Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (28 page)

He turned to her, unable to conceal his pleasure at the surprise awaiting her.

"Don't smile at me!" Her eyes spit fire. "Move!" She pushed at his chest.

He didn't budge, but raised his hand, opening it before her eyes.

The anger flew from her face. She drew in a breath, then laughed, took the ring and pushed it hastily on her finger. She looked up at him. "You did it? You actually did something you said you would?" The ring glinted on her finger. She flew to hug him.

"The Shawn you knew was a chanty wrassler," he whispered into her ear. "That's not who I am now." He slid the necklace off the counter and held it up. "To make up for taking your ring. Accept my deepest apologies."

This time, she gasped out loud; threw a hand over her mouth, and touched the necklace gingerly. "You didn't.... This isn't you."

"No, I'm someone else altogether. Don't ever let go of your ring again." He pushed her shoulder gently, turning her around, and clasped the necklace around her neck, under her heavy hair. "And if in a few days, I seem back to my old self, remember me as I am now, today. But you still must not let him treat you like that."

"I won't," she whispered.

"You must stand by your decision that it's over, if he treats you badly," he insisted.

She nodded, overcome. "But how did you...?"

"The finest coins ye've ever seen," the old man gushed. "Here's your money, Mr. Kleiner." Amy's eyes widened as he counted out bills.

"What coins?" she asked.

"Come and see," said the pawn shop owner.

Niall closed his eyes, cursing the old man's enthusiasm. But she was at the counter, listening to his dissertation on the coins and their significance.

"Come along, Amy," he said, pulling her shoulder.

"No," she said. "No, this is interesting. Where in the world did you get these?"

"From my father."

"You never showed them to me."

"It didn't seem important."

"You had them the whole time? Then why...?"

"Dinner," Niall said, firmly. "It's been a delight doing business." He bowed to the old man, who was lovingly settling his new half pennies in place, and ushered Amy outside, blinking in the sunlight of the dirty alley.

He was immediately accosted by a girl with a billow of hair the color of summer peonies—he could hardly tear his eyes from it—giggling and bumping Amy out of the way without even noticing her. She stood on tiptoes and kissed Niall on the lips. A light flashed in his eyes.

"Will you sign an autograph?" she simpered. "Can my friend take my picture with you." She wrapped her arm around him, leaning her pink hair against his cheek and another light flashed. The friend, dressed entirely in black, with short white hair sticking straight up, was just lowering a tiny silver box. They both thrust papers and pens at him, leaning into each other and giggling some more. Niall looked at Amy questioningly.

"It happens all the time," she whispered. "Sign your name and they'll go away." He did so, and they skited off, tossing coquettish grins over their shoulders.
He's so cute
, one of them gushed in a whisper meant to be overheard. And the other,
His hair feels soooo nice
. Niall touched his hair, wondering what was particularly nice about it. Must be that French shampoo Shawn used. He'd tried it this morning. Amy rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You're so vain."

He didn't know what overcame him—some sprite of mischief. He ran his hand down a long tendril of her hair, grinning. "Yours feels much nicer," he said. "What's better than French shampoo?"

She looked shocked, then flushed with pleasure and laughed. "French shampoo? What do you mean? I can't remember the last time you said you like my hair."

"I'm saying it now." He thought of Allene and pulled his hand away. "Dinner," he reminded her. He led her out to the cobble-stoned streets, already planning his next move in the chess match that must get him back to Hugh.

* * * * *

Chapter Ten

East of Loch Ness, Scotland

When Shawn awoke, evening sun filled his room, and every muscle ached. Every inch of his body screamed for a double tall mocha. A new headache, of caffeine withdrawal, took up where yesterday's hangover had left off. The past two days' events jumbled in his mind, images of Amy and Allene melding in the tower, the scent of bluebells and heather, the taste of beer and mead and a cool, clear Highland stream; the silky feel of Caroline's skin beneath his hand and the sting of Allene's hand on his cheek, the remoteness of the castle and the neon bustle of Inverness.

Inverness! He bolted straight up in bed, tearing at sore muscles. He groaned, rubbed his protesting legs, stretched his back, and, finally, stood up. He studied the cell. It was bare, stone, and cold. A simple crucifix hung on one wall, next to a plain wooden wardrobe. The bed leaned against the other wall. He kicked one spindly leg, knocking the threadbare brown blanket—more of a burlap sack, really—onto the floor. It was hardly the four poster with silk sheets back at the hotel. Exactly what he'd expect in any monastic cell, though.

A chant drifted through the wooden door, disturbing and peaceful. His father had sometimes taken him to vespers at a monastery near his childhood home. The haunting drone of men's voices had always lifted him to a higher place, brushing the face of God. He closed his eyes, and felt himself surrounded by the white light emanating from the chanting. He saw his father's face, his father's kindness, his father laughing, and felt, just for a second, something of the man he might have been, had his father lived—or if he'd seen any benefit in the way his father had lived. He shook his head, and opened his eyes. His father's naiveté had gotten him killed, and taught Shawn to take charge of his own life and happiness.

It was time to get to Inverness! He groaned, thinking how long he'd been gone. Conrad would be having a cow—a giraffe, an elephant, several epileptic seizures. Not that he'd do any more than have fits, but Dan and Peter had a few sticks up the wrong places. They might do more than fume and bluster. He'd better find a phone and let them know what had happened.

He'd slept in the long-tailed, billowing-sleeved shirt he'd donned in the forest last night. He scooped the tunic off the floor, a heavy woven slash of holiday blue down one side, and carnival red on the other, and yanked it over his head. He laced the leather boots, and looked down at the get-up. "Ren Faire, here I come!" He chuckled. It would be a great story, showing up at the castle like this. Caroline would love it. He put on the floppy hat with its trailing green peacock feather. He strutted across the bare cell, strumming an imaginary lute, singing,
"Sumer is Icumen in, lhude sing cuccu!"
His theory professor would be thrilled he'd finally found a use for the stupid piece.

With sunlight and some rest, his fears of the previous night could be seen for the foolishness they were. The Loch Ness monster! "Did I really believe that?" he interrupted his medieval song to ask no one in particular. As to the arrow, there must be a rational explanation. It must have been a blunt arrow. He was being Punk'd. Yeah, someone might set him up on a program like that. Or he'd fallen in with some remote clan still clinging to the old ways. He'd file a complaint about the shooting business, but all in all, it had been an adventure, another story the orchestra would re-tell for years. But it was over. He'd tell the monks who he was. They'd help him.

He scanned the room for a sink. None showed itself. They must all be in a communal bathroom, he decided. He'd get a quick shower—he almost held his nose at the sweat and dirt he'd collected on their jaunt. Maybe they had some shampoo and soap. He rubbed a hand through his grimy hair. His public couldn't see him like this. Then he'd be on his way. Too bad about the boy. In Inverness or Edinburgh, there'd be ways to help him, give him a better life than his silent exile from the rest of humanity.

He let himself into the dim stone hallway. Far away, a shaft of sunlight shot through a high arched window and landed on the stone floor in a solid square. The chanting grew louder. The
Kyrie
rose a step, and another. Shawn heard, in his head, the 80's pop version his father had loved.

He moved his head from side to side, did a rhythmic jaunt with his shoulders, and sang into an imaginary microphone,
"Kyrie eleison,"
thinking of last night's endless hills and roads. He strummed an air guitar, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, and belted out,
"Kyrie eleison!"
feeling last night's dark all around him. He struck a mighty chord on the non-existent guitar, his face a mask of concentration, ready to slide onto his knees, arch back, and launch into a virtuoso air guitar solo.

A monk appeared, treading with cat's paws on the stone floor.

Shawn dropped the guitar back into non-existence, grinning at the monk. "It was going to be a great solo. Move over, Jimi Hendrix!"

"'Twas a novel
Kyrie
," said the monk. "I will pass it on to the singing master."

"Novel, indeed," Shawn said. "Toto in a monastery."

The monk looked at him quizzically.

"The group, not the dog," Shawn clarified. "Can't have dogs in a monastery." Still, the monk showed no comprehension. "It wasn't Toto?" Shawn struck his forehead. "Big Country? Mr. Mister? Loved them."

"Yes, well," said the monk, "the words are wise. Do we all need mercy on the roads we travel. The times are dark indeed. Dinner is in the hall," he added reverently.

"Great!" Shawn's stomach begged for some good strong food. A steak, maybe, with a salad and baked potatoes with sour cream and chives. Definitely, some coffee. "Then I need a phone, and a shower."

"Shower?" The monk stared blankly.

"You don't do showers? A bath, then?"

"Ah!" His face glowed with understanding. "Yes, we've a bath."

"Great! Do you have some soap to spare?"

Far away, the
Kyrie
rose another step, shimmering and echoing in the high stone hall, and dropped again. The monk's hands disappeared inside his sleeves.

"We bathe on Saturday. 'Tis several days off yet."

Shawn drew a deep breath, and, hungry and filthy, didn't fight his inclination toward sarcasm. "Surely you jest!"

"No jest, my Lord Niall. It has ever been so."

"You know...?" Or at least, he knew Niall.

"I've known you since you were a bairn."

Shawn nodded, processing the information. He wondered how the monks would feel about an imposter in Niall's place. Maybe he didn't need to tell them everything. "Okay, then. Which way to Inverness?"

"The dining hall is this way," the monk answered.

Shawn followed him down the hall. "How 'bout a phone?" The monk looked quizzically back over his shoulder, but said nothing. The chanting drifted after them, a tendril of sound floating on incensed air. "I really need a phone," Shawn said. "They're going to fire my a...a..." He felt his father's stamp on his personality, and couldn't say that word in a house of God. "...my posterior if I...."

"Yes, I heard you were injured," the monk replied.

Shawn wondered if he imagined the ghost of a smile in the words. He didn't really see what was amusing about being fired. "Dan and Peter," he tried again. "They have no sense of humor. They want to hurt me, and...."

"My Lord Niall." The monk stopped, waiting for Shawn. "We are doing all in our power to prevent them hurting you. But 'twould help if you would make haste." He strode forward again, serene and brisk, a combination, Shawn thought, only a monk could manage. They seemed determined to send him on this journey. He'd have to tell them.

"The thing is," Shawn said, "I cannot tell a lie." He grinned, pleased with himself for quoting George Washington. "Actually, I'm pretty good at telling lies, but not to a holy father...."

"I am but a friar," said the monk. "Not the Holy Father. Here is the dining hall."

Shawn looked in dismay at the faces gazing at him from the long, narrow table. He didn't want to announce in front of the whole monastery that he wasn't who they thought he was. This must be what it felt like to be the victim of a conspiracy. He sighed. At least there would be a good meal. After that, he'd try again for a phone. At least he could tell Dan and Peter he'd tried.

A large table ran the length of the dining hall. The dozen brown-robed monks ate silently. Shawn's escort led him to an empty spot. He took his place, a red and blue peacock among sparrows. Someone set before him what must be the first course: a bowl of steaming stew, and a salad. "Got some salad dressing?" he asked. "French?"

A dozen faces turned to him in shock.

Ah. Silence at mealtimes. "Sorry," he muttered, and bent over the meal. The stew stared back at him, looking suspiciously like the evil twin of yesterday's meal at the castle. He watched as the monks reached into their bowls with their hands. Copying them, he fished out something like a scrap of potato with fingers less than clean after last night's doings. He continued eating, nonetheless, his hunger being greater than his aversion to sticking dirty fingers in his food. Still, the stew seemed less repulsive than it had at the castle; maybe because he was hungrier.

As each monk finished, he pushed his bowl away, folded his hands in his lap, and bowed his head. Shortly after the last monk finished, a bell tolled, slow and mournful. As one, they stood, and began filing out the far door. Shawn waited, not knowing what to do. There appeared to be no more stew, though he could have done with a second, and very probably a third, helping. He grabbed the sleeve of the last monk in line. "Where's the rest of the meal?" he whispered.

The man tugged his sleeve back, and hurried after his brothers.

"This is it?" Shawn said. "Where's the steak? The potatoes?" Several tonsured men frowned back at him. But no one stopped.

"Don't you even have coffee?" Shawn asked, more loudly.

"You must be on your way," Another monk spoke, sotto voce, behind him. He turned to see last night's guide—he surprised himself with his growing ability to tell them apart in their look-alike robes.