by Jill Jones
We have heard yet another rumor, that our own husband Darnley is jealous of Riccio. Another absurdity! He has scarcely taken time away from his hunting and hawking with his craven cronies to bless us with his presence at court. We care not, other than it presents our private discord to the world, for we already have what we want from him, as we carry in our belly now the heir to the throne of England.
Chapter Twelve
It was ridiculous, of course, but Duncan could think of no other way to start communicating with Pauley. Using the sign language that he had learned when training to become part of the RNLI rescue force, he motioned to Pauley that they wanted him to go with them. But the boy responded only with a queer look that revealed his suspicions of these strange hand movements.
“You know sign language?” Taylor’s voice revealed her surprise.
Duncan nodded, but did not take his eyes off the boy. “I’m not proficient,” he replied, “but I can usually make myself understood. That is, however, with deaf people who already know the signs. Which obviously isn’t the case here.”
“He’s watching you, though. I think he might be very clever. Keep trying.”
Duncan pointed first to himself, then to Taylor, moving his hands to indicate they were together. Then he let his fingers walk in the air. Then he pointed to Pauley, and back to himself and then to Taylor, and then used the walking motion again. But Pauley only stared at him. “Humm,” Duncan murmured, standing up. “I don’t think he got it.”
“Let’s see what happens if we start walking and invite him to come,” Taylor suggested. “I just hope the little fellow doesn’t think we’re leaving him.” She gave her bundle to Duncan, then turned and smiled and held out both her hands toward Pauley. “Come with us,” she said as she motioned to him with her fingers.
Taylor and Duncan both held their breath for a long moment. Pauley looked up at the grown-ups, wrinkled his brow thoughtfully, and then a grin of comprehension slowly crossed his face. With only slight hesitation, he put his hand in Taylor’s and together, the three refugees began to climb the hill, leaving the deserted village of Stonehaven behind them.
Neither adult said a word for a long while. Duncan wondered what Taylor was thinking. He knew so little about her. Was she married? Or had she been? Did she have children? She seemed so natural with the waif at her side, he guessed she probably did. But what kind of mother left her children behind to go adventuring around the world like this woman obviously did? Duncan recognized the anger behind this thought and knew it was not directed at Taylor, but rather at the memory of his own wife’s disinterest in motherhood. It had been a source of conflict between them on numerous occasions.
And what about the boy? Was it fair to him to take him from this primitive place in time and thrust him into the madcap world of the 21st century? Duncan did not want to become emotionally involved with the child, and yet, Pauley would need someone strong to stand by him and help him make the astounding adjustments that he would face. What if Duncan accepted this responsibility, only to have the boy removed at a later time and placed in a foster home? He wanted no part of that picture. He could not stand the loss of another child, even this little orphan who didn’t belong to him.
But Duncan managed to get a grip on his thoughts. He was projecting events that likely would never happen. He didn’t even know if they would make it back to their own time, or if they invited him, whether Pauley would choose to go with them. Duncan was against forcing him, but if the opportunity arose for he and Taylor to make an escape through the Ladysgate, how would they communicate to Pauley what he was about to get into? There were just too many questions for which he had no answers. A part of him wished perversely he had never known of Pauley’s existence. His presence was making an already difficult situation even tougher.
Reaching the crest of the hill, the threesome paused for breath and looked out over the slate blue sea. A fresh wind blew up short whitecaps close to shore, but beyond, the ocean rolled with peaceful, undulating splendor.
Duncan heard Taylor emit a heavy sigh, and he turned to see a pale and pensive look on her face. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she replied, but he could tell she was troubled.
“What are you thinking?”
“About the others who were in the boat when I went overboard. Do you suppose they are around here somewhere, too?”
Duncan considered that a moment. He hadn’t seen Fergus’s boat or signs of any wreckage either side of the Ladysgate. Since the Intrepid had been swiftly grounded, he thought it unlikely that Fergus’s boat had come through the arch, since it was nowhere in sight. He doubted that her young crew members and Fergus McGehee had met the same fate as he and Taylor, but he had no solid answer to give her. “I didn’t see the flotsam of a shipwreck when I was looking for you,” he replied. “I imagine they got pretty wet, but remained afloat, even though you fell out. Chances are, they made it back to Stonehaven and are looking for us at this very moment.”
“It’s a strange thought, isn’t it,” Taylor remarked, “that they are possibly walking on this same hillside or in Stonehaven, but we can’t see them. Sort of like parallel lives. Do you think such a thing is possible?”
Her face expressed her deep concern for the others who had been with her in the boat. Duncan wanted to reach out and smooth away the furrow between her brow, to give her a kiss of reassurance on her cheek. To hold her in his arms and protect her, and feel the magic that her presence engendered in him. “I can’t say what I think,” he replied instead, more perplexed than he’d ever been. About more things. “Let’s go.”
After another quarter of a mile or so, Pauley suddenly pulled his hand away from Taylor’s and ran on ahead of them. Where other children might have let loose a squeal or a shout of delight, for his face revealed that he was excited about something, Pauley’s voice remained silent. But he turned as he ran and motioned eagerly with his arms for them to hurry.
“Wonder what he’s up to?” Taylor asked, gathering the full skirt high around her ankles and quickening her pace.
Far in the distance, they saw the crofter’s lodge that had given them shelter…had it been only yesterday? Oddly, it appeared that the hut was the source of Pauley’s strange burst of enthusiasm.
But Duncan hurried, eager to cover the distance to the croft as well, because at the foot of the hill far below it, he hoped he would find the Intrepid safely moored to the boulder but afloat once again, ready to facilitate their escape.
But as they approached their destination and he strained to see down the steep incline, he perceived that the boat remained exactly as he’d left it, stranded on the sandy shore.
Later that night, Taylor sat cross-legged on a cushion next to the hearth in the crofter’s lodge. She stared into the firelight that flickered in the low grate, trying to get over her disappointment that they had not escaped. When they had reached the top of the hill overlooking the mysterious granite arch, she had expected they would make a beeline for the Ladysgate and home. But Duncan had refused to go through the portal without his boat, and Pauley would not go near the place at all.
Disgusted with them both, she had impulsively determined to make the attempt alone, but at the foot of the arch, she’d turned and looked back. Duncan stood tall and handsome, his coppery hair glinting in the sun, his eyes silently urging her not to go. In his arms, Pauley appeared to wipe away a tear. For an instant, they were the family she had once longed for but could never have. She knew it was ridiculous, that it was only the strain of their mishap playing with her emotions. And yet, the sight of the two of them had been enough to keep her in the seventeenth century.
So here they were, waiting on a tide that might never come in, either high enough or in time for them to escape the encroaching army. At least for the moment, she consoled herself, she was warm and dry, and they’d had something to eat. She even had a decent bed to sleep on later, this large cushion borrowed from the Intrepid. But from all she’d heard in the
village, she believed that time was short. They had to get out of here soon. Maybe tomorrow she could convince the stubborn Scot that their lives were more important than any damned boat.
She could thank Pauley for the minimal creature comforts she was enjoying at the moment. After she’d decided to stay, he had led the two of them back up the hill to the deserted crofter’s lodge where Taylor had taken her first refuge. The child had proven an amazing resource by showing them a nearby cistern, where they had all drunk thirstily for several minutes. Then he’d gathered straw and sticks and produced a crude flint that lit the fire that now crackled and kept them warm. Pauley could not speak, but from his actions and his familiarity with the hut, they surmised the boy came here frequently. Taylor wondered if Pauley had seen her wash ashore, and if it was he who had lit the fire that had warmed her and dried her clothing that day.
Unable to bear the stench of the dress Greta had furnished her, Taylor had changed back into her jeans and laundered the soiled garment as best she could, hanging it out to dry on a low bush nearby, just in case, God forbid, she would have need of it again.
Duncan had retrieved the cushion she now sat upon, as well as canned goods, dried meat, instant coffee, a tin of crackers, and a couple of cooking utensils from the boat’s small galley, and Taylor had created a simple meal which they devoured with relish.
Behind her, Duncan whittled at a piece of wood with the long knife Greta had given Taylor, while Pauley watched in fascination as the stick became a small wooden boat. The boy seemed comfortable now with the two strangers who had mysteriously shown up in his life, and Taylor thought sadly that likely they were the first adults to show him care and kindness in a while, perhaps ever. He had eaten as heartily as Duncan, and Taylor had watched in satisfaction and amusement, paying no attention to his lack of manners. She knew little of the growth patterns of children, but she guessed he was older than she first thought. He behaved like he was maybe ten or twelve, although his body was small and underdeveloped.
“I think his mother lived here,” she speculated aloud, breaking the silence. “Greta told me that she was the daughter of a crofter who lived out here somewhere.”
“What happened to her?” Duncan asked, glancing at Pauley.
“She died in an accident,” Taylor replied, glad that the youngster could not hear what she was saying. “Fell off a cliff somewhere near here.”
The knife slipped in Duncan’s hand, and he swore suddenly under his breath. He dropped his carving, which fell to the floor with a clatter. At the man’s sudden motion, Pauley ducked in instinctual self-defense and ran into the protective shadows of a darkened corner, his eyes wide.
“What happened?” Taylor jumped off the cushion and faced Duncan, shocked at the look on his face. It was as if someone had struck him. Blood seeped from a slice in his finger. “You’re hurt,” she said.
“It’s nothing,” he growled, putting his finger in his mouth and bending to pick up the unfinished wooden boat. “Just a nick.” Duncan motioned to Pauley to come back, and when the boy summoned the courage to return to him, the big man put his arm around him and tousled his grimy hair. “Sorry, lad,” he said.
Watching Duncan with the boy, Taylor’s curiosity about the Scotsman increased. Until this moment, she’d sized him up as a well-meaning and dutiful man, but also a rather autocratic, dominating male chauvinist with a God complex, just as Fergus had said. And yet before her eyes he was patiently teaching the abused child how to love and trust others. He put the knife in Pauley’s hand and showed him how to safely shave the wood, carving with strokes aimed away from his body. He spoke to the boy in low tones, although he knew Pauley could not hear him. The way he treated the boy seemed out of character, at least as she had defined it.
Then a sudden thought jolted her. His behavior with Pauley was unmistakably fatherly. Did Duncan have children of his own?
She had, for some reason, probably because of the way he had kissed her, assumed he was single. And he had not once mentioned wanting to get back to his family. Wouldn’t he have been as anxious as she to go back through the Ladysgate this afternoon if he’d had a wife and children worried about him back in Stonehaven?
Ambivalent emotions enveloped Taylor. She’d set rigid rules for herself, limiting her involvement with men. She’d never allowed a serious relationship to be an option, certainly not with a married man. But she could not deny that more than once in the last twenty-four hours, she’d found herself reliving the feel of this man’s kiss and the sense of security and protection she’d felt in his arms. And she could not deny his appeal at the moment. His broad shoulders were like the rock of Gibraltar. His face by the firelight was rugged and handsome. But it was the tender look in his eyes that was her undoing. If he were to make the slightest overture to her at the moment, she was afraid her heart would undermine her resolve to keep her distance. She attributed this fleeting vulnerability to their enforced intimacy and unusual circumstances and would be glad when morning came and with it, hopefully, their return to the 21st century where she would also return to her normal, rational self.
Pauley yawned, and Duncan took the knife and toy boat from him. “Time for bed, little fellow,” he said aloud, then signed his words with his hands. Pauley emitted a short gurgle, then made the same signs with his own grubby fingers. “Good lad,” Duncan said.
“Shouldn’t he wash up or something?” Taylor asked, not knowing what to do with any child, much less a dirty ragamuffin such as this.
Duncan turned to her, his expression amused. “Have you ever been around a small boy before? They’re not always that easy to clean up.”
“You sound like you speak from experience. Do you have children?” The question was out before Taylor knew it, but the moment she spoke, she regretted it, for the amusement vanished from his face instantly. His shoulders drooped, and he stood up. He went to the table, and Taylor jumped when he unexpectedly drove the knife heavily into the rough wood. When he turned to her again, his look was distant and sad.
“I had children, once.” He said, running his hands through his hair and looking away again. “They were killed, a long time ago.”
Working throughout the day, Robert Gordon made steady progress, his French improving quickly with the practice, speeding his progress. By four o’clock in the afternoon, he placed his call to John Doggett. A machine took his message and promised that the antiquarian would return his call as soon as possible. Gordon was becoming more and more convinced the diary must be authentic and could have stopped the eye-straining exercise, except that he was held spellbound by the story as told by the queen herself:
Holyrood Palace
March 19, 1566
We shudder to recall the terror we have endured the last few days, and we are revolted at the utter treachery of our husband. Had it not been for his greed, and the jewels embedded in the Scottish Rose, ourself and the heir to the throne of England and Scotland would be dead.
We wish to record this foul deed lest we later be murdered by our husband to protect his complicity in the scheme. We were in our supper room with Erskine and Standen and Davie Riccio when a band of our jealous lords, led by our own traitorous husband, burst in upon us and brutally murdered Riccio right before our eyes. Our own life was imperiled when Ker of Fawdonside pointed a gun at our belly and threatened to kill the heir.
We were held captive in our apartments for over two days under the harshest and most terrifying conditions. Our only ally was the weak will and cowardice of our husband, for it was easy for us to convince him that his fellow conspirators planned to kill us, and that once we were dead, his life would be forfeit too. We believe that to have been the case, for the brutes care only for power, for control of Scotland, and they would never abide Henry Darnley as their king, despite their promises. We bribed Darnley to help us escape, offering him one of the rubies from the Scottish Rose, but the blackguard demanded two. We had no choice but to pry loose two more of the lovely jewels from the c
halice, but we were grateful that we had it to rely upon.
Darnley sickens us with his pathetic vacillation. We managed to make our way out of the palace, but had to cross the cemetery and the newly-dug grave of our murdered secretary, over which Darnley had the audacity to lament his loss of a good and faithful servant.
It was the courage of our loyal Stewart of Traquair, the captain of the royal guard, and Erskine, and our page Standen that we affected our escape successfully. Once we were clear of Edinburgh en route to the safety of Dunbar Castle, our beloved husband, in his panic, flogged our horse mercilessly, taking no heed as to our advanced condition of impending motherhood. We raced at a frantic pace over several miles, until at last we slowed our horse and cried out for him to have a care for the life of the bairn that we carry. But the vile recreant merely reined in and paced restlessly beside us, stating that he cared only his life, which he rightfully said should not be worth a pisspot when they discovered his treachery. If the bairn died, he said, we could have another. Never have we hated anyone as we do Darnley now. We promised him then, and we swear it now, if the bairn dies, we will personally turn a dagger into his own perfidious heart.
We have defeated the traitorous assassins, largely with the aid of our loyal Bothwell, who was marked for death by Riccio’s murderers, but who managed to escape their butchery by jumping out of the rear windows of the palace, past the lion pit. We met up with him at Dunbar, where he joined forces with Lords Atholl, Fleming and Seton and other men loyal to us. Their ranks swelled from just a trickle to the river of strength that flowed behind us when we returned this day triumphant to Edinburgh. We will hunt to the death those who committed this heinous crime, but unfortunately, we must abide Darnley some time longer, as he must acknowledge the legitimacy of our heir, which will not be born until June. After that time, it will be difficult for us to call him husband.