by L. L. Muir
A week or two? That threatened her delusion that she would be out of there in a couple of days, so she decided to ignore it as an outright lie. But the fact that the last chick to play in this charade hadn’t taken the time to pack her bags? She was stupid if she didn’t find out why. So she asked.
“Why would she leave her things behind?”
Peg looked up from the open trunk and shook her head. “She didnae go far—only to the kirkyard, aye?”
“She died?” And they wanted her to wear a dead woman’s clothes?
Her lady in waiting gave her a funny look. “Aye. Folks die everywhere, do they not?”
Sophie turned her back for a minute so she could think without that woman looking at her like she was crazy.
Stressed? You betcha.
But crazy?
Not yet.
What was she thinking? Of course no one died. This was just a play, and in this play, there was a trunk full of costumes they needed an explanation for.
Sophie breathed deeply a couple of times and moved over to the largest of two chests where Peg was up to her elbows in folded clothing. She figured everybody struggled to stay in character for these things, so she wasn’t going to make it any harder by arguing. And now that they were talking about other things, Sophie thought maybe she would survive her embarrassment after all.
If this garderobe thing was their version of a toilet, she would have to see it before she agreed to eat anything. And if it was a toilet, she was going to find a way to get even with her lady in waiting, for not taking her to this garderobe in the first place.
“Okay. Go ahead. Smarten me up.”
Heaven forbid she not be pretty enough for her lord husband, who was easily pretty enough for the both of them. But she had to admit that she was relieved she wouldn’t have to spend all weekend in the same costume. If the man thought she was dressing up for him, she’d be sure to set him straight, that’s all.
Even if he wasn’t a fan of Americans, he was just going to have to be nice, or else she’d take his weapon away from him and teach him some manners. She may not be familiar with wielding a sword, but she was hell with a frosting knife.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sophie let Peg brush through her hair and pinch her cheeks before helping her into a blue velvet gown with garish yellow trim that fit her well enough. It was a little loose around the middle, a little tight in the shoulders, but gave her plenty of slack around the hips, where she needed it the most.
Her cupcakes and cookies hadn’t been delicious by chance—she’d spent six years tasting and adjusting, tasting and adjusting. Which meant she’d had to do the same with her wardrobe. Testing and adjusting, testing and adjusting. But as soon as she was home, however, she’d get that sugar train turned around.
Until then, wide skirts might not be a bad idea.
Peg led her through the main parts of the castle and helped her get her bearings. One of the last stops was down a long hallway on the second floor that led to the back of the building. As the door swung open, Sophie could tell by the smell that this, finally, was the garderobe. Realizing the distance between it and her gravy boat-appointed bedroom, she instantly forgave Peg for the most embarrassing moment of her life. If they had made for the garderobe, she would have never reached it in time.
The door swung wide and revealed a square box covered with velvet. The top, with a hole in the center, was a nicely sanded piece of wood that looked scrub-able.
I get to survive the weekend. It’s going to be okay.
Loud voices erupted from the floor below. The shouting spread to other voices, and by the time she and Peg reached the bottom of the spiral stone staircase, a young man was waiting for them.
“My lady!”
He was talking to her. The look on his face was genuine concern, not some melodramatic pose—or so she believed.
“What’s wrong?”
“His lairdship…”
Oh, so it was just part of the play, not actual bad news, so she relaxed.
“Lord Ogilvy…” He shrugged. “He has ordered the head of every household to gather at the coliseum.”
“Has he?” Well, since she wasn’t the head of the household, she didn’t have to go.
“And he requests that ye join him.”
She wasn’t about to read anything into that. It was all about the role she was supposed to play, nothing more. “That’s it?”
“Not entirely. He has interrupted the matches. The men of the city are…not pleased.”
She smirked, remembering their first conversation. “Yeah, well, he has that effect on lots of us.”
“Will you come, then?”
“You mean, I have a choice?”
The kid’s eyes bulged and his face lost its color.
“Hey. Relax. I’ll come.”
~ ~ ~
The trek to the coliseum took ten minutes walking at a fast clip. She was huffing and puffing when they finally stopped beside a large curved wall. Men mobbed around wide entrances and shuffled inside. Hundreds of them. All in costume.
“You people aren’t messing around,” she said, mostly to herself.
A number of men seemed to recognize Peg and shoved the others out of the way to make a clear path for her, but it was Sophie they nodded to as her small party passed by. She heard a lot of mumbled my lady’s but had no idea how to respond.
At the far end of a long dark tunnel, they emerged at the edge of an arena with a grass floor. And in the center was Bram Ogilvy, lord of all he surveyed, apparently. And danged if he didn’t look the part, too, with his sleeves rolled up to show off his bulging, folded arms. He stood with his chiseled calves braced apart and his dark brows pinched together while he watched the stadium fill up.
Nowhere on the field, however, were there lines or goals. No teams lining up. But then she remembered the kid had mentioned that matches had been canceled. That explained the hostile looks from the stands.
Peg and the young man gestured her forward, but they hung back.
Bram unfolded his arms as she neared. “Thank ye for coming promptly, my lady.”
“You’re welcome.” She nodded at the crowd. “Who have you pissed off now?”
He struggled not to smile while he held out his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her close. He leaned down and spoke low. “Inverbrae.”
She tried to keep a straight face too, but she couldn’t help enjoying the private, knowing look they shared. “Oh, good. Castle life was getting a little dull.”
He frowned and leaned close again. “Forgive me. I should have inquired. Have ye recovered from the long ride?”
She took advantage of the excuse to lean into him. “If you’re asking if I wet my pants, the answer is no. So yeah, I’m fine. How about you?”
“Now that I can smell yer hair instead of that privy, I am much improved.” He winked at her, then shouted to Peg. “Find my wife a place to sit, aye?”
For some stupid reason, Sophie gave his hand a little squeeze before she let go. “Good luck, my lord.” It was kind of a reflex, she decided, that came with playing a role. And though Bram Ogilvy might be part of the establishment, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be kind. And since he seemed to be willing, she could do the same.
After she was seated, thanks to four large men clearing off a bench for her and Peg, the crowd settled down. The murmurs grew quiet, then silenced altogether when everyone realized Bram was waiting for them all to shut up. He looked magnificent in all his tartan-covered glory. She especially appreciated his knees. There was literally nothing weak about the man, and she couldn’t suppress a little rush of pride knowing that the hundreds of people surrounding her thought Bram belonged to her.
Or at least they pretended to believe it.
He rested his fingers and thumbs on his hips and began his performance. “People of Inverbrae, I am Bram Ogilvy.”
The announcement got a faint show of approval. The acoustics made a microphone unnecessary.
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br /> “As laird of Inverbrae, I am here to offer ye a choice.” He turned and addressed the other half of the stadium. “Ye have a grand coliseum.”
They were happy to cheer for the compliment, but they quieted quickly, still waiting to hear about their big choice.
“Verra clever ye are. For ye have a town that no clan would take from ye. A city so lacking in quality that no Scotsman would want it. Yet.” The murmurs started again but were quickly shushed. “But ye do have this coliseum.”
Not knowing if they were being insulted again, they held their tongues.
“When word spreads of this grand stadium, others will come. The king himself will covet it. And in no time at all, someone will decide to wrest it from ye, and they will easily succeed.”
They didn’t like hearing that at all, and their disapproval built into a steady roar. Indignant football fans being told their home team sucked and they were probably going to lose their field, too. They wanted a fight.
“I ask ye, if ye’re not men enough to secure yer homes and families from yer enemies, will you at least protect yer coliseum?”
The entire place erupted in outrage, though Sophie suspected few of Inverbrae’s citizens recognized the actual insult. She scanned the faces nearby, however, and found that many of the women had understood perfectly. They smiled discreetly and hugged their children closer.
Bram was a clever showman. He would do well as a salesman, too.
“I give ye a choice, Inverbrae!” He had to shout over the din. “Ye can protect yer families by dismantling this place so no one will come…”
Outrage again. This time it lasted twice as long and she thought maybe Bram would give up waiting for the crowd to settle. But he was a patient man. Probably because he was enjoying himself. Maybe the others didn’t notice how he struggled to keep a straight face, but she did.
He turned to face her side of the stadium again. There was a question in his eyes. He wanted to know how he was doing. She laughed and gave him a discreet thumbs-up. He winked so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.
Finally, he held up his arms and patted the air, telling them to calm down. Begrudgingly, they obeyed.
“Ye can dismantle this place, or ye can hasten yerselves to the nearest quarry and collect what is needed to rebuild yer city. And until Inverbrae is defendable once more…all wrestling is forbidden.”
And with that, he dropped his arms and inclined his head before turning and marching off the field. It was the closest thing to a curtain-call bow she’d ever seen without the actor actually bowing. And as he strode toward her, she could tell he was doing it again—trying not to smile.
He held out a hand and helped her climb down out of the bench seats. “Would ye mind walking with the least popular man in town, my lady?”
She grimaced but didn’t let go of his hand. “Okay. But if they start throwing tomatoes, I’m out of here.”
“Fair enough. But they’ll do no such thing.”
She snuck a peek at the angry faces lining their path to the tunnel and picked up her pace. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”
He suddenly stopped, and her momentum turned her around to face him. The crowd edged closer, but he didn’t seem worried. “They understand fine, lass. I hold their lives in my hands.” He lifted his huge free hand in demonstration, his fingers curling around some invisible item the size of a tennis ball. Then he crushed it and dropped his arm again. “And in return, I am responsible for those lives. For their safety, for their health, for their happiness.
“The lot of a clan chieftain is not to sit on a throne and have his kin wait upon his every whim. Nor is it to deny them their entertainment simply to be fractious. It is to care for them as if they were his own sons and daughters.” He looked up at the faces hovering above them in the stands, letting them know he hadn’t been ignoring them at all. “And as long as I am laird here, I will not stray from that duty.”
There was no cheering.
For a long, drawn-out minute, Bram simply looked from one man to the next. It was the weirdest thing, like watching animals size each other up. And even though the rest of the stadium vibrated with the roar and stomp of hundreds of voices and stomping feet making their way outside, the silence at their side of the field was just as palpable.
Finally, Bram gave a single nod and started walking again, holding her hand casually, then giving it a lingering squeeze as they walked through the stretch of darkness. It made her feel like they were sharing an important secret, even though she had no idea what that secret was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Whatever spell had been cast inside the coliseum was gone when they exited the building. The rest of the trek back to the keep was a parade for a terribly unpopular fellow, and Bram laughed at the difference between what was happening to him and what he’d expected his two days of heroism to entail.
Somewhere, Soncerae, I can hear ye laughing.
The only consolation given him was the woman whose hand he held. She was a lifeline to reality, he supposed. In all of the city, she was the only one who knew what the world would eventually come to. Only she had seen the things he’d seen. And though she’d seen those things from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, and he from the prison of a spirit in limbo, it was the only bond he had.
That he enjoyed teasing her made his heavy burden seem a wee lighter.
As they marched through the streets, he became aware of Harris and his intense scowl as he walked smartly at Bram’s side, creating a shield between him and the populace wishing to claw his eyes out.
“Something vexes ye, Harris?”
The man’s eyes widened with a start. “Yer lairdship?”
“Out with it. Ye disapprove, to begin with. Perhaps ye have interest vested in the matches?”
Harris shook his head. “Not a whit, sir.”
“Then what?”
The man glanced nervously at the crowd but held his tongue until they rounded a corner, and the crowd thinned for a fair piece. “I only wish ye might have confided what ye planned to say. There might have been a better way to…” He gestured with his hand to finish his implied thought.
“Explain this better way.”
Harris closed his eyes briefly, as if he dreaded what he must say. “A man named Torvaldson oversees the coliseum. It is the right of the previous year’s champion, which he has been for the past five years. The people…admire him. They listen to him. I should have explained before we reached Inverbrae. I see that now.”
“If I would have appealed to this Torvaldson these people might be cheering me now? Instead of…” He pointed at a young lad who stood with his hands on his little hips, his stomach peeking from his tattered shirt, and his tongue thrust out of his mouth in Bram’s direction.
“Just so, yer lairdship.”
“Harris?”
“Aye?”
“I do not rule here by any man’s leave. If the king has seen fit to place me here, then I need no permission from Inverbrae’s champion. I have been given that right by Scotland’s champion. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, sir. Forgive me, sir.”
“I wonder if it has occurred to anyone here how this champion has neglected them?”
Harris’ eyes widened again. “I suppose not, yer lairdship.”
“Well, then, I shall be the first. Have this wrestler summoned to the keep. He may dine with my wife and I…if he has the stomach for it, once I’m done with him.”
~ ~ ~
Sophie had honestly never considered herself paranoid before landing in Scotland, and she wasn’t too comfortable feeling that way now. But how could she help it? Without knowing for sure what was going on around her, how could she seriously be expected to relax and enjoy her retreat from the world?
Unplugged was turning out to be just a little too...unplugged. She couldn’t research anyone or anything. She couldn’t go back to the website and try to find posts on Inverbrae, to read what kinds of experiences other peop
le had taken away from the place. If anyone else had been expected to pee in a gravy boat, for instance, there were going to be a lot of 1-star reviews.
She had pretty much recovered from that horror and was on to the next—figuring out what in the heck was going on here.
Sometimes, Bram seemed as clueless as she was, like he was just another paying customer. But then, how could that scene in the coliseum have been anything less than a performance? Had he been given a script to study? Was that it? Had Loretta forgotten to include Sophie’s script with the costume?
Yeah. A script. Definitely what I’m missing.
Bram started talking to Harris, and his hold on her hand loosened like he’d forgotten she was there. She started searching for pockets to stuff her nervous hands into, but there were none. To keep from fidgeting, she locked her fingers together in front of her. She ignored the men’s conversation and started looking around her, searching for the modern underpinnings of the medieval facade.
A familiar fragrance filled her nose and immediately brought comfort—freshly baked bread.
They turned another corner and headed down a wide lane with street vendors—very medieval ones—on either side. As the smell of bread grew stronger, she had to look closely to find which cart it was coming from. When she stopped, the men didn’t notice, and the parade passed her by, which was just as well.
The smell swirled around her, and she realized that two women, one to either side of the street, were selling the same things. A cart with three wide baskets was on her left. The woman was more interested in the disappearing procession than she was in engaging a new customer, so Sophie stepped across the way to look into the baskets on the right. The containers themselves looked a little cleaner, though the products were almost identical to the other vendor’s. Small loaves of bread, obviously made with coarsely-ground wheat filled the first basket. Equally rough biscuits in the second—they looked a lot like baking powder biscuits but were much flatter. The last basket was only half full of a mysterious looking creation that was clearly a boiled bread of some kind—a cross between a bagel and a pretzel.