Was it not a re-enactment? She’d done a couple of escape the room challenges before. Was this the same kind of thing? Had her mother paid for it for her as some kind of surprise?
It was possible. The fire hadn’t injured her. Could they fake a fire though? Of course they could, it happened all the time on TV. Were the victims just covered in special effects make up? Was that it?
She thought about what had happened so far that morning. They’d arrived at the old hall just after it opened, the first visitors to go inside. Her mother had been unusually excited. She’d thought it was just because she was seeing Andrew MacIntyre’s birthplace but maybe it was because of this.
The smoke. Her mother had noticed it first. Almost as if she were expecting it. Then the flames and her moving through them to the outside, miraculously unhurt.
The men on horseback had appeared from nowhere which was very convenient as well.
Some had run into the fire without stopping. It was all starting to make some kind of sense. It was a set up. They’d brought out actors playing the wounded.
Had she actually seen anyone getting hurt?
No, not a single person. It all fitted her theory. This was just a game like that Michael Douglas movie or that other one, the Bill Murray one set in London. The Man Who Knew Too Little. That was it.
It must have cost her mother a fortune for the tickets. All these people needed paying and all of them doing this just for her benefit.
She could have kicked herself for being frightened. None of this was real, it was just a game. She looked at the clothes Derek had left on the rug when he left. They looked so authentic. The attention to detail was incredible.
She thought about what she knew about medieval costume. Holding up each piece, she slotted them together in her head, trying to remember what her mother had said while they’d been going around the old hall.
No underwear but a long linen undergown. What was that called? A kirtle, that was it. Like a nightdress but almost reaching the floor. Then a dress of plain red wool, the hem of that would reach the floor. Several holes had been deliberately cut into the dress, she had no idea why.
Grey leggings called hose like the men wore. A wool belt known as a girdle back then. Black leather shoes like modern slippers but with the seams on the inside. Attached to the bottom of each shoe was a smooth wooden sole an inch high.
A white pillbox hat was in the pile too. Then a chin strap to hold the hat in place. That was a barbette, she remembered mom saying.
“Only married women had to cover their hair at that time,” mom had said, pointing to the mannequins on display in the old hall. “But you were looked down on if you had your hair on display at all, especially in the noble families. They were quite lucky up in Scotland, lots of plants to dye the clothes. Down in England it was a lot more expensive to be so colorful.”
Seeing outfits like that on a mannequin was very different to holding one in her hands. Was she supposed to put it all on and act like one of them? Could she at least get someone to break character and explain what she was supposed to do?
She looked out into the courtyard again. She saw Derek deep in conversation with Andrew, the laird, the man her mother had admired more than any other figure from the middle ages.
“He united an entire clan and then brought peace to the region for decades afterward,” as she was so fond of telling Beth. “No other clan chief achieved as much for another hundred years.”
Beth looked down at the actor playing him. From this distance she couldn’t tell what he was talking about but she guessed it was her. Derek was gesticulating next to him, no doubt complaining about being slapped.
He seemed to make up his mind a moment later about something and marched toward the keep. Was he coming to her? He stopped again, turning back, continuing his conversation with Derek.
She had to decide quickly. Join in the game or tell him she wanted to cancel the whole thing. Mom had paid for it and would want her to enjoy it.
There was something else she needed to decide too. Should she change into the clothes they’d given her or remain in her existing ones?
Her mother had given her no clues about any of it, she never even mentioned an interactive game when they headed to Scotland together.
Two weeks looking at the sites her mother loved. That was all they were supposed to be doing. It might be their last chance. She was getting weaker all the time. It wouldn’t be long before she lacked the strength for any journeys. It might be their last vacation together ever. That thought alone was enough to bring Beth close to tears.
She would join in, she decided at last. It would be what her mother wanted. She pulled her top over her head, tossing it onto the bed.
Crossing the room to the ewer, she sloshed water onto her arms, wiping away the worst of the soot. Returning to the bed, she undressed to her bra and panties before rolling the hose up her legs. They felt softer than she’d expected, more like leggings than pantyhose.
Once that was done she stepped into the kirtle. Over that went the dress, the kirtle visible in places through it. The dress fitted her surprisingly well, the hem brushing the floor until she put the shoes on, their wooden soles raising her in height at the cost of her ability to balance.
It took a while to get used to the feel of the shoes on her feet. When she finally felt able to stand without stumbling she turned to the hat, tying it to her head with the barbette in a neat bow under her chin.
She wished there was a mirror to see how she looked but maybe her mother could take a photo whenever they were finally reunited. She brushed the dress down, surprised by how comfortable the ensemble was.
She knew he was coming up. She could feel it in her bones. He was on his way up the stairs.
Still it came as a shock when she heard the door unlocking behind her. He was so tall he had to duck as he entered the room, only standing up straight once he was inside. He took one look and her and said, “Now you look like a proper highland lass.”
Chapter Four
She looked like she’d lived in the castle forever. Andrew couldn’t believe his eyes when he unlocked the tower to find her standing there like a true highland lass, fire in her eyes and standing like she was ready for a fight.
From what Derek had told him of her refusing to change, he expected an argument but nothing had prepared him for the sight of her in that dress that clung to her body so perfectly. He walked in to find her not only changed into the attire that had been provided but looking utterly ravishing.
Her hair was hidden under the filet but that meant her face had nothing to hide its beauty.
The dress fitted her as if it had been made just for her, the girdle gathering it in tightly at the waist. Through the carefully cut holes he could see hints of her kirtle. It was the latest fashion and he approved, at least on her.
It made him desperate to see more, exactly as the seamstress intended. Imagine seeing her in just the kirtle, he thought, then he imagined peeling even that layer from her, leaving her wearing not a single stitch of clothing.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It would never do to have such sinful desires for a MacLeish. People would talk. “I have sent word to your father.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time for a reply.”
“Oh, and why’s that? Think he’ll disown your actions?”
“My father’s dead.”
“Duff MacLeish is dead?”
“No, Jonathan Dagless is dead.”
He scratched his forehead. “Who’s Jonathan Dagless?”
“My father. He died when I was ten.”
“Are you saying your father is not Duff MacLeish?”
“That’s what I just tried to tell you. Now just stop acting for a minute and talk to me about this game.”
“This is no game lass.”
“I know, I know. You’re not supposed to break character. But I can if my mom’s paying for this. I want to speak to her then I promise I’ll be as medie
val as you want. All bad teeth and swordplay. Whatever you need.”
“I have no ken what you’re blathering about but if you think I’m going to believe you’re not a MacLeish when you were with those who wore their tartan, you’re a fool.”
“I’m not a MacLeish. I’m Beth Dagless. I’m twenty-three, I live in Surrey and I’ve been studying architecture for the last year with the Open University. I’m not a MacLeish, a MacDonald’s burger or a Cameron MacIntosh musical. I’m here with my mom and I’m worried about her. She’s really sick, okay? So you can stop all this yay verily and hey nonny nonny and talk to me like a normal person or I’ll be leaving a scorcher of a one star review on Tripadvisor about this castle and this game.”
He sighed, examining her closely. “You use a lot of strange words, lassie, whoever you are. Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If you’re not a MacLeish, how do you explain coming out of my hall with one of their burning torches in your hand?”
“I was visiting with my mom.”
“Does she work for me? I’ve not seen you before.”
“No, listen. We’d come to see the birthplace of Andrew MacIntyre. Then I don’t know, there was this fire all of a sudden. It was like a magic fire and then this tornado blew me outside and I’d grabbed mom’s hand but it wasn’t her hand, it was that torch you saw.”
“Why did you come to see where I was born?”
“Sorry, what? That’s what you choose to focus on? You are so self centred.”
“Why did you come to see where I was born?”
“Look, I know you’re acting. You’re playing Andrew MacIntyre. I get it. You’re the laird and all gruff but I’m not playing until I get to see my mom.”
He stood tall, his voice loud enough to make her wince. “I am not acting anything. I am Andrew MacIntyre, laird of all these lands and the fair isles to the north of here.”
“Right. Course you are. Look, I bet I can catch you out. What year is this?”
“The year of our Lord 1190.”
“Okay then. If it’s really 1190, who’s the king?”
“William is once again king of Scotland though only after handing over a fortune to Henry last year like we still pay weregild to our tormentors, the deuced fool.”
“You know your history. I’ll give you that. Do they have some course you have to take before doing this?”
“Course?”
“You know, training you up so it’s all believable. I know it’s a game okay? There’s no need to keep pretending.”
“You still insist in this absurd nonsense of gameplay? I will prove this is real. Come with me.”
He marched to the door, waving impatiently for her to follow. He didn’t look back. He knew she would come after him.
*
Beth wasn’t sure where he was taking her but anywhere was better than being locked in like Rapunzel. She followed him to the end of the corridor as he turned, and then headed downstairs.
As she descended, she noticed a smell so bad it almost knocked her over. “What is that?” she asked, trying not to gag as they walked along the corridor and out onto the balcony beyond.
“What? There was only the great hall back there? What of it?”
“You didn’t notice that smell?”
He shook his head. “You are stalling. It will not work. Come see what kind of game you think this is.”
He marched across the courtyard leaving her to follow. The hall had smelt so foul she gulped at the fresh air like a drowning sailor washed onto a beach after a storm. It smelled as if the hall had been used as a bin and toilet all at once.
The courtyard was little better. To her left clothes were draped over thick bushes of holly to dry but there was little chance of that in such damp air.
The mud was churned up from the passage of many feet and it was imbued with stink that clung to her nose and the back of her throat. Walking through the filth in her medieval shoes was not easy but she was more glad than ever for the wooden soles. They stopped the worst of it soaking into her feet and helped the hem of her dress remain relatively clean.
The actor playing Andrew opened the door to a building set against the castle wall, standing for a brief moment under the pentise overhanging the entrance. “In here,” he said before vanishing.
It took Beth’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom as she followed him inside. She heard crying and moaning up ahead of her in the darkness.
“Where are we?” she asked, blinking and through the gloom spying low beds laid out in a row along the wall. A figure occupied each one, some still, some writhing and moaning in agony.
“The infirmary,” Andrew said, striding toward the nearest bed. “Does this look like a game to you?” he asked, pointing down at the woman laid before them, her face wrapped in clothes. What skin was visible was burning red and black.
An awful smell rose from the patient, far worse than that which came from the great hall.
Beth had to work hard not to gag as the woman shifted in place. Her mouth opened and a gout of blood spurted out like a fountain. “Rory,” the actor shouted. “Mary needs your aid.”
Out of the shadows a portly figure ran over, kneeling next to the bed, wiping blood from the stricken woman’s lips. “Stay still,” he whispered. “God is with you. Angels protect her.”
The woman coughed again, her back arching as she did so. Then she fell back, a final wisp of air leaving her lungs. She was dead.
“Gone,” Rory said, closing her eyes with his palm before getting to his feet. “May the Lord protect you and the angels watch over you.”
“But…but this is just a game,” Beth said, staggering backward toward the door. “She’s just acting, right?”
Andrew looked furious. “I’ve known that woman all my life.”
The whispering voice in the back of her head finally spoke loud enough for her to hear, though she still tried to ignore them. “This isn’t a game,” it said. “This is real and you better get used to the idea.”
She’d always known of course, deep down. She’d just been trying her best to deny it. What was more likely? That this was an elaborate live action game involving a cast of literally hundreds, all set in countless acres of land? Or that she had somehow found herself in the actual middle ages?
Neither option seemed particularly plausible but the dead woman in front of her looked very real.
Had she died in the fire? Was this some elaborate version of heaven? No, if it was heaven, there wouldn’t be mud on everything.
“This is real, isn’t it?” she muttered, groping for the door, desperate for some air. “Oh, God. This is really happening.”
She almost fell out into the open, grabbing hold of the wooden post that held up one corner of the pentise. A wave of dizziness washed over her. This wasn’t a game. This was 1190 and that poor woman had just died from a fire they thought she’d help set.
This being the past meant two things. The man standing in the doorway looking out at her actually was Andrew MacIntyre, laird of the clan her mother loved so much. Perhaps she should ask him if he planned on marrying a Dagless. Maybe she’d meet her own great, great, great times however many great, grandmother here.
This being the actual middle ages meant something far worse than being stuck here. It meant she might never see her mom again. That thought brought tears to her eyes that she couldn’t stop from falling as she gasped for breath, sinking to her knees, shaking her head in disbelief. “It can’t be real, it must be a game.”
“This is no game,” Andrew said softly behind her. She looked up, expecting to see fury still plastered across his face.
Instead, he looked kinder, almost gentle. He held out a hand, lifting her slowly to her feet as she continued to pant for breath.
“The hall,” she gasped, talking to herself as if he wasn’t there. “It must be something to do with the hall and the fire. If I go back, maybe I can get back to her. She’ll be worrying herself sick
wondering where I am. I have to go.”
She turned but he wouldn’t let go of her hand.
“What are you doing? Let go of me? I’m going to look for my mom.”
“It’s not safe out there, lass. The MacLeishes are on their way and there may be a siege coming before long.”
“So? What does that matter to me? Let me go.”
He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “There are others out there too. Those who might not be as kind as I’ve been.”
“Kind? You lock me in the tower and won’t let me leave your castle. How is that kind?”
“Kinder than letting my men toss you back into the blaze. Kinder than having you hanged for your part in murder. Kinder than letting you walk out while those from Pluscarden make their way here. Some of them may want revenge on those who burned down their village and I won’t be able to stop them if I’m in here and you’re out there.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
He let go of her hand. “Aye. I think I believe you.”
“All of a sudden, you just believe me?”
He shrugged. “You have honest eyes.”
“So you’ll let me go?”
He shook his head. “I said I believe you but I doubt they will. I’m doing this for your own safety.” He waved at someone who was crossing the courtyard carrying a roll of parchment. “Finley, over here.”
“I was just looking for you,” Finley replied. “I have MacLeish’s response to your missive.”
“I will take it. Get Derek and get her into the tower.”
“Aye, my laird. Derek!”
Beth turned and begged Andrew to let her go. “Please, don’t do this. I need to go home.”
“It’s for your own good lass. You’ll be safe here while we sort this affair out. I will not leave you long, I swear.”
A look of sorrow crossed his eyes as he turned away, breaking the wax seal that held the letter shut and reading quickly.
Derek and Finley began dragging her away. She again called out to Andrew but he was walking away, ignoring her completely.
Held by the Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 3