The Inscription Page 4

  The schoolmaster slumped back. Blood spurted from his mouth. The mask of confidence he had held intact melted away. Lachlan grabbed Bartholomew around the neck. “How does it feel to have fear run through you like molten lead? I shall notify the general assembly of the need for a new parish schoolmaster.”

  “I… I will not hard the boy again, you have my word.” He tried to pry Lachlan’s fingers from around his throat. “Please, I beg you, let me go.” The switch dropped to the ground. “Please.”

  Lachlan heard someone come up beside him. It was Amber.

  “Don’t you think strangling this man is a little bit extreme?”

  Her voice was as calm as a spring breeze. His life depended upon exacting swift revenge on anyone who hurt those in his care. Yet she was asking for him to try another path. Her touch cooled his anger. She was right. He released his hold on Bartholomew and watched the man rub his jaw and hurry toward the safety of the shadows. The schoolmaster may have thought he had escaped, but Lachlan remembered something Amber had said. He might not allow his wolfhounds to tear Bartholomew limb from limb, as was his desire, but he would make certain the schoolmaster, if the man taught again, would be watched.

  The decision made, he looked at Amber as she talked with his brother. He folded his arms across his chest. This woman had been able to cool his temper with her words alone. The similarity to the women of his clan was apparent. She was a woman who spoke clearly what was on her mind.

  Gavin stared at him with the trust of the young, yet Lachlan felt he had failed. He walked over to his brother and knelt down in front of him. “Know that I shall take better care to leave you only with those I trust.”

  Gavin chewed on his lower lip. ‘’Are you going away?“

  Lachlan pulled his brother into his arms. He had chosen his words poorly and knew firsthand the emotions his brother felt at the idea of being left behind. Lachlan drew back and looked at Gavin. “Battles will have to come to me, for I will not be leaving Urquhart. When you are old enough to wield a sword, we shall leave together.” He looked at Amber again. “You risked much by your interfering.”

  She smiled. “It’s an old habit of mine.”

  A cool breeze drifted in off the Highlands, bringing the fresh scent of heather. He stood and gazed at the woman he had saved from Loch Ness. Once she set her path to defend his brother, she had never wavered.

  Lachlan guided Gavin toward the entrance of the Great Hall. He tousled the boy’s hair. “I will have Marcail tend your wounds.”

  “Shouldn’t you take him to the hospital, or have a doctor look at him?” It was apparent to him she doubted his ability to care for his own.

  “I would trust Gavin to no other. I have no doubts as to her abilities.” Marcail was a physician. She had once held dreams to heal all those who came her way. The Black Death had made her realize her abilities were limited. It had defeated her.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Amber struggling to keep pace with them as he and Gavin reached the entrance. She kept stepping on the hem of her gown. He would have to ask Una to see to new clothes.

  As she approached, she glanced quickly at his brother. “I’m worried Gavin’s back will become infected. Are you sure we shouldn’t think about taking him to town to see a doctor? Those cuts look deep. I think he needs stitches.”

  This woman was right to interfere with Bartholomew; however, Marcail was the only physician his kin needed. He suspected Amber would not discourage easily and, thankfully, he had an answer for her. “Marcail has the gift of healing.”

  He could hear her muttering behind him as he pushed open the double doors and knew the answer was not to her liking. But she would have to be satisfied with it.

  A fire blazed in the hearth in the Great Hall. His men were busy about their meal as Una walked toward him, wiping her hands on her apron. “There you are, Gavin. I sent Angus and his men in search of you when you missed the evening meal.” She brushed his hair off his forehead. “Where have you been, lad?”

  Gavin looked at Lachlan.

  Una’s forehead wrinkled. “I knew something was amiss when I saw you leave.”

  He put his arm around Una’s shoulder. “I shall explain at length later. As for now I would have Marcail tend the boy.”

  “I never did like that man, with all his English ways. Always so full of his own imagined importance.” Una motioned to Gavin. “Come lad. I have a sweet for you in the cookroom and then we will find the Lady Marcail.”

  Lachlan nodded toward his brother. It was a sound plan. Una could mother Gavin. Right now that is what he suspected the boy needed. More than likely, his back had already begun to heal.

  Una took the boy’s hand and disappeared around the corner. He should probably tell their mother what had happened. The muscles in his shoulders tightened. He dismissed the idea. If she understood at all it would upset her; if she couldn’t remember who Gavin was it would distress her all the more. He shook the dark thoughts from his mind and glanced over at Amber. She was staring in the direction Una had taken Gavin. “You need not worry. My bother will be well cared for.”

  Lachlan watched Amber hesitate before she picked up her skirts and walked toward a long table heaped with steaming platters of food. A few of his men noticed her enter and then looked over at him. It was an easy task to decipher their thoughts. A man could lose all sense of time in the watching of her move across a room. And her skin… he gripped the hilt of his sword and returned his men’s stares until they bent once more over their meal. They would not challenge him. Some out of loyalty, others from fear.

  A young serving girl with a tray of fruit pies sidestepped out of the way as Amber passed. Angus made a sweeping gesture with his arm for Amber to sit beside him at the table. His friend looked over at him and winked. Angus was a dead man.

  Chapter 3

  A fish with bulging eyes lay on a pewter tray and stared back at Amber. She shifted on the bench and reached for a piece of white cheese. Lachlan sat beside her, engrossed in conversation with a man named Angus. Across from her sat the woman who was supposed to be such a great doctor. Angus had introduced her as Lady Marcail. She was dressed in a blue silk grown trimmed in white fur, with yards of pearls around her neck. Amber couldn’t stop looking at her. The woman’s costume was a truly brilliant reproduction of a court dress complete with matching headpiece. She looked as if she had about as much emotion as the fish on the platter and no doubt a bedside manner to match. Marcail had said she’d examined Gavin. She had pronounced him healed and that was the end of the discussion.

  Amber heard a child’s laughter and the excited barking of a dog. Gavin and MacDougal were playing tug-of-war with a torn piece of material. The dog pulled the cloth free, dropped it, and licked Gavin on the face. The boy certainly looked as if he’d recovered. Marcail ignored the commotion. Instead she was concentrating on cutting her food into grain-sized pieces with an oversized fork and a knife that resembled a small dagger. Amber realized Marcail never put one piece into her mouth, and the words “eating disorder” popped into Amber’s thoughts.

  Voices blended together in the Great Hall as everyone bent over their food and ate with their fingers. Amber looked around at the sea of tartan-dad men. Their clothes looked worn, lived in and comfortable. It was impossible to tell the tourists from the actors.

  Angus’ voice rang above the hum of chatter. He nodded toward Lachlan and pointed his tankard of ale in the direction of the young woman by the hearth.

  “Your sister seeks only the company of books.”

  Amber followed his gaze. Alone, in a corner by the fireplace, a young teenage girl sat with a book in her lap. She looked as detached from the people in this room as Amber felt.

  Lachlan nodded. “Aye, Elaenor’s thirst for knowledge shows signs of exceeding even Queen Elizabeth’s. Their correspondence keeps the messengers between London and Urquhart in constant business.”

  “Is Her Majesty, Queen Mary, in favor of the friendship?”
/>
  Lachlan took a drink of ale. “She knows not, nor would it be of interest to her, so obsessed is she with her marriage to Lord Darnley. I have been informed that she is with child. That union will come to no good. We must take care the throne of Scotland falls not to Queen Elizabeth. For all her intelligence, I would keep these lands free of English rule.”

  Angus turned toward Amber, scratched his fire-red beard and smiled. “What think you of our Sovereign?”

  She looked from one to the other. They couldn’t be serious. She was pretty sure they were talking about Mary, Queen of Scots. Amber rested her arms on the table. These people were taking this reenactment business to the extreme. They had immersed themselves so deeply in their roles she doubted if they could climb out of the past long enough to carry on a normal conversation. She might as well play along. She took a deep breath and tried to sound serious.

  “I think if your Queen’s not careful, she’ll lose her head.”

  Angus’ laugh was almost deafening. He reached over and slapped Lachlan on the back. “Laird MacAlpin, the lass has wit.”

  The force of the blow knocked Lachlan forward and he spilled ale over the front of his tartan. He stood and pulled Angus to his feet. “Lady Amber may indeed be quick-witted, but you have the manners of a drunken reaver.”

  Amber could see the muscles in Lachlan’s jaw tense. His emotions were close to the surface. It had been the same when she had told him about Bartholomew. The episode with the tutor was still fresh in her mind. It had not occurred to her, at the time, that the behavior she was witnessing would be commonplace in the medieval and renaissance era. She didn’t like this reenactment. It was too real.

  She rubbed her temples. Slow down, think this through. She could hear the grating sound of metal fork against pewter plate as Marcail cut her food. She’d asked Lachlan to take Gavin to see a doctor. Her hands trembled, and she clasped them in her lap. He’d said that Marcail had a “gift of healing.” He’d not said she was a great physician. The expression had not seemed odd then, it did now.

  The smell of animal fats from platters of mutton and beef, musk and flower-scented perfumes, combined with too many people jammed into the Great Hall had suddenly become overpowering. She felt dizzy. If d been less than twenty-four hours since she’d been pulled from the loch. She was not rational. After all, her body was probably still recovering from a mild case of hypothermia. A glass of cold water or iced tea might help settle her stomach, not to mention her imagination. Maybe she could scrounge something in the kitchen.

  Amber touched Lachlan on the arm. “I think I’m going to look for something else to eat.”

  She left the table and walked in the direction she had seen servants carrying platters of food. Stumbling over bones thrown on the floor, she wove her way around the long tables until she reached the entrance.

  Heat poured from the kitchen as Amber opened the door. In the stone fireplace, against smoke-stained walls, two pigs roasted on an iron spit. A whitewashed brick oven stood in the corner and she could smell the rich aroma of baking bread. Garlic and dried onions hung from oak beams. The details were amazing. She had to keep reminding herself that this was only a reenactment, like the one she’d seen at Stirling Castle. Aunt Dora would love this place. Of course, her aunt would put up a fuss if they made her wear the clothes; hot, heavy and confining. She wondered why she’d given in so easily.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her of the reason she was here. She stepped farther into the kitchen. Una stood behind a trestle table, kneading a mound of brown dough. As she flopped it over, a powdery mist of flour floated into the air.

  Una looked up and smiled. “The clothes fit you well.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sleeves on her dress felt too tight and the bodice made her feel as if she were encased in shrink-wrap. She promised herself to wear baggy jeans and sweatshirts for a month when she got home.

  “Is there something you seek?”

  Amber walked over to the table. “My stomach feels as if it’s turned upside down. Maybe a piece of bread would help.”

  Una wiped her hands on her soiled apron and reached for a knife. She cut a slice from the coarse loaf and handed it to Amber.

  A chicken scurried past her feet, chased by a man in a kilt and a frayed shirt. The plaid in his costume was so faded, the colors were no longer distinguishable. He wielded a meat cleaver over his head and grabbed the bird around its throat. Flinging the squawking chicken on a table, he brought the blade straight down and whacked off its head. Blood spurted from the neck and flowed into a metal trough at the end of the table.

  Amber backed against the stone wall. Her clothes felt tighter and the smells in the close quarters of the room had suddenly become suffocating. This was more authenticity than she could handle. Una looked at her with concern.

  “What troubles you, lass? You look as white as new linen.”

  A small boy, his face encrusted with dirt and soot, brushed past her. He headed toward the hearth and the sizzling meat. He seated himself on a three-legged stool and began to turn the spit. In a matter of seconds sweat dripped down his face.

  Amber edged away from the wall. Of course, this was none of her business. Maybe he was getting paid lots of money for his part in the reenactment and would not appreciate her interference. She hesitated. It had never stopped her before.

  Una paused in the work of forming dough into braided loaves, seeming to have read Amber’s mind. “Daniel will leave when the meat is done. But ‘tis better than tending his father’s herds in the bitter Highland winds.”

  So the boy had two choices; freezing or roasting. Maybe she could appeal to reason.

  She cleared her throat. “His schoolwork is going to suffer if he’s too tired to study.” When she became a principal of her own school, she would make sure student activities did not interfere with their lessons.

  Una rubbed the side of her face, leaving a smudge of flour. “The boy has no need to learn letters. This be a fine occupation. Because of it, his family has the scraps from the laird’s table.”

  What Una said was not making sense. Unless… it was like Lachlan and Angus’ conversation. They not only dressed as if they were living in the sixteenth century, they talked and acted like it. And then there was the business with the tutor. The events she’d experienced since she awoke scrolled through her mind. Like pieces of a puzzle, they started to form an answer.

  The fire hissed as fresh drippings from the meat splattered onto the coals. She swallowed. The walls seemed to press in on her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man wipe the blood on his hands off on his shirt, and then walk over to Una. He pinched off a corner of the dough with his fingers and tossed it into his mouth. His teeth were black and decayed. On the table blood mingled with the dead chicken, fish and vegetables.

  “A goblet of wine, lass?”

  She shook her head. “I need some air.”

  Una pointed to an archway next to the fireplace.

  Amber picked up her skirts, hurried in that direction and pulled the door open by the rope handle. A welcome rush of cold air swirled around her as she walked out onto the narrow balcony. She took a steadying breath as she looked at the purple heather that spread like a thick blanket over the endless hills and framed the shore on either side of the castle.

  Amber closed her eyes, trying to remember. Without turning to her right, she knew there would be a rolling field that led to a road. The grass would be soft and there would be a cluster of alders where she and Steven had made love. She had been eighteen then and he was on vacation with his family. The flood of memories made her feel dizzy, and her legs started to buckle. She opened her eyes and gripped the railing to keep from railing. The cold rough stones cut into the palms of her hands. She knew where she was. She was at Urquhart, a castle that had been blown up in the eighteenth century. Amber was seeing Urquhart as it must have been before time and wars had destroyed it.

  She gathered the heavy folds of he
r dress and walked slowly down the narrow steps to the courtyard. She concentrated on not slipping or falling. A dog barked as she reached the bottom of the steps. The noise grated as she headed toward the gate. She had to get closer to the water. Wide metal strips attached by large bolts crisscrossed the thick wooden door. It was clearly made to protect the people within the walls and to withstand ramming by an enemy. It was also made to keep the inhabitants in. Would she be allowed to leave? She slowed her pace and forced the panic out of her thoughts as she approached the gatekeeper. He was young and looked as if he shared the Viking belief that baths sapped your strength. He looked very strong. She hoped that he wasn’t very bright.

  He stepped in front of her. “Halt.”

  What could she say that he would believe? She pasted on a smile and tried to invoke a Highland brogue. “Salmon were left cooling in the loch. Una bid me fetch them for the laird’s table.”

  He returned her smile; a toothy grin on a smooth face. She relaxed and watched him walk over to the levers that controlled the gate. It creaked open. Not wanting to wait in case the young man changed his mind, she ducked under the gate when it was only half open and hurried to the shore.

  Her long dress weighed her down. She struggled to keep from losing her balance over the narrow path. Lachlan and Angus had talked about Mary, Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth I. Amber remembered a tour at Holyrood House she’d taken with Aunt Dora. The guide had told them about Mary’s marriage to Lord Darnley and her pregnancy. So, if she had her time line straight, Lord Darnley was still alive and Mary hadn’t been imprisoned by Elizabeth as yet. The year must be about 1566. She stumbled on an exposed root, but caught herself before she fell. Somehow she had slipped four hundred years into the past.

  There was no doubt she was looking at Loch Ness, and no questions that Urquhart stood behind her: tall powerful and intact. It was no longer the crumbling ruins of the twentieth century. She’d spent her summers as a guide on a tour bus, showing visitors this very spot. She knew the castle’s history, knew the date it was first battered by the English and the MacDonalds and knew the year it was blown up to prevent it from serving as a Jacobite base.