In the Time of Kings (15 page)

Last night’s heavy rain has diminished, although I can still hear the occasional drip-drip from the eaves. A quick scan reassures me there are no leaks in my humble lodging area.

Turns out that Archibald’s ‘private room’ is a storage area off of the main hall, stacked to the ceiling with barrels of ale. A pair of benches have been pushed together and a mat of rushes lain over them to serve as the bed. I might have been grateful for the privacy had some groping, grunting pair of lovers not thought to intrude on my sleep in the middle of the night. They’d stumbled through the door, tearing at each others’ clothes. I’d thrown that same cup at them that Archibald had used to awaken me. But instead of going back to sleep, I’d lain there for hours, the hollowness of my solitude eating away at me.

Two days have gone by and there’s no hint of a possibility that I will ever get back to Claire, my so-called wife is avoiding me, her brother outright hates me, and his friend would prefer me dead so he can have Mariota. It’s not that I want her to myself, but the thought of that snake’s hands on her ... No woman deserves that.

A wave of vomit pushes up, burning my esophagus. I swallow it back, then swing my legs over the edge of the bench and hang my head between my knees. I can’t hold my liquor. Never could, even though my dad could down a six-pack of Michelob like most people guzzle lemonade on a hot summer day.

Duncan pushes my head back to look into my eyes. “Tell me that you went and found her, brought her here, but she woke early.”

I scoot from his reach and stand, swaying on weak legs. A bowl of water sits on the barrel closest to the bench. I cup my hands and douse my face over and over, then dry my face on my sleeve. “Why is everyone so adamant that we
get to know
each other?”

“Why are you afraid of doing so?”

“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” Besides, I don’t want to get into this right now. Just outside the room, a pair of servants gather, one issuing instructions to the other. I step toward the door.

He braces an arm across the door frame, blocking my exit. “Try.”

I’m not in the mood for a long conversation, but I did have a lot of time last night to think. There isn’t any clear solution to my predicament. For all I know, it’s permanent and if that’s the case, then I need someone I can talk things through with.

I draw a deep breath and nod. “All right. Close the door.”

He pulls it shut, but drags the stool in front of it and plants himself there to make sure I don’t have second thoughts.

“First, you can’t tell anyone this,” I warn. “It’ll only make things worse if you do.”

I stall long enough that he opens his hands wide in a questioning gesture.

“I’m ... I’m not who you think I am.” That sounds so cliché, but how else am I supposed to explain it to him? “I’m not Sir Roslin.”

He arches an eyebrow at me, then slaps his thigh, laughing. “Lad, I raised you from a weanling. You may have been gone awhile, but you
are
Roslin Sinclair, as sure as I sit here before you.”

Pushing the blanket aside, I sit down on the bench. “Okay, um ... I know I
look
like him ... I may even be him physically, but ... How do I put this?” I pull at my hair so hard I can feel my scalp stretching. “My memories are someone else’s.”

“Perhaps the blow to your head affected more than your memory?”

He starts to get up, but I grab his sleeve. “No, sit. Hear me out. I’m not crazy. I know this sounds insane. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me, if I were you. But here goes.” I pour it out all at once. “I am
Ross
Sinclair. I was born in 1984. In America, a big country across the western sea. Balfour, Indiana, to be specific. I moved to Ohio at eighteen and later met my childhood sweetheart, Claire Forbes. We were married, came to Scotland on our honeymoon. She suffered a blood clot in her brain, went into a coma ... They don’t think she’ll make it.” I leave out the part about the baby she’s carrying. It’s too hard to talk about even now. Too raw. “I left her one day just to get away, to recharge. I was hit by a semi truck and ... when I woke up, I was here. Thrown back in time. Or maybe I’m reliving a past life. I’m not really sure.”

Duncan gives me a blank stare. Finally, his eyelids flap. “Right. I don’t understand you.”

I point at him. “See, I said you wouldn’t get it. Now you think I’m insane, that I’m just making this stuff up. But you wanted to know why I’ve been like I have, why I can’t remember anything from this life, why I’m not willing to jump in bed with Mariota. I
can’t
be unfaithful to Claire. I still love her. Madly.”

“Ah! There’s another woman. That makes sense.” He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “Plenty of men keep a woman on the side, lad. I know the Church frowns on it, but it seems unnatural to me not to ... sow your oats widely, if you expect a few sprouts to grow. Keep your woman — I’ll not mention it to Mariota. Still, why not get the business of producing an heir over with? Lie with her only as often as it takes. Just remember, the more sons the better. Daughters can be a boon, too. The Sinclairs are a powerful family. The more connections you can forge through marriages, the better for you.”

Exasperated, I smack my palm to my forehead. “You still don’t get it, do you? I love Claire. We want to have children of our own someday.”

“Your father won’t be pleased with you having an army of bastards, but —”

“I’m
married
to Claire.”

At that, he wrinkles his brow. “You have two wives? That’s bigamy, lad.”

“No! I married Claire in 2013.
Ross
married Claire, not
Roslin
. Roslin only has one wife, at least as far as I know.”

“So ...” — he glances up at the ceiling and wiggles his fingers, counting under his breath — “in about seven hundred years, you marry this woman named Claire. But Claire’s not here? She ... doesn’t exist yet?”

Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

“Then there really is no Claire. Mariota’s your wife. So what, exactly, is the problem?”

He has me there. Tired of going in circles, I slump against the wall. “I need to find a way to get back to Claire, that’s all. And if I can’t, well ... I need time to accept that, change my thinking, you know?”

“Roslin, I have been both a father and a friend to you since you drew your first breath. I wiped the spittle from your chin when you had no teeth yet. I taught you how to sit on a horse, how to hold a sword, how to use your shield. I was there at the cathedral in Kirkwall when you were wed and by your side at your first battle when a foe tried to end your life. I’m not going to let you down now — or ever. Take all the time you need. Just know that others will expect things of you — Lord Archibald, for one. Your father, more than anyone. He’ll be hard on you, once he knows you’re back in Scotland — and he’s not likely to accept what you’re telling me.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

His fingers splay across his kneecaps as he sits back against the door. “I think
you
believe what you’re telling me. All that matters to me is that you’re alive and back in Scotland where you belong.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure I do belong here. I feel completely out of place. And I can’t even begin to tell you how weird it is to have a wife I don’t know anything about. Especially one who seems less than thrilled to have me back.”

“As far as Mariota goes, you should at least keep up appearances. Don’t give folk reason to talk. Ever since you returned from Spain, there have been rumors ...”

“Rumors? Of what?”

He glances toward the door, then whispers, “Heresy.”

I know enough of medieval thinking to realize that’s worse than adultery, thievery and murder all rolled up into one. “Why would they say that?”

“Unlike Lord James, who died in the first clash at Teba, your brother William survived his wounds. It was clear, though, that he would not last the day. He struggled to hold on, waiting for a priest to deliver last rites. We all knew he was going to die at any moment, but there was nothing we could do for his pain. That was when you laid your hands on him and delivered the
Consolamentum
, the Consolation to the dying, so that his soul might be admitted to heaven. It is a Cathar practice.” The pause that ensues carries an ominous weight. He knows what he saw, but he’s struggling between his beliefs and his love for me. “It was thought the last of the Cathars were defeated almost a hundred years ago at Montsegur. Many say they still exist, though. That they live secretly among us, recruiting to their fold. Some say you are one of them.”

More confused than ever, I’m about to ask him more about these Cathars when a knock sounds at the door. My heart jumps. Duncan jerks his head sideways. His hand flies to his side. His fingers curl around the hilt of his sword.

“Who is it?” I say.

“Simon, my lord,” comes a squeaky, youthful voice. “Lord Archibald requests your presence in his meeting chamber at once.”

“On what business?”

“Something about Berwick, my lord. That’s all I know.”

I look at Duncan. He tips his head toward the door and mouths the word, ‘Go’.

“I’ll be there as soon as I’m dressed,” I say to the young man outside the door.

“Aye, m’lord,” he answers. “Have you seen Sir Alan or Sir Malcolm this morning? Lord Archibald wishes for them to come, as well.”

“No, but if I do, I’ll let them know.”

Footsteps recede. When all is quiet in the corridor, Duncan narrows his eyes at me. “Probably conspiring, knowing those two. I’d not trust them if I were you, Roslin.”

“I’ll take your advice on that.” I grab my boots from beneath the bench and tug them on. Before I rise to go, I eye Duncan intensely. “Please, you won’t tell —”

He holds up the flat of his palm. “Don’t worry, lad. I’ve invested too much in you over the years to put you in danger. If anyone asks, you’re the most devout Christian I know and you love your wife with all your heart.”

“Thank you, Duncan. If I can ever repay the favor ...”

“I hope to God you never need to.”

LONG, LONG AGO

Lintalee, Scotland — 1333

I
close the door to the meeting room behind me. The hinges groan and twenty pairs of eyes scrutinize me, making me feel as obvious as a cat at a dog show. I recognize a few faces from the night before, but their names were forgotten soon after Duncan told me. That’s one of the reasons I don’t drink: it tends to make me forget things. There are far too many men named James, William, Robert or Thomas, too many earls and knights to keep them straight, that much I remember. Most of the men are seated at a long table, but several are forced to stand along the wall.

Keith glances at me and nods a ‘hello’. I squeeze between one of the benches and two dark-bearded men to stand across from him, glad not to have to make eye contact with the two brutes beside me. I’m so intent on keeping my eyes downcast that it takes me a few moments to realize Archibald isn’t there yet.

The men talk in small huddles. One on one, I can by now understand an individual fairly well, but in a group setting like this, my mind struggles to sort out the differences in speech. So I try to focus on the two next to me, but all I can figure out is that they’re talking about cattle and the names of towns. It’s some time before it comes to me that they’re talking about the English towns they’ve raided and the cattle and other goods they’ve taken from them.

At length, the door opens and Archibald walks through. Everyone stops talking and rises to their feet. Close on his heels are Alan and Malcolm. Alan graces me with a fake smile, but Malcolm sneers so venomously I notice a few people looking back and forth between us. If I could slip through a crack in the floorboards just then, I would. Between the two men, however, it’s Alan I fear. Malcolm makes no secret of his hatred for me. He’s all brawn and no brains. Alan is deceptively clever. The kind who’d plant the clues that would pin me for some crime I didn’t commit and smile while he offered his condolences for my impending execution.

Archibald has barely taken his place when he begins. “King Edward has crossed the border. As we speak, he may already be at Berwick.” He sweeps a hand downward, indicating for everyone to take their seats. “Their supplies have already been sent ahead from Newcastle. Edward was more than prepared for this siege; he has been expecting to launch it for some time.”

“How long can Berwick hold out?” the older bearded man beside me asks.

“Months, perhaps. Much will depend on the town’s water supply. If that is cut off, if it doesn’t rain enough ...” His voice fades away. He strokes at his chin, pondering it all. “Berwick has thousands of inhabitants. Sir Alexander Seton knew to begin rationing immediately when Balliol arrived. Indications are that they can still hold out awhile. Knowing King Edward, however, I fear the danger is not in starvation. He may imitate the attack of 1296.”

“Why do you say that?” Keith pushes forward. “The town’s defenses have been reinforced greatly since the massacre. They’re not as vulnerable as they were then.”

Archibald plucks a splinter from the table and examines it as he ponders the question. “The English have already sent engineers to Berwick. They’re cutting timbers and building catapults as we speak. Saltpeter was among the shipments to Newcastle.”

“Pots?” someone on the far end of the room says. “They’ll blow holes in every roof and wall big enough for a man to walk through.”

“Aye, pots. They’ve nearly completed the catapults to launch them.” Archibald lets his gaze sweep from face to face. “We’ve tried diversionary raids — to no avail. Apparently, Edward is willing to let half of England burn before he’ll abandon Berwick. He covets the place. And no army of Scotland will thwart his ambitions.”

The room erupts with oaths against King Edward’s life. A few even suggest disembowelment and castration before decapitating him.

“It’s only the beginning,” Malcolm says. “He won’t stop at Berwick.”

Leaning back, Archibald raises both hands until a tense hush settles over the room.