Taken

by Angeline Fortin

  Laird rose to his feet as her agitation extended to him. “’Tis the fifth day of September.”

  “The year,” she demanded urgently.

  “’Tis the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and thirteen,” he said slowly and ironically echoed Rhys’s concern from weeks past. “I hope that dinnae come as a surprise for ye, lass.”

  1513! Oh, what a fool she was! Why hadn’t she listened before? Why hadn’t she paid more attention? How could she have been so stupid? Half-truths and misconceptions. A world that looked nothing like the one she knew. She hadn’t been able to recognize the path they were taking.

  Well, she recognized it well enough now.

  “Lass? Scarlett?” Laird’s fingers trailed across her jaw as if his touch might calm the anxiety building in her, but Scarlett was very afraid there would be nothing that could. Not now. “What is it?”

  Scarlett struggled to find the right words in the sudden vacuum of her mind. Words to make him understand. To make him believe.

  Pushing away from him, she paced anxiously to the open tent flap and back again. Too much of her life had gotten out of control because she hadn’t spoken up. She couldn’t let that happen now.

  But panic was gurgling up inside of her. She couldn’t make a rational argument in such a state. Ugh, could she make one at all? Was there one he could possibly believe?

  “Scarlett, what’s amiss?” His strong hands closed over her shoulders, turning her to face him.

  “Everything. You cannot fight this war, Laird,” she said carefully, tilting her head back to look at him. He was so precious to her. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to find a way. “You must find a way to stop it. Talk to King James. Tell him he must draw back.”

  Laird frowned warily. “Yer talking nonsense, lass. Why would the King want to withdraw?”

  She squeezed his hand, trying to convey some of her urgency and none of her panic. Becoming hysterical wouldn’t garner a bit of faith. “Because you are going to lose this war, Laird. You are going to be utterly defeated,” she told him, remembering that detailed oil painting from the exhibit at Dunskirk of the Battle of Flodden. So much red. “You need to tell the King and make him withdraw.”

  “Och, lass, tell him what? That ye’ve had a flight of fancy? A premonition?” There was concern in his eyes but it wasn’t for the war ahead. It was for her. “Och, lass, how can I do that? He’ll no’ believe it.”

  Because Laird didn’t believe it. Scarlett took a breath. How could she make him understand? His knuckles traced a path along her jaw before he tweaked her chin and tilted her head back.

  “Ye worry for naught, lass,” he said soothingly. “We hae far more men than anticipated, lass. More than thirty thousand men already and even more still arriving each day. Henry fights in France wi’ his regular army. Our spies tell us, Surrey has no’ more than twenty thousand. I admit to ha’ing my own doubts aboot this. But there is nae way we can lose with those odds. We will outnumber our enemy.”

  Scarlett drew in a deep breath. “It won’t matter, Laird. It won’t be enough. Now I want you to listen to me carefully. Because I’m about to tell you what will really happen.”

  “Lass…”

  “No, hear me out. Please,” she begged, pushing him back into the chair and dropping to her knees before him. Relief swept through her when Laird settled back in the chair. He was doubtful but at least he was listening.

  “There’s going to be another battle. A big one on the ninth of the month.”

  “Ye dinnae ken what yer saying, lass.”

  Scarlett sighed in exasperation. “I ken that just a couple of miles away is a field where you plan on fighting the English army. And I ken you are going to lose. Talk to King James. Tell him he must draw back.”

  “Lass…”

  “No, hear me out.” Scarlett gripping his knees, rotating her thumbs. The words were slow in coming; she kept hoping some inspiration would hit her. That some vague fact from a quickly thumbed through brochure would pop into her mind.

  The brochure!

  Running to her trunk, she dug through the depths until she found her purse. Burrowing through the contents, she withdrew the pamphlets Donell had given her and shuffled through them until she found it. Flodden: 500 Years. “The battle will be fought at Flodden Field, not far from here.” His eyes narrowed and a heavy sigh lifted her shoulders. “No, I’m not a spy.”

  “Then how do ye ken such a thing? Did Rhys reveal such a detail?” he asked.

  “No. I know it because I read it in this.” Scarlett flipped through the pages, scanning them quickly. “Four days from now. Thousands of men will die.”

  “Scarlett, lass.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and took her hands in his. “’Tis war, lass. Aye, men will die.”

  Frustrated, Scarlett shook her head again. “Look at this, Laird.” She waved the brochure at him again. “Your countrymen are going to die for nothing. Even the king. You have to stop it.”

  “’Tis treason to threaten the life of the king, lass.”

  “Let’s not go there again, okay? I’m not threatening him,” she enunciated clearly. “I’m telling you flat out that he will die if this battle is fought.” She pressed the brochure into his hand. “Look at it. This is your Kobashi Maru, Laird.”

  “My what?” he asked, running his fingers hesitantly over the glossy cover.

  “It’s a no-win situation,” she desperately explained. “I mean, maybe Captain Kirk beat it because he cheated but you don’t have that option. You cannot win. You will not. Read it, Laird. Don’t believe me if you want but believe that. Read what it says. Read the names of your family and friends who will die on that field. Nearly ten thousand of them.” Names that had once sounded familiar and now she knew why. “Your uncles, your cousin. All of them will die. And if that sword of yours is any indication…”

  Scarlett’s words broke off with the crack of her voice. How had she not seen it all before? Why hadn’t she realized the truth? “You will die, too.” The words emerged dully as she rocked backwards and she sank numbly down on the ground.

  “’Tis nothing but nonsense, lass,” he scoffed.

  “It’s true.” Her voice was barely a hoarse whisper. “It’s all true. I saw it. Your sword. In the museum.”

  Scottish claymore, found on the battlefield of Flodden.

  Even when she had first seen it, she had realized why it had been in the exhibit. Because the Scotsman bearing it had fallen in battle. Because he had died.

  Because Laird had died.

  “It was found on Flodden Field after the battle. So either you left it there or…”

  Emotion tightened at the back of her throat painfully, making it almost impossible to breathe. Tears stung at her eyelids as she sat there in stunned silence. Her heart pounded in hard, slow thumps, knocking against her ribs. Her stomach twisted sickly. She could hardly breathe, suffocating under the numbing weight of the truth.

  He was going to die.

  “’Tis madness ye speak of, lass. Ye cannae ken such a thing.” He flipped through the brightly colored brochure. “’Tis words on a page, nothing more.”

  “No, it’s history.”

  And for the first time in her life, the subject evoked real emotion in her.

  35

  “Lass,” Laird sighed, shaking his head as he left the chair and dropped down on his haunches in front of her, taking her hands in his once more. “Scarlett. Look at me, mo chroí.”

  Scarlett lifted wide, dazed eyes to his, seeing the cynicism, the disbelief written there. “If you say one word about female nerves or hysteria, I will hurt you bad,” she warned. “I know what you’re thinking, Laird. I’m not mad or hysterical. It is far simpler,” – and way more unbelievable – “than that.”

  “What is it then?”

  “When I told you I wasn’t from around here, Laird, I wasn’t joking,” she told him. “I’m from a place far from here, not in distance but in time. This
isn’t my time. I came here from five hundred years in the future. I came here, I think, to warn you. To stop this war because everything I’ve told you is true. I know what will happen because to me, it’s history.”

  After a long moment of silence, his eyes searching hers intently, Laird stood and crossed his arms over his massive chest. He stared moodily at her for a long while. “Now I ken ye maun be overwrought to be speaking such nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense, Laird.” Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Scarlett hastened to his side and laid a pleading hand on his arm. “I think somewhere deep down you know it. You’re thinking that it actually makes sense. You’ve never met anyone like me. Anyone who talks like me, acts like me, right? It makes sense now why I wouldn’t know how to ride a horse or eat with a knife or dance your dances.”

  “Nay, lass. None of this makes any sense a’tall.” Brushing her hand away, Laird strode toward the open flap. Fighting back a flight of panic, Scarlett knew she had to stop him. She had to make him listen and believe. Not for her sake but for his and for everyone he knew.

  Turning back to the bed, she upended her purse spilling the contents out on to the mattress. Her phone, wallet, passport, mints, pens… her gun. “Look at this, Laird! See the proof for yourself. Any of it will show you that I’m telling the truth.”

  But he wasn’t listening. Instead he was walking away.

  She couldn’t let that happen!

  An earsplitting explosion echoed off the tent walls and through his head, dragging his feet to a halt. James spun around to find Scarlett standing at the foot of his bed with one arm raised and pointing at the ceiling. Above her, a ragged hole pierced the roof of the tent, spearing a thin shaft of sunlight down upon her. “What the bluidy hell was that?” he yelled above the ringing in his ears.

  “That is a hole in your ceiling,” Scarlett said calmly. “This is a called a Smith &Wesson Bodyguard .380 or in this case, it is more commonly referred to as ‘irrefutable proof’. I am not mad, Laird, and here is undeniable evidence of that fact. It is a handgun, a weapon made to fire small projectiles called bullets at a very high rate of speed for the purpose of harming or killing an attacker or enemy… or in this case, a ceiling. Come here and look at it. Hold it. Believe it and then maybe you can believe me. Just don’t walk out that door.”

  She said it all so matter-of-factly, James was almost inclined to believe her right then and there but curiosity consumed him. He paced slowly back toward Scarlett, never taking his eyes from the small black object in her hand. “Let me see it.”

  Knowing that she finally had his complete attention, Scarlett ejected the clip and pulled back the barrel to release the bullet from the chamber. Turning the pistol, she offered Laird the butt end. It was an extreme length to go to; to secure his faith but she hadn’t seen any other options. She needed to stop him before he got on his horse and left the truth behind. It had been either the ceiling or him.

  Hopefully she wouldn’t regret her choice.

  “What is it?” he asked, rolling the handgun in his hands. It looked so small in his palm. Harmless.

  “I told you what it is,” she said. “The best I could relate it to for you is a hand cannon I saw at the exhibit.”

  “This disnae look like any hand cannon I hae e’er seen,” Laird said, still examining the weapon. “’Tis too small and frail looking to do much harm.”

  Scarlett held up a small shard of metal and he took it rolling it between his fingers. It was smoothly tooled and oblong. “That’s a bullet. Like a cannonball, it is propelled from the barrel at a high rate of speed. Fast enough to do more than enough damage, especially at close range. Now tell me, have you ever seen anything like it before?”

  He hadn’t. That fact unnerved him but he wasn’t keen on accepting her far-fetched explanation for it just yet. “I’ve heard of places far to the east that have developed advanced weaponry.” It was an inadequate option and his lass knew it as well given the soft, sympathetic smile that was curving her bonny lips.

  “It’s overwhelming, I know. Believe me, I had my fair share of shocks when I arrived in this time. But I accepted it, sooner rather than later, and you need to, as well, Laird.”

  So simple a request, yet so difficult despite the evidence in his hand. Nay, James did not believe it had come from the farthest countries to the east but it was no simple thing to believe her explanation either. It was an unholy option. More heretical than anything that had yet fallen from her lips. The logical part of his mind revolted, the other part exulted for he hadn’t wanted to accept that Scarlett was naught but a madwoman. “It is beyond belief.”

  “Yes, there’s no questioning that,” she agreed. “So now that we’ve got that settled, will you tell the King that he must withdraw before they reach Flodden?”

  “Nay, lass, I cannae do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am in the King’s service but I hae no’ his ear,” he said evasively. “Even if I did, I doubt he would believe me. I dinnae truly believe it yet and I hae nae desire to be thought mad.”

  “Mad as me, right?” Scarlett shook her head, frustrated with the lack of progress she was making with him. “What else can I tell you, Laird? You cannot let this happen. I cannot let it happen. I think I must have come back here to save you. But I’ll need you to believe in me if I’m going to make that happen.”

  “Ah, lass,” he said, tweaking her earlobe. “I always kent ye’ve been hiding something from me. But I cannae simply accept this reason as truth.”

  “Even with the evidence in your hand?”

  James looked down at the wee hand cannon once more and tossed it on the bed. Aye, he was curious and a large part of him wanted to believe her incredible tale. To believe that the woman who had come to mean so much to him in such a short amount of time wasn’t fit for Bedlam. But it was just too bizarre, too ungodly a fable for him to just set aside everything he knew about the world in blind faith.

  He needed time to think.

  36

  “We’ve languished here for days whist ye dally wi’ Lady Heron as if we’ve nothing better to pass the time!” Lord Lindsay slammed his fist down on the thick wooden table with a solid thud. “Our men sit idle, some are beginning to drift away and still we’ve nae progress forward. Surrey hae nae such hesitation. His son brings ships filled with supplies and arms. The Sassenach forces hae left Alnwick and arrived at Woller Haugh this day.”

  “Beware how ye speak to yer king, Lindsay,” King James uttered darkly. He must have tired of Lady Heron’s bed, at least for the time being, to take some interest in the strategies for the days ahead. “We will carry on as planned.”

  James lounged back in his chair placed far away from the crowded council table, brushing the pad of his thumb thoughtfully across his lower lip as he listened to the Lindsay rant against the King. Enemy of the Hepburns the Lindsay might be but his arguments made far greater sense than they should. Given the words he had read over and over again these past two days, he was beginning to agree with the Lindsay’s assessment.

  Slipping his hand into his sporran, he ran his fingers over the pamphlet he kept there. Ten pages of thick, glossy paper emblazoned with colorful artwork such as he had never seen. Paintings so finely detailed he could see nary a brushstroke. He’d marveled over them for hours. It had taken even longer for him to work out the words printed so tightly on the pages.

  The first were clear enough. Flodden: 500 Years. The field of Flodden sat no more than two miles to the west of Ford Castle. A wide-open space with a ridge excellent for the strategic placement of their troops. Troops that were already gathering there.

  Below the broadly written heading was a statement of an exhibition honoring the five hundredth anniversary of the battle. Five hundred years. If Scarlett spoke true, she had come to him from a time far beyond his imagination. That more than anything made it difficult to grasp the veracity of her claim. Ironically enough, James had gotten to a place in his mind where
he might have accepted a hundred years, perhaps even two but five hundred was mind-boggling.

  Perhaps in another day or two he might wrap his mind around such a great number but…

  According to prophecy contained in the pamphlet, they didn’t have that long.

  “Surrey has troops pouring in from all over the northwest and northeast corners of England,” Lindsay pointed out. “He’s sent a bluidy challenge to remain in this area so that we might meet him in battle on the ninth day of September. That’s bluidy well two days from now!”

  James had seen the letter and the one that had followed it from Surrey’s son, Thomas Howard, the Lord Admiral. That more insulting missive had concluded in the brash statement that he would ‘expect no quarter and will give none, other than to your majesty, should you be delivered into my hands.’

  According to the words in Scarlett’s brochure, Howard would not have that chance. King James IV would die on the field of battle. The last reigning monarch to do so.

  Ironic given his cocky response to Surrey’s letter. ‘To meet the English in battle is so much my wish, that had your message found me in Edinburgh, I should have relinquished all other business to meet you in the field.’

  And meet them they would.

  “Surrey expected us to stay near Ford Castle. He willnae like it that we hae crossed the River Till and positioned our forces on the high ridge of Flodden Field,” Sir William explained. “’Twill gi’ us an excellent advantage in meeting Surrey, leaving him to face an uphill assault when he comes to us. Already our defenses are prepared for battle.”

  Surrey’s intelligence had taken note of their fortifications. Strong on the eastern and western flanks. Another letter had arrived from, complaining about the advantageous location and challenging King James to come down off his hill to do battle.

  Aware of its contents, the King had refused to receive it.

  According to their own spies, Surrey was leaving Woller Haugh to take up a better position and a new challenge had been received that day urging King James to come forth and meet him there, hoping, no doubt, that James would leave his more strategic position. The King had responded to the challenge by saying ‘it beseems not an earl to handle a King after this fashion.’