In the Time of Kings (12 page)

His brows fold together with concern. “Sir Archibald Douglas — Guardian of the Realm.”

If it’s supposed to be a joke, I don’t find it funny. The Archibald Douglas he’s speaking of has been dead for close to seven hundred years. A huff of laughter escapes me. “Is that some title bestowed on you by the Society for Creative Anachronisms?”

A quizzical look passes over his face, but he quickly erases it. “No, you wouldn’t know of my appointment. When you were taken prisoner the same time as Sir Andrew Moray last year, the honor fell to me. No word of a ransom request was ever sent for you. We all reckoned you were dead. You can understand why we are so surprised to find you here.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, although this is all more than a bit far-fetched. “And where is ‘here’, exactly?”

“Northumberland,” Archibald says. “Just north of Rothbury Forest. Headed toward the Cheviot Hills. Barring any unexpected encounters, we can be at camp in a few hours and then back at Lintalee by tomorrow evening.” His hand falls away from my arm, but his eyes linger on my face. “You’ll have to tell us later how you escaped.”

Play along, Ross
, I tell myself.
These guys have sharp, pointy objects and aren’t afraid to use them.

“To be truthful, I don’t know. There seems to be a lot I don’t remember right now.” I’m not sure where Lintalee is, but that’s the least of my concerns. I do know the other places he mentioned are in northern England. How long have I been wandering around, anyway?

“Understandable,” Archibald says. “Meanwhile, you’ve obviously suffered a hard fall. I’ll send word on to your father to meet us at Lintalee.”

“Are you certain that fetching his father is the best idea, my lord?” Malcolm has returned to his horse, although he hasn’t stopped glaring at me the whole time. “The last time someone mentioned his name to Sir Henry, he wasn’t exactly overjoyed.”

Archibald glances at my sword, then hands it to me. “The man should know his heir is alive and ... well.”

His voice falls off at the last word. They doubt my mental capacities. Whoever these men are, they’re thoroughly convinced
they
are from the fourteenth century and I’m the crazy one. That or they’re damn fine actors.

Whatever is going on, I’m glad they’ve claimed me as friend, rather than foe. For now, I’ll go along with them. But at the first sign of modern society, I’ll slip off to find a telephone, get someone to give me a lift back to the B&B at Aberbeg, then alert the authorities that there are some whack-jobs traipsing around the forest pretending to be ‘the king’s men’.

I slide the sword into its scabbard, jam my foot in the stirrup and haul my aching body into the saddle. By tonight, I’ll have a head to toe rash, but I have to get out of here somehow. After a quick mental review of how to steer a horse — pull back for the brakes and a gentle kick to the flanks to accelerate — I make small talk.

“So how is ...” — Dang it! What is Robert the Bruce’s son’s name? I venture a guess — “King David these days?”

“Well enough,” Archibald says. “A shame, though, he understands so little of what is going on.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s still very much a boy. Only nine.” Archibald mounts, then brings his horse close to mine. “You don’t remember him either, do you?”

“It’s all very foggy still. I have a horrendous headache. But I’m starting to remember a few things. Like that the Englishman and I fought. He struck me ... I stumbled, bashed my head on a rock. But I managed to run him through before I blacked out for awhile.” Wonderful. I’m now a fantastic liar, just like them. But if it keeps me safe long enough to get back to Claire, fine. Meanwhile, I need to keep these nuthouse escapees occupied. “But tell me more of David. And Berwick.”

“Hmm, well, you were at David’s coronation. And his wedding to the Princess Joan a few years ago. So was the young Edward of England, for that matter. I tell you, Roslin, this King Edward is a fiercer adversary than his father ever was. At his direction, Berwick is under siege. If I can’t raise a large enough force to relieve the city, it will fall to him and his minion, Balliol.”

Balliol?
John
Balliol? No, that’s not right. John Balliol was King of Scots before Robert the Bruce, albeit a very short reign. Maybe he had a son? Was it Edward Balliol? I’d only briefly read over the history of the time during my genealogy research, mainly on Wikipedia. Meanwhile, I run through the various Edwards in my head. Edward I, also known as Longshanks, Hammer of the Scots, died about 1308. Edward II, married to Isabella of France, who invaded England with her lover Sir Roger Mortimer and put her son on the throne. Ah, Archibald would be talking about Edward III then, victor of Crecy and Poitiers. And Halidon Hill ...

Halidon Hill, just outside Berwick, against the Scots. But what was the date of that battle?

I give myself a mental slap. It doesn’t matter. This is 2013. These guys are just reenactors. Grown men pretending to be something they aren’t.

“Um, Archibald.” I have to restrain myself from calling the guy Archie, but it’s time to drop the pretenses and cut to the truth. “Look, you’re all very good at this. I’m especially impressed by the way you barreled down the hill, flailing your weapons like you were ready to gut me. You guys are Oscar material. But the thing is, I
really
need to get back to Aberbeg. My wife’s there and I’m afraid she isn’t well. If I don’t —”

“Your wife is at Blacklaw where you left her three years ago.” With a kick, Malcolm brings his mount abreast of mine. His upper lip twitches in a half-snarl. “And I assure you, she’s not ill.”

I blink in confusion. “I don’t know where this Blacklaw is, but I’m sure I’ve never even been there.”

Malcolm casts a dubious look at Archibald. His hand hovers over the hilt of his sword, but Archibald jabs a finger.

“Leave be, Malcolm,” Archibald warns.

“He’s not right in the head, my lord. Never was. Not even before he left for Spain with your brother. How do you know he hasn’t joined in league with Balliol? Don’t you think it suspicious that there was never any request for ransom? Nothing. Not that his father would have paid it, but we all assumed him dead. And now he suddenly appears before us with the tale of a fight with his captors and a blow to the head that’s conveniently robbed him of his memory?” In one swift motion, Malcolm draws his blade and thrusts the point at my ribs.

Instinctively, I suck my torso back. My balance shifts. I grapple for the edge of the saddle, clamping my knees. The ground swirls around me. A glint of silver catches my eye and I turn my face away, gripping with all my strength to keep from falling.

Metal clangs against metal. I jerk my head around to see Archibald’s sword leveled at Malcolm’s throat.

“God help me, Malcolm Forbes, but if you hadn’t already proven your value on this campaign, I’d cut you down on this very spot for your insolence.”

With a growl of frustration, Malcolm slams his sword into its sheath.

Forbes? Now
that
is a strange coincidence.

LONG, LONG AGO

Anglo-Scottish Border — 1333

W
e ride through the wooded glen in awkward silence — Malcolm casting black looks over his shoulder at me and me hoping like hell I won’t get thrown by my horse. Somehow, I manage to remember enough of how to ride to stay upright. The horse seems content to follow Malcolm’s mount, but I don’t overlook the fact that Archibald is tucked in behind me like a mole on my backside, with Keith — I learned his full name was Sir William Keith — on my right.

We see no more English — not that I’m worried about it, in fact, I would welcome the sight of any sane person, but these Scots seem particularly averse to such an encounter. Patchy woodland gives way to broad, swelling hills, painted in strokes of emerald and buff. There’s no sight of a motorway, not even so much as a single lane road rutted with parallel tire tracks. Only the occasional drover’s trail wends from hilltop to hilltop. A large flock of sheep dots a far hillside. To the west, wispy clouds of cotton white are chased by thickening banks of gray. Thunder rolls in the distance and its rumble vibrates through the air. The wind kicks up ahead of the storm, its force flattening the grasses as far as the eye can see.

“Do you suppose,” I say, trying my best to appeal to their good senses, “there’s a pub somewhere we could take shelter in before this storm drenches us? A round of ale on me — or whiskey, if you prefer.” I realize I’ve forgotten my wallet, but paying for drinks will be forgotten in the mass drunkenness that’s sure to follow. The police will be on their way to arrest them for kidnapping as soon as I can slip aside to put in a call.

Yanking on his reins, Malcolm halts his mount and shoves an open palm at me. “Quiet,” he growls, then indicates the sheep flock.

At first I can’t understand why I’m supposed to be looking at sheep. Then I see the flock lifting off the hillside, heads high, running in a tightening group toward a peak to the north.

Keith nods in that direction. “An English detachment.”

A line of riders crowns a distant hill and begins to descend. By the time the last of them brings up the rear, I count close to two dozen. Several times our number.

“Twenty-two,” I say. “The one out front is carrying a white shield with a red chevron.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes beneath hooded brows. “How can you tell from this distance?”

I shrug. How can they not? From here, the shield is still small, but distinct. “I don’t know how. I just can.”

That’s when I realize that my vision is crisp and clear. Odd and yet ... amazing. I glance down at my horse’s mane. Every strand is distinct, the shading a rich blend of reddish brown. I can even see the little hairs that fringe the inside of Archibald’s horse’s ears, as the animal flicks them sideways, then forward.

“You’re lying,” Malcolm says. “Next, you’ll direct us straight into an ambush.”

By then, Archibald has seen the same thing I have. “No, he’s right. Whoever they are, they’re not Scots. My guess is that they’re looking for him.” Glancing at me, he tugs at his reins to turn back. “We can’t take any chances. We will have to take the long way around and cross the river twice, but we’ll make it back to camp by nightfall if we hurry.”

We retreat behind a hill while the English riders speed away to the east. Once they’ve been gone awhile and no more are seen, we turn west and ride hard. A shiver ripples from my neck to my tailbone and I realize what it is I’m feeling: fear.

Wherever we’re headed, we aren’t getting any closer to Aberbeg.

––––––––

I
t’s near dusk when we come upon the camp Archibald had spoken of. That’s the moment I admit I’m not in the 21
^st
century anymore — and it frightens the hell out of me. I pull back on the reins and let Keith and Archibald pass.

“No,” I say to myself, “this can’t be.”

Hundreds, if not thousands, of medieval Scots are milling about. There are too many, their clothing and weapons too authentic, for this to be some reenactment gathering. I’ve been to enough medieval fairs in my time to recognize machine-stitched garments and anachronistic armor. I see none of that. Besides, at the reenactments you’ll always see the occasional person wearing glasses or sneaking in a text on their smartphones; there’s nothing of the sort here. No video cameras rolling, no electrical cords snaking between the tents, no generators sputtering and belching out gas fumes, no hint of a car or paved road for miles.

Twists of smoke rise from small fires, over which hang spits and small pots. Low conversation hums in pockets, but my ears aren’t attuned to the words and accents, so I can’t make heads or tails of any of it.

Slumping in my saddle, I grip its edge. My back aches and my thighs are chafed. My stomach roars for food and yet the last thing I want to do is eat, let alone spend the night here. More than anything, I want to go home, with Claire hale and whole, but right now I’d settle for quaint little Aberbeg in 2013. “When I get back, Claire, you’re never going to believe this.”

“Clare?” Malcolm approaches me and tugs the straps loose on his arm plates. “Which ‘Clare’ do you speak of — and what will you say to him? Will you tell him how many we are?”

I blink in confusion. Eventually it dawns on me that he thinks I’m talking about someone with the last name of Clare, someone who’s probably English.

“A woman named Claire,” I say. “Just someone I know.”

“Ah, a woman.” He stands before me, one eyebrow cocked. “My sister will hardly be pleased to know you’re uttering another woman’s name, telling her your secrets.”

His sister? As if it isn’t bad enough to have landed here in the wrong time, they assume I’m Roslin Sinclair and I know everything they’re talking about. “Your pardon, but you’re going to have to remind me. Your sister is ...?”

Smirking, he shakes his head. “Your wife these past five years. The wife you’ve barely seen.”

Oh,
that
wife.

“Yes, well, I’ve been in Spain, apparently. And England — or at least so they tell me. But I don’t remember anything. Not the last few years, not my wedding, or where I’m from, or —”

“I don’t believe you for a moment.” Malcolm flashes a snarl just as Keith approaches. “You’re a liar, a traitor and a heretic.”

“Roslin,” Keith calls. “This way. You can share my quarters tonight. Meanwhile, we’ll find you something to eat — that is, if this lot hasn’t devoured every last cow in Northumberland.”

“Beans,” I say, eager to grab at a chance to escape Malcolm’s company. “I smelled beans.”

“I’m sure we can manage that. And a bannock or two, if you don’t mind stale and not having any ale to wash it down with.”

“If I were you,” Malcolm says to Keith, “I’d not close my eyes with that impious Judas in my presence.”

“There was a time, Malcolm, when one could have said the same of you.” With that, Keith slaps me on the back and guides me through camp.

“What was that about?” I ask him. “The part about Malcolm being a traitor?”

“He and his father were some of the last to swear allegiance to our good King Robert. Loyalties in Scotland shift all too often. It takes time for people to learn to trust you. Don’t let it bother you, lad. Prove yourself, that’s all you have to do.”