It felt good to spend a little time with Cora, with someone from her own time – to be able to make a joke about roadside assist without getting a blank stare back.
Triumphant at the top of the stairs, Marianne hobbled her way toward bed with renewed vigor. She’d eaten like a horse— a joke she and Cora had made at least a dozen times— at dinner, and the combination of a day’s hard work and the filling evening meal had her almost falling asleep where she stood. There was her bed, made up and ready for her, and the remains of the fire casting their cozy light across the room – an inviting scene that drew a deep sigh of contentment from her.
There was a scrap of paper on her pillow, she noticed, brow furrowing – but her expression cleared when she realized it was a message from Eamon, scratched out in surprisingly elegant handwriting. Is it Gaelic, she wondered, translated by the force of her magical benefactor, the force that had guided her here?
“M -
I have spent the day meeting with some old friends and fellow travelers and passed on our enquiries to them. No word but they have promised to ask around. You are not the only one who owes me a favor or three, ha-ha. Seeing more tomorrow.
Hope the sword fighting lessons are going well.
Study hard,
E”
She rolled her eyes, smiling down at the note despite herself. Just like him, trying to boss her around with a piece of paper. She did feel a pang of guilt at not having enquired about sword fighting lessons yet. Perhaps Cora would give her a break from the riding drills tomorrow and Ian could let her tag along to the drills she often saw the guards running. She settled into the bed without even realizing it, mind ticking over her plans, and before she could so much as yawn, she was fast asleep.
Dreams, more dreams of fire and flame and a monstrous man with oily black hair obscuring his face – but when she woke panting in the wee hours of the morning, this time it was to the grim satisfaction of the aching of her legs and the scrap of paper by her bedside. Should I burn it? She was strangely reluctant to destroy Eamon’s handwriting. Watch that, Marianne. Business relationship only, remember?
“I’m coming for you, Father Asshole,” she murmured under her breath as her heartbeat settled, and when she returned to sleep the dreams didn’t come back. There would be more tomorrow, she knew – but somehow they were a whole lot easier to take when she knew that plans were in motion to right the gross injustice of Elena’s execution. You won’t have died in vain, Elena, she promised to the spectre in her head, her own mirror image. At the very least, we will stop him from harming anyone else.
In the morning she was even sorer than she had been the night before. Walking like a bowlegged cowboy— finally that particular physical choice made by so many actors was beginning to make sense— Marianne made her tragic way downstairs, earning more than a few giggles and stares from the folk of the castle, many of whom had spectated on her riding lesson the day before with similar amusement, she reflected. Had everyone seen this coming except her?
“I’m dying,” she informed Cora as she dumped her aching body into the seat next to her. Cora giggled, then patted her arm in a conciliatory fashion when she groaned.
“I know. We’ve all been there. It goes away eventually, once you’re used to using those muscles.”
“Better now than when I’m on the road, I guess,” she allowed.
“Have some protein. Help those muscles grow back nice and strong.”
She didn’t need any more encouragement – she took a great forkful of bacon from Cora’s plate, who squealed and batted at her shoulder in mock outrage.
Ian joined them, a smile playing across his handsome face. “Do I need to separate you girls?”
“Thieved my bacon,” Cora complained, but she was grinning.
“Have some of mine.”
“A prince,” Marianne declared.
“A tanist,” Ian corrected her. “Much better than some useless king’s son.”
“Ian, Marianne has a favor to ask,” Cora said around a mouthful of her remaining bacon.
“For the woman who’s keeping my wife out of trouble, anything.”
Marianne swallowed. “I’d like to learn how to use a sword, and I have it on good authority you’re the best teacher in the castle.”
“Best swordsman, too,” Cora added with a haste that suggested this was a bit of a sore point for Ian.
“I know you’re busy, but if I could just sit in on the drills you run with the men, or something, I’d really appreciate it.”
He was eyeing her speculatively. “You’re expecting trouble on the road, then?” he enquired, his voice dropping a little in case they were overheard.
She shrugged, reluctant to worry Cora, but also not willing to lie outright.
“Better safe than sorry. I can’t teach you much in a few weeks, o’ course, but I’d be delighted to do what I can. On one condition.”
“Yes?”
“Cora learns too. You’ll need someone to practice with,” he raised his voice over Cora’s sudden and strident protests, “and besides, it’s ridiculous how long you’ve been here without pickin’ up a sword. Maeve can fight,” he pointed out.
Marianne got the idea that this was not a new conversation.
“Oh, she can. Maybe you should share her bed, then.”
“Cora, come on, it’ll be fun!” Marianne grinned at her cousin. “Just like karate classes when we were kids!”
Cora groaned. “You just wanted an excuse to knock me over. Revenge for yesterday.”
Marianne put on her best wounded innocent look. “Cora, how could you suggest such a thing?”
Ian was laughing. “I’ll meet you both in the courtyard after breakfast. Don’t wear anything you’re not happy to get dusty,” he warned them.
Sword fighting, Marianne reflected over dinner as her right arm shook so ferociously she seriously doubted her ability to get her glass of water to her mouth without accident, was worse than horse riding. Definitely.
Cora, at her side, was steadfastly trying to get a spoonful of peas to her mouth – without much success. Marianne couldn’t help but giggle at the way the peas all shook themselves free of the spoon– Cora, without looking up, elbowed her in the ribs, and she groaned as the fresh bruises inflicted during their sparring session sent pain roaring through her body.
“Swords are bad,” Cora groaned, giving up on the peas and dropping her head onto the table.
Marianne patted her cousin’s back gently, feeling a considerable amount of empathy. “And heavy. Why are they so heavy?”
“We’re gonna get so strong.”
“God, but at what cost?”
Marianne laughed, then winced as it hurt her ribs. Incredible, how involved the core muscles were in hefting the sword – not to mention the effort required to kick your opponent, which was a maneuver Ian had been very keen to teach them both. It was as rigorous as a martial art, but with the added stress of a hundred-pound sword in your hands, or at least, that was how it had begun to feel by the end of their class. Marianne had made the mistake of collapsing in her bed for an afternoon nap – when she awoke, all the physical exhaustion had been replaced with stiffness.
Still, it felt good to have made a start – she already felt more confident about the idea of someone coming at her wielding a weapon. She wasn’t exactly going to be a master swordswoman by the end of all this, but Ian was as good a teacher as Eamon had promised, and she might be good enough to fight off a brigand or two if she was lucky. And so the week progressed. Notes from Eamon arrived every night, delivered by Dolores, who was keeping a close eye on her and tutted at every fresh bruise.
After a few days, the horse riding stopped hurting – she could feel her legs getting stronger, even noticed some new muscle tone beginning to develop and all that hearty food was definitely helping her recovery, too. She wasn’t so lucky with sword fighting – there were just so many drills and maneuvers, such a wide range of defensive and offensive tactics t
o learn and practice over and over and over. Ian was relentless – she and Cora both had their fair share of hot baths, complaining bitterly about their aches and pains, but Marianne could tell that her cousin was enjoying the lessons immensely.
She sparred with Ian one day, capably holding her own, though he was going a little easy on her, Marianne could tell by the smile in his eyes, and the way they looked at each other as they moved across the dusty courtyard told a stronger story of love than any dreamy ballroom dance Marianne could imagine. She felt a glow of contentment that her cousin had found such a good match – albeit in a very strange place.
A week after their first meeting at the tavern, though, Marianne got word via Dolores, who’d sidled out of the kitchens after breakfast that Eamon wanted to meet her in the village after dinner. She rose to her feet once she’d finished her meal, murmured in Cora’s ear that she was going to meet her escort, ignored with dignity the rather silly kissing noises her cousin made in response, then headed out to the stables to collect Sweetpea.
Yesterday’s lesson had covered tack, and she saddled and bridled the horse with a great deal more confidence than she’d had a week prior. She was getting good at this medieval lifestyle. Never mind that she forgot to duck her head on the way out of the stable and knocked it soundly on the doorway.
The tavern was quieter than it had been on her previous visit – Castle MacClaran’s guests were well out of town by now – but there were still a handful of locals either drinking or finishing a late evening meal. She kept her cloak up, took a table toward the back of the tavern with a flagon of the tavern’s ale, though, it still made her wrinkle her nose a little, but it was growing on her.
Eamon turned up not long after she did, and she couldn’t help but grin widely at his approach – realizing with a start that she’d missed him. Watch that, Marianne.
“Good news,” he began without preamble, hardly pausing to take the hood of his cloak down. “An old travelling companion of mine – lives two days’ ride from here – said the local Lord’s wife has gotten himself a new resident. A pet of the Lady of the house, so it’s rumored. A priest, a private confessor – they say she’s very devout, this young wife of his, and spoiled beyond measure besides. Anyway, it’s claimed the man’s taller than me—” he made meaningful eye contact, and Marianne’s eyes widened. “Wears a mask, apparently, but the dark hair’s the same. I think we’ve got our man.”
“Brilliant!” She hesitated. “Two days’ ride?” She’d not been in the saddle for more than a few hours at a stretch. Hopefully her preparation was enough.
“Aye. And—” His expression grew serious. “It’s said he’s got an armed guard with him. So I hope ye were serious about those sword fighting lessons.”
Proudly, she extended her hands across the table to him, palms up, to reveal the callouses that were forming there. They were hard to miss – red and inflamed. He nodded approval, taking one of her hands in his huge one, and she caught her breath at the careful way he touched her, the warmth of his skin. He must have felt her stiffen because he released her hand, cleared his throat a little.
“Keep ‘em clean. Rub some grease into them if ye can, helps ‘em heal,” he said gruffly.
“Thanks. When do we leave?”
“As soon as ye can get away.” He looked at her seriously. “Best to tell as few people as possible ye’re going, ye hear? Ye’d be amazed how quickly word spreads.” He nodded toward the bar. “I’ll be stayin’ here for a few days. I’ll have provisions and gear organized by midday tomorrow – ye meet me at yer earliest convenience after that and we’ll set out.”
“I’ll be here at midday,” she promised, and he nodded.
This was all beginning to feel quite real.
Chapter 18
Riding home felt different that night. The castle was only a short ride from the tavern, and if something went wrong – if Sweetpea lost a shoe or hurt her leg or threw Marianne to the ground and sprinted into the night – she could always just walk the rest of the way. The idea of Sweetpea moving at anything faster than a pleasant rolling walk was absolutely unthinkable and made Marianne giggle to herself in the dark. But things would be different, on the road with Eamon. He’d said he had a couple of horses for them, and a third to carry their things. These were serious horses, the kind that were bred and trained for long distance travel.
Marianne had ridden a few of the horses at the castle – Cora had insisted she spent time on a range of animals, not just the placid Sweetpea – but she suspected Cora had kept her to the gentler ones. She certainly hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the black stallion who seemed to be Cora’s special favorite. She’d caught Ian muttering dire curses at that particular horse more than once. She was a little worried about not keeping up, or worse, falling off and hurting herself, and the more she thought about it the more she realized she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of Eamon.
What a stupid time for a crush, Marianne, she scolded herself as Sweetpea made her mellow way up the path to the distant castle. And worse, a crush on someone who she was going to have to travel the country with. How inconvenient. With any luck, it would go away – Marianne had had more than a few of the kinds of crushes that flared bright then burned out. At least she had more important things to focus on. With any luck, the importance of their task would keep her mind focused for the most part.
Before too long, Sweetpea was ambling through the gates again – the guards recognized her more quickly now. One man gave her a cheeky salute on her way through – two others were grinning with extremely knowing expressions. Marianne kept her expression deliberately neutral as she and Sweetpea headed for the stables. Could they know where she’d been, whom she’d been meeting?
If so, should she tell Eamon their secrecy had been compromised? It would be absolutely catastrophic if the witch hunter had any kind of advance notice that they were coming for him…and as Eamon had said, there were eyes everywhere.
She was frowning hard as she put Sweetpea away in her stall, but she wasn’t so distracted that she forgot to grab the apple she’d stashed in her pocket as a treat for the docile horse.
“Thanks, old girl,” she murmured as the mare crunched her happy way through the apple, spraying juice and seeds all over the place. “You’re the best Uber driver I’ve ever had.” She left the horse nosing contentedly through her pail of oats and walked quickly up to the castle – away from Sweetpea’s body heat, the cold Scottish air was biting at her even through her heavy cloak and multiple layers of underthings. It was amazing how well the castle seemed to retain heat – though the huge stone walls looked cold and depressing, Marianne always felt much warmer inside the castle than outside. Partly psychological, perhaps. And of course, protection from the biting wind was helpful. Where would they sleep on the road? she wondered.
Did Eamon have some kind of medieval tent? It wasn’t as though they could just look up an Airbnb on the way to whatever tiny town they were headed for… Marianne still missed her phone. She’d tried to do a few tarot readings with Dolores’s deck of playing cards, but even though the symbols were the same, it just felt strange. She wanted her app, and the little shuffling sounds it always made. On the way toward the stairs she remembered something Eamon had said, and she changed directions, tracing the now-familiar path to the kitchens.
It was late, and the majority of the staff seemed to have gone to bed. A few servants remained, scrubbing the flagstones of the kitchen floor. Margaret keeps a tight ship here, Marianne thought, amused – but the woman was as kind and fair as she was strict, and Marianne had no doubt that whatever servants were left on this late shift were also excused from the early breakfast shift to compensate.
There were a few great pots waiting on the sink to be scrubbed and she hastened over to them – and sure enough, a thick coating of grease still remained on their bases. Having already removed her gloves in the relative warmth of the castle, Marianne scooped a little of the oil onto he
r fingertips and massaged it into the roughened, calloused sections of her hands – almost immediately she felt the skin loosen and the soreness that she’d become accustomed to begin to ease.
Beauty tips from a medieval Scotsman, she thought to herself, almost giggling to herself. Life really did throw curveball after curveball. But she was glad for the reminder to take care of herself. If she was called upon to fight – and who knew what the future held? —she didn’t want anything getting in the way of her doing the best job she could.
Ideally, she’d like about a decade to actually get decent at fighting instead of just ‘a few shades above incompetent’, but as a philosopher from her world had once remarked in song, you can’t always get what you want.
Humming the song to herself and giving idle thought to the idea of singing it for the townsfolk – did good songwriting transcend time and place? Could she become a famous rock and roll star in medieval Scotland, centuries before the Rolling Stones had even been born? Or would that damage the space-time continuum in some terrible, apocalyptic way like the science fiction films she’d never liked much seemed to believe? Marianne climbed the stairs toward their room, still massaging the kitchen grease into her calloused hands as Eamon had recommended.
Dolores was waiting up for her, shuffling and re-shuffling the cards with an unconscious dexterity that Marianne envied. She smiled at her roommate.
“What’d he have to say?” Dolores asked as they sat down, then busied herself with the teapot, steeping them a pot of tea to share.
There was a hesitance in the way she spoke. Dolores had always been a terrible liar, she’d admitted that herself, which reminded Marianne that her ancestor’s mother didn’t fully trust the bear-like MacClaran. Best to tread carefully. She didn’t want Dolores to worry. After all, she’d need her help if they were going to pull this off.
Highlander Protected: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 3) Page 11