In the Time of Kings (6 page)

Near Berwick, Scotland — 2013

S
prawling for acres and acres, Balmoral Castle is opulent beyond imagination. While standing in the ballroom — which is the only place inside the castle the public is allowed — I remark, “How many rooms does one person really need?”

Meanwhile, Claire spins in a circle, alternately making an ugly face at the stags’ heads mounted up high and then ogling the artwork hung on the walls, her mouth open in awe as she utters, “Wow, oh wow, just ... wow.” I patiently follow her around while she reads the plaques next to the clothing displays. When her hour is up, I drag her outside to visit the gardens. She’s exceedingly tolerant of me reciting the Latin names of all the herbs, shrubs and flowers. Afterward, I go to the snack bar for some drinks and return to the bench where I left her. Her eyes are closed, her cheek propped on her fist.

I nudge her shoulder. “Have you recharged yet? I need you to talk to me on the drive so I don’t nod off.”

If we’ve missed any culture yet, we soon get our fill at Drumtochty. We park our car in a muddy field and hike to a row of pavilions. Claire gets her shopping fix, while I marvel at the strength of the men balancing tall poles and heaving them end over end. If that isn’t enough machismo, as soon as that competition is done, they have a contest tossing a stone weight the size of my head over a bar twenty feet off the ground. I dart off to the little city of tents, hoping to find Claire and whisk her away before she discovers the kilted tough man contests and asks why I don’t start lifting weights.

By the time we cross the Forth Bridge and are headed down the A1 past the Lammermuir Hills, we’re both exhausted, but it’s an exhilarated kind of exhaustion, the kind where you’re flying on adrenalin, knowing you’re going to sleep like the dead when you finally get home. Miraculously, Claire stays awake by drinking black coffee and her light speed chatter keeps me more than alert.

I pull into a parking lot and kill the engine. Claire’s head swivels around.

“Why are we in an empty church parking lot?” she says.

“They call them kirks here. This is where I’m supposed to meet Reverend Murray.”

“And who is he again?”

“The gentleman I’ve been in contact with. He’s retired, I think, but he’s from the village we just passed, Aberbeg, so he helps take care of this place.”

She tips her Styrofoam coffee cup back and taps on the bottom. “All gone.” She sets it down in the cup holder. “Okay, so why are you here to see him?”

I take the sheets of paper out of my jacket pocket. “To help me with this. Look, why don’t you just sit here and take a nap? I won’t be more than half an hour — and if I am, you come in and drag me away by the earlobe, okay?”

“Sure, I’ll just inspect the inside of my eyelids while you’re jabbering away with someone about dead people. Works for me.”

Before she can slather on the guilt trip any thicker, I hop out of the car and look around. The tang of salt air hits my nostrils and I realize we’re less than a mile from the shoreline. As I follow the walkway around to the front, I notice one other car parked on the opposite side of the building. The front doors are locked, so I continue around the building until I see a door to the rear. I grab the knob and turn, but it won’t give. So I wrap both hands around it and just as I push, someone yanks it open from inside. Letting go, I fall on my butt with an ‘
umph
’. My glasses fly from my face and land on the walkway. I pick them up and inspect the lenses for cracks. None, thank God. I put them back on and look up.

“Oh dear,” mutters the man in the doorway, “I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”

He’s wearing a black cardigan and a black button-up shirt underneath. On his nose sits a pair of silver wire-rimmed glasses with lenses so thick you could use them like a magnifying glass to start a fire. My vision isn’t great, but he must be almost blind.

“Reverend Murray?” Standing, I pound the dust from my pants, then extend my hand. “I’m Ross, Ross Sinclair.”

“Mr. Sinclair!” His eyes light up. He returns my handshake with remarkable strength. Although his spine is crooked and his hair white as snow, he’s spry and healthy for his age, which has to be something well past eighty. “Do come in.”

I scurry to keep up with him, even though he walks with a limp.

“I was expecting you earlier,” he says. “I must have written down the wrong time. Typical of me these days.”

“You didn’t. We were delayed by an accident just south of Edinburgh. I left a message on your phone.”

“Oh, that explains it.” He flips a switch as he enters an office and the overhead light clicks on, emitting a low hum as it warms up. In the middle of the room sits a very old mahogany desk piled with papers and behind it is a bookcase crammed full that spans the length of the wall. The room smells of old leather and moldy parchment. “That was my home phone number. I should have given you the number for here. I don’t have a mobile phone. Never felt the need for one. At any rate, I made use of the time. Have you been to the battle site yet? Seen the castle?”

“Neither. I scheduled that for tomorrow afternoon. Then we have just enough time to visit Edinburgh before leaving.”

“We, you say? Is your wife with you? I’ll go invite her in.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’s probably asleep in the car by now. I’ve been wearing her out on this trip.” I readjust my glasses. The frame seems twisted. Distracting, but not anything I can’t live with until we get home. “Did you find the information you were looking for?”

“Curious thing about that. I did come across some documents that might help. Then again they might be full of useless information.” He rifles through one stack of papers, then another, finally shoving them both aside. “You mentioned there were some discrepancies?”

I spread the paper on his desk and smooth out the wrinkles.

He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and traces a finger over the names, pausing at each one to impart bits of history. Most of it is irrelevant to the real reason I’ve come, but I absorb every word like a sponge. His knowledge of the complexities of Scottish history is nothing short of amazing: the unification of the thrones of Scotland and England, the tragic death of Mary, Queen of Scots, John Knox and the Protestant Reformation, James IV and the Battle of Flodden Field ... Two hours later, I realize we still haven’t gotten back past 1400.

“Most people remember him for his end, but James IV was quite a forward-thinking man. In fact, alchemy was one of —”

“Excuse me, Reverend Murray, but we got such a late start and I really need to take my wife out for a bite to eat.”

“I’ve been babbling. I do apologize.”

“Not at all. I’ve found it all very fascinating. I’d love to hear more. Would you join us for dinner?”

He checks his watch. “Dear heavens, I hadn’t realized the time. I have a ... an appointment. My neighbor is recently widowed and he invited me over this evening to watch some telly. He very much needs the company. Do you have time tomorrow to stop by? Is 10 a.m. all right?”

“I’ll be here. Not to press you, but you did find something, right?”

“I believe so, yes. The father of this William Sinclair, here, born in 1334,” — he taps on the paper — “I’m quite certain he died at Halidon Hill.”

“Then he was born after his father’s death.”

“That must be.”

“But what was his father’s name? There was another William Sinclair, but he died in 1330.”

“That William may have been a brother, then. There have been a lot of men by the name William Sinclair.” He tilts his head in thought. “Now I remember where I left those papers — in plain sight on my hallway bookcase. It’s been a hectic day. I’ll bring everything tomorrow, I promise. See you then?”

We walk out together and say goodbye. It’s almost dusk and the sky is lightening to a pale silvery-purple. The first stars wink faintly in the east. Since the summer days here are so long, I have no idea what time it is. I flip open my phone and upon seeing the time realize the only place we’ll be able to grab any food at this hour is at a pub. Reverend Murray is already pulling away in his car when I slide into the driver’s side of ours and poke Claire in the ribs.

Her eyelids flap open. “Has it been half an hour already?”

“About that. Let’s go find our bed and breakfast. Maybe the owner can point out a cozy pub in the village for a bite to eat? We’ll immerse ourselves in the local customs — you know, sample some whiskey and get foolishly wasted.”

“Get drunk? That’s so unlike you, Ross.” She tweaks my nose. “Sounds perfect. Anyways, I’m famished. I wasn’t expecting to like Scottish cuisine, but I can’t get enough of those scones and shortbread. It’s a good thing we’re headed home soon. My waistband is getting tight.” Puffing her cheeks out, she pats her stomach. “Oh God, Ross, do you think I’m getting fat?”

“The answer to that is
always
: No, you’re not.” In fact, she couldn’t be more perfect.

“You still love me then?”

“I will
always
love you.”

“Forever?”

“And ever.” I kiss that pouty lip of hers. Her tongue darts out in response and slides between my teeth. I tug at a button on her blouse and hear it pop open. She giggles and wraps her arms around my neck to pull me in closer. If it weren’t for the fact that the windows are partway down, we’d be steaming them up right now.

Twisting onto my hip, I lean across the —

“Ow!” I yelp.

“What?”

Pressing a hand to my ribs, I rock back into my seat. “The gear shift. It’s in the way.”

She starts laughing first. Then me. Five minutes later we mop our tears dry and look at each other, still smiling.

“Let’s go get a room,” she says.

I turn the key and the motor hums to life.

––––––––

A
s luck would have it, our car begins to make an odd thumping noise just as we roll into the outskirts of the village. I know the sound. Luckily, Aberbeg has no more than a dozen streets to it. I coast into the driveway beside our B&B, then get out and inspect the tires to see that the rear right one has leaked out nearly all its air.

Claire bounces out and pulls the luggage from the backseat. “What is it?”

“A flat.” I pop open the trunk, only to discover there’s no spare, not even a donut tire. And here I thought I was going to be so manly. Fixing a tire is the one mechanical thing I do know how to do. Slamming the trunk, I grumble. This is going to put a wrench in my plans. Claire sits on the stack of suitcases, frowning. After digging in the glove compartment, I find the number for the car rental place. I dial it and get a message about the office opening at 7 a.m.

“Just great,” I mutter. I should have known everything was going too well.

“What’s that?” She’s now standing by the side door to the house, a quaint two-story brick Tudor with overflowing flower boxes at all the first floor windows.

“No one there. I’ll have to try in the morning.”

“Maybe there’s a garage in town? Even if we have to foot the bill, I’m sure they’ll reimburse us.” She inclines her head. “Come on. If we don’t eat soon, I’m liable to pass out.”

The owner turns out to be a short, middle-aged bachelor named Dermot. I suspect by his accent that he’s Irish, but don’t ask. He could be Welsh or Manx or Cornish for all I know. I’m not good at telling the difference. He shows us to our room, hands us the key and asks if we need anything else before he retires for the night. When I mention the flat tire, he waves his hand, cutting me short.

“Me cousin owns a garage t’other end of the village. I’ll give him a ring first thing in the morning for you.”

“Are you sure?” I say. “That would be wonderful if you could.”

Claire leans against me, one hand rubbing her stomach. “Could you tell us where we could grab a bite to eat?” she says.” We know it’s late, but we’ve had a long day and —”

“To the right, Mrs. Sinclair, seven blocks. Big sign out front: The Finch and the Frog. Can’t miss it. Not much of a selection on the menu, but it’ll keep you till morning. ’Tis a lovely evening for a stroll.”

She smiles, not bothering to correct Dermot about her name. “Come on, Ross. Let’s take in some of the local flavor. I’d like a nip or two of the Scotch before we leave.”

“May I recommend the Glenfiddich?” Dermot suggests with a wink. “And trust me, you won’t stop at a nip.”

Hand in hand, Claire and I stroll along curvy streets to the other side of the village. Quaint little shops hug the main road, some with hand painted signs dangling from a metal bar and hooks above the narrow sidewalks. We’re hungry, road weary and ready to head home, but the air, tinted with sea breeze, refreshes us.

The side road Dermot directed us to follow crosses the road to the motorway, opening the view to the vista beyond. Miles away, Berwick’s lights wink in the darkness. Claire slides her arm around me and tucks her head against my shoulder. We stand like that for minutes, not saying anything.

When we get back to Ohio, it’s not the castle ruins and uncluttered scenery of the Highlands I’ll remember so much as perfect moments like this. Just Claire and me, together.

NOT SO LONG AGO

Balfour, Indiana — 2001

W
hile most other seventeen-year olds I know are sleeping in on weekends, every Sunday morning at promptly 8:00 a.m., I have to have breakfast on the table for my dad: ham and eggs, a glass of orange juice, no pulp, and a scalding cup of black coffee. The routine never varies. I make the meal, serve it, and sit across from him for fifteen excruciatingly long minutes, just the two of us, neither speaking. Then I clean up while he plods his way through the Sunday paper, occasionally commenting on the war in the Middle East, the capture of a serial killer, the unemployment rate or some other morbid news.

“Geez Louise.” He slurps his coffee, then pushes the cup across the table at me. “Gas is over $1.50 a gallon in Chicago already. It’s gonna be so damn expensive to fill the tank, we’ll be eating pork and beans until the day we die.”

I pour his coffee, sit the cup to his left, just like he’s always told me to, and stare at him until he looks up.