today into a roller coaster ride she hadn’t expected.
“You’re looking verra strained.” Angus laid down his fork. “How much time are you spending on this research?”
She looked up. “Honestly? Between the library and internet, I pretty much live in 1314.”
He poked at his fish pie, looking down and back up. “The Highland Games are being held in Pitlochry in a week and seven hundred years, if you’d like to join me. It might do you good to visit the twenty-first century. It’s not an altogether bad place.” He spoke gently, a glimmer of humor in his eye.
It brought a smile to her face. “So I’ve heard. I did promise my dad I’d get to some Highland Games and send him pictures.”
“Next Friday, then?”
She hesitated. She didn’t even know where Pitlochry was.
“I could take you from there right back to the fourteenth century, if it would make you feel better.”
“Really?” She tried to guess what he meant.
“We can leave the games early and go on to Creagsmalan in the west. It’s got a great archives, too. You might learn more there.”
More archives—it was too tempting to pass up. And Angus was right. She needed a break from Shawn and Niall. She found herself nodding, even as she wondered what she’d just agreed to.
A faint swirl of nausea rose in her stomach, and she remembered she’d never gotten around to mentioning the little matter of pregnancy.