“From thence, the stone became known as the Stone of Destiny, for the future of his countrymen was secure in the hands of any king crowned upon it.
“’Twas no long after that the first Norsemen came to make war, to claim slaves, to capture bonny lasses as their women, to steal plate and jewels. In time, they saw the beauty of Scotland and came to stay, invading islands and planting their seeds and seed. The land was hotly contested in those times, for there was precious little of it fertile, and the men of Dalriada lost more than their share of battles.
“For fear of capture, the Stone of Destiny was moved northward, along with the king, to Dunstaffnage. A tale there is that the stone itself was mortared into to wall of the fort to ensure that none might steal it away.
‘‘’Twas there that Kenneth the Hardy, son of Alpin, became the first King of Alba. A fair king he was and one with a dream for Scotland unified. Crowned upon it, he later moved the Stone of Destiny to Moot Hill, where it would be safe from raiding Norsemen. Even in those ancient days, Moot Hill was a council place of great authority, and the king wisely blended old and new beneath his hand. Kenneth made Moot Hill the site of his court and so it was for many a year.”
Alasdair laced his fingers together, and stared into the trees. He was well aware that the sorceress attended his every word.
“The years rolled by, the kings birthed and died, feasted and killed, yet despite their battles, Scotland endured. The Norsemen settled on the islands and far north, the Norman knights were granted lands, and all grew to prosperity. Alexander III was the last of the great kings, a man who witnessed the death of his kin, of his wife and three babes, yet was known to be religious, holy, wise and kind.
“Aye, those were fine days for Scotland, days of prosperity and peace beneath a just king’s hand.”
Alasdair paused and the sorceress leaned closer. “What happened to him?”
“Late in his days, he took a wee wife to his side, a French lass name of Yolande de Dreux, and ’twas his love for her that drove all sense from his mind.” Alasdair shook his head. “But I stray from the tale in telling of this too soon.”
He frowned at the woods. “There were portents of doom in the last year of Alexander’s kingship, for foul weather welcomed the new year. ’Twas on the lips of many that the Day of Judgment was at hand, though the king believed naught of it. ’Twas the eighteenth day of March, the date foretold by many to be that Judgment Day, when Alexander – perhaps in defiance of popular belief – called his council to Edinburgh.
“They conferred long hours, then the good king entertained his favored ones with a fine meal that stretched long into the night. A storm began to rage as they dined, making more than one man shiver in dread. The king laughed, though, and lifted his chalice high, urging all to fill their bellies.
“Perhaps ’twas the influence of good Gascony wine, but when all made to retire, Alexander wanted only to be with his beloved new bride. Yolande slumbered at his abode of Kinghorn, not too far distant but across the Firth itself.
“He called for his ostler and he called for the ferryman, and he rode to the port, though the storm was ripping through the trees. All begged that he wait for the dawn, but Alexander would not be swayed.
“’Twas the blackest hour of the night that they sailed across the Firth, fighting the waves all the way to Inverkeithing. The innkeeper there begged the king to tarry, but he would have none of it. Naught would suffice for him that night but his sweet bride’s own bed, and he began the long ride along to coast to Kinghorn. The heat of his desire sent Alexander ahead of his party and wind stole away their warning cries.”
Alasdair looked to his boots. “They found him in the morn, a victim of his own recklessness,” he said quietly. “In his haste, he had ridden carelessly. His steed had fallen from the road, the necks of both broken on the rocks below. And so it was that Scotland had no king.”
“Didn’t he have an heir?”
Alasdair shrugged. “A wee lass, who died shortly thereafter.” His frown deepened. “And Edward of England saw his long-sought chance to make Scotland his own.”
He plucked a stem of heather and twirled it in his fingers, remembering all too well the tumult of those times. And later, the distant uproar in Alasdair’s homeland had been echoed before his own hearth.
For a Fenella displeased was a Fenella impossible. And there had been much in the early days of their match – indeed, throughout the match – that Fenella had found displeasing.
Alasdair shifted awkwardly at the unwelcome recollection. Morgaine waited silently, and he suddenly realized that the heather he held was white of bloom.
Alasdair granted it to Morgaine with a wry smile. “’Tis said to be uncommon fortune,” he said, before realizing that an enchantress had no need of such tokens.
But she accepted it all the same, giving him a smile that twisted his heart. “By your gran?”
“Aye.”
“It sounds as if she has a lot of folk wisdom to share.”
Alasdair grimaced. “Aye, oft too much.” He smiled ruefully. “Would that I had listened.” Then the smile vanished, the visage of Fenella invading his thoughts for the first time in years.
And the ardor that raged in his loins for Morgaine felt the equivalent of a winter’s daunting chill.
Morgaine leaned against him, the press of her breast against his arm banishing the unwelcome Fenella from Alasdair’s mind. And beneath his kilt, there was a definite promise of summer’s heat. “Was there a war?”
Alasdair nodded and fought against his earthly urges. “Aye, there was, and nasty ’twas indeed. Edward had women and children put to death for no reason at all; he razed entire towns and terrified the people. He taxed and murdered and slaughtered until all bent to kiss his hand. He would have all grovel before him, whatever the cost.”
Alasdair fixed the sorceress with a stern look. “If any had a doubt about the English and their intent for Scotland, years of bloody savagery put it to rest. It might have been a short war indeed, for so many bellies had gone soft in those good years, were it not for one William Wallace of Elderslie.”
“Oh, I know all about Wallace,” Morgaine declared. “I saw Braveheart, you know.”
Alasdair could make no sense of that comment, but he continued nonetheless. “Aye. Well, Edward captured Wallace after years of war and years of hunting. He put the valiant man to a gruesome public death.”
Morgaine grimaced. “I know. I couldn’t watch the end.”
Alasdair frowned at this easy reference to her powers. “But though Wallace died cruelly, he did not die for naught. Edward showed the cruelty of his nature in his pursuit of Wallace. He stole away both the ancient regalia and the Stone of Scone when he considered himself victorious, showing one and all that he did not intend Scotland to have another king of her own. A broken promise it was, for had promised Scotland’s crown to one loyal to his side, name of Robert the Bruce.”
“I thought Robert the Bruce was a rebel?”
“Aye, in the end he was, though there was a time when he bent his knee to England. Such is the burden of those who hold property and must think of their responsibilities as well as their own hearts’ demand.
“There was more than one Robert the Bruce, to the first son of each generation of Bruces had the name of Robert. The one I follow is the grandson of the one to whom Edward broke his word. One of two powerful families in Scotland, the Bruce clan knew ’twould be they or the Comyns who retrieved the Scottish crown, if any had the valor to do the deed. ’Tis said the Comyns did not want the crown but agreed to aid the Bruces in exchange for land and wealth.
“At any rate, ’twas no coincidence that Robert the Bruce took council with John Comyn the Red in Dumfries, nor that a church was chosen for their parlay. Many’s the account of what happened that day, for they two were fiercely competitive and ambitious both, and neither afraid to use his blade. In the end, there is but one fact clear – they argued and John Comyn left the cha
pel in a shroud alone, while Robert the Bruce rode away.”
*
Chapter Eight
Morgaine’s eyes were round. “He killed him?”
“Aye, or at the least his man finished the deed once ’twas begun. To have done so in the holy sanctuary of a church was no small sin and I can only believe that the Robert the Bruce I know and serve would have had just cause. I heard tell that John had betrayed Robert’s plans to the English and done so far too soon for comfort, but ’tis not a topic upon which Robert the Bruce will tolerate discussion.”
Morgaine frowned at that and might have protested, but Alasdair continued determinedly with his tale. “’Twas certain the English would hunt any man who killed one of their own - let alone one conspiring to make himself king - and war was in the wind once more. Robert the Bruce hied himself to Scone, his supporters in his wake.”
Alasdair smiled, recalling that sunny summer’s day they had lolled on Moot Hill and heard the tale recounted. “Imagine the sight, if you dare. A fine spring day, a heatherclad hill and pennants snapping in the breeze, great stallions of war stamping on the perimeter.
“’Twas the 25th of March, some twenty years after the death of Alexander III, that Robert the Bruce was crowned King of Scots in the Abbey of Scone. He was attended by three bishops and four earls, together the eight most powerful men in this bonnie land.”
Alasdair leaned toward the sorceress and lowered his voice. “’Tis said the MacDuff clan have the ancient right to set the crown upon the brow of the Kings of Alba - this blood courses through the veins of the Earl of Fife. That man was imprisoned in England but his sister, Isobel of Buchan, defied her husband’s allegiance to both Edward of England and John Comyn. She rode in haste and at considerable risk to herself to fulfill her family duty.”
“How exciting!” Morgaine’s eyes sparkled.
“Aye, there were those who said Isobel loved the Bruce more than her own spouse, and ’twas that alone that set her course.” He shrugged. “Whatever the truth, the lass was two days late for the coronation, by all accounts. All the same, Robert the Bruce had her place the golden circlet upon his brow once again. ’Twas Palm Sunday and Scotland again had her rightful king.”
The enchantress frowned. “But you said that Edward took the Stone of Destiny away.”
“Aye.” Alasdair smiled at the intent sorceress, liking that she listened well. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There are those who say he stole a fraud, and that the true stone was hidden away. Those who knew the truth unveiled the real stone for the crowning of the Bruce.”
Morgaine sighed. “That’s so romantic.”
Alasdair nodded grimly, not able to pinpoint precisely why it troubled him so to find the sorceress prey to the Bruce’s legendary allure. “Aye, Robert has always been one to turn a lassie’s eye, that much is for certain.”
“But wasn’t Edward still ready to make war?”
“Aye, that he did. You may well believe that once he heard the tale of the coronation, he bayed for blood. Robert the Bruce managed to flee and came himself to my island, seeking recruits to his cause.”
Alasdair cleared his throat as he pushed recollections from his mind. “At the time, it suited me well to join his ranks.”
“But…” Morgaine looked perplexed.
“But what?” Alasdair echoed irritably. There had been protests aplenty when he joined the Bruce, but Alasdair had no interest in hearing them again now. “Do you think it so unnatural for a man to wish to see his homeland freed of the iron fist of the English?”
Morgaine looked dumbfounded.
In truth, for a sorceress of rare power, she was markedly easy to surprise.
“But the war is over…”
“Over?” To think that she would tell him another falsehood after he shared this noble tale! “’Tis far from over and you know the truth as well as I!”
Alasdair bounced to his feet in outrage, tugging his tartan from beneath her with such force that she nearly rolled away. “I know well enough that you support their cause, but listen to me well, my lady. There can be no excuse for the rape and slaughter Edward and his kin have made of this fair land.”
Morgaine looked exasperated. “But they’re all dead!”
Alasdair straightened and impaled her with a glance. “Who would be dead, by your account?” he asked coldly.
“Robert the Bruce, for one.” She ran a hand over her brow. “I mean you talk as though you know him, but…”
“I do know Robert the Bruce!” Alasdair propped his hands on his hips. “I have served beneath his hand for seven years and have yet to regret one single day of that service.”
“But…”
“Morgan! There you are!” Justine crowed.
The sorceress looked as dismayed as Alasdair felt at the interruption of her advisors. Justine and Blake descended on them, their wide smiles remarkably at odds with Alasdair’s jaggly mood.
“Should we head out? Blake’s found the most wonderful little place where we can stay tonight.”
The pair acted as though there was naught amiss.
“Is it to Lewis you would take me?” Alasdair asked suspiciously.
Blake pushed the device up his nose. “Look, I’m sorry we misunderstood each other before. It’s going to take a couple of days to get there, you know, it’s pretty far.”
Alasdair knew well enough that the road was long from Faerie to the mortal world. But how much earthly time passed with each moment here?
Blake smiled. “Trust me, that’s where we’re going.”
Trust him.
Alasdair hated that he had little option other than to do exactly that if he meant to see his home again. Morgaine frowned now, as deep in thought as Alasdair had ever seen and clearly not following the conversation around her. The sorceress looked as though she intended to be of little use to him in this, although she could addle his wits in splendid fashion.
Was his fate no more than a game to her?
Alasdair wondered at his own sense that Justine fairly held her breath, awaiting his approval. “Please, Alasdair,” she cajoled with a smile that appeared genuine. “We’re on the way now, anyway.”
Alasdair had never been a fond of moment when he had few options. He thought of his wedding day and his mood worsened considerably.
He sighed, then nodded grimly. “I will continue to journey with you.” When Blake and Justine smiled happily, Alasdair slanted a glance to Morgaine.
One last matter was there to resolve.
The advisors trotted back toward the Micra, evidently busily planning some scheme or other and he waited until they were out of earshot.
Then, Alasdair bent low to growl to Morgaine alone. “Understand that I travel with you because I have no other choice. But make no mistake, my lady, I will not readily countenance your lies about the man of honor I follow.”
“But…”
“But naught!” Alasdair interrupted her savagely before she could concoct some tale to beguile him. He glowered at her sternly. “So long as you insist the English have vanquished the Scots and that Robert the Bruce is dead, ’twill be me who is not speaking with you.”
With that, Alasdair followed Blake and Justine, leaving Morgaine to trail in his wake.
*
Alasdair said he knew Robert the Bruce.
Personally.
Was he nuts?
Or was he telling the truth? From their first meeting, Morgan had thought those blue eyes revealed his thoughts with unreal clarity. He believed without a shadow of a doubt everything he had just told her.
Morgan could see it in his eyes.
But did that mean she should believe it, too? Because if Alasdair was telling the truth and he wasn’t nuts, then he had to have come from the past.
Morgan watched him stride away and wondered.
What if Alasdair were lost from another time? His attitude about nearly everything could be explained if he had just arrived from the fo
urteenth century, but even Morgan’s imagination had a hard time accepting that.
Maybe he was an actor who really got into his roles. That was easier to accept, but left three really big loose ends dangling.
How could Alasdair have changed their guidebooks?
And, even tougher, how could he have changed Blake and Justine’s memories of Scottish history?
And why didn’t he show up in her photograph? Morgan chewed her lip and trailed behind the others.
Unless Alasdair’s coming forward in time had changed history.
It couldn’t be true. There had to be a logical explanation, but logic had never been Morgan’s strong suit. She was intuitive, and her intuition was screaming Yes! at the very idea of Alasdair traveling through time.
Morgan rubbed her temple as the trio marched away from her and tried not to flash back to math class and the torture of making geometric proofs. Not having had enough sleep didn’t make thinking this through any easier.
She meekly piled into her place in the Micra, vaguely aware of Justine describing some romantic hotel that a nice woman from Cincinnati had told them about.
Morgan twiddled the heather in her fingers, liking that Alasdair had given it to her and not liking that she liked that.
But if Alasdair was a fourteenth-century highlander, then he wasn’t a con man. In fact, if he had had the crystal from the regalia in his possession before he traveled through time, that could explain why it was missing and no one remembered it ever being there. Alasdair could have changed history.
Morgan really didn’t like how reassuring she found the logic of that. No one could zip across six or seven centuries.
Could they?
And if they did, would it turn Robert the Bruce from hero to scoundrel?
It was all just too confusing. Morgan leaned back in her corner of the back seat and pretended to doze, watching Alasdair through her lashes all the while.
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