In the Time of Kings (31 page)

“Most of it didn’t make sense at first,” she says. “It was here, in Scotland, and yet it wasn’t. The land looked the same, the hills, the forests, the glens. But the people were different, the way they talked, what they wore. It took me awhile to realize it was a different time. A long time ago. But it wasn’t so much like a dream as a —”

“Memory?”

“Yes.” She nods vigorously. “A memory.”

A shaft of sunlight divides the space between us. Half-blinded by the brightness and barely able to see Claire, I lean forward into the light, my elbows on my knees. “And what do you remember?”

“That I was standing on a cliff, with the sea below and birds everywhere, and a strong wind in my face, waiting for someone to ...” — she struggles for words, her forehead creased in concentration — “to come back to me.”

“Your husband. You were waiting for your husband to come back from a battle.”

“Yes ... yes. And then I learned that thousands had died and I was sure he hadn’t survived, but I still hoped.” Her mouth slips into a frown, her shoulders weighed down with sadness. Suddenly, her head snaps up. “Wait. How did you know that?”

In that moment, everything makes sense. To me, at least. Grief and remorse are expunged in an instant. I rise, my heart pounding so hard I feel like it might explode. “Because I was there with you, Claire.”

She comes around the bed, staring at me in disbelief. “But how? It
was
only a dream — wasn’t it?”

I take her face in my hands. “It was real. As real as you and I standing here together now.”

“How do you know that? How can you be sure, Ross?”

“Your name was Mariota.”

Her eyes go wide. She clamps her hands over mine and whispers, “Roslin?”

I laugh with relief. For weeks, I had tried to deny my feelings for Mariota, thinking that I would somehow be betraying Claire if I gave in. But my heart had been right all along: Mariota
was
Claire. “Yes, that was me. Do you understand now? We’ve lived before. We were together even then, almost seven hundred years ago.”

She arches a skeptical eyebrow at me. “Excuse me if this is all a little hard to swallow.”

“I know, I know. But how else do you explain it?”

The whine of cart wheels is followed by a thump. Nurse Stephens has steered the meal cart into the doorframe.

“Oh,” the nurse remarks in surprise, backing the cart up to maneuver it into the hallway, “leaving this morning, are you? Well, we’ll miss you something fierce, Ms. Forbes.” She unhooks the clipboard from its hook on the wall and scans it once. “They can’t stop talking about you in the staff room. The doctors say it’s a miracle you snapped out of that coma as if it had never happened. They can’t explain it. Please send us a letter when you get home, love, let us know how you’re getting along, won’t you?”

Claire rushes to her to give her a quick hug. “Of course, I will. I’ll never forget what good care you took of me. Although I can’t say I’m unhappy to get out of here.”

“Home is where you belong.” Nurse Stephens tilts her head, her lower lip quivering. She dashes a tear from her cheek. “You two look so perfect together. After all you’ve both been through ... I’m so happy to see you like this. Just think of the stories you’ll have to tell that wee one of yours someday.”

“Yeah, someday.” Claire turns Nurse Stephens by the shoulders and guides her out the door with a sudden urgency. “I’ll write, okay? I promise.”

“And send pictures of the three of you?”

“Sure, sure.” Claire urges her out into the corridor, then yanks the door shut. Before I can ask her what they were talking about, she ducks into the bathroom and makes a big commotion as she collects her makeup bag and other toiletries.

“Um, Claire ... dear.” I poke my head around the door, but she won’t meet my gaze. “What’s wrong?”

She fishes around in her makeup bag. “Nothing.”

I lift her chin and force her to look at me. “The truth, Claire.”

“It’s just that ... that ...” And then it all comes out in a torrent. “It’s all my fault, Ross. I know we had it all planned out, that we’d start trying for a family six months from now. I was being careful. I really was. Then we got carried away that one night and, and, and I suppose I just forgot, but I figured maybe luck would be on my side, so I didn’t say anything to you... Oh God, how stupid was I to have that whiskey? What kind of mother am I going to be? What if our baby has problems? It’s my fault. I’m so dumb and I’ve ruined everything and you should just divorce me right now because —”

“Stop, stop, stop.” I pinch her lips between my fingers, then wrap my arms around her and pull her into me. I kiss the top of her head. If this is her hormones talking, we’re going to be in for a long, bumpy ride. “I knew about the baby before you woke up. And I believe you didn’t know. It’s going to be okay, Claire. It really is. So we’re going to be parents a little early. Big deal. We’ll be fine. We’re smart people. We’ll figure it out. You’re going to be a great mom. The best. Me, though? You’ll have to be patient. I’ll try hard, every day. I didn’t have a very good example for a father, but at least I know what not to do.”

“Are you going to tell your dad about the baby, Ross?”

“I suppose so.” To others, it’s natural to tell your family you’re going to have a baby, knowing they’ll be happy for you. But every time in my life I told my dad about something I thought would make him proud of me, he had ridiculed me, found fault, or flipped it all inside out to make it into something bad. Not this time. Not ever again.

“Do you want me to do it?”

“No, this is something I have to do myself. I need to stand up to him. Set limits. My whole life I’ve kept quiet, swallowed the hurt, and run away. But not anymore.” I start to help her put the last of her things in the overstuffed suitcase. “If there was one thing I learned while I was ‘away’, it was that if someone’s always finding fault with you, sometimes it’s because they’re still fighting something in their past. I can’t be part of that fight any longer, whatever it is. He has to understand that or he just can’t be a part of my life, our lives, ever again. I know that seems harsh, but you can’t change someone unless they want to change.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.” She cups my jaw in her palm, smiling in that gentle, understanding way that has always melted my heart. “So you’ve checked out of the B&B?”

“Yeah. Dermot says bye and next time we come back, he’ll give us a couple nights free.”

“That’s nice of him. Are we on our way to the airport, then?”

“We have a few hours before we need to check in, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to swing by St. Joseph’s Kirk. I never did get to talk to Reverend Murray again. I already called and he’s expecting us. Something he told me doesn’t quite add up and I wanted to see if he learned anything new about the Sinclairs.”

HERE & NOW

Near Berwick, Scotland — 2013

W
e meet with Reverend Murray at the pub in Aberbeg. The man behind the bar greets him heartily. I assume they know each other from church services or community functions, until the barkeeper asks if he wants ‘the usual’.

“This happens more often than I’d like to admit, but it seems I confused a few facts.” Reverend Murray pulls a dark frothy drink toward him and takes a sip. “It was Sir Henry Sinclair who died at Halidon Hill.”

“I’m aware of that, but his son died just days later, didn’t he?” I say. “From wounds received during the battle, perhaps?”

He looks at me with utter befuddlement. “Oh no, no. Not at all. I contacted my cousin’s friend in Kirkwall and asked him to look into family records there. There’s a small graveyard on one of the northern islands, near where a castle once stood. It’s nothing but ruins now, the markers on the graves barely legible. But he said there was clearly a Sir Roslin Sinclair buried there whose birth date matches this one.” He spreads out the paper and points to the name. “He had a son named William, but also a brother by that name.”

“And Sir Roslin’s date of death?” I ask.

“Some thirty-five years after the battle. About a year after the death of his wife.”

“Mariota,” Claire says.

“Yes.” He hooks a finger over the edge of his glasses and slides them off his nose. “How did you know her name? It’s not written here. Only on the gravestone.”

Claire and I look at each other.

She slips her hand in mine atop the table. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”

“Reverend Murray,” I say, “do you believe we only live once?”

He gazes up at the soot-darkened rafters, contemplating the question. “When I read from the Holy Gospel at a funeral, I recite the words ‘Ashes to ashes; Dust to dust.’ It means that our bodies are nurtured by the earth and when we die, we return to it. Become a part of the soil, so to speak.”

Then leaning across the table, he places his hand over both of ours and smiles knowingly. “But our souls ... our souls are eternal.”

––––––––

Columbus, Ohio — 2013

W
e’re sitting on a pair of plastic chairs halfway between our gate at the Columbus airport and the luggage carousel. I’ve had a lot of time to think on the flight home. No matter how long I turn things over in my mind, it will never get easier. It’s been over ten years since I’ve spoken to him. But there’s a part of my past I need to leave behind and until I address a few things, it’s always going to be there. Hell, I could let it eat me up for ten more years and what would I gain from that?

Claire squeezes my knee as I press the numbers on my keypad. It rings on the other end five times, six, seven ... If he doesn’t answer, I don’t think I can get up the nerve to do this again.

Finally, the ringing stops. I hear the soft crackle of air on the other end. And then his voice.

“Hello?”

“Hey ... Dad.” My words come out high-pitched and soft, like I’m ten. I try to swallow, but my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I pop open the tab of my Coke and take a swig. “It’s me.”

“Ross?” A long pause follows. My stomach clenches. If it wasn’t for Claire sitting next to me, I’d snap the phone shut and pretend this never happened. But it’s his tone that keeps me on the line. It’s not what I expected. He sounds almost ... cheerful, if that’s possible. “Ross. It’s been a long time. Good to hear from you, son.”

“Yeah, um ...” Everything I’d planned on saying is suddenly lost in a haze of amnesia. I should’ve written it all down. And then, being the wimp I am, I blurt out, “Look, I’m sorry I —”

“No, Ross.” There’s a hitch in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

I lower the phone for a second and look at it, then press it to my ear again. “What?”

“I said
I’m
sorry.” He’s more insistent this time, like he doesn’t want to repeat himself and I’d better listen up.

“Oh. About what?”

“You know ... Things I said. Did.” Another long pause follows.

A couple of weeks ago, I would have blasted my anger at him, pressed him for a more thorough answer and accepted nothing less than him blubbering tearful regrets while he prostrated himself before me. My perspective, however, has changed a lot recently. Truth is I’m not sure he could tell me exactly what he’s sorry about. He
does
seem to understand that he bears some responsibility.

What will happen if I let my guard down? Will he revert to the same old behaviors? Will his words still hurt as much as they used to?

The fact that he’s apologized, however vaguely, well, that’s a huge step on his part. He can’t erase all the things he’s said and done. But I can allow him a fresh start. I can give him a chance.

In this life, there won’t be any heroic acts of valor or self-sacrifice. Just those two little words: ‘I’m sorry.’

Two words. And yet they hold so much power. So much potential to heal.

“So, I was thinking,” I say, bridging the silence, “of coming back to Indiana to visit some friends. Thought I’d stop by the house, if that’s okay. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

T
he Battle of Halidon Hill was fought on July 19
^th
, 1333. It is estimated the Scots numbered 13,000 strong, while the English army had 9,000 men.

Lord Archibald Douglas has been criticized for not acting more quickly when Edward Balliol entered Scotland in early March and laid siege to the city of Berwick. Rather than raid into England immediately, Douglas chose to focus on gathering a large enough force to outnumber the opposition. Meanwhile, Balliol dug trenches and cut off the water supply to Berwick, placing its citizens in an increasingly desperate situation. In May, King Edward III joined Balliol. Berwick was forced to negotiate. Douglas set out south to attack Bamburgh, where Queen Philippa was staying, but upon Edward’s hanging of the first of the hostages offered up by Berwick, he returned there. Battle was inevitable.

King Edward had two undeniable advantages and used both of them to overwhelming effect. The first was his positioning on Halidon Hill to the north of Berwick, the only open land route to the city, which is surrounded to the west and south by the River Tweed and to the east by the sea. In order for the Scots to relieve Berwick by force, they had to break through the English lines. If they failed, Berwick would surrender. Edward had no intention of abandoning his superior vantage point. He would force the Scots to come to him. The second was his use of the longbow. Basically, the moment the Scottish army crossed over the marshy ground at the foot of Halidon Hill and Edward employed his archers, Berwick’s fate was decided.

Scottish casualties were staggering. Numerous nobles lay dead on the battlefield, decimating Scotland’s leadership for years to come. In English eyes, the humiliating defeat at Bannockburn had at last been avenged.

A few months later, Edward Balliol held a parliament in Perth. His hold on the crown, however, did not last. A year later, he was deposed.

Young King David was sent to France for safety and did not return to Scotland until 1341, at the age of seventeen. Five years later, he invaded England, but was captured at the Battle of Neville’s Cross. He remained a prisoner of Edward III’s for eleven years. In 1357, he was released under the terms of the Treaty of Berwick, which demanded heavy payments. David died childless in 1371 and was succeeded by his nephew Robert Stewart, the first of many Stewarts to rule Scotland.