“Are you a knight?” she asked, her eyes widening a little, before she could reflect on what a naïve question that was, and its potential for raising suspicion.
But the man just grinned at her. “I am. More or less,” he added with a slight furrow to his brow. “Never did 'ave the breeding, but I've got twice the fightin' talent to make up for it. Sir Baldric, at your service.”
“I'm Delilah Cortland.” Without thinking about appropriate greetings, she reached across the table to shake his hand — he accepted it with a comical kind of caution and shook it in his. Not a gesture he was especially used to, at least from women — but nevertheless one he recognized and had willingly participated in. Was this man familiar with the other time-stranded women from Clan MacClaran?
“I'm going to hazard a guess,” the man said in a low voice, his brown eyes twinkling as though he'd been reading her mind, “and say that you're from the castle on the hill.”
That was it — his voice was English, not Scottish. That was what had been troubling her about him. An English knight, in Scotland? Her mind raced. From all accounts, the relationship between the local Scottish people and the English interlopers had been strained at this time in history — but cordial in some places. Perhaps this was one of them? There were a few mentions of the English in the stories she'd read about Castle MacClaran — lords who presided over various parts of the countryside, battles that raged back and forth between Scottish clans and English lords... but it was always spoken of in passing, in that frustrating way folklore often had of assuming that its audience was all too familiar with what was going on, politically. So many references to ‘the English Lord’ that had absolutely no other explanation — she’d often joked about it with other scholars. Now she wished she’d paid a little more attention.
“We haven't met before, have we? I thought I'd met all the MacClaran women.”
“No, I'm — I'm new.”
“And how'd you know I was a knight?”
“Your doublet.” She nodded at what he was wearing. “Designed to make plate more comfortable, right? Plus the added protection of the chainmail. I imagine it's on your elbows, too?”
He twitched his cloak aside to reveal, as she'd thought, chainmail woven into the material of the doublet at his elbows. “And how does a woman with no money know so much about armor?”
She hesitated. This man was a stranger. She obviously couldn't just tell him that she was from the future — he was as likely to have her burned for witchcraft as he was to find it interesting that she'd learned about his outfit from a history book. “My father,” she lied smoothly. “He's a scholar.”
“Hmm. Well. It's nice to see someone take an interest in the function of the thing, not just the look of it.” He sighed. “I'm all decoration these days. I'm on patrol, and by all rights should be wearin' the plate on top, but it's a warm day and there's no bloody point.”
“Patrol? Are you the owner of these lands, then?”
He laughed, a short, abrupt sound, and his eyes twinkled. “Oh, I like you. No, Delilah, unfortunately, I'm Lord Weatherby's man.”
“Lord Weatherby?”
“Oh, you haven't had the pleasure? You'll smell him coming before you see him. Drenched in perfume, absolutely coated, it's a hell of an experience. Don't stand downwind, that's my advice,” he chuckled. He wasn't bothering to lower his voice, and Delilah was taken aback — and greatly amused — by the openly disrespectful way he was speaking about his commander.
Everyone in the SCA had always stressed that if you were playing a character who was sworn to a Lord, you must be as respectful of that Lord as you could at all times. Sir Baldric, apparently, had not gotten the memo. Could he be a mercenary then, loyal only to the gold he was being paid? It didn’t seem likely. Knights tended to above that kind of employment, and the way he spoke about Weatherby indicated a longer-term relationship. Weatherby… the name certainly rang a bell. It was a family name, she remembered, and belonged to a number of men who’d presided over England’s various territorial claims in this part of Scotland. Strained relationships with the locals, certainly, but there were peaceful sections in medieval history, especially around these parts. She sorely hoped this was one of them. A war with the English might be a bit much for her to handle, at least as a visitor.
“And he's in charge of these lands?” she asked now, not wanting to disappear into her own thoughts when she had an actual source of real-world information sitting across the table from her.
“In theory. Laird Donal runs the place, truth be told, but they've gotten on alright since a year or two ago — all thanks to your Karin.”
“I haven't met Karin yet,” Delilah said, “but I've heard she's pretty special.”
“She and Audrina saved the lives of everyone in this village — and Lord Weatherby's, too — after a plague threatened to wipe everyone out. Came up with a cure and all, thank God. Things were tense there for a while, but we all survived and the relationship's been pretty solid since. Well, as solid as a relationship can be with a man like Weatherby. A lover of drama if ever there was one.”
Delilah laughed aloud. This was exactly the kind of gossip she was here to listen to. And Sir Baldric seemed to need little encouragement — he had the air of a man who hadn't had a good chat in quite some time. Perhaps he was on patrol a great deal? He didn't seem to have any men with him. Perhaps the village and surrounding lands really were that quiet. But he chatted away, spinning a grand tale of near-calamity — it seemed some kind of plague (cholera? Surely not, not this early... bubonic plague? Possibly just some kind of water-born infection?) had spread through the village, even infecting Lord Weatherby. Karin and Audrina had had to fight against the stubbornness of both Lord Weatherby and Laird Donal to be allowed to do their life-saving work, but they'd succeeded in the end with minimal casualties. It had originated from the water, from what she could tell, and she glanced down at her ale with unease.
Well, too late now — she’d had a few sips. If she was going to get sick, it was too late now. She’d have to talk to Karin about a cure. That would be typical, she thought with some amusement — arriving back in time then immediately falling ill. She wondered if the other women had had many colds. After all, a different era meant different diseases floating about — and different immunities to them. God, there were so many complexities to this time-travel situation. She’d given it some thought before, of course — what folklorist hadn’t daydreamed about travelling through time? — but it had obviously never been this real, this critical. She wished she’d committed a little harder to her daydreams. Maybe then she’d be more prepared for where she was right now.
She'd finished her ale before she knew it — Baldric wound his story up, then glanced at her flagon before asking if she'd like another drink. Delilah was tempted. It was nice to just sit and talk. But she realized with a jolt that the sun was getting a little low in the sky, and she didn't much fancy the idea of walking back up to the castle in the dark.
“I'd better get going, actually, Baldric,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “But thank you for the drink — and the conversation.”
“Oh, anytime, my lady.” He smiled at her. “It's good to have someone to talk to. I'm through town pretty regularly — see you again, yeah?”
“I'd like that.”
Well, that had been nice, Delilah thought happily as she ambled up the path toward the castle, the ale still buzzing pleasantly in her belly. A nice drink, a good chat, a guy who didn't stare at her as if she'd personally wronged him in some terrible and yet unspeakable way. And what a nice accent he'd had, too, she reflected, smiling a little to herself — not that she was looking for any kind of romantic entanglement, of course, but still, there was something nice about that kind of male attention. Had she been flirting? No, surely not... well, maybe just a shade… what was flirting, anyway, other than just having a nice conversation, and maybe laughing a little harder at jokes than you would if they were told by someone les
s attractive…
Delilah was pulled abruptly from these reflections by the sudden appearance of none other than Gavin MacClaran, who strode up from behind her as though they'd been walking together the entire afternoon and spoke to her as though continuing a conversation that had only dropped away for a second.
“Careful of the English, you hear?”
“What the hell?” she gasped, heart pounding with shock and anger at having been startled so thoroughly. She’d let her peripheral awareness drop, so distracted by the pleasant afternoon and the buzz of the ale in her blood. Foolish of her. There could be danger on these roads. Besides, it was aggravating that Gavin had gotten the jump on her — she couldn’t help but feel it eroded some of the credit she’d built up by beating him in their sparring match earlier that day. She channeled her frustration into her voice as she wheeled on him to chastise him. “Where did you come from? Were you —” Her eyes widened. “Were you following me? All afternoon?”
“Baldric's all right, but he's not to be trusted. We're barely on speaking terms with the English as it is. It's an extremely delicate situation.”
“Oh, I can't imagine what a delicate situation must feel like,” Delilah snapped, storming ahead of Gavin as quickly as she could and scowling as he effortlessly lengthened his huge stride to keep up with her. “Gee, that must suck, not being entirely sure what's going on, or whether people can be trusted or not, or why some guy keeps staring at you like you personally wronged him and he's trying to figure out how to get vengeance —”
“Just be careful of the company you keep, that's all.” He was walking beside her at a rapid pace, and it irritated her.
“Sir Baldric was ten times more polite and friendly and welcoming than you were, actually, Gavin, so I'd advise you be very careful of the kind of advice you give out.”
This time when she stormed ahead, almost breaking into a run to avoid him, he didn't catch up with her. Vexed beyond belief, she made the trip back to the castle in half the time it had taken to get down to the village, even walking uphill — and by the time she reached the gates, she was completely out of breath. At least the brisk walk had burned out some of her anger, she thought, wheezing a little. God, what a climb. This was going to keep her fit, at least. The guards let her in and she strode toward the castle door. She'd wash the dust of the road off her face, then get ready for dinner. Having heard so many amazing stories about Karin and Audrina's amazing exploits, she was excited to meet them. And it would be good to learn a little more about what she was doing here — what kind of strange legacy she belonged to, and what she could expect the future to hold for her.
She knew one thing — she would on no account allow any more of her precious mental resources to be spent on thinking about Gavin MacClaran. He was beneath contempt.
Chapter 9
There was always something nice about getting ready for dinner. Even though she was still seething with rage at Gavin for being so rude, Delilah couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of getting ready. It was a little less convenient than getting ready at home, of course — it wasn't as if she could just jump into the shower in medieval Scotland. She ducked into the kitchens, where there were already quite a few servants beginning work on the evening's meal, and looked around a little hesitantly — where exactly did she go to get water?
A short woman with dark brown hair and a kind, if distant, expression on her face moved up beside her as though she'd been called by name.
“You must be Delilah.”
“How did you know?”
“Gossip,” the woman said bluntly. “I'm Dolores. The headwoman. And Marianne's mother, sort of. Technically her great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, but —”
Delilah breathed a sigh of relief. Dolores seemed to know what the deal was with the time travel. Good. She'd managed to cover for who she was and why she was there with Baldric, but it would be a good deal less stressful if everyone at the castle understood what was happening. Still, she'd keep her wits about her. Dolores might know what was going on, but there were servants and the like who were pottering around that may not. It wouldn’t do to let idle gossip begin to spread. You never knew how far that kind of thing could spread. At least there was no Internet to spread news and rumors… but at the same time, no Internet meant all the more time dedicated to gossiping in person. Humans never really changed, they just altered the ways they pursued their bad habits. Posting on Facebook and gossiping in the tavern over an ale belonged to the same ancient human tradition of sticking your nose where it didn’t belong.
“It’s nice to meet you, Dolores,” Delilah said, smiling. There was something about this woman that felt trustworthy.
“You'll be wanting a bath? I'll send someone up to get it ready for you. You're in the guest quarters still?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“We'll find you a room of your own sometime. There's a nice one on the ground floor. Used to be William's until he and Karin moved up the road. Have you met Karin?”
“No, not yet,” Delilah admitted. “I've met Marianne, Fiona and Mary ... and Gavin,” she added with a scowl.
Dolores studied her face.
“You don't look happy.” She said it as though she had figured something difficult out, and Delilah reflected that perhaps reading people’s facial expressions wasn’t among Dolores’s strengths.
“Oh, Gavin was just — a bit rude.”
“He was your ancestor's husband, almost.”
Delilah blinked, intrigued by this piece of information. She'd gotten a vague idea that each of the time-lost women were somehow the descendants of women from the area who'd died, but Dolores seemed to know more about Gavin than anyone had told her yet.
“My ancestor. Morag, right?”
“Right. Gavin told you?”
“He didn't tell me much.”
“Good reason for that.” Dolores glanced over to where a girl was slicing potatoes, then clicked her tongue. Was something wrong with the way the girl was doing it? Delilah wondered, amused despite herself. Cooking with her father had been like this — she’d never realized how many ways there were of getting something wrong. The precision with which he conducted himself as a military man definitely extended to the way he cooked — and it seemed Dolores was the same.
If her cooking was anywhere near as good as Delilah’s father’s, she’d forgive it a thousand times over. A pang of sadness at the memory of her father. Surely it couldn’t be true that she’d never see him again…
“I have to go. You go upstairs. Have a bath. Welcome to the castle.”
The short woman bustled off. Delilah looked after her, amused somehow by the blunt, short way she spoke — it would have been rude in anyone else, but somehow Dolores managed to carry it off. Something about the kindness on her face, perhaps. She clearly didn't intend any harm — she was just a very blunt and straightforward person. She had piqued Delilah's curiosity something fierce regarding her ancestor, though. What had she meant, that there was a good reason for Gavin not telling her everything about her ancestor? Who had this woman been? Why did everyone seem to know something about her — something they weren’t willing to talk about?
It would be good to talk to the other women, Delilah decided. Even if they didn't know anything about her ancestor, it would be valuable to talk to them about their own. Maybe there was some pattern recognition she could run — start to figure out what was going on, what the common factors between these women were, what had caused this absolutely unbelievable dislocation in time and space. Because the facts were clear — unless she was having some extremely realistic hallucination, she was definitely here. Time travel was real, which meant a whole lot of things she'd previously assumed were just superstitions or fairytales were on the table for being real as well. And that included magic. After all, wasn't Castle MacClaran famous for its stories about witches? She had a degree in this stuff. There was no better person to start an on-the-ground investigation of just what was ha
ppening at Castle MacClaran.
Besides, it was all absolutely fascinating. There was a reason she’d gotten in to this stuff in the first place — it filled her with such joy and excitement to chase these stories down, find out all their intricacies and variations. Five women whose ancestors had been physically yanked back in time to replace them? Well, she just had to know all the details. Were there similarities between the women that went beyond the physical? Personality traits, perhaps? Thoughts and ideas that had been passed down through the family line like genetics? There had to be some kind of magic involved that ensured an identical (or thereabouts) match in the women who were brought back, right? Surely it could extend beyond the physical… she couldn’t wait to hear from her time-travelling compatriots.
But first, she needed to wash off the dust and the sweat. She was covered in dust from the road, and what was more, the combination of the stress that morning, the sparring practice with Gavin out in the forest, and the long walk down into the village (and much faster back up the hill) meant that she definitely wasn't smelling her freshest. It was medieval times, and people didn't bathed quite as regularly as her twenty-first century sensibilities let on, but still — this was her first dinner at the castle. She wanted to be at her cleanest, even if she'd have to start lowering the number of baths she took as time went on.
That was a sobering thought. As time went on. How long was she going to be here? Was there a way back to the future? She'd gotten the idea that there wasn't... but then again, they'd never had her to look into it. Maybe she'd find the solution, open a doorway to the future and let the women return to their families. But would they want to? From what she could tell, many of them had settled down, gotten married, had children of their own. Would they bring their Scottish husbands with them to the future, raise their children there? Perhaps some kind of two-way door could be established and they could come back for visits... no, she was getting ahead of herself. First things first, a bath.
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