by Baker, Katy
The man looked her up and down and then did the same with Ramsay. Ramsay, for his part, lifted his head and met the man’s gaze but Jess could see it was taking all his strength to remain upright.
Jess opened the purse, took out some coins and dropped them onto a table. The innkeeper scooped them up and then grunted.
“This way.”
He led them up a set of rickety stairs and to a room set into the eaves of the building. “The wife will be serving supper after evensong and my lad will take care of the horse. Holler if ye need aught.”
Without waiting for a reply he shuffled off, leaving them standing in the corridor.
“Charming man,” Jess observed.
She pushed the door open and helped Ramsay inside. The room was larger than she expected and although it was sparsely furnished, with white-washed walls, a water bowl, a pitcher and a rickety bed, it was at least clean. Ramsay staggered over to the bed and collapsed onto his back on the hard, straw-stuffed mattress.
“Roll onto your side,” she instructed. “So I can examine your wound.”
He didn’t respond and Jess realized he’d fallen asleep. Asleep or unconscious. Sweat dripped down his brow and his eyelids fluttered as though he dreamed. Jess bit her lip, fighting down a sudden fear. She took the jug and poured some cold, clean water into the bowl. Ramsay didn’t stir as she hiked up the plaid on his left side and inspected his wound.
The skin had turned red and angry, the stitches pulling tight into swollen flesh. Jess’s heart skipped. The wound had become infected. He needed help—more help than she could give.
Frustration welled up inside her and she punched the pillow. Damn it all! In the twenty-first century all he would need was a trip to the doctor’s for some antibiotics! Here? Here that wound could kill him!
The thought made her go cold.
What did people do when they were ill in this time? They must have remedies? Some way to treat illness? She stood, left Ramsay sleeping, and hurried downstairs to the common room. The innkeeper was asleep in a chair, his head lolling back, an empty whisky glass on the table in front of him.
Jess coughed loudly and the innkeeper came awake with a snort.
“Eh? Who? What?”
“My husband has a toothache,” Jess lied smoothly. “Could you tell me where I might find something to soothe it?”
The innkeeper grunted and waved a hand vaguely. “Apothecary at the end of the street. Ye’ll know it when ye see it.” He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Jess walked to the door but paused with her hand on the latch. You can do this, she thought. You have to.
Lifting her chin, she pulled the door open and stepped out into the street.
RAMSAY JOLTED AWAKE. He was lying on something lumpy. Where was he? His memories were hazy. He remembered speaking to refugees on the road. They’d been fleeing MacGregor hadn’t they? And one of them had mistaken him for someone else.
Ye look mighty like him. Ye could almost be twins.
He lurched upright. No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
A stab of pain erupted in his side, sharp and deep like an iron spike. He gasped, his head swimming, his vision blurring. He screwed his face up, gasping, until finally the pain began to ebb, becoming a hot ache that throbbed in time to his beating heart. He opened his eyes. He was in a guest room. He had hazy memories of an innkeeper and coins changing hands. The room was large but sparse and dropping cold with no fire in the grate.
Jess was nowhere to be seen.
He looked around in alarm, a stab of worry adding to the throbbing pain in his hip. Where was she?
Gripping the bedpost, he clambered to his feet and then wished he hadn’t. The throbbing ache blazed into blinding agony and he staggered, catching himself on the wall. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his shirt and examined his wound, dismayed to find that it was festering.
Damn it all! He didn’t have time for this! While he delayed, Artair Campbell was getting further away. He couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now.
There was a jug of water sitting on a washing stand so he took a quick swig and poured the rest over his head. Its icy bite took his breath away but helped to clear his thoughts. Taking steadying breaths, he straightened, checked he had his sword, then hobbled to the door.
He had to find Jess. Everything else could wait. He yanked the door open and staggered down the corridor. He managed to get down the stairs without falling. The innkeeper looked up as he entered the common room.
“Where is she?” Ramsay growled.
“Where’s who?”
“Dinna play games with me, man!” he snarled. “My wife! Where did she go?”
“Out,” he said in a bored voice. “Said ye had a toothache.”
“Aye,” Ramsay muttered. “That’s right. Where did she go?”
“Gave her directions to an apothecary,” the man replied. He waved a hand. “That way.”
Ramsay’s stomach churned. Jess had gone out alone, into an unfamiliar town that she knew was crawling with MacGregor’s henchman? What had possessed her to take such a risk?
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his side, he strode to the door and left the inn.
Chapter 8
JESS HURRIED DOWN THE street, following the innkeeper’s directions. She couldn’t help gawking as she walked. The sights, sounds and smells were a little overwhelming. She was in a sixteenth century town!
The streets were little more than hard-packed earth and the houses and shops built from timber with thatched roofs. She kept expecting somebody to point her out, to realize that she was an imposter that didn’t belong here, but nobody did. Most people walked by without so much as giving her a glance.
Not for the first time she was grateful to Aida for the clothes.
Things would have been very different if I was wearing my lab coat, she thought wryly. How they would stare then!
The innkeeper’s directions, it turned out, were entirely unhelpful. There was no apothecary at the end of the street, only a butcher’s shop which stank so badly that Jess put her hand over her mouth and hurried quickly by.
Once out of range of the smell, she stopped. If she kept on wandering aimlessly, she would get lost and that was the last thing she needed. A young woman was walking down the street carrying a toddler on her hip. Jess plucked up her courage and approached the young woman, asking for directions to the apothecary.
The woman looked at her a little strangely when she heard Jess’s accent but made no comment. She pointed down a side street and, following the woman’s directions, Jess found herself weaving through a narrow alley which ended in a small, flagstone court surrounded on all sides by buildings that leaned close together. One of the buildings had a bunch of lavender hanging outside to announce its purpose.
Taking a deep breath, Jess pushed through the door and found herself in a room filled with shelves reaching from floor to ceiling. The shelves were stacked with packets and glass bottles of every kind.
A middle-aged woman was seated on a stool by the fireplace, sewing a tunic.
“What can I help ye with?” she said.
She listened whilst Jess described Ramsay’s injuries. She asked no questions but nodded at intervals to show she understood. She gave Jess detailed instructions on how to treat his wound and handed her several packets of herbs and other paraphernalia that Jess had never seen before.
Jess, grateful for her help, handed over some coins, grabbed her purchases, and left.
Outside in the court, it was starting to get dark. The buildings leaned together so closely that it was already gloomy and candles were starting to be lit in the windows. It was time she was getting back. She began to walk away but paused at the sound of voices coming from one of the buildings.
“Sit down, will ye! Ye are making my neck ache!”
She cocked her head, listening. That voice. Where had she heard it before?
It had come from a building opposite. She crossed the courty
ard, crept up to the window and carefully peered through.
Two groups of men were facing off in the room beyond. The groups had each formed semi-circles behind what Jess assumed to be their leaders—two men seated on chairs. Jess squinted through the gloom and gasped.
One of the men was Artair Campbell. He’d gotten rid of his twenty-first century clothes and now wore a rich velvet tunic and a fur-lined cloak held in place by a ruby brooch. He stretched his legs out in front of him and faced the other man with an arrogant smirk on his face.
“Well? Why should I believe ye?” said the other man, one Jess didn’t recognize. “Ye sit there making bold claims but we have yet to see aught but piss and wind out of ye! If ye want my master’s help ye better give more than empty promises.”
Artair steepled his fingers and tapped his chin as he looked the man over. “Ye require a demonstration? So be it.” He reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a gun. There was a silencer attached to the end, and the metal gleamed dully in the gloom.
The man raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s it? That’s yer new, terrifying weapon? Ye told me it could kill a man dead at thirty paces! Ye claim that tiny thing has such power? It’s smaller than my damned hand!”
Artair didn’t answer. Instead, he raised the gun and pointed it at one of the man’s cronies. There was a popping sound, a thud, and the man fell to the floor howling, clutching his leg.
His comrades bellowed and grabbed their weapons but their leader barked a command and they subsided. The leader glanced at the man writhing on the floor and then at Artair. A smile spread across his face.
“Most impressive. Seems ye are not full of piss and wind after all. All right, ye’ve got my attention. What do ye propose?”
“An alliance,” Artair said. “Between myself and yer laird, Benneit MacGregor. If he agrees, I will show him how to make these weapons and the ammunition they fire. As a result he will become the most powerful laird in Scotland. “
The man scratched his beard. “And what do ye get out of this?”
Artair gave a small smile. “Let’s just say Benneit McGregor has something I need.”
“Maybe we just take this weapon of yers and slit yer throat.”
Artair pointed the gun at the leader. “Inadvisable. Ye’ve seen what this can do. I dinna have all day. What say ye? Do we have a deal?”
The leader narrowed his eyes. “Aye. I’ll take ye to meet Laird McGregor. That’s the best I can offer. He will decide what’s to be done with ye.” He glanced at the man still writhing on the floor. “John! Bind Mab’s leg. I canna stand his damned mewling! Let’s go. The laird’s expecting us.”
Jess had heard enough. She stepped back but her foot caught a broken piece of pottery which clattered across the flagstones. The men turned to the window.
“What’s that?” Artair snapped. “Somebody is spying on us!”
“After them!” the leader snapped to his men. “Bring them to me!”
With heart racing, Jess scrambled away from the door, raced down the alleyway and burst out into the street.
Footsteps sounded behind her and, glancing over her shoulder, she saw several dark shapes pelting her way. With a cry, she ran. But to her dismay she found the street didn’t lead back to the inn. Somehow she’d gotten turned around and she no longer knew where she was. She darted down an alleyway but skidded to a stop as she found herself in another small courtyard like the one she’d just left. There were no other exits.
She spun as four men spilled into the courtyard behind her.
“Where do ye think ye are going?” one said. He was of indeterminate age and his plaid was stained and ragged. “Think ye can spy on the MacGregor and get away with it? Commander wants a word with ye.”
Heart hammering, Jess backed away, scanning the courtyard for a means of escape. She found none.
She was trapped.
EACH TIME RAMSAY TOOK a step, agony flared like an iron spike driving into his hip. But he did not let it slow him. Stronger than the pain, flaring far brighter than the burning agony, was the need to find Jess.
His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he strode through the streets, looking from left to right, searching for any sign of her. He headed in the direction the innkeeper had indicated but found no apothecary. He gritted his teeth, swearing under his breath.
“Leave me alone!”
His head whipped around at the cry. It had come from somewhere off to his left. He took off at a run, feet slipping in the mud.
He pelted down a narrow alley and skidded to a standstill. Several men had cornered Jess in a court. It was a dank, dismal place with dilapidated buildings crowding close on every side. Jess was backed against a wall, the men advancing on her. Each of them wore the MacGregor plaid, and they hadn’t yet noticed Ramsay.
“Ye are coming with us,” the leader growled. He grabbed Jess’s wrist and when she struggled, fighting his grip, he raised his hand to strike her.
Ramsay’s vision went red. He hurled himself at the man, grabbed the front of his tunic and slammed him against the wall. He landed a head-butt into the man’s nose that made him grunt in pain.
A blow cannoned into Ramsay’s head and he staggered to his knees, vision blurring. He rolled away as a club slammed into the ground where he’d been kneeling. He lashed out, knocking the club from the man’s hand and then landed a savage kick into the man’s mid-riff.
“Ramsay!” Jess shouted a warning.
He twisted and a sword blade that had been swinging for his neck swished past his face instead. He drew his own sword and rammed it up just in time to catch the backswing. The two blades met with a clang. He heaved with all his might, shoved the man away, and then drove his sword through his gut. He went down with a gurgle.
With enraged howls the others converged on him, some slashing with knives, one with a club, and the others with fists. Ramsay spun and ducked and slashed and parried, desperate to keep them away from Jess. He could not hold them off forever. Already his strength was beginning to ebb, leaking out through the bullet wound in his hip. Any second now one of those knives would find a way through his defenses and it would be over.
“Run!” he shouted at Jess.
JESS WATCHED IN MUTE horror. She wanted to scream but no sound would pass her lips. She wanted to run but her feet felt as though they were welded to the ground. She could barely see Ramsay for the knot of men that surrounded him. He fought like a demon, moving faster than anyone had a right to, seeming to be in all places at once and she knew that a less skilled fighter would already have succumbed to so many opponents. But Ramsay couldn’t keep them at bay indefinitely. One of them would catch him and then...Oh God! And then?
She picked up a stone, sighted at one of the men and threw. It hit the far wall and clattered to the ground. Curse it! She saw a cut open up along Ramsay’s bicep, saw him stagger and almost take a thrust to the stomach, weaving out of the way at the last second.
Terror turned the world white. For a fraction of a second she could hear and see nothing. But then it cleared, and everything had...altered. There were more men in the courtyard than before, so many that there was barely any space left, and all were moving in a slow, languid manner.
No, wait. It wasn’t more people. It was echoes of people, as if each of the fighters left imprints in the air behind them. She saw a second fight laid over the first and then a third and a fourth. A myriad of alternatives, of possibilities, of chances and decisions.
Understanding came in a rush. She was seeing the future, or rather, the possibility of the future, the movements the fighters would make, the decisions they would take. She saw them all, stretching out into infinity.
She looked at a blond haired man with a scar down his face. She knew he was going to step forward...now. She stuck out a foot just as he took that step. She knew he was going to fall with left arm outstretched and so she kicked that arm out from under him and his forehead cracked onto the flagstones, knocking him out cold
.
She saw that a pot-bellied man was going to draw a dagger, so she grabbed his arm, stopped him from doing so, and Ramsay’s blade ripped into his stomach. She knew the other two were going to attack in a concerted effort, one high, one low so she screamed a warning to Ramsay and he dropped to the ground, took one man’s legs out from under him, laid him out with a punch to the temple and then stabbed upwards, taking the last man in the chest.
And then it was over. Jess blinked, and the world returned to normal. The shadow-fighters disappeared. Time resumed its usual flow. Ramsay crouched amid the fallen men, chest heaving, hair tangled, covered in sweat and blood. Some of the men were groaning but some would never get up again.
She swallowed. What had just happened? Nausea made her stomach churn and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. The ability to see the inner world is rare and powerful. Dark powers will want it for themselves.
What the hell had she done?
RAMSAY LEVERED HIMSELF to his feet, sheathed his sword, and grabbed Jess’s shoulders. “Are ye all right?” he demanded. “Did they hurt ye?”
She shook her head, eyes round. “I...I...” She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. “I’m not hurt.”
He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, and she sagged against him, breathing into his chest. She was safe! Thank the Lord, she was safe!
She pushed away and looked around at the fallen men. Her skin was pale, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. He’d seen that expression on people’s faces the first time they see battle.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“It’s not all right!” she cried, staring at the bodies. “Oh God! You don’t understand! What did I do?”
He reached out a hand. “Jess, listen—”
But a sudden flare of pain robbed his speech. His hip felt like it was on fire. The pain drove him to his knees, and he braced himself with his hands on the ground as he struggled to stay conscious.