In the Time of Kings (5 page)

“How’re you doing, sweetie?” I pass her a bottled water from the snack tray the guide is toting down the aisle. “You’ve been, I don’t know, quiet? Are you tired?”

“Not really. Just a little ear ache, maybe. I think that cold wind was blowing in my ear this morning. My head hurt a little earlier, too, but it’s better now. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, really.”

“Something on your mind?” Truth be told, I’m afraid
I
have done something wrong — which is entirely possible. I’ve learned it’s better to get these things out in the open at the first hint, grovel profusely and move on.

“Do you believe we have souls?”

“Whoa,” I say. “That was out of left field. Why do you ask?”

“I can’t explain it. Something about being at that old church in Kirkwall. It was like I could sense the people who had been there before.”

“It’s a big tourist draw, I imagine. At least in Orkney terms.”

“No, I mean people from a long time ago and, well, it made me wonder if when we die, we really do just turn to dust, or if our energy ... our souls, somehow carry on or come back or ... I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like when our hearts stop beating that we’re really gone, for good.”

I gaze out the window at the darkening sky. On the horizon’s silhouette, a scattering of lights outlines the perimeter of a town just off the motorway. “I’d like to think we get a chance to live again and get things right that we screwed up before.”

What I don’t tell her is that I believe I’ve lived before. Hell, I’ve never told anybody about my dreams, or memories, whatever they are. For all I know, I just had an active imagination as a child.

And that’s why I have to go to Berwick. To see Halidon Hill. Because once I stand on that ground, I’m sure I’ll know.

NOT SO LONG AGO

Balfour, Indiana — 1994

I
skid to a halt on the green-flecked kitchen linoleum. Ivanhoe, an unkempt mop of orange and white tangles, scoots out of the way with a yelp. An old dog with a pot belly and a fear of cats that makes him tremble uncontrollably whenever he sees one, next to Claire he’s my best friend — and my trusty squire. Although his sight is dim and his hearing nearly gone, he trails after me constantly and sleeps by my bed at night, faithfully keeping the closet monsters at bay. Yesterday was his twelfth birthday — or so we guess, because we don’t really know. I’d chosen a date one month after my own birthday (I turned ten myself last month) and every year I celebrate by giving him a wedge of Velveeta between two slices of Wonder Bread. The tradition started when he stole my cheese sandwich off the coffee table once and ran away with it. So I figured he really liked cheese sandwiches, because the prize was worth the scolding he got.

I bend over and scratch the mutt behind his worn leather collar, which sends his leg thumping.

“Cut it out,” Dad snaps.

Pulling my hand back, I straighten and clench my baseball bat before me. “I am Sir Ross, the king’s champion!”

I mean it, literally, although I’m not sure which king I’m talking about.

Mom snorts coffee onto her good buttercup yellow blouse and laughs like it’s the cutest thing she’s ever heard. “Aren’t you simply darling?”

Scoffing, my dad flicks open his Bic lighter and torches up a Marlboro.

“Get over yourself, boy.” He sucks in a lung-filling drag. The end of his cigarette glows orange. Eyeing me cynically above black-rimmed bifocals, he exhales a cloud of smoke and taps gray ashes into the empty saucer beside his coffee cup. “You ain’t that important. Just a dumb nobody like the rest of us.”

“Jack,” my mother chides, “he’s a child. He has an active imagination.”

“He’s making shit up, that’s what he’s doing.”

I shrink beneath my cloak and it slips sideways with the slump of my shoulders. Well, it’s not really a cloak. More like a blue satin jacket that I’d claimed from the depths of the hall closet. I tug it back into place. The sleeves are tied loosely around my neck, a gaudy piece of Grandma Gordon’s old costume jewelry pinned in the middle to keep the ends together. On my head sits a scuffed batting helmet — no visor, but at least it will protect my scalp from arrows. A pair of old gardening gloves which reek of insect dust serve as my gauntlets. Defeated, I lower my arm and schlep off, dragging the bat behind me.

Furry paws scrabble after me as I head out the back door. Crumpling on the stoop, I tear off my cloak and fling it behind the forsythia bushes next to the garage.

“Just a dumb nobody,” I repeat. A sob wells up in my throat and threatens to tear loose, but I swallow it back, determined to be strong. They’re just words, anyway. What is it Mom used to tell me? Nobody can make you feel bad unless you let them. It makes sense, but it doesn’t seem to work that way.

Ivanhoe nuzzles my hand until I reward him with a pat on the head. The dog sneezes twice and curls his body around to squirm beneath my arm. His brown nose quivers as he sniffs at the sword... the bat, really. I pick it up and hold it straight out before me. Make-believe, that’s all it is.

An ache begins to spread from my right shoulder down to my elbow. That arm has been weak ever since the accident with the swing set.

The bat grows heavier in my hand. I flick my wrist, trying to let go of it, but the handle is molded to my palm as if it’s Super Glued there. My vision blurs, clears, and then blurs again. With my left hand, I rub at my eyeballs, but as I do so, the handle wobbles in my palm. My arm dips as if being pulled downward. Clutching tighter, I dare a look. No, it isn’t my eyesight that’s blurring, it’s the ... whatever it is I’m holding.

The longer I stare at it, the more it changes in shape and the more defined it appears. The grip becomes a hilt, bound in worn leather. At its bottom is a round knob decorated with red-eyed snakes of gold. Above my knuckles, a curved crosspiece flares. The column of wood is gone, replaced by a shining length of metal: an iron blade. Midmorning sun flashes off the sword. The edges are nicked in a few places, but the blade is freshly polished.

A rumble of voices fills the air. Standing, I look up and see, not my backyard, but a valley, bigger than even the soccer field complex at Eldred Yoder Community Park. Gone are the silver maples and privet hedges of my neighborhood and all the brick ranch houses of suburban Balfour. Instead, broad hills ring a low-lying expanse. A wind, warm and heavy, ripples over a sea of grass that stretches from horizon to horizon. In the distance, a city enclosed by high walls stands beside a broad river.

Crowning one of the hills, a jagged line of spearheads points heavenward. Sunlight captures distant flashes of metal: helmets, swords, axes. Behind the spearmen, armored knights sit upon impatient mounts. Banners of gold, green, azure and scarlet flutter in the breeze.

To the front, the most terrifying sight of all: archers. Each has an arrow nestled to the string. As if they’re one, they all raise their bows, seeking their marks, and wait. Arms cock back. Then a command, the word indistinguishable above the buffeting wind, emanates from somewhere in their midst.

Fingers twitch. Slashes of black cut across the sky: silent, deadly, sure.

Below the rain of arrows, an army plunges into the valley, oblivious to its fate.

I close my eyes and plop my bottom down on the stoop, slapping my left palm against the cool surface of the cement steps.

No, this isn’t my imagination. Can’t be. If it is, I’m already going crazy and I’m too damn young for that. Darn, I mean. Mom says I’m not supposed to cuss, even though my dad does it all the time.

I grip my right hand tighter, raise my arm. Feel the weight of the sword in my grasp. My right shoulder throbs, the pain burning so intensely I can hardly bear it. I let my arm drop to my side. Why aren’t I riding with them?

My ears are filled with the roar of battle cries as soldiers rush into the gaping valley. The hiss of feathered shafts. The howls of the dying as arrows rip through flesh. The deafening clang of metal as the survivors collide with the enemy’s front lines.

The smells that fill my nose make me want to puke. It’s the scent of iron. And blood.

“Sir Ross,” comes a voice, sweet and light as cotton candy, “what are you waiting for? You were s’pposed to come over an hour ago.”

Nearly tumbling forward, my eyes fly open. I flip the sword behind the closest bush and look around. Claire Elaine Forbes sits astride a bough of the boxelder tree, looking down on me from the other side of the leaning picket fence.

Damn, she’s pretty.

HERE & NOW

Inverness, Scotland — 2013

M
y plan was to stick to trains and buses for the rest of our trip, but Claire can’t stand the slight swaying motion of the trains and bus fumes make me nauseous. So we rent our own car in Inverness with the understanding that for a drop-off fee we can return it to the airport at Glasgow. That totally busts our budget for a castle stay, but there’s no sense in either of us being miserable on our honeymoon. After signing away the inheritance of our firstborn, we march out to the parking lot with our keys.

I pop open the trunk and toss our bags inside. Before I pull open the door handle, Claire clears her throat.

“So you’re driving the whole way, right?” she says.

“It’s a stick shift, so yes, I am. You never learned how, remember?”

“And they drive on the other side of the road, correct?”

“Well, yes.” I wait for more questions, but she simply stands there wearing a little smirk of amusement. Fine, I’ll show her how it’s done. I yank open the door and slide into the seat.
Crap
. The steering wheel is on the other side. And the gear shift ... is left-handed. You’d think I’d have caught on to that by now.

Claire bursts out laughing. With as much dignity as I can muster, I get out, go to the other side and get back in.

The engine hums as I turn the key in the ignition.

She hops in the passenger seat. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back and get an automatic?”

“I asked. They were all out. We’re stuck — unless you want to take another train?”

“Not a chance.” Claire clicks her seatbelt. “Tally ho!”

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Highlands, Scotland — 2013

W
e cut across the teeth of the desolate Grampian Mountains — a landscape so rugged and sparsely inhabited, it sometimes feels more like we’re on the moon than somewhere in the British Isles. After a harrowing near-miss with a Bentley when we crest one of the narrow, winding roads, I pull off to the side and get out. My knuckles are white from gripping the shifter and my shoulders are so tense it would take one hell of a massage to unknot me.

The first thing I notice is the wind. I hadn’t been prepared for the drop in temperature since we’d started our drive three hours earlier.

“Recovering?” Pulling her sweatshirt on, Claire leans against the hood of our car. “Or taking in the view?”

“Both.” I curl an arm around her and go to kiss her, but her mouth is firmly closed. She’s chewing something.

“Crisps?”

“Huh?”

She crinkles a foil bag between us. “Potato chips.”

I dig my fingers in and pull out the last two, then pop them in my mouth. “Is that all?”

“Sorry, I was starving. All this globe trekking is making me hungry lately. How far to the next town?”

The road goes on as far as I can see, a black ribbon twisting over stony mountains bare of trees. Granite crags embrace purple swaths of heather and feathery clouds whisk across a crystalline sky. Thank goodness I’ve brought a map along, because the GPS doesn’t work out here. “Hours.”

“Oh. Then I’m really sorry, because I ate yours, too.”

She’s not, but it’s hardly worth arguing about. “We’ll have to skip the castle stay.”

“It’s all right, Ross. We’ve seen so many already I think I’m having castle-saturation. So what’s next?”

“Balmoral. We can take a long walk in the gardens, stretch our legs a bit.”

“Do you think we’ll see the Queen?”

“Absolutely. I sent her our itinerary well ahead of time so she could clear her schedule.”

“Good. I hope Prince William tags along. I’m still mad he hooked up with Kate.” She winks at me. Prince William is her royal celebrity crush. “And after that?”

“The Drumtochty Highland Games. Sword dancing, caber tossing, kilted pipers. Plenty of photo opps. After that, I want to swing by Berwick to speak with that retired cleric about my family tree. Then we have a day and a half to shop in Edinburgh before heading back to the airport in Glasgow.”

“Fabulous!”

“I knew you’d think so.” I retrieve two water bottles from the car and hand her one. “So, are you having fun? I mean, given the rigorous schedule I planned out and everything?”

She hugs me tight. “It’s perfect, Ross. You’re here. I’m here. I’ll never forget a day of this trip. It couldn’t be more perfect.”

“It just got more perfect.”

“Huh?”

I point to a place halfway up the mountain closest to us. There, next to a narrow rock-strewn stream, is the biggest red stag I’ve ever seen. I can’t count the number of prongs to his antlers from here, they’re so many. He dips his great rack as he drinks from the water, then lifts his head to stare at us with sorrowful dark eyes. And then, it gets even more interesting. A doe appears over the rise and joins him. Her hide is a touch redder than his, less brown, but I’m guessing from the dull patches in his fur that he’s still shedding his winter coat. They stay like that for a long time — watching us watching them.

Finally, Claire breaks the silence. “I thought the males were solitary.”

“Usually they are, but those two look like a pair. Like they’ve always been together.”

“Like us. There’s something about this moment. It feels like ... like it could go on forever.” She tucks her cheek against my chest and murmurs over my heart, “Remember it, Ross. Remember how it feels.”

“I will.” I hook a finger under her chin and kiss her gently, her breath mingling with mine, our hearts beating in unison. “Believe me, I will.”

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