A cart came into view over the next hill, growing in height as it crested the summit. Maybe it came from a town. It would be good to find civilization and get information about where he was. And get a drink. Just one small drink. For my headache.
Horatius followed the path down to meet the cart in the saddle between the two hills. At the front of the gray weather-worn wagon stooped a man with a thick neck and a big flushed head topped by wispy white hair. A rope in his fist led the snorting ox hitched to his flat, rickety cart rolling on huge wheels made of wood. The cart was filled with straw and a twig of a boy with bright red cheeks perched on the very top of the pile. White clouds of breath poured from his mouth into the cold air like a smoke stack.
“Tell me, from which town do you come? And how far beyond is it?”
“O’er the next hillock. Edinburgh.”
“And what is the year?”
The man gave him a sideways glare and his scowled deepened.
“Please. The year? It seems to have slipped my mind.”
The man stepped around Horatius, like he might catch something from him. “The year of our Lord fifteen-hundred and sixty-two. O’ course.”
“Aye, that is it! Now I remember. But, the month? Tell me the month.”
“You are a lunatic Infidel, you are.” He spit over his shoulder. “ ’Tis February. Anyone wi’ half a mind knows it.Wha’are you abou’here? Trouble,’tis wha’ all you Infidels are for.”
“No need to fret, good man. I have no ill will toward you.” You racist imbecile.
Horatius threw the man a coin to pay for the information and to appease him. He didn't need any more trouble. He nodded at the trembling youngster up high in the cart and trudged up the hill. Well, I’ve landed in the same country, different century. Fan-damnable-tastic!
Before long he was at Netherbow Port, an entrance into Edinburgh. The arched gate was flanked by two round towers, all made of stone bricks. Above the arch were two fresh heads and an old withered leg, displayed to discourage would-be criminals. Black birds were busily pecking at the gruesome appendages. Unfortunately, the body parts didn't deter the gatekeeper who was manning the gate from robbery. The keeper was demanding an exorbitant entry tax on each head coming in.
Horatius shuffled and stomped his feet, waiting behind clusters of families, packed carts, and snorting horses for his turn to enter. The crowd was restless and cold, pushy to get through. The lump on top of his head throbbed worse and he was in no mood to delay his relief at the nearest pub.
A pathetic woman on foot, dressed in ragged black, and her three pitiful children, stepped up to the greedy watchman. When she handed him her coin, the gatekeeper demanded from her twice the amount she gave. Anger flared in Horatius for the imposition the man was causing, slowing the line and delaying his drink. Turning the churl to dust had sudden, great appeal. But then he remembered. This could actually be a chance to make up for some of his sins. Instead of wiping out the man, he stepped up to champion the poor, wretched woman.
“Leave the woman be, man. I shall pay her passage.”
“She must needs to pay her own way,” the pock-scarred man said, not quite as confident once he took in Horatius’ size.
“Take this for us all and put an end to this ill will,” Horatius growled. He handed over two groats. “Take it or be sorry.”
The keeper grouched a couple of times, but when he inspected the coins, his thin lips smirked for a brief moment.
“Get on through there then,” he said with a swift wave of his hand. “You are blocking me port and slowing the day’s progress.”
As Horatius passed by him, he willingly drained some of his energy and changed all the coins to sand in the gatekeeper’s money sack. The woman hustled her children away but Horatius wished to solidify his good work in the eyes of any of the Pure watching. He reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder, calling to her. When she turned, her haggard face broke into a seductive smile.
“Aye?” When her lines of worry relaxed, she wasn’t completely ugly. “You wish me to repay you now?”
“I just wanted to give you these.” He handed her a handful of sovereigns.
She gasped when she looked in her hand. “Oh sir, I will do whatever you desire to repay you.”
“You have already repaid me by accepting the money. Go in peace and goodwill.” He left quickly to get away before she could say any more. The last thing he needed was to stay and get involved with a woman with too many children and too little sense.
What he did need was a tall, cool tankard of ale. Just one. Then he could relieve the throb in his head and make a plan. A pub called Ainslie Tavern along Cowgate in central Edinburgh would do just fine to ease his thirst. Horatius hurried across the threshold, eager to get out of the cold. Inside, the warmth relieved the frosty bite on his face, and the smoky aroma of meat welcomed him well. When he approached the bar, he overheard the barkeep tell a maid to keep William Keith’s tankard filled, and gestured across the room. Horatius spun around at the mention of his old friend’s name.
At a table far in the back corner, Keith sat with a foam-topped tankard of ale. Keith had passed over twenty years on earth since Horatius had last seen him. The Highlander’s hair had thinned and lost its color, letting his red scalp show through the thin white strands that were left. His head and nose had thickened, and his ears hung low and large.
Horatius slid onto a high-backed carved chair across from Keith. “Hello, Will.”
Keith raised his head off the backrest of the chair and opened his eyes.
“Horace, is that you?” He squinted hard. “God’s teeth, you look good.” He stood and reached up to poke Horatius’ cheek. Then he took hold of his chin and turned him side to side to inspect him. “You have faired better than I o’er the years. You have not aged a mite. Must be that stubborn Arab hide of yours.” With a hearty laugh, he rubbed the top of his own balding head. His smile faded and his brow creased. “What happened to you? I feared you dead after that bad business. That storm, the lightening strike, you disappeared. I ne’er understood what really took place. My men came, but then MacKay made his escape and I thought he must have taken you with him. By the Rood, it is good to see you again!” His smile brightened and he laughed again as he grasped Horatius’ forearm into his palm and heartily patted Horatius’ shoulder.
“How have you been?” Horatius said, genuinely pleased to be so greeted by his old friend.
“About to lose me mind of late.” He sat back down, signaling Horatius to sit too, and took a quick swig from his tankard. “Me daughter, Agnes, is getting married on the morrow and it will be me end, no doubt. Queen Mary is planning the pageantry and between her and me wife, it is unbearable. Why could they not just run away together? Nay, me daughter had to go and catch the eye of the queen’s own half brother.”
“One of the dead king’s bastards.”
“Aye, James Steward, Queen Mary’s favorite. You should attend. It would be good to have you there. God’s bones, I have missed you. We had many a good time together, aye? I cannot tell the number of times I have thought of you o’er the years. I am happy you are alive.”
“I am trying to walk more the straight and narrow since our days together,” Horatius said with a chuckle to hide the regret. Those were good times they shared.
“I hope you have not been too successful then. That would be a loss, for certes.” Keith grinned at Horatius, showing he had two less teeth than before. “Eat with me!” Keith waved at the serving wench to bring food and drink. “Let us remember old times together.”
Horatius was famished. He pulled out several coins to pay his fair share and told the serving wench to make sure the drinks did not stop coming.
Two hours passed of stuffing in juicy meat pies and tender pheasant legs and bannocks, swigging whiskey, and reminiscing about the time when Keith was young and carefree and Horatius forgot he was trying to be virtuous. They laughed and drank till their eyes dripped and they could
not walk straight.
When they left the tavern, Horatius tried to remember why he was in town. The memory did not come. Nor could he remember what he had been doing before he came. Keith asked him where he was staying.
“I dunno,” Horatius slurred. “I don’t think I have made arrangements yet.” Sleep suddenly sounded even more inviting than another drink.
“Come with me, then. I have a room at the castle. You can stay there, too.”
They staggered together down Cowgate, then High Street, singing, tripping, laughing, and annoying everyone they passed.
***
The wedding took place at Saint Giles with John Knox officiating the elaborate, ostentatious ceremony. Knox was reserved and condescending. He despised Queen Mary and her excessive pomp. She had lavished every possible extravagance on the wedding, decorating the sanctuary in greenery, with candles so plentiful, Horatius feared any minute something would catch fire and the place would erupt in flame. Everyone in the wedding party wore shimmering silver and blue damask. Except Knox, of course, who stood rigid and stern in his black and gray tunic. Agnes Keith glowed in her bridal splendor and seemed oblivious to any display of disapproval from Knox.
Horatius had experienced many encounters with Knox at different times through the years. They always enjoyed heated discussions on scriptural interpretation and spiritual perspectives. Knox both fascinated him and infuriated him, being insightful and astute, yet at the same time, so often pigheaded and wrong that Horatius wanted to knock him across the room. But because he was one of the few of that time period who actually had some understanding of biblical truths, after a long history of complete incompetence within religious institutions, Horatius kept going back for more. Oddly enough, he felt they were kindred spirits.
At the dinner following the ceremony, Keith re-introduced Horatius to his wife and then to his daughter, Agnes, regaling them with story after story of the exciting exploits Horatius and Will had shared in their youth, of course leaving out the stories unfit for mixed company. His wife listened with conserved dignity and Agnes laughed as much as Keith. They all got on so well, Keith insisted Horatius attend the masque planned at Holyrood for the wedding party that night. Horatius’ hangover almost kept him from accepting, but Keith assured him more ale would surly alleviate the affliction.
Later, on the way to the ball when Horatius passed a side street intersecting with Canongate, a voice called out to him and he turned at the sound. A board slammed into his face.
Like a toppled stone statue he dropped to the ground. Someone grabbed his ankles and dragged him. Grunts and uneven jerks yanked him into the shadows of the side street. Around the agony of his flattened nose, his anger flared. Every century had its fool punk thugs and Horatius hated them all.
A growl rose from his gut, both from the pain and the indignation. This poltroon was going to pay. Horatius ripped his feet away and jumped up, charging his assailant and grabbing fistfuls of shirt and tartan. He ran him into the wall of the nearby building. He slammed him into the stone, repeatedly cracking his back and head against the rocks.
“You chose the wrong man to molest,” Horatius roared, punctuating each word with another crash against the rocks. Then he just kept smashing him against the wall.
“You…stole…me life,” the man got out between blows.
Horatius froze with the man suspended between his clenched fists and the wall. The face was old and scarred, and the ratty, yellow hair—now dull and filthy—would have gone unrecognized. In fact, he’d seen him in the pub without a thought. But the voice had been burned into his memory.
“MacKay?” The man’s shirt ripped and he writhed free, landing on the stony cobbles.
He staggered and tried to gain his feet. “Jean was to be me wife, but because of you, she married another.” He shot up and slammed his head into Horatius’ gut. The force knocked the air out of him, as well as another evil curse. Fury obliterated his reason.
He grabbed MacKay and took him up into a fireman's carry on his shoulders. He whirled him around and slammed him down hard into a pile of crates and barrels on the other side of the narrow street. Horatius didn't let him lie, but picked him up again and threw him back against the stone wall. Then he sprang into the air and landed on Mackay with a crunch of breaking ribs.
After sinking a few deep punches into MacKay’s kidneys, Horatius rolled off him and gathered up his limp form and lifted him high to hurl him again into the wall. But MacKay was already unconscious. His head was laid open and thick, red blood was draining out. A weak whistle of air seeped out his blue lips.
Horatius dumped him into a heap. What have I done? Reason returned. It would set him back a century if he killed someone.
“Angus, can you hear me?”
Nothing. He pressed his fingers through the slick blood on Angus’ neck and felt for the pulse. He repositioned his hand and tried again to find the artery. Oh no! No pulse. Had his spirit left yet? Was he too far gone? What have I done?
CHAPTER 10
Panic woke Chloe, ripping her from where she teetered just inside the edge of sleep. A voice was back in her head. You’re all alone. No one loves you. When she opened her eyes, her surroundings sealed it for her. She truly was lost and alone in a strange country. And it was her own fault.
Her stomach growled at her and her teeth felt like she’d gargled with swamp sand. She needed to find food, get her phone charged and call Todd, call her mom, and figure out how to survive until they could rescue her.
She sat up from the loveseat, which faced away from the front desk and most of the lobby. She peeked over the back of the small couch. A different person manned the counter—a stern looking woman who was arguing with another woman about checkout times.
The cello was gone. And so was her bowl of money. She jumped up and ran around the loveseat searching for the money. No, no, no. Where is it?
“Hey, you there!” said the stern woman at the counter. “Where’d you come from? Come over here.”
“Have you seen my bowl of money?” Chloe snatched up the ten pound paper bill that she’d been lying on. She pulled a cushion off the couch to look for more, but before she could dig around, the woman from the counter was at her side.
“What are you, some kind of homeless bum off the street? You can’t come in here like this.” She grabbed the cushion from Chloe and raised it like she meant to hit her with it. “Go on. Now, get. Get!”
“I need to charge my phone. And I had a bowl of money.” But the woman wasn’t listening. Because she was calling down the corridor for security.
I’ve had enough with security for one lifetime. Chloe tucked the one bill into her pocket and dashed out of the door before anyone could haul her out. With the money gone and her phone still dead, she was back where she’d started, the whole night wasted. You’re hopeless. It was true. It would have been better if her jump had been successful.
Outside, she just started walking. The voice kept telling her terrible things. And they were all true. It was hopeless and it was all her fault.
The aroma of cinnamon rolls swirled around her face. The smell came from a bakery surrounded by café tables filled with couples, friends, and families huddled under their maroon umbrellas. Everyone has someone. Except me.
The sweet smell of yeast and sugar pulled her inside. She had to eat. After standing in line a few minutes, she stepped up to the counter and concentrated on the menu hanging on the wall, working hard not to start crying. If Todd had been there, she’d be okay. He would make her feel safe. She wouldn’t be alone. He’d make everything okay.
But he isn’t here. And I need to hold it together till we can talk.
The jumble of words on the menu became legible and her stomach reminded her where she was. A breakfast sandwich and a bottle of juice was the cheapest breakfast combo on the menu. She ordered and watched the sizzling maple bacon bubble and spit on the grill behind the cashier. It made her stomach growl loud enough that the man heard
it.
Chloe rubbed her stomach. “Guess I’m hungry.” She gave him her order.
“Aye. Eat in or take away?”
“Take away. That's cheaper, right?”
“Aye. That’ll be four pounds, sixty then.” Across the counter he slid a frosted bottle of orange juice and he tucked a steaming sandwich with egg falling out the edges into a paper sleeve.
Chloe reached into her pocket for the money. Wrong pocket. She tried the other. It wasn’t there either. She checked the first again, digging deeper. Where did I put it? She opened her phone case to see if she’d stuck it inside. Was she losing her mind? You are losing your mind the incessant voice said.
“Hang on a sec, I had it here somewhere.” While she checked her back pockets, the cashier pulled the breakfast combo back out of reach. The bill wasn’t by her feet. Maybe it had fallen out of her pocket. “I’ll be right back, okay? I had it….”
After searching back and forth through the entrance and outdoor eating area three times, Chloe retraced her steps on the sidewalk all the way back to the hotel. The weather had whipped up and was blowing in thick clouds. Maybe the money had blown off the sidewalk. She followed her route back to the bakery, checking along the sidewalk, in the grass and shrubs.
She passed a churchyard that had a small wrought-iron fence with pieces of trash blown up against the rails. Several people, holding their jackets closed against the wind, stood chatting on the grass surrounded by the fence. A cluster of elementary-aged boys were in a huddle near one end of the fence.
“I saw it first. It’s mine,” one boy said swiping his blowing hair out of his eyes.
Another argued with him, but he was half the size of the first.
“Mum! Mum, look what I found!” He broke away from the group of boys and ran to the adults. “I found ten quid!”
Chloe's Guardian (The Nephilim Redemption Series Book 1) Page 6