In the Time of Kings (11 page)

Phone, you monkey brains. Use your cell phone.

“Oh, right,” I say to myself. A quick pat around my hips and chest reveals I have no pockets.
What the ...?
Okay, forget the cell phone. It must have fallen out by the road — wherever that is. I survey the ground nearby. Nothing.

This day is not going well. With luck, I might get a humorous story out of it. I just hope I can laugh about it later. Right now, I want to punch something. Or have a mental breakdown.

A tuft of brownish-gray springs from behind a tree a hundred feet away and darts down the slope, dodging about the trunks erratically. Longer-legged than any rabbit I know, I assume it to be a wild hare and marvel at its speed. As it bounds across the stream at the bottom of the hill, a fox chases after it and leaps across to the other bank, its white-tipped tail whipping behind it. The hare dives into a clump of bushes, then reappears further uphill. But the fox’s line of sight has been broken and it falters just long enough in its stride for the hare to break away.

Wherever I am, I need to find a road so I can flag down a motorist. I’ll worry about explaining the weird garb later. As for the blood, I could blame it on a nosebleed. As far as I can see, there’s no bridge across the glen, no country road wending beside the stream. If I climb to the top of the hill, I might be able to see something. If not a road, then a house, a pub, a cow path, anything that screams ‘Civilization!’

The urge to lie down swoops over me. Why do I feel like I’ve just run a marathon? Every muscle aches fiercely. I can’t remember the last time I was this tired.

One look toward the top of the hill convinces me I don’t have enough energy to make it there before sunset. Better to go with gravity, on down to the stream, have a drink there. If I follow the water, I shouldn’t get totally lost. It will keep me from going in circles, at any rate.

With the first step, my foot catches on a root, causing me to stumble. I regain my balance and glance at the ground behind me. A glint of dulled silver catches my eye. I bend closer. There, half-concealed beneath a fallen pine branch, lies a sword. Crouching, I pull the branch away. That’s when I know I’ve lost my mind.

The sword ... I’ve seen it before. I’ve held it in my childhood. It’s mine.

The blade is straight and plain, forged for the purpose of killing. The hilt is wrapped in leather that, although worn, has been softened with tallow to keep it from cracking. The pommel is gilt, adorned with twining ruby-eyed serpents, and the cross-guard is shaped like a crescent moon.

Hesitantly, I run a finger over the length of the blade from base to tip. When I turn my hand over, a smudge of crimson stains my fingertip. I bring my hand to my nose and inhale ...

The smell of iron and blood.

It has been used. Recently.

LONG, LONG AGO

Northern England — 1333

K
neeling by the stream, I cup my hands and drink. Long and deep, handful after handful. For awhile, it will fool my empty stomach. Sitting back, I catch my reflection in a clear puddle next to the stream. I lean in closer, rub at my chin and cheeks. Stubble scratches my palm. I’ve started to grow a beard. I’d tried once when I turned twenty, but the growth had come in so sparse that I vowed never to try again. This is thicker, though. A sure sign of maturity. My nose and forehead are ruddy from the sun’s rays and my hair brassier than I’ve ever seen it.

At first I’d assumed I had only been unconscious for minutes or perhaps hours. Now, I’m sure it’s been days and I wonder if Claire’s brother notified the police when I didn’t return his calls. Even if they sent a search party after me, they probably aren’t going to find me in the middle of this wilderness.

For a long while I crouch by the stream, trying to keep a lid on the panic that’s building inside me. Any moment now, I could explode like a warm can of soda that’s been dropped on concrete. The longer I sit there, intermittently closing my eyes, then opening them, then closing them again, the more that sense of panic subsides. Exhaustion takes over.

Grasping the hilt of the sword and using it to brace myself, I stand, my knees wobbling, arms shaking. I desperately want to sleep so I can recharge, but that’ll have to wait until later. Right now, I need a way to get back to Claire, make sure she’s going to be okay. I put my head down and follow the flow of water.

Flakes of stone crunch beneath my boots. Unable to lift my feet, I inadvertently kick a stone into the stream. I hear a small splash and a low whinny and look up to see my horse-friend trotting toward me from fifty feet away. It’s gaining speed.
Holy crap!

Knowing I’m not quick enough to dodge it, I drop the sword, throw my hands in front of me and wave them frantically.

“Whoooaaa, there! Whoa!” I have no idea if that’s the right command, but what else am I supposed to do?

Nostrils flaring, it tosses its head, swings sideways, and slams its front hooves into the stream, dousing me in a cold shower. After the shock wears off, I wipe the water from my face and push my hair back. I can now see from this angle that ‘it’ is a ‘he’.

He takes a step closer and nudges me in the chest with his muzzle.

“Get. Lost.” I tap him twice between the eyes with the heel of my hand. Quickly I wipe my hand on my shirt. “I’ll probably end up with welts the size of marbles, just for that.”

With an indignant snort, he nudges me again. Insistently. Plucking up the sword, I sidestep him and begin along the stream. If I ignore him like a lost puppy, eventually he’ll find something more interesting. But the steady clip-clop of hooves follows me, his snotty breath hot on my neck.

“Look,” — I spin around — “you’re
really
intruding on my personal space, you son of a —”

That’s when I see the scabbard strapped to his saddle, the serpent design on it matching the sword in my hand. I reach out, let my fingers wander over the intricate scrolls. A noise makes me jerk my hand away. The distant pounding of hooves rolls through the glen.

Plunging down the steep hillside toward the stream are three riders wearing clothes as ridiculous as mine. They look like they’re fresh from the Renaissance Fair. Or a
Lord of the Rings
convention. Maybe they’re extras in a movie? Or ... hell, I don’t know. This day is making less and less sense all the time. Might as well just go along with it. They might be a little weird-looking (I mean, who am I to talk?), but at least they’ll be able to get me back to the bed and breakfast.

I tuck the sword in my belt, grab the reins of my equine companion, and wait, mustering the most dignified expression I can manage.

‘Pardon me, gentlemen,’
I’ll say, not even daring to attempt a Scottish accent,
‘but could you perhaps direct me to the village of Aberbeg? I seem to have wandered astray.’

As the ground levels out, they turn their mounts and head in my direction, picking up speed. The closer they come, though, the less friendly — and more intimidating — they look. They’re all decked out in very authentic-looking chain mail, complete with helmets and weaponry. Two have their swords drawn and the other is gripping a spear. The two in back have studded round shields strapped to their arms, but the man in the lead is carrying a larger shield, painted with three white stars on a field of blue.

Relief gives way to apprehension, then quickly erupts into panic. I grapple for the stirrup, attempt to shove my foot in. The horse dances sideways at my sudden movements and I slip, smacking my jaw against the saddle. I go down, my knees slamming into sharp rocks.

They thunder nearer, weapons raised. Bearing down on me like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

So I do what seems sensible. To me. I point my sword at them and scramble under the horse’s belly. Which is not necessarily a smart thing to do, when you really think about it.

Lo and behold, they part. Then ... they encircle me.

I wag my sword at one and then another, hoping they’ll get the message. As I do so, I notice something odd: my shoulder doesn’t hurt. The fatigue is gone and in its place, a surge of manly strength courses through every muscle. The burst of excitement has also sparked a rush of adrenalin. Feeling emboldened, I creep from beneath the horse’s belly, thankful he hasn’t stomped on me, but keep my back to his ribcage for protection — which is a bit idiotic when you consider that I’m surrounded by three armed men who look far more experienced with their weapons than I am with mine.

The man in front of me eases his horse in close and aims his spear at my chest. “Drop your weapon.”

He’s in his fifties, maybe, but he’s broad-shouldered and strong-limbed. If he hurls that thing, I’ll be skewered where I stand.

“You dispatched with the last one, Keith,” says the man to his right. “This one’s mine.” His brogue is the thickest I’ve heard since setting foot in Scotland. I can barely understand him, although my ears are becoming better attuned each day. Yet, some of their words seem only vaguely familiar: more archaic than vernacular, and almost foreign to me. I can barely piece together their meaning by context.

“Like bloody hell I’ll hand him over to you, Malcolm,” the older one says, still aiming his spear at me. “You’d probably beat him for information, collect his ransom and deliver a corpse to them. I say we just make quick work of it and be on our way.”

Malcolm eyes me with eyes that are as dark as they are merciless. Unruly black hair, bronzed at the ends by the sun, tumble from beneath the edges of his helmet. Despite his boldness, a quick glance around tells me he’s the youngest of the bunch — and the one I stand the least chance against. A smirk flashes across his clean shaven face as he relaxes in his saddle. “On second thought, aye, he’s yours. One less Englishman to —”

“Englishman?” I blurt out. “Oh no, no. I’m certainly
not
English.”

I hope ... pray this little admission will save me, because I’m sure at this moment that I’ve been waylaid by thugs on horseback. I’ve heard there are modern Scots clamoring for independence even in the twenty-first century. They even have their own parliament now — although to me that’s kind of like Texas having its own president. I’m more than baffled that they’d carry their political leanings as far as assault on any Englishman. If I can convince them I’m an American citizen ... Or maybe that’s just as bad? I should really watch more BBC News when I get home.

Footsteps sound behind me. I turn my head to see that the one who led them down the hill is studying me intensely. Not in an altogether unfriendly way, but not like he’s going to suddenly embrace me in brotherly love, either. Or is he? I can’t tell from the odd look on his face.

Movement stirs at the edge of my vision. The dark-haired man, Malcolm, has dropped from his saddle and is swinging his sword side to side.

I throw my sword at his feet in surrender. It isn’t like I’m going to win this fight, anyway. But it’s the man now behind me who swoops in, tucks his own sword back into its scabbard and plucks up my abandoned blade. He inspects the hilt closely. Just as he straightens, Malcolm rushes at me.

“Malcolm, no!” the man holding my sword shouts. He’s the one they seem to be looking to for direction. “Leave him. He’s not one of them. Who do you think is responsible for the dead Englishman we just found?”

Malcolm glares at him. “
Him?
This spineless milksop?”

“Whose blood do you think he’s wearing? Certainly not his own. There’s barely a scratch on him.”

With a mocking bow, Malcolm concedes. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Something about you ...” Their leader circles me to stand between me and Malcolm. “Tell us your name.”

“Ross Lyndon Sinclair,” I mumble.

A look of recognition sweeps over his face. Flinging his arms wide, he comes at me. I shrink back against the horse until there’s no retreat. He clenches my shoulders, yanks me to him and kisses me on both cheeks. “What’s wrong with you, man? You should have told us sooner. Keith and Malcolm would have run you through if I had let them.” He looks me over, head to toe, then thrusts me aside to peer over his shoulder. “Malcolm, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure, my lord,” Malcolm says, not convincingly. “He looks ... different.”

“Right you are, Malcolm.” Wearing a grin of amusement, the leader tweaks my scraggly beard. “You look dreadful. Like you’ve been in a shipwreck. I barely recognize you. Can’t say imprisonment agreed with you. At any rate, we’re overjoyed to have you back with us, Sir Roslin. Delighted!”

Imprisonment? Sir Roslin? Or is he saying Rosalind? What the Sam Hell is he talking about?

Keith dismounts and thumps me on the arm hard enough to send me reeling sideways. “By God, it
is
him. They’ve nearly starved him. Looks like he’s been dragged behind a horse all the way from London, as well.” He’s older than the other two by a good two decades, judging by his white hair. “I say we take him back to camp and feed him a side of beef. Fatten him up.”

“Thank you, but ...” How do you politely decline an animal carcass when three weapon-wielding Scots are offering to feed you? “But you see, I need to get back to Aberbeg. I was just —”

“Aber-what?” Keith says.

“Aberbeg, a quaint little village a few miles north of Berwick,” I tell him. “I left there just this morning, or at least I thought it was this morning. Apparently, I’ve been lost for awhile. I was riding toward Berwick when a lorry came at me and ran me off the road and I ... I ... must have hit my head. And then ...”

Three befuddled faces stare back at me. Clearly, I’m speaking Swahili to them. “You know — Berwick, England?”

“Berwick is in Scotland, lad,” Keith says. “Although it may not be much longer, if we don’t get back there soon. You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

More looks are exchanged. Now I’m confused. I get the sense that they’re convinced I’ve been hiding under a rock lately.

The leader grips my arm. “Roslin, do you know who I am?”

I’m about to correct him on my name, but there are more important things to get straightened out right now — like why three grown men are pretending to be medieval knights. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue.”