“I am a woman, Roslin. Not a fool.”
I blow out a loud breath. There’s no longer any sense in keeping my secrets from her.
“Her name is Claire.” It pains me to say her name out loud. I haven’t spoken of her to anyone except Duncan since I arrived here. I’m sure he doesn’t believe me. Carefully, I dare to look at Mariota. “But it doesn’t matter. She’s no threat to you.”
“How so?”
“She’s gone. I’ll never see her again.” Not because Claire had died, because in truth I would never know the outcome of her condition. Finally, I understand. When the truck ran me off the road outside Aberbeg, it was me who had died that day.
And I had ended up here, reliving a past life, but with the memories of my future life completely intact.
It’s the only explanation there is. The only possibility.
If Reverend Murray is to be believed, my days here are numbered. Yet ... what if I don’t return to 2013? What if I did die the day I was run off the bridge and it’s some other life that awaits me after this one?
My head hurts just thinking about all the ‘what ifs’.
Mariota stops beside where my shield rests against the wall. With light fingertips, she traces its edge. “Are you certain you will never see her again?”
I turn her words over in my mind, trying to gauge the purpose behind them. There is no jealousy in her question, that much I can tell. “Am I certain? No. But ...”
That’s the problem: I’m not certain of anything. Things would be so much easier if I would only choose a path.
I have to let go of my other life. Give up the hope of ever going back. I have to live this life. However short it might be.
Next thing I know, I’m standing an arm’s reach from Mariota. I touch her shoulder.
She’s not a dream or a memory. She’s real, she’s here. I reach out again to draw her to me —
“Ah, there you are!” Duncan waves an arm at me from the inner bailey below. With his other hand, he shakes a spear in the air. I’ve graduated from wooden swords to real ones. Lately, he’s been teaching me not only how to wield other weapons — axe, spear, mace — but how to defend myself against them.
Moving toward the edge of the wall walk, I raise my hand to let him know I’m coming. Then I return to Mariota. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Sir Henry wants to see me then to go over supply lists. Perhaps later ...”
She steps near, nestles her head against my chest. I wrap my arms around her lightly and rest my chin on the top of her head.
“I’ll always be here,” she says, “waiting for you.”
I sense, though, that she’s tired of waiting. And I’ve grown tired of hoping that my life will go back to being the way it once was. Because I can’t keep wishing for what might never be. What I want, what I need, it’s right here in front of me.
The sun is almost at its zenith and I’m gripped with a sudden panic. I urge my horse into a gallop over the bridge. “Sir Henry’s going to be mad as hell. I was supposed to be back an hour ago.”
“I’ll tell him it was my fault,” Duncan says from behind me, although I can barely hear him above the clatter of hooves. “He’ll fume awhile, I’ll suggest a tankard of ale and after a few gulps all will be forgiven.”
“For you, maybe.” Everything I do seems to provoke Sir Henry. At any rate, I hate being late. I always used to set my watch ten minutes fast to make sure I showed up places on time. Time is relative here, but still if you tell someone to meet you in the morning and it’s well past noon when they arrive ... I deliver a sharp kick to my mount’s flanks and Duncan’s grousing fades away behind me.
Two months ago, it was a struggle to stay in the saddle for more than a few hours. Now it’s as second nature to me as commuting down I-71 once was every morning in my Camry. I can read my horse by the direction of his ears or the arch of his neck, guide him with my thighs and a lean of my body. Duncan has a hard time keeping up with me. He won’t admit it, but on a good day I could beat him at swords now, too.
The portcullis is open. At first I assume they saw us coming, but then I notice some horses being led away by grooms and several men standing around the bailey who I recognize as Alan’s men. I slide from my saddle and lead my horse to a watering trough. I don’t worry about him wandering off. He’ll drink his fill and then wait until someone comes to get him. I know him that well by now. I place my helmet, weapons and shield beside the trough.
My gut tightens. Alan’s here, somewhere. His presence, whether expected or not, always concerns me. I scan the bailey. Some of the men are already heading to the hall, but there’s no sign of him. Unconcerned, Duncan ambles toward the kitchen. There’s a kitchen maid who’s gained his attention of late, so it figures that he’d go there and leave me to Henry.
When I hear a woman’s voice, at first I think it must be coming from the kitchen. Then I hear it again. It’s Mariota. She’s standing with her back to me, just inside the doorway from the east tower to the wall walk. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her pitch hints at agitation. I hurry in that direction.
I race up the stairs of the tower, treading as lightly as I can. Then I hear a man’s voice reply to hers. It’s Alan. I slow my steps, steady my breathing.
“Blacklaw should have been ours, Mariota,” he says. “You would have been so much happier with me. We were always meant to be together. Always.”
“We were young then, Alan,” she says.
“And in love.”
I stop dead. Moments crawl by in silence. I should either leave or let myself be known, yet I can do neither. I want to hear what she’ll say back. I need to know.
From somewhere in the bailey, Malcolm calls for me. Did he see me enter the tower? I say nothing, pressing myself closer to the inner column of the stairway.
Still, she hasn’t answered him. Finally, she murmurs something and then ... she winces. Or is it a moan? I fly up the stairs three at a time until the back of Alan’s surcoat comes into view. Mariota’s back is to the wall, his body pressed to hers. He’s gripping her arms, his mouth seeking hers.
I snag the back of his surcoat and yank hard, slamming him against the opposite wall. He flails a hand out. One foot slips on the smoothed edge of a stair and he tumbles back, landing several steps below.
Before I can get to him he’s already on his feet again. Anger blazes in his eyes. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t left my sword in the bailey. I’d gore the bastard.
As if reading my mind, Alan reaches for his blade.
“No!” Mariota screams. “Alan, stop!”
I wheel around to her. “Why? Did I interrupt? Why not let him run me through? Does your conscience trouble you?”
She’s nothing but a silhouette against the light from the open door above. Her face is concealed in shadow.
Then, Malcolm’s voice calls out more clearly from the bottom of the stairs. “Sir Roslin? Are you there? Sir Henry has called a meeting — at once.”
“I hear you,” I answer.
“The time has come,” Alan says behind me. As I turn to him, he releases his hilt. A gloating smirk tips his mouth. “We are to leave for Berwick today.”
With that, he goes, leaving me alone with Mariota. She trails a hand over the stones of the outer wall to steady herself as she descends. Her other hand is pressed to her lower ribs as she tries to control her breathing. She’s almost past me when I grab her wrist and pull her to me. I don’t want to leave her.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have —”
“Say nothing, Roslin.” With a light twist of her arm, she frees herself from my hold. “My heart is yours. It will always be so.”
For several minutes I remain there, alone and adrift, listening to hurried footsteps on the cobbles outside and the faraway cry of seabirds.
We’re afforded but a few hours to make final preparations and assemble in the open stretch of grassland beyond the outer wall. Several hundred men have already gathered there
, packs stuffed full with the barest of necessities, carts piled high with supplies and spare weapons. A column of thousands is marching off into the distance. Whatever I may think of Alan, the man has made a great show of organizing all of this. His correspondences to Sir Henry were detailed and frequent, complete with the name of every lord and chieftain promising men and weapons, the date of their arrival and the breakdown of their numbers into foot soldiers, cavalry, and archers — although I know it’s in that last respect that England will show their strength and so be our undoing.
There’s a curse in knowing what is to come. I’d rather not know. It robs me of hope and hope is a precious thing.
As I take my place in the column beside Sir Henry and we head south, I twist in my saddle to look back. A skeleton of sentries is posted on the wall, but I see no one else.
She’s not there.
My heart is yours. It will always be so.
Small consolation, considering that I won’t be coming back.
Sir Henry and I ride side by side in silence for hours. I’m thankful he hasn’t spoken yet; it would be impossible to answer him about anything without sounding like I want to snap his head off — or anyone’s, for that matter. I’m mad as hell at myself for a lot of things. For not being more clear with Alan to keep his distance from Mariota. For keeping her at a distance myself.
If I hurt right now, it’s my own damn fault.
Every time I glance at Henry, his jaw is clenched tightly, like he’s holding back words. Sooner or later, he’ll open his mouth and I’ll have to deal with whatever he’s brewing beneath that gruff exterior.
“I suppose you’ve heard,” he finally spits out.
I flick the ends of my reins at a fly and give him a questioning glance. The less I say the better.
“The Abbot of Melrose has levied accusations of heresy,” he says.
“Mine or yours?”
“Don’t be flippant, Roslin. This is a grave matter.”
I clamp my teeth shut and inhale deeply through my nose. There are so many things I could say, the least of all how ridiculous this is. I don’t eat meat. So what? How can that be a crime?
“Does he have proof?” I say, sure he doesn’t. Short of me standing up in public and mocking God or the Church, how could they prove anything?
“They don’t need evidence. Just enough witnesses to speak against you.”
I don’t need to wonder who he’s talking about. Alan could probably conjure witnesses by the dozens and they’d be sure to distort mere rumors into fantastical lies.
“What’s going to happen, then? A trial? Excommunication, maybe?”
He snorts loudly. “Excommunication would be a kindness. Death by fire is more likely. It’s your good fortune there’s a war to be fought right now, or else you’d be on your way to Edinburgh to stand trial. I’ll speak to Lord Archibald, arrange a delay. But once matters are settled in Berwick, there’s little I can do to stop the course of events. If you prove yourself there, however, it’s possible they may be lenient.”
“Lenient how?” Maybe instead of burning me at the stake, they’ll take pity and grant me a quicker death by lopping my head off.
“Penance, perhaps? A pilgrimage? I know very little about such things.” He falls quiet, his eyes set squarely on the road ahead, but I can see something’s still eating at him.
“I had so much hope for you on the day of your birth, Roslin,” he finally says. “Since then, you have done nothing but bring shame upon the Sinclair name. Berwick is your chance to return honor to the family. Do not disappoint me again.”
Wow. How am I supposed to reply to that? Short of singlehandedly saving the town, there aren’t enough hoops I could jump through to change his mind. So I’m not even going to try, let alone argue with the grumpy old goat.
Berwick, Scotland — 1333
“They are many,” Lord Archibald proclaims, grinning faintly. “But we are more.”
I’m not so sure I share his optimistic outlook. The journey from Blacklaw Castle had taken the remainder of yesterday and almost all of today. Some of the supply wagons would be trickling in for another day, with more reinforcements yet to come. But the flood of so many Scottish forces all in one day must have stirred some concern on the part of Edward III and Balliol. From where we stand on a hill well beyond Berwick, it appears impressive to me: the gathering of forces before an epic battle on which hinges the course of history.
Sir Henry squints against the brightness of a setting sun, emphasizing every wrinkle and fold in his face. “How does the town fare, my lord?”
Several other nobles have convened on the hill with us: Menteith, Atholl, Keith, Moray ... It’s taken a lot of tutoring from Mariota and Duncan, but I’ve learned their names and histories. Knowing family politics and personal alliances is critical in this era. Without that knowledge, I could unwittingly offend a lot of people and I’ve already done that without even trying. The crisis we’re facing, however, seems to have erased a lot of those lines. Scotland is only just now learning how to stand as one against a common enemy. It took years for the Bruce to make them see the value of solidarity.
Archibald gazes eastward across the valley to the town. “The English have smashed the water conduits. Even if Berwick has enough food to last weeks more, without water ...” He lifts his eyes to the sky. No possibility of rain. Not even a wispy white cloud gracing the horizon.
I hear a ‘thump’ and shoot a look toward the northern wall. A dark object hurtles through the sky in a low arc. As it sinks in its trajectory, every man there falls silent. It crashes through the roof of a house barely visible over the top of the wall, crumpling the framework on the side nearest us. We can’t hear the screams, but we know innocent people have been hurt, if not killed.
It’s all I can do not to bend over, grab my knees and vomit. Finally, I say to Duncan beside me, “What was that?”
“A stone launched by a trebuchet. But that isn’t the worst of it.”
“Oh. What is?”
He slaps my back. “The severed heads.”
Gulping, I close my mouth. Suddenly, all the weeks I spent preparing with Duncan don’t seem to amount to much. Futile, in fact. It’s hard to remember humanity’s potential for kindness when so much senseless cruelty exists.
In the days following, we wait and watch from a safe distance while the atrocities continue. Messengers shuttle back and forth, to no avail. Neither side will yield. They will have all or nothing.
Amazing how little things have changed in seven centuries.
30
LONG, LONG AGO
Berwick, Scotland — 1333
I wake to the scent of ashes. I should be used to this by now, I tell myself. There are always campfires burning. Food must be cooked. But it’s a different smell. More acrid. And not just wood smoke. It reminds me of the grassfire in the field outside of Balfour when I was a kid, the summer of the drought.
I emerge from my tent and follow the flow of traffic on foot to the ridgeline. A stiff wind blows from the west, making it hard to hear what others are saying. Day has barely broken, but it’s not the sun’s light blazing strongest.
The roofs of Berwick are burning.
Archibald pushes his way through the crowd to take in the sight. The River Tweed is choked with English ships. The points of more masts can be seen further downstream, toward the sea. Ladders have been thrown up against the town’s walls. Men are amassed at the breeches. The fighting is furious.
“What happened?” Archibald says.
Close at his shoulder, Alan gives an account. “The English sailed upriver in the middle of the night, surrounding the town to the east and south. Edward dispatched his men from the ships along the riverbank, while his archers took aim at the walls. Seton was expecting such an assault. Faggots soaked in tar were set to be dropped onto the assailants, but as you can see, the wind wreaked its havoc. Flaming ashes blew back into the town, setting it alight.” He points to the tower at the town�
��s gate. There, a white cloth has been flung over the wall. “Seton will beg for a truce. If we move quickly, my lord, we can attack their remaining forces to the north. It will cause confusion. Give us a temporary advantage.”
Arms crossed, Archibald peers intently at Berwick.
“My lord?” Alan urges impatiently. “You must decide — and soon.”
“No. Let Seton negotiate. We will choose our course then.”
“But —”
“Has the Earl of Ross arrived with his Highlanders yet?”
Swallowing, Alan shakes his head. “No, my lord.”
“And you said there are another thousand due to arrive from Strathbogie and Mar in the next few days?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Good. We wait then. A truce will buy us time. Haste would cost us dearly.”
I can see the disappointment in the men’s faces. Many do not agree. They’re impatient to get this over with, yet fearful that their resolve to defeat the English will be compromised by diplomacy. They want to fight, not volley words.
They’ll all have their chance. Just not today.
Fifteen days. That’s the length of the truce agreed to by Alexander Seton and King Edward of England. Ross has arrived with his Highlanders, as well as the others, but upon hearing that battle is not imminent, they’re more riled up than relieved.
With each day that slogs by, the mood becomes more sullen, tempers sharper. Yet beneath the edginess, there’s an undercurrent of camaraderie unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Then again, I’ve always been a geek, a bit of an outcast, rather than a team player.
In the evenings, we gather around the cooking fires and the men share stories, mostly of battle, but sometimes about fishing adventures in tiny coracles on storm-tossed seas, or forays into blowing snow to gather lost sheep from treacherous mountain landscapes. The lines between noble and commoner become blurred at these times, the connections deeper.
I gaze into the bubbling waters of a cooking pot, watching the steam rise and swirl across the faces of those standing around, bowls in hand. To my right, there’s a small commotion, but I don’t pay any heed until I hear her voice.
In the Time of Kings Page 18