Page 13 of Connal

Shaw covered a yawn with his hand. “What more want you, oh grand Finfolk King?”

“Naught from you.” If he attacked the disrespectful bastart, Merrick thought, he might kill him. He also suspected that he stood a fair chance of dying at his hands. Either way, such a reckless act would break the truce and set the MacMar and the Selseus on the path to war. “Someday soon, I think, you and I shall dance, Renegade.”

“Oh, aye.” The chieftain smiled so widely he showed every one of his teeth. “Please.”

As soon as Merrick returned to the water Shaw retreated back into the shadows, where he likely would stand watch for the remainder of the night. He surfaced once to glance back at the chieftain, and saw something like black ink flowing up the cliff to pour onto a shelf. It moved in the same patterns that had been permanently inked into the flesh of the chieftain’s arm.

Whatever the Pritani had done to Shaw, Merrick decided, no one should ever know.

Chapter Five

Over the next several days Valerie adjusted as best she could to living on a twelfth century Scottish island, helped by some rather immediate wrestling bouts with her new reality. She had never once lived in a place without running water, central heating or bathrooms. Water on Caladh had to be hauled by bucket, basin or jug, and warmth came strictly from fireplaces or layering on heavy clothing. What functioned as a bathroom in the castle, she quickly discovered, was basically an indoor version of an outhouse. Since she was a guest Valerie couldn’t really complain, but she often grumbled to herself whenever she was alone in her chamber and failing yet again to build a fire.

“Mayhap you should use a torch from the passage, my lady,” one of the maids suggested after watching her fumble with the firesteel Fletcher had given her. “’Twould surely catch then. Or ask Chieftain Shaw for his aid.”

That seemed like an odd suggestion. “You make Shaw light fires?”

“We neednae.” The maid held up her fingers and wiggled them. “He possesses the touch.”

Maybe she meant skill. “Okay.”

Unhappily Valerie had already made one enemy out of one particular tall redhead teenager, who seemed to appear out of nowhere to stand and glare at her while she struggled with something. Instead of offering to help, however, Meg merely criticized her.

When she caught Valerie hand-washing her lingerie: “The basin’s for your face and hands, no’ your fripperies. We’ve a laundress.” When she asked for a brush: “Dinnae you ken how to comb that mop?” When she got lost one day after taking the wrong turn in the passages: “Doesnae your tongue work? Ask the way.”

Each time they clashed Valerie tried to be cheerful about it, but Meg would only sniff and walk away while she was in mid-apology.

While Valerie dealt with her shortcomings as a medieval era occupant, she also came to some rather unscientific conclusions about her predicament. She first posited and then discarded all the logical explanations, such as hallucinating while in a comatose state, experiencing a very extended and detailed nightmare, and (admittedly the most far-fetched) falling through a tear in reality and landing in a parallel world where civilization had not yet advanced beyond the dark ages.

“If I’m in a coma, that would explain a lot,” she mentioned to Fletcher as they walked from her guest room down to the great hall for the morning meal. “Given that I was drowning in very cold lake water, I might have lasted long enough for a rescue and resuscitation.”

Fletcher nodded as if he understood, which Valerie knew he didn’t, and appreciated nonetheless. The seneschal had a true knack for making everyone comfortable around him, even the crazy lady from the twenty-first century who used too many big words.

“The problem with that is in a coma my brain function would be significantly impaired, making stimuli responses unlikely.” She made a quick gesture, startling one of the guards they passed. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

The guard smiled and inclined his head as he relaxed his spear arm.

“Meg said I shouldn’t talk with my hands. Where was I? Oh, then there’s the lengthy nightmare scenario, which also seems plausible. This could be a subconscious reenactment of some historic series or movie I watched that I can’t consciously remember.” She smiled at a wide-eyed scullery boy carrying a bucket of ash in the opposite direction. “Only I hardly ever watch television, and my imagination is not this good.” She glanced at Fletcher. “Should I explain television to you?”

“Please, dinnae trouble yourself, Mistress,” the seneschal said.

“Okay. So that leaves the alternate reality theory. I’m all for a good multiverse SF rationale, but honestly quantum theory always seemed more like wishful thinking to me. It would be great if in another bubble of existence I don’t have this annoying curly hair, but why would I stay the same and end up on a twelfth century Scottish island?” Valerie nearly tossed up her hands before she saw Meg carrying two platters from the kitchens, and remembered her jarring warning not to make any sudden moves around the guards. “It just doesn’t pan out.”

As they walked through the arch to the hall she became again startled by the sheer number of MacMar warriors sitting around the long trestle tables. As soon as the men noticed her and Fletcher, they stared back for a moment, as they always did, and then returned to eating. Today two hundred or more had gathered for the first meal, which the clan ate in several shifts. Breakfast was usually made up of mountains of meat, fruit and round loaves of dark breads. Maids came and went carrying more to the tables, while others made rounds with steaming kettles. Sometimes there were caldrons of soup set up on low tables as well.

Valerie appreciated the abundance, but by the third morning she thought she might kill for some yoghurt and a granola bar.

“You should dine at the laird’s table this morn, Mistress,” Fletcher said, and guided her through the maze of highland warriors to the elevated platform at the end of the room, where three other men sat together speaking in low voices. To them he said, “Make yourselves known to the lady, lads.” He bowed to her before leaving.

Valerie decided against sitting in the empty chair at the head of the table and instead perched between Duncan and a very handsome, tattooed man, which left her facing the grim-faced Nyall. She had a vague memory of asking him not to cut out her tongue, but decided that had to be from a dream.

“Good morning.” To the one she didn’t know by name she said, “I’m Valerie Baker, the crazy lady from the twenty-first century whom your laird keeps avoiding. I guess Fletcher is tired of me, too.”

As the tattooed man grinned, Nyall’s expression turned even colder. The healer placed a clean wooden plate in front of her.

“The man on your right, ’tis our senior chieftain, Shaw,” Duncan said as he began heaping food on her plate as if she were a child. “Across from you, Nyall, Captain of the Guard. You already ken I’m the clan’s healer.”

Valerie nodded and glanced around the hall. “Doesn’t your laird like having meals with the clan?”