Aye, but ’twas safest.
Plush hemlock and pine surrounded his wee glen and pool, but they hadn’t when he’d first arrived ten summers past. Then there were no birds or hares, no bees or hedgehogs. The only sounds to be heard then were those made by his ragged breathing and pounding feet.
Wounded, bleeding, parched and panicked, he’d somehow managed to outrun his enemies — the only one to survive out of more than 2,000 clansmen — only to stumble and fall face first in this very spot where a wee bit of cool water had soothed his slashed face. Had he the strength he would have laughed. He’d landed in a puddle no bigger than his fist, the only water he’d seen in days. He drank his fill from what he now knew to be a spring and then passed out.
He awoke to find wispy columns rising like ghosts from charred timber for as far as the eye could see. Not a soul stirred save him and a few beetles and the many-legged meggy monyfeet sifting through ash and charred branches, all that was left of the ancient forest after the Norman-set fires had done their worst. And the wee puddle had grown to the size of his head.
Deplete of strength, no longer having hear th or kin after the battle, having had his fill of grasping incompetent princes and kings, of fire and war, he remained, surviving on water and whatever hapless creatures happened to venture close to the pool.
With time his wounds became scars and his renowned strength returned. And as he mended, so did the land. Grass sprouted and scraggily saplings became bushy boughs. He cleared the dead wood from around the pool and his wee glen began to take shape. And the crystal clear pool continued to grow. ’Twas now the breadth of two oxen standing nose to tail, was bottomless at its core and loaded with fish and happy he was for them.
His middle rumbled. He climbed out of the water and wrapped his woollen feileadh-mhor about his waist then over his shoulder and across his chest. Securing it with his belt, he again noted its holes and sighed. A new garment would come dear and require a trip to Edinburgh, something he was loath to do. His middle rumbled again and he picked up his fishing pole. As he readied to cast his line, the normally calm water at his feet began to bubble and roll. Startled, he dropped the pole. “What’s this?”
Before he could contemplate a reason for the water roiling, a thrashing lad popped to the surface gasping for air.
“St Columba’s God and the fairies!”
Would wonders never cease?
He grabbed the tow-headed lad by the scruff and tossed him on to the grass like a landed fish.
Staring down at the dripping, gasping pup of a man he asked, “And who the hell might ye be?”
“What? I don’t understand.”
English!
Before he could ask how this could be, the water roiled again and another head and pair of thrashing arms shot out. Hamish grabbed the second lad by his bright yellow cloak and tossed him next to the first. Before he was through snatching and tossing there were five gasping lads dressed in yellow at his feet.
Hands on his hips, he glared at the youths. In the language he’d learned at his grandmother’s knee but hadn’t used in more than a decade, Hamish growled, “Dinna just sit there gaping like besot asses gleaming yer first teats, laddies. Answer me. Who be ye?”
The tallest lad, all joints and long bones, scrambled backwards like a crab. “Who the hell are you?”
Affronted the whelp should use such language when addressing an elder, Hamish reached out, but before he could snatch him, the black-headed lad jumped up shouting, “The spaniel! Where’s the spaniel?”
They all rose, shouting at once in obvious panic. The fair-haired lad pointed at the pool. “Look! Oh crap, oh crap …”
Having no idea what a spaniel might be, Hamish looked. The pool was roiling again and at its centre floated yet another lad, this one the largest yet, face down and lifeless. Cursing, Hamish jumped into the pool. Careful not to step off the hidden shelf at the edge of the pool because he couldn’t swim, he snagged the drowned lad’s legs and hauled him into his arms.
The yellow-clad lads drew close as Hamish strode from the water and dropped to his knees, draped their hapless companion head down over his lap and pressed hard on the lifeless lad’s back. On the second push water gushed from the lad’s mouth. Hamish pushed down again. More water rushed out, the boy gagged then finally gasped.
Greatly relieved, Hamish rolled the hapless lad face up and placed a hand over his heart. To his shock his palm rested not on bony rib as he’d fully expected but on something round and soft. A breast. Aye, he’d not been alone so long or grown so auld that he’d forget that particular feel.
He scowled at the lads now kneeling around him. “’Tis a woman!”
The tall blond brushed a water-matted tress from the woman’s face. “No shit, Sherlock.”
The woman in his arms coughed, then sputtered, “Watch … your —” she coughed again “— language, Mr Elgin.”
The lads issued a rousing cheer as the woman Spaniel stared up at him from bonnie brown eyes rimmed by thick spiked lashes. Liking the soft feel of her, the smooth contours of her oval face, the way her full lips were parted in surprise, he smiled. “Good day to ye, mistress.”
“Uhmm … Hello.” Her gaze then swung to the lads and her eyes grew larger still. She bolted upright, her arms reaching out to the lads. “Oh, God! Are you all OK?”
They clustered about her like hungry pups around their bitch, babbling excitedly in English but not in a manner Hamish had heard before.
Teeth chattering, Spaniel staggered to her feet and gave each lad a hug before looking about. Marvelling at the way her strange clothing clung to her lithe form, Hamish grinned. How could he have possibly thought her a lad? Ten summers were apparently far too long for a man to go without a woman.
He rose and she, clutching the closest lads to her sides, took several hasty steps back. “Who are you and where are we?”
He bowed. “Hamish MacDuff at ye service, and ye be in MacDuff glen.”
“And where is that exactly?”
He scowled, not understanding what more she needed to ken.
One of the lads whispered, “He looks like an escapee from Braveheart.”
Spaniel signalled the lads to silence and smiling at him asked, “How far is it to Edinburgh?”
Sarah stood atop MacDuff’s watchtower and stared in utter disbelief at the small stone and wood fortress perched atop the huge stone promontory she knew as Castle Rock, upon which should have bristled formidable Edinburgh Castle. There was no city — old or new — no church spires, no anything but forest for miles and miles around her. Mouth dry, she stammered, “Wh … what year is this?”
At her side, Hamish MacDuff shrugged.
Deep breath, Sarah.
OK. If all she feared was true — that she wasn’t simply trapped in a ghastly dream but they’d truly time travelled — then the powerfully built giant at her side probably didn’t have a concept of time beyond the passing of seasons. “Do you know who lives there?”
“Aye. The Malcolm.”
Her heart nearly stopped at the mention of the eleventh-century kings.
“After the Norman war, the ravages of which ye can still spy yon,” he pointed to the blackened timber poking up through new growth, “Malcolm became ruler of this territory.”
Oh God. Lonely as she’d been of late she could well imagine herself concocting a dream about a beautiful glen and a handsome Highlander, but she seriously doubted she’d have included an explosion, nearly drowning and five rambunctious, pampered students. Which made all before her that much more frightening … and real. “Do you know the way there?”