In the Time of Kings (13 page)

Prove what?
I wonder. But I’m not about to ask, because I don’t want to know.

Food, I can see, is going to be a problem. During my teens, I’d sworn off meat and become a zealous vegetarian. After my dog Ivanhoe died, I’d been pining for a pet, but was always too afraid to ask my parents for another dog. Then one day while doing my paper route, I nearly ran my bike into a young chicken on the road. Afraid it would cause an accident, I picked it up and carried it home. To my surprise, my dad helped me build a small wire pen behind the garage. He called it a pullet and said it could lay eggs for us. And it did, for almost two years. When the eggs became few and far between, he cursed at it and called it useless, but to me it didn’t matter. I’d grown quite attached to Florence. Then she disappeared. My dad said she must have escaped, but the latch was closed. Someone, I knew, had taken her. Later that month, after a meal of fried chicken, my dad told me the truth: he’d had her butchered by a friend at work and the supper we’d just enjoyed, well ...

Ever since then, the smell of animal flesh cooking has turned my stomach. I tell people it’s a matter of making healthy eating choices, but they wouldn’t understand that here.

Everyone turns to stare at us as we pass. Am I that obvious? Until I can figure out how to fit in better, I’ll have to hang back and keep quiet. Even a harmless comment could be misconstrued, as I’ve already learned by Malcolm’s reaction. To think he’s my brother-in-law doesn’t fill me with confidence. I need an ally, someone who can help me learn what I should already know.

Archibald seems fond of me, but he’s too busy to hold my hand. Keith will have to do. He shows me to his tent, gives me a clean shirt and offers me a single blanket, saying it’s all he can spare. Then he brings me a small meal of burnt beans and stale, coarse bread. I duck inside the tent, having grown weary of the stares and whispers.

After scooping out the last of the beans with my fingers, I push my bowl aside and wash the lumps sticking in my throat down with a swig of tepid water from a flask. Keith is already sound asleep, snoring. I’ll get no rest tonight. My nerves are too frayed.

All I can do is lie here and think about Claire and wonder when, if ever, I’ll see her again ... or if I’ll ever know the child she’s carrying.

LONG, LONG AGO

Anglo-Scottish Border — 1333

“R
oslin!”

Sitting up, I fling a hand out and grapple at the blankets to search for Claire. The glimmer of a chest plate yanks me back to reality. No, I’m not in Aberbeg, lounging at Dermot’s B&B. Damn it. I had really hoped this nightmare would be over with by now.

A wizened face, framed by a full white beard, appears at the tent opening. Full cheeks press upward into a smile. At least this face is friendly. I glance around to see that Keith has left and already rolled his blanket up. Judging by the pale light, it’s early morning. Instinctively, I look around for my glasses, but then I realize I don’t need them anymore.

“By God, man! You are alive after all.” He stoops to enter, then crouches before me. “Don’t worry, they told me about your memory. That can happen when a man takes a blow to the head. My brother Kenneth — older than me by a few years, you never knew him — once fell from his horse while out hunting deer with my father and me. He didn’t awaken for three days and when he did ... he had fits, was very confused, jumbled his words up.” The man waves his hands in the air, then taps on his forehead with scarred knuckles. “He was never the same. My father sent him to the abbey to live. He wandered away in a snowstorm the next year and died. Or so we assume. We never found him.” His mouth slips into a frown of melancholy. With a spark of warmth then, his gray eyes light up. “But you ... you look well. It will all come back in time. Until it does, I’m here to help.”

My neck is stiff and my back sore from sleeping on the hard ground. I stretch my arms, arch my back and roll my head side to side, but every little movement just signals more aches. “I’m sorry. You are ...?”

He laughs and sticks out his hand. His grip is bearishly strong. “Duncan of Abernathy. Your father and I fought together many times: Methven, Bannockburn, Byland Moor. It’s a miracle we both survived. Named me your godfather for saving his skin more than once. My wife Evelyn took you to her breast and raised you as her own. Shame about your mother. Your father never remarried, he was so heartbroken. He’s a fine knight,” — he leans in and winks — “if not a bit tough-hided and stony. He means well, though.”

Great, the man sounds just like
my
dad. “Thank you, Duncan. But please, don’t go far. I’m afraid I’ll never remember anything. I feel so ... lost.” Digging my hands through my hair, I rest my head on my knees. The day has barely begun and already I feel worn out and defeated. Like I’ve been flogged and beaten brain dead.

Duncan’s touch upon my back is surprisingly gentle. “I’ve spoken to Lord Archibald. He’s agreed that once we get back to Lintalee, I can escort you to Blacklaw Castle.”

“Why there? What’s at Blacklaw?”

“It’s your home, lad. Your wife’s there. Your father, too — unless he comes to Lintalee, in which case you’ll get to see him sooner.”

My gut tells me that meeting him isn’t something to look forward to. I look up. This Duncan of Abernathy may be big in body, but his eyes are gentle, sympathetic. “Do I want to see him? It doesn’t sound like he’s very fond of me.”

“I doubt he’s fond of anyone — even me sometimes, as hard as that might be to believe.” Duncan inclines his head toward the opening. “Up with you, now. We’ll be moving on within the hour.”

––––––––

A
rchibald’s army is surprisingly nimble for so many. The men have barely risen and they’re already dismantling tents and securing packs to their saddles. I stuff a bannock in my mouth and nearly gag. It has the consistency of cardboard. Then the bitter taste of mold taints my taste buds. I can only hope that back in Lintalee the fare will be more palatable. Right now a large order of fries and a root beer would hit the spot. Even a heel from a loaf of Wonder Bread with a pat of butter would satisfy me.

I might have marveled at the scenery we passed that day, but I’m growing increasingly homesick. Disbelief has given way to despair. Although the grass is green, the trees have barely leafed out and the constant wind carries a chill.

“Duncan? What year is this?”

He startles at my voice, having nearly fallen asleep in his saddle. He pulls a hand down over his face and tugs at his beard. “Year? 1333. Four years now since our good King Robert died.”

“And the month?”

“April, I think. If it hasn’t already turned May. One day is like the next when you’re living off the back of your horse.”

I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to land on the exact same day of the year when I fell back in time. I can’t even begin to figure out how it happened. All I can do for now is cope and believe that somehow I’ll get back to where I belong. Back to 2013. For now, since I don’t know how I got here, there isn’t much point in thinking about it.

All day long, Duncan rides close to me. Whenever someone stares my way, he glares back and growls a warning. Aside from him, I don’t speak to anyone. I’m too afraid of being revealed as the impostor I am. Archibald is somewhere lost in the column, but occasionally I glimpse Keith and Malcolm. Keith seems accepting of my presence, but Malcolm ... well, there’s a story there I’m not sure I want to know.

“So tell me,” I say to Duncan, as we begin our journey on the second day, “what’s happening with Berwick.”

“Agh. Rather than raze it like he did most of the castles he recaptured, King Robert decided to reinforce it, to serve as a stronghold against invasions from across the border. That may not have been the wisest move after all. We stand to lose it to England, lad. King Edward, being clever, sent Edward Balliol north to launch an attack on the city and gave him more than enough men and arms to do it. Berwick’s defenses are strong, but surrounded by such a large and imposing force, they become an island with finite resources. All that Balliol needs to do is bide his time.”

That much I had already gathered. “And Balliol wants Scotland’s crown for himself?”

“Aye, he does. Although the only Scottish nobles who support him are the ones our good King Robert disinherited when they would not join him. So Balliol appealed to Edward of England.”

“Why didn’t King Edward just march with him?”

He dips his head and I can tell he’s swallowing back a laugh. “You really don’t remember a thing, do you? That would have violated the Treaty of Northampton, which he signed with King Robert a few years ago. He’s made no secret of the fact that he doesn’t wholly agree with the terms of the treaty. Claims that his mother Queen Isabella and her bedmate Sir Roger Mortimer had somehow forced him into signing it.”

“Why would they do that?”

He shrugs. “War is expensive. Isabella thought it more profitable in the long term to marry her daughter Joan off to our David. Young Edward is ambitious, though. And confident. He eventually took Mortimer into custody and had him tried and executed for treason. He knows what he wants and won’t let anyone stand in his path. Takes after his grandfather that way.”

“Longshanks?”

Duncan nods, his eyes on the road ahead.

“But Archibald said something about Edward coming to Berwick. He’s on his way now?”

“Likely he’s already there.” Duncan tosses a look over his shoulder and then sideways. He lowers his voice. “Now that we’ve raided into England, King Edward claims he has every right to enter Scotland in force. He’s been waiting in York for months now for just that reason.”

“Why would Archibald venture into England, knowing that would provoke Edward?”

“To draw Balliol away from Berwick.”

“And he failed.”

“You’re a keen one.” He grins. “I suppose he reckoned it was worth a try. His brother did it many times, to good effect. But this time the English were willing to sacrifice a few villages for the bigger prize and they stayed put. So it’s back to Scotland for us to try to raise more troops. Lord Archibald is convinced our only recourse now is to break through and relieve Berwick.”

“Wage battle?”

“How else?”

My stomach sinks. As I gaze ahead to the column of soldiers snaking before us, I see not only Scotland’s fate, but my own as well.

––––––––

Lintalee, Scotland — 1333

I
f I expected the Guardian of the Realm to keep residence at something resembling Fort Knox, I’m gravely disappointed. The first hint of Lintalee that I see as we ride through the forest south of Jedburgh, Scotland, is a spire of smoke curling above the treetops. An hour later we come upon a sprawling stockade fence and peeking above it is a single watchtower. Lintalee was built for practicality and comfort; certainly not for lasting defense. As deep as it’s tucked in the forest, though, it would be hard to find, let alone approach. Our column has been forced to narrow down to two across in order to proceed via the narrow road, slowing our progress considerably.

Already there are several hundred, perhaps as much as a thousand other men, encamped outside its walls. I notice several of what I assume are the nobles filtering in through the outer gate.

Duncan tosses his reins to a groom and tips his head toward the gate. I hand off my horse and follow him. With the first steps, I’m painfully reminded that my muscles aren’t accustomed to sitting in a saddle for two days. I marvel at the fact that I haven’t broken out in hives. Apparently, not only has my eyesight improved, but my allergy to horses hasn’t transferred to this time period, either. Still, I’d take the old imperfect me back in a nanosecond if it meant I could return to the woman I love.

Lintalee is little more than a hunting lodge. From what Duncan told me, Archibald and his brother James ‘The Good’ Douglas built this place with their own hands, felling trees and splitting the logs that formed the framework for the main hall. Later, several barracks-type buildings were added for housing guests, for stabling horses and for storage. The kitchen, set apart from the other structures, is the only one with stone walls — a precaution to keep the occasional kitchen fire from engulfing everything around it. The rest of the buildings are packed so close together within the confines of the stockade, that one spark to a thatched roof and the whole sprawling complex would go up in flames.

Duncan slaps his riding gloves together, creating a puff of dust. “Are you going to stand there gawping all day, lad?”

Everyone is headed in the same direction, so I tuck my head down and follow. “Is there going to be a meeting of some sort?”

As I come abreast of Duncan, he slings an arm about my shoulder. I involuntarily twitch at the contact. Touching anyone other than my wife makes me uncomfortable. Whenever a hug-fest starts at some occasion like a wedding, I tend to duck away from the touchy-feely gestures. I don’t like casual acquaintances invading my personal space.

“Nothing formal, no,” he says. “Just food and ale. But I did see the earls of Menteith and Ross ... Throw a Douglas and a couple of Stewarts in the lot and there’s bound to be some heated discussion. All you need to do is sit and listen, nod your head knowingly and laugh when everyone around you does — if they do at all. Whatever you do, don’t stare. Some of these men tend to take that as a challenge.”

We step through the broad double doors to the main hall. An empty hearth sits at the far end, the stones surrounding it blackened by years of smoke. Before it is a table atop a dais. Either side of the hall is flanked with a row of tables and benches, already crowding with boisterous nobles scooping up cups and emptying them.

With a hand on my back, Duncan guides me to an open space on a bench to the left. “Don’t look so sullen and confused. People are going to ask you what’s wrong.”

Unfortunately, I don’t know if I can do that. I’ve never felt more out of place in my life. It’s been less than a day and already I miss ice cold Coke in a can, denim jeans and cushioned running shoes, cream puffs from Schmidt’s in German Village, my cell phone ...